Silence

My old professor always said that even silence was a form of rhetoric. And if my silence here says anything, it says that I've been busy, that I've felt more stable, that I've been taking my meds, seeing my psych, and seeing my therapist.

In fact, my therapist, and the non-profit she works for, seems so much more professional than my psych that I've gotten her to hook me up with a psych appointment there. I told her that the hospital was so shoddy, that I never see my psych, only his nurse practitioner, and that no one's ever sat me down for a real evaluation, and I told her I want that: I want a real evaluation and diagnosis. And she thinks that's a good step in the right direction. So many things mimic aspects of bipolar, and I don't want to be on five meds if they're the wrong meds for the wrong diagnosis.

We did broach a few subjects that I don't tell many people. Like when I'm elated, the leaves glow. Or that when I'm quiet, it's like I can drop in and listen to this party line in my head. That people are having distinguishable conversations. And that I've seen a shadow figure of a man twice at this apartment and that I used to see the shadow figure of a man and a small dog all the time when I was a little kid. We talked about Jungian psychology and getting more into that.

Tumbled

I'm feeling better. The moods come, but they don't linger. I'm restless and aimless, but it doesn't feel as frenetic. Music and lyrics and books and tv and movies still trigger me, but I can get past those. It's the anxiety I'm finding it hard to battle. When nothing's demanded of me, I'm fine, but a phone call, having to drive somewhere, having to go out of the apartment by myself, these still make my heart and stomach clench up, make me nauseous. When I'm depressed, I'm more apathetic than depressed now. Like everything's tumbled me smooth as a rock.