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?