Wednesday, January 21, 2009


I haven't written for a while. Sometimes I couldn't, even when posts would write themselves up in my mind. But everything is narrative to me now in my mind, even my life. I walk around thinking of myself in third person, as narrative as JD on Scrubs.

I see my psychologist today, and I'm thinking of what I want to say to him. It goes something like this:

I'm getting better, slowly. I have my good days, and my bad days. I still think about suicide. Sometimes it's fleeting, sometimes it's so dark I have to rock away the grief of it. Everything comes on worse at night, especially now that Jb is in Houston for an indefinite period of time. So when the moods come on, I sit, angry with myself, knowing I'm too much of a coward to choose life or death. So it's one step at a time, day-to-day. But it's a high wire act without a net. Sometimes I slip, barely managing to regain my balance. Sometimes I fall. And I'm broken until I heal. I am not stable, but I am not as bad.

The anger came out of nowhere, but it's strong now, and I can't help but think of the stages of grief. Maybe I'm progressing. Because I'm furious now. At myself, the world, Jb, our situation, the bipolar, my mind, my moods. When the anger leeches away, I feel nothing at all, or I feel desperate, wanting and needing something to cling to. But right now, I'm alone, more so than I've been in the last three years. And it's taking its toll. There's self-pity mixed in with the moods. It's ugly to see in myself. I wanted to be stronger.