My meds are off. Like off.
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.
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.
That about sums it all up, really.
For once, I have little to say. I’ll put on my big girl pants when I can get the strength to lift my head off my pillow.
And that should be OK.
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.
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.
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.
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
Work wasn’t as bad as coming home. My moods seem to fluctuate between depression and irritation. While this is common for me, I don’t notice I’m in the throws of irritability or its many tandem behaviors/emotions I engage in – anger, passive-aggressive confrontation, cutthroat sarcasm – until I’ve opened my mouth too wide to close. At that point, I usually continue down whatever path I’ve paved for myself (pride is such a bitch), only to come to my senses later, once I’ve reached a place of clarity and humility.
My anger has become something of legend within the confines of my immediate family and close friends. When I was younger, my anger knew no bounds – doors slammed, space violated, names called, insults hurled – I fought dirty. I’ve learned that fighting dirty leaves you feeling that way; what is there to gain from cutting someone down like that? All I would feel was shame and regret; I try to channel these feelings before I open my mouth to argue as a preventive.
My penchant for becoming unreasonably angry at the “smallest” issues has affected all of my relationships – romantic, familial, and platonic. I try to talk myself down, but it doesn’t always work; my fuse is blown. If it’s something I’ve done – something that doesn’t involve others, I’d rather sort it out on my own in my head; being a part of a family doesn’t often afford me that opportunity – a true blessing and a curse.
Sometimes my emotions spill over onto the people around me before I have a chance to understand where they’re coming from. This further complicates my relationships as those around me become frustrated with my mood changes yet worry about my emotional/mental state.
…I still maintain that my definition of “small” may differ from another’s point of view. However, I agree that I have a tendency to become anxious and subsequently irritated with trivial issues. Agree to disagree, I guess.