What Day Is It?

More and more, I'm losing track of time: day, date. I have to ask Jb, "Is it Wednesday?" There's no reason for me to know. I have to use gmail calendar to send me reminder e-mails for appointments I have to make, except when I forget to put my appointments on gmail calendar. In the interim, I sit here, sometimes I take my morning meds, sometimes, like today, I forget. I smoke. I sleep. I listen to Carbon Leaf and Barenaked Ladies. I eat because I should. I haven't cooked in a few days. Just couldn't be buggered to do it. Care so little about things these days. Slept the entire day away yesterday. The entire day.

I got my stimulus check, still flapping in the wind over waiting to receive my medical assistance packet, running out of meds with no money or insurance to get them, and all of it, good and bad, I couldn't care less. (And to all those linguaphiles out there, "could care less," "couldn't care less," that's right, both work. Sarcasm is a wonderful thing.) Are we catching the drift of my mood? Indeed, I do believe we are. (Snarky is up there with sarcasm in my book.) I can't get through making this goddamn list for the grocery store. I can't do it. It's shoddy at best. How have I managed to stretch $100 for two weeks of food for two people? I am fucking clueless this week. I'm up to $110 on only 8 dinners and breakfast for the weekend. My mind will not focus.

And Jb's killing me last night. He's nagging me to go out, take walks, exercise because I'm out of shape from sitting around the house. Might as well call me fat on top of it. Then when he's all, "No, just, you sit home all day and we eat crap." Newsflash: you eat crap. You eat freakin' honey buns for breakfast and McDonald's or 7-Eleven hotdogs for lunch. What do I eat? Freakin' Special K and an apple during the day. A South Beach Diet granola bar. You've got to be kidding me. Of course, he works all those calories off. Yeah, he works manual labor, and I'm sure that helps him, but he can't pull the "we eat crap" card because I, at least, try. And you know what bites rhinos? I'm still not losing weight.

In a complete fit of pique, I went out and walked this morning. I hate exercise. I have always hated exercise. My body is not build for it. Never has been. I swear to god I'd love to be one of those people you see every weekend, biking, running, sweating off every goddamn thing they eat, but I'm not. I can't even begin to fathom that kind of dedication and commitment. My commitment is focused elsewhere. My cheating days, my days of blithe duplicity are through since Jb. I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't look for that rush that goes with the chase. And I used to. God knows I used to before him. And sometimes I miss it. The rush, the high of it.

I wonder, sometimes, if that's what it's like for people with bipolar? I went years in which I was overly sexed, constantly trolling, but it was never the sex, never the actual act, that was satisfying. It was the chase, the knowing how to play a scene, or a person. And that, I know, I've had since I was little. I have always known what to be for a person. I would make a game out of being exactly what someone else needed to hook them, then get bored with the game, and the person. It was the challenge, the testing of myself, like sitting down to get a 4-hour tattoo to see if I was "man" enough to take the pain. It may not be "conventional" self-mutilation in the world of the mentally ill, but there was something freeing in the pain it brought on and the way it felt to feel something, and to master it. Reading things like that, I can think: yeah, that's fucked up.