Crazy Talk

I'm here, again. I feel like that's almost the only thing I need to say. Maybe I could install some sort of check-in button for this blog so you'll know when I've logged on. That way anytime I come back here you can bet-your-bottom-dollar that I've hit, well, rock bottom. But maybe I shouldn't try to meld all of my depressive episodes into one huge lump of evidence that I'm just a sad person. Maybe they really are distinct in important ways. Maybe coming back here isn't a sign I've failed, yet again, to be happy. I will say though, that the evidence seems stacked against that point of view.

I don't know how to say this in a way that doesn't sound crazy, so I'm just going to say it.
I think I'm going to die soon.
Told you.

Before you jump to all sorts of conclusions: No I do not plan on taking my own life.
Let me try to explain, okay?

When I turned twenty-five years old, I was shocked that I had survived that long. I had never before then imagined that I would live that long. Mostly because my mental illness was so successfully kicking my ass that I didn't feel up to the task of fighting back and I was pretty sure that I would eventually give up.
I turn twenty-seven in a month and I'm still alive but it almost feels like by complete accident. Like death had an appointment with me but double-booked or something and is just now too embarrassed to admit he made a mistake. A lot of my life has changed drastically in the last few months, I know that needs to be acknowledged too. My life circumstances would probably make anyone feel a little disoriented and dizzy.
But I'm not dizzy right now, I'm telling you that I'm operating on borrowed time and I think it's so that I can prove what I'm worth. I don't know when the deadline is or what it'll be that finally gets death off my back but I know that it's soon and I'm fighting harder than I ever have before. This time I don't think I'm going to give up and take my own life. This time I have a feeling that if I give up it will be taken from me.

Yeah, it still sounds crazy. I get it. What's new.

I want to continue writing here. The nature of my illness, the shift I experience in mood and energy, often makes it unrealistic for me to take on long-term projects. Even with medication and therapy my motivation and creativity are unreliable at best. For that reason, the only way one can discern the passing of time when reading through my posts, is by following the cyclical nature of my illness. I've often wished that my writing could be more consistent and many times I've tried to write because I've felt that I should. It is an unfortunate part of my experience with this illness, that I am most creative at the same time that I am the most volatile. Sometimes I feel numb and it is too difficult to articulate myself. Other times it seems there is nothing to report. I return to this blog though, time and time again, when I feel myself losing ground---this is my lifeline.

And that's why this is important. 

That is why I keep this blog; even on my worst days when I'm convinced everything I've ever touched is garbage. Or even when I know I won't have anything to say for months.

Sometimes I read older posts and I grieve for the creativity I'm certain I've lost forever and the way I was once able to express myself. Later, when I am thrown for a loop by a new cycle of mania-depression, I am reminded of the price I pay.

I know in reality my creative strengths do not disappear during my more stable periods and I also know my perception of my abilities in different emotional states may be more than a little skewed. However, I don't think I can put into words the depth of the inherent tie I believe my creativity has to my illness. They aren't one and the same, but maybe branches from the same tree (I warned you that I couldn't put it into words). My creativity knows my illness well and vice versa.  

It's taken me hours to write this. My brain feels foggy and I have caught myself staring into space more than a dozen times. And it seems that the only conclusion I've come to at this point is that I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing...?? 

Maybe this will be where all of my creativity comes to die or maybe this blog will be used in some eye-opening study of manic-depressive illness one day, who knows. 

I'm back for a while, I guess.

I haven't been to work in six days. Four snow days and a weekend.
I haven't seen my students.
I haven't eaten well, sometimes not at all. I don't shop like it's the end of the world, excuse me.
I haven't left my house more than couple of times. Mostly it's because I haven't had anywhere to go, but a little bit because walking on the ice freaks me out after my most recent interaction with it and the resulting injury.
I have been asleep more often than I have been awake. Or at least it feels that way.
I have been entirely unproductive, unless you count beating Spyro, the video game with a little purple dragon? Turns out he's a real jerk.
I have been sad. I don't know why.
I have been wishing I had my surgery already, because that would at least make sense. That would explain why I am this way.

But really, I'm just emotionally broken.

I have my appointment with the surgeon tomorrow, bright (but irl dark) and early. No news is good news, but I know there'll be news. I've known that for a while. I have been struggling to accept that no matter what the dude says tomorrow, I have a surgery in my future. It is time, it is happening.
Are you prepared to read a couple of months worth of existential dread?
If not, have you read my other stuff? Do you even know where you are right now?

Stay tuned.

2017 #newyearnewknee

Well, I'm back. It had to happen some time, right?

New year, new me? HA. #newyearnewknee
Let me explain.

