Release me from this curse I’m in

My meds are off. Like off

I’m laughing.

At the same time.

Thinking about the election.
Thinking about work.
Thinking about nothing.
Thinking about suicide.
Thinking about my dog’s exercise plan.
And back to suicide.
And now on to my DVRed episodes of People’s Court.
I’m hungry.
Did you hear that?
I fucking heard something.
It’s dark over there, I’m not going over there. Fuck that. This house is full of stuff I don’t want to see at night. 

Why can’t I fucking sit still?  I want to throw myself against a wall. Maybe I’ll slow down. 

Nothing’s right. Nothing’s right. It’s all wrong. It’s all wrong. Everything is all wrong. I don’t understand why everything isn’t right. 


‘Cause life is just a dream here

I saw my doctor this week. I told them the SSRI they prescribed isn’t doing squat – I’m still depressed and picking.

Doc said that picking is near impossible to cure, so not to focus on that more than the depression. So I guess I’m back to nail polish and hand lotions to prevent cuticles and seeing my nails in the first place. Great.

I mentioned that I’ve been getting angry and irritable more often – Doc reminded me that that’s indicative of either mania or depression, in this case Doc believes it to be depression. Doc has me back on anti-anxiety meds to prevent me from stressing out, causing the anger and irritability, Doc also suggested I go back to therapy.

I told Doc about my drinking more often. Doc wasn’t pleased; they told me not to mix my meds and they’d rather see me take meds than drink at all. I don’t know how I feel about that – it’s really about which is the lesser of two evils, but I do see the point. I’m going to try and increase my usage of coping skills to prevent the use of either.

I spoke with my mother yesterday to inform her of the doctor’s appointment. She said she hasn’t seen me manic in a while – she didn’t understand what I meant when I ran away during dinner earlier this week in tears, ashamed of my behavior. My mother, who’s known me longer than I have, and also suffers from the same illness (technically untreated, however is medication resistant), said “that wasn’t you being manic and I’ve seen you manic. That was you being happy for once.” I froze.

I haven’t been “happy” in months. I forgot what it looked and felt like. Holy shit. It took someone else to point it out; I’m so out of touch with myself – I think that may be on purpose.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs; maybe I’ll wake myself up.

Stille Nächte

Since I was a kid, I’ve hated the holidays. I have no idea why, really. I remember Thanksgiving as a real clusterfuck of a holiday. Food was great, but the family structure was not what my mother (and in turn, I) had signed up for.

I don’t remember a Thanksgiving dinner with my father. My parents were married for 12 years – I don’t remember him being there for ONE. Hmm.

My grandparents were always there with us – Grandpa watching his westerns or “war pictures” and Grandma helping my mother cook and clean. I stayed in my room, watching Nick At Nite marathons, complaining that Christmahanukwanzaa was around the corner and we’d have to put on the “happy holiday family” façade again. Yay.

And we did, this time my father would make an appearance on Christmas Day. He’d always play with my newly unwrapped presents before I’d been given a chance to, adding a layer of sourness to my morning.

“I’ll be done in a minute, Alice!”

When that minute was up, my father would leave. It would be weeks before we’d see him again. My mother and I would get dressed and go to my grandparents house, where Santa had also made a visit; I now believe this extra Santa’s visit was to ease the blow of the real missing piece from my holiday celebrations.

I’d get everything and more than I asked for; I would leave my toys and clothes under the tree, lock myself in my room, and watch Nick At Nite until dinnertime. My depression and sadness raged on, not soothed by Santa’s elves.

Now that I’m married, I’m not able to disappear into the mists of Nickelodeon’s nighttime programming during holidays. My in-laws come over and I find myself still wanting to crawl into a ball in my bed and hide until dinner and disappear when it’s over. My grandparents are no longer here, making me wish I’d stayed out of my room as a child and enjoyed their company while they were alive. G-d, I miss them so very much. (Notice my regret to have spent more time with my grandparents is not akin to spending more time with my in-laws. Nope nope nope.)

