Raggedy Edge

There's nothing worse after a paycheck than having the numbers not add, than having that negative sign in front of a figure. So, here we are, on the raggedy edge.

Change in Meds

Started Lithium today. I almost don't care about the horror stories, the side effects, I'd take anything right now if it'd help with these mood swings. I'm riding a roller coaster, where the drops are steep and the rises aren't nearly slow enough.

Just Another Manic Friday

What kind of bipolar is it that comes and goes in a day? That leaves me strung out as a junky with the shakes, waiting for Jb to come home so he can take me to get my meds. I can't even punch the numbers into the machine for my debit pin I'm shaking so bad. In the car, I'm ripping through bottles for my Klonopin like it's life or death, and even Jb can tell I'm shaking like an addict and repeating myself over and over and over. I need something--anything--to bring me down.

Strange how it's almost as hard to hold on when you're out of control and too high to contain yourself as it is when you're depressed enough to be suicidal. The struggle when you're high is the lack of impulse control. Any moment you could do something you'd regret.

Pride Goeth

So this is how it happens: you get slammed with a $200 utility bill you hadn't budgeted for; you then end up with overcharges from your cable and internet company, who, thus, turn off your cable and internet; then your boyfriend accidentally hits a squirrel; and the battery in the car dies when you're barely going to cover your bills this month, which, in turn, throws everything out the window. Now another bill gets shoved off. And so, pride goeth before the fall, or some such, and you're calling your therapist to see if her non-profit really does help out with money concerns when you're in a tight spot, even though you were too prideful to ask for help when she offered before.

That, my friends, is hubris. Or something.

STFU

Then, you can always trust Denis Leary to put you in your place.

Ghosts

Jb and I had the fight, the one that inevitably ends with, "I'm the one who supports your ass." The one that makes you feel small and guilty for what you are. Because you are capricious and mercurial, you are always wrong. Pile guilt upon guilt until you feel useless and dumb. And still you don't know who you are, or what you've become.

But you do know this: you are dependent on the kindness and beneficence of those around you. You are captive to good intentions, "love," the kind that brings resentment and distance, and finances. You are well and truly stuck, both feet in concrete, and you are sinking fast. You vaguely think of alternatives. Can you ever go home? Halfway houses. These are your choices, at 33, after you've had a marriage, a house, a job, luxuries. How much further can you fall? Not much. And maybe that's why suicide becomes such an option. There is so little to fear when you're so far down you don't know how or when you'll ever get back up. You fear being dependent and controlled--because you have no control of your own. You can't be someone's baby girl, their sweet, submissive "wife," even if you're only their girlfriend. People expect and they take, even when you're hollow. You can get blood from a stone, and they prove it.

I'm more and more aware of the ghosts from my past marriage. Aware that, though he neglected me, he never once yelled at me, never once said anything out of anger. The neglect was there. I felt small, unwanted, but I never felt judged. Though he seemed to have no use for me, he always wanted nothing but my happiness, and let me pursue it as well as I could. I had carved out a niche for myself: writing classes, friends, co-workers who were like family, the coffeehouse circuit and music. I did things. I was ... something. Here, I don't know who I am. I have no friends, no family, no co-workers who ever were as fine as those at my last library job. No surrogate mother who had me over, made me drinks, let me sit on her porch, and talked to me about life and love and shooting stars and words.

In my relationships, I have always tried to be what my partner wanted, as if, in doing so, they might love me more. It never works. You would think I'd know better by now. And I've tried being this for Jb, taking on his likes, his wants, not following my own. Unaware, anymore, of what my own likes and dislikes are. And so I stand in this maelstrom of someone else's life, twisting in the wind, pieces of myself drawn away in tatters. So when the accusations spark, the betrayal is all the more painful, deep. I've subverted so much of myself in an attempt to keep someone that I don't know what I feel, what I want. I am stumbling.

Time to Come Clean

Therapist appointment today. Nervous about discussing last week. The depression seems to have lifted. I'm feeling anxious and revved up today, despite having the wonky balance issues and having given blood this morning. (I actually fell into my car, which is better than falling out of it, I guess.) It's the nervousness of coming clean to the therapist. I know it. And all I want to ask is, "Does it ever get better?" Because, god, I don't know if I can relapse like that again. It will be the hospital next time. It was too difficult dealing with it on my own. And all the time, I wonder when Jb will break. Because I see the strain. I can't bear to put him through this. It's hard enough for me. I can't imagine what it's like for him.