Right before winter break, literally the night before, I dislocated my knee. This has happened before and in the very moment I was falling, I was pretty sure it would happen again.
But the length of time it has taken to heal, the confirmation by a doctor and my upcoming appointment with a surgeon makes me unsure.
I've been in straight up denial. And maybe, the surgeon will tell me everyone, my knee included, has been lying to me and I'm totally fine. But the energy it has taken to keep up that charade I could be using to prepare myself for two months of recovery.
A couple of days ago, I cried for the first time about it. It hit me about as hard as I hit the ground a few weeks before that. I may have to suspend my term of service with AmeriCorps. I have never said "bye for now" before, but my dad's common expression may be the only thing that makes leaving my newfound community, made up of brilliant coworkers and resilient students for a while, less devastating.
For the last week I've seen my ceilings cave in on me, when my eyes are closed and I'm trying to fall asleep. My breath catches when a door closes. My body feels stiff in way that no amount of stretching can cure. I don't even have the nail in the coffin, a surgery date, and I feel trapped. I am dreading this extended pause in my life. I see it quietly approaching and I'm terrified.
My loved ones have suggested I make a list of things I can do during this period of time but I have writer's block, something I've never experienced before with list making. I've been avoiding even sitting down with pen and paper.
Often I question myself and my life's purpose. But something I know is that this isn't me. This isn't where I belong or what I'm supposed to be doing. This is a nightmare, this is something I have always feared. I will in reality be incapable of taking care of myself. I won't be enough.
These are things the beast tells me as he pulls me down and keeps me there. These are thoughts that bury me. They keep me under for days, sometimes weeks or months. But in those times, I know it's not something I'm asking for or choosing.
This time I really will have brought it on myself. The beast knows it, I know it. I see him waiting and he is pleased.
The place I live, "the cabin", the little house attached to the big house that is often my sanctuary, it will disappear into the wilderness of my backyard. I will be alone, with only the beast for company. This isn't negative thinking or a wildly irrational fear, this is my life. This has happened before, only the circumstances and four walls are different.
I know this. I know this so well, it is written all over my skin, it's the color of my bed sheets, the sound of rain hitting the cabin's roof. It will be here soon and I would be a fool to try to stop it.

I always return to this place with a bang, don't I?

I can't wait for summer. Have I said that yet? You could probably guess.
WELL I AM.

It's been warm the past few days. The sun does miraculous things for my mood, sometimes. It would have more of an impact if I weren't still stuck under the cloud of work I have to do before the term is over. The cloud of procrastination and possible failure.

Even now, I don't really have anything to say. I would just rather write a bunch of bullshit here, than write any of a number of papers I have due.

So here we go, no shame in my game:

I love the summertime. It's become associated with some of my best memories, my best days. I'm so happy in the summer. I'm so much more of who I feel I am. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's that I'm not in school. Maybe it's a combination of those things. I don't know.

I think I'm going to have to finish up some of my incompletes this summer though, so I won't be entirely free. But maybe it'll give me at least some structure so I won't become bored and restless. Even with the sun out, I have to have some sort of purpose.

Either way, Robert and I have been looking for a puppy I can train as my emotional support animal. So a little baby dog will give me purpose this summer. I want to make sure I train the puppy well when it's young so it can do the job. I'm so excited to have another source of support, an animal that's trained to be just mine.  Dogs are capable of doing so much, I can train the pup to:

-be a physical barrier in social situations that give me anxiety
-wake me up in the morning
-be aware of my moods and comfort me during panic attacks

Hell, I could train a dog to go fetch my meds and glass of water. Dogs are so smart and capable of all sorts of things. I know I'm going to have do a lot of work to take care of myself and a dog isn't a cure-all, but it might surprise me the impact it could have on my mental health and well-being.

I need to stay in the present. I need to focus on schoolwork and getting through the week and a half I have left of the term. But all I can think about is summer, change and possibility.

Anyone want to write a paper for me? Bueller?

Ravings of a Madwoman

It's after 4am and I haven't fallen asleep yet. Something tells me I won't. I've been reading through old posts, something I do from time to time. It still surprises me how much I can learn about myself by looking back. I have no way of knowing whether or not my blog has impacted anyone else. Especially considering that no one seems to be interested in talking about anything I write here, with me. But it's probably most important that it has given some meaning to my life. If I have ever considered the possibility that I'm not actually bipolar, this blog is a hard slap to my face. The cyclical nature of my illness is undeniable in my writing. Almost all of the time I'm fluctuating between extremes. Days of euphoria and productivity, followed by dread, grief and self-loathing. I don't know if I've made any progress in managing these episodes but I'm learning. Maybe that's my purpose for now, to put pieces together, store information for later. Maybe these insights will prove to be helpful when I most need them. Who knows.

Lately I've been thinking I would really like to make writing my life. I don't know yet in what capacity and it may be most realistic to believe that my writing will be confined to this blog. But I would really love to do it. To make something of it, and beautiful things with it. I could do that, right? I think part of this sudden urge is because I've been feeling really hopeless about school. I mean, I've felt this way about school many times before. I've even considered that maybe school just isn't for me, that it's not in my life path. But I think the desire to center my life around writing is based in a passion for self-expression, a sense of urgency to decrease stigma and to tirelessly advocate for others who experience mental illness. This, at the core of my being, is what I believe I'm here to do. And I think I should be able to do that, to focus on that. But I'll probably need to work in a capacity that society deems acceptable. Because otherwise, my crazy ass is worth nothing.

This is probably entirely unintelligible and the ranting of manic zombie but I thought I'd say something before I plunge back into studying and the final countdown. Stick around, good stuff is on the way. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

BBL

Locked in

The beast has got me locked in a grip so unbelievably tight
I can't seem to shake him off.
In truth, he's been latched on for months and
I just haven't wanted to admit it to myself.
Or maybe I didn't see him
for what he was,
is.

And then I started seeing my psychiatrist
again.
She added a little dose of lithium to my psychopharmaceutical medley
and I had a renewed sense of hope.
A good few days where I thought I had found a door,
the beast's weak spot,
a way out.

But now I'm here
and it's hard to put words together
Nothing feels real
and I'm living for everyone else
but myself.

I'm trying to do everything
they all want me to
but it's hard
and it's still not enough
to release me from the beast's
cold
hard
claws.

It feels like there's nothing left
for me to be.

This is all I am. Just this.