So what are my plans today? Stay in my room for as long as I can get away with it at my age and knit. Or sleep. Do my laundry. Meditate. Pray. Anything but prepare food and socialize. I’ve found that I don’t talk much unless I’m manic or at work.

I hope I didn’t scare you

I see you’ve met her. She was here only a minute ago per my husband.

Yelling at the television. Yelling at him; yelling at Mom. Laughing, yelling “nonsense.”

You see, if she took the time – if I took the time to explain why she I was yelling in the first place, maybe this wouldn’t be a problem.

I still feel like my emotions aren’t regulated. Since I’ve stopped hurting myself, I still find it hard to express my feelings aloud. When I do, I still don’t feel like I’ve done them justice – like there’s more in there.

All I want to do is crawl into a ball until New Year.

what’s done in the dark

I’m cycling pretty hard and fast these past few days.

Yesterday morning, I found my sense of humor was on point; it became finer as the hours passed. By the time I came home from work, I was a hot poker. I was performing in my own Mystery Science Theater episode: everyone was the subject of my criticism and sardonic sense of humor.

Watching movies with my husband and mother was fun… for me. My cackling between the repetition of each punchline made me cringe inside; I couldn’t reel myself in. I finally blurted, “I’m hypomanic, sorry guys. Maybe I should’ve taken my Lithium this week. Oops.” Then I cackled even louder.

I don’t think my husband has ever cut his eyes at me the way he did last night. It was only for a second; I don’t think he even knew he did it.

This morning was a different story. I rolled over onto the chilly, yet sharp spikes with which I’d whipped everybody yesterday. I vacillated between irritated yet frank, depressed yet demure. My husband actually chose to work today. It’s fucking Saturday.

I better be right by Monday.

Ohio players are at it again

I’m in my roller coaster phase. This usually constitutes a variety of symptoms and mood swings for all around me to enjoy. I don’t notice the changes until I look into my husband’s eyes and see the pain. Fuck, I’m doing it again. When will this never ending cavalcade of bullshit end?

My sleep schedule is so far off the rails, it becomes too late to take my medication some days. My nerves continue to rattle. I’m overreacting at just about everything – and even I think I’m going overboard. I can feel my “ascending” manic inner monologue – sarcastic, cynical, and sometimes condescending – become outer monologue. My actual thoughts are always 10 seconds too late, always asking why the fuck would you say that? How in the world was that necessary?

I’m isolating by pushing everyone away. It’s the same as locking myself in my room and crying myself to sleep. I don’t know who or what to blame anymore: me or the disease. It’s so easy to say, “my disease made me this way,” rather than admitting actual responsibility for my inability to fully allow anyone close to me inside my twisted bubble.

But again I have no idea why I respond or behave the way I do. This leads me to believe it’s chemical further triggered by environmental factors.

I really hope I don’t read this tomorrow and go: what the fuck was I on?!

8 more days until I go back to therapy.
I took my meds today.
I talk to my husband about what I’m feeling when he sleeps. It’s the easiest time for me; I think a part of him can hear me and maybe empathize with my pain.
I am trying really hard to keep my life together; I really am this time.


Walking the line

Do you wake up in the morning and need help to lift your head?
Do you read obituaries and feel jealous of the dead?
It’s like living on a cliffside not knowing when you’ll dive.
Do you know, do you know what it’s like to die alive?

When the world that once had color fades to white and gray and black.
When tomorrow terrifies you, but you’ll die if you look back.
You don’t know.
I know you don’t know.
You say that you’re hurting, it sure doesn’t show.
You don’t know.
It lays me so low. When you say let go, and I say you don’t know.
The sensation that you’re screaming, but you never make a sound.
Or the feeling that you’re falling, but you never hit the ground.
It just keeps on rushing at you day by day by day by day.
You don’t know, you don’t know what it’s like to live that way.
Like a refugee, a fugitive, forever on the run.
If it gets me it will kill me, but I don’t know what I’ve done!

“You Don’t Know” -lyrics from the rock musical Next To Normal