Time goes by so slowly; minutes feel like ages. Impatient waiting for ANYthing, like i want to scream and pull the hairs from my head.
Want to talk talk talk talk talk to anyone who will listen. It’s really hard to not interrupt – i just want to tell all my stories cause i have so many.
Irritable for no reason.
Wearing tight clothes, revealing clothes.
Want to give away all my money to other people. Really strong urge to give away money to people who need it.
Interrupt interrupt interrupt. Talk talk talk. Can’t listen. Don’t care.
How is life lately? Relatively tolerable. That’s where I’m at.
That’s kind of the best I get. Unless I am full-on manic, in which case:
Until it’s not.
Mania was completely disruptive (in the worst sense of the word) to my life and it took me a good two years to recover.
I never stop feeling embarassed over the actions my body took while being controlled by my manic mind. And I went deep. Both times. I was a raving, mad lunatic.
The way I am now, no one would ever guess that I was hospitalized, that I was ever in that condition, that I didn’t sleep for days, that I ranted and raved and threw things and screamed at others. That I tried to take off all of my clothes multiple times in public. That I drove to a strangers house and walked right in the door and started playing with her kids in her living room.
That I have been picked up by the police twice in one night for being “disruptive” in a public place.
That I crawled into bed with another patient at the hospital because I thought they were my mom. That I danced through the hallways of the psych unit with a towel covering my head and a styrofoam cup in my mouth, quacking and pretending I was a duck. All. Night. Long.
When I run into people on the streets talking to themselves, I see myself in them. I know they are making sense in their own brain, and that it only appears to be “nonsense” or “crazy” to those around them. Sometimes when manic I thought that the whole world was crazy, and I was the only sane one. I felt that deep down, even as I was doing cartwheels in a cemetery and trying to run down the street naked.
The only thing that separates me from the man on the street shouting obscenities is medication. The fact that my mental illness is treated and his is not.
If you’re recovering from a manic episode and you’re in the throes of depression, just know that you’ll come out of it. It does get better. I can’t say the memories of all of it don’t stick with you, but just remind yourself that the time you laid on the floor in a public bathroom and smashed your glasses with your foot repeatedly because you “didn’t want to see anymore,” it wasn’t you. It was the mania. And you have to forgive yourself for that.
And, I guess, so do I.
Bought a pack of Marlboro Blacks that I can’t afford especially now that I’m quitting (says the woman sitting in the plastic lawn chair smoking.)
I made up my mind not to call but I did anyway and I’m not surprised as I often make up my mind about things only to find me ignoring myself (oh, shut up, you/me/whatever.) She was sitting there lonely, my disabled mother, on Christmas eve of all days, and as I listened to her speak I wasnt sure I heard. I’ve smoked so many cigarettes since then that my breath comes out in tiny wheezing sounds, but I couldn’t care less.
I’ll probably smoke the whole pack and then be shit on cause it’s Christmas and every store is denying us our goods per preference of a holiday no one even cars about anymore (oh wait, they do?)
I want to punch someone in the face or maybe just me for being so pitiful and overweight and annoyed and irritable and such of myself. Writing is freedom; let’s me click-click-clack my way out of this hellish mind of mine.
You’d think hypomania would be a good time, a nice fling, a fun vacay, but it’s not. It comes with too much baggage to get on the plane at takeoff and then you’re just left standing there holding your empty yet overloaded luggage watching as your flight leaves the runway.
Funny how I call myself all kinds of nasty names that I’d never let my kids repeat inside my own house, but I never really seem to make any progress in that department. Therapy reminds me of boundaries and mindfulness and positive self-talk but my bipolar self shits on all that and laughs hysterically.
I love the way this phone makes an old- timey clickety-clack sound as I tap the letters on the screen. Click. Clack. Clickity-clickity-clack.
Whoosh, ka-ching. I’m done. Peace.
For some reason, I always used to say this to myself when I would cry. Through college, through the awful transition into real life, through everything. I’d lay on my mattress, hold myself tight, and repeat the same phrase, “I want to go home.”
Only eventually, home wasn’t any longer a place where I wanted to be.
I held onto the phrase, and now I feel it come back to me again, only I don’t know what or where is home. Sometimes I think the psych ward is home. Sometimes I think under the covers on my own bed is home. Sometimes I think home doesn’t exist at all.
If there was a home, it would be a place where this bipolar madness wouldn’t get at me. Where I’d be safe from its ups and downs, its tug and pull, its POS grip on me.
Sometimes I’m manic. Sometimes I’m depressed. But never am I home.
Oh, crap. There it goes. I just lost it.
Me: I know, but it’s really hard sometimes because I really expect perfection from myself, and I am in reality so far off of base that I can’t even describe it.
Me: Come on, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.
Me: I know, I know.
Me: If you were talking to a friend, would you place demands on them the way you do to yourself? Talk to yourself like a friend would.
Me: I know, but all that positive self-talk b.s. is just that. B.S.
Me: No, it’s not. Have you ever tried it? Have you ever honestly tried it?
Me: …uh, no.
Me: Okay, then.
Me: I make mistakes. I make mistakes, and that’s okay.
Me: You’re right; it IS okay.
It’s 5:39 am.
Time to Leave for Work and Not Be Late: 6:00
Things I Have Done So Far To Facilitate Leaving: none.
Went to the psych on Monday. Said I’m hypomanic. Trying hard to just ride the wave, but honestly, it’s been difficult. I’ve wanted to write the past couple of days to let you know how it’s been going, but I haven’t had a chance due to the multiple distractions I experience per each and every minute of my waking life.
– “Ohh! I’m going to write a letter to my former friend from high school who doesn’t even remember that I exist!”
– “Oooh! Let’s play Grand Theft Auto and ride the boat all the way out to sea!”
– “Oh! Let’s talk to this stranger and ask them 20 questions about their past! We’ll just see where it goes!”
– “Oh, I know! We can run-play-smash-eat-dance-shake-jump-beatbox!”
It’s been distracting, being in this mind of mine.