Change

As Jb puts it, "It happens." But then, so does shit if you believe the bumper sticker, and this week has just been a shit kicker for me. Major life changes have always been a trigger for me. This move was no exception. The last few days before the move I was already in a passive-aggressive state. The two days of the move, I was snappy, angry, bitchy, and hard to deal with. Jb and I went 'round several times during those two days, and even more since the move.

I actually had a small breakdown over not being able to put my own computer together. This from the girl who's always been capable with her own computer setup, who used to troubleshoot computers for her co-workers, etc., etc. This time, though, the wires were too much, and I sat there throwing things around and having a tantrum, all the time looking at the wires like they were some foreign entity I couldn't wrap my mind around. And that pissed me off. I can't explain the frustration. Somehow the fight escalated to me swearing I'd leave Jb -- and all sorts of irrational nonsense.

That night, in bed, when I was far calmer, Jb told me that I couldn't control my moods anymore, that it was worse now than before I went into the hospital. And I feel so helpless in the face of these moods. They overtake me on a whim. I hadn't realized how mercurial my moods had been until Jb pointed it out to me. And at least, at the time, I was in a rational state where I could really look back on the last few days and see that Jb was right. That hasn't stopped the moods, though. We had another fight yesterday, and I ended up sitting in the bathtub for a while. We've already snapped at each other this morning.

The following are among the things that are setting me off:

• My computer setup: I hate it. It's uncomfortable, too compact, and I have no where to put my feet up, which is crucial to me because of the lymphadema in my legs. But I have no space, and I can't stand that. I can't stand not having personal space.

• The bed: It is on the floor sans frame. I hate this. It's difficult to get up, and frankly, I slept on the floor on a futon the entire time I was in college and at my ex's place, but I was 21. I'm freakin' 32-years-old. I want a proper bed frame. I'm too old for this shit, and I wake up every day feeling like someone pummeled me during the night.

• My knee: The osteo-arthritis is acting up. Maybe due to all the rain we've had, maybe because it tends to be seasonal. Either way, it hurts like hell when I'm trying to get to sleep at night, and the computer setup isn't helping any, neither is the bed.

• Cutting: Jb wants to cut this Ikea bed table we have to give me some sort of setup that gives me more room, but (1) I don't want him cutting up a $200 piece of furniture and (2) it won't solve anything because I need a solid base, like the end of the bed frame, to put my feet up. I've been trying a storage container, but the sucker moves all over the place, my keyboard feels like it's sliding off my lap, and it's uncomfortable as hell.

Also, when Jb brought home the saw and measuring tape to modify the Ikea table, I broke down in a crying fit, trying to explain that it was too much change all at once. That I needed time to test out the new setup, to even see if I liked it. I was so brittle from all the newness. I needed time to get my bearings. I swear to God modifying that table would have been the last straw for me.

So, in summation, the apartment is quite nice with its hardwood floors, its quaint window frames that sometimes need to be propped open, and the wild jungle that is our backyard and which I can see through the kitchen window. It's grown on me, though I spent the first few days walking through the place, touching things, opening and closing things, like some befuddled ghost who's trying to understand her surroundings. The neighborhood is quiet, you can hear birds, but little else. And it smells green and loamy when it rains. The apartment feels homey, mostly because it's one of five apartments in an old house from the 1940s. (This is why it's quaint. I'd swear the cabinets and a few other things hail from the '40s, as does the washer/dryer and the stove.) We've met the upstairs and downstairs neighbors.

All this change makes me feel very Benny and Joon-ish, though, as if I'm Joon: fine as long as I'm in an environment I'm comfortable in, but change anything, take me out of my comfort zone, and I start to flip out emotionally, lashing out at Jb and exhibiting a sort of dysphoric mania: the depression and the anger and irritability of hypomania mixed. It's a little like being in a life raft in a raging sea with a small bucket, trying to keep the water from overwhelming the boat. Unfortunately, Jb's no Sam, and he's not dealing well with my outbursts of late. Not that I blame him, but it does remind me that bipolar people are "three and a half times more likely to [`divorce'] than the rest of the population."

Furthermore, the entire time I was unable to log onto the internet because of Comcast's ineptitude, I didn't write. Even Jb asked if I'd been writing, suggesting I probably should be keeping up with that, that he thought it was a good outlet for me. But I simply didn't want to. I felt like I had nothing to say. When in reality, I had plenty to say, especially to Jb. It just all came out in this destructive, irrational way. And part of me feels guilty about it, and part of me feels like I had the right to vent my spleen. That's the grandiosity: the thinking that I'm entitled to more than other people, that I'm different, better somehow. More and more I hear Jb telling me: "You don't care about my feelings, that I'm hurt. You just don't care." And to a point, he's right. There are certain moments when nothing matters to me but me. As if I'm due more than everyone else. And that's solipistic to say the least.

I do care, though. I just don't know how to show it anymore. I feel like an emotional retard, unable to access certain emotions, while others are making hay while the sun shines.

And Moved. Thank God.

Been in the new place for, oh, a week now. So much to say about the week it took Comcast to decide we had an apartment, then set up our internet and cable, which, of course, didn't work without another call to Comcast. Hatred of monopolies aside, it's been a rough week. I didn't write anything at all this last week, even offline. I'll have to address some of what happened over the week, including a psych appointment and the tweaking of my med dosage tomorrow.

10:10 p.m. Communications Blackout

Halfway through the move, and there's still so much to do. There were several breakdowns -- mine and Jb's -- and much snapping, some crying, bad accusations. So things go. I think my parents threatened each other with divorce at least four times when they retiled the kitchen.

Anyway, this will be it for a while. Since Comcast doesn't know how to add a new address to their database, it may be a while before we're able to get internet access again. Disconnecting the computers and putting them away is a little like shutting off the air in a space shuttle, or losing communications entirely with the rest of the world:

"Houston, we are going for a blackout."

Moving Day, Part I

Moving Day, and we've 80% chance of precipitation. It's been storming -- severe thunderstorm warning kinda storming. There is actually a tornado watch in effect for the whole metropolitan area. Seriously. You have got to be kidding me. Least we got the open crates of books into the new apartment while there was a brief lull of rain. All the streets are flooded, though, and it's even hard to see when driving at times. So, we're taking a break. Car's all packed up for our next haul, but there's no way we're going back over until the weather eases up some. Could be a long night.

Thankfully, tomorrow should be overcast, but clear. That's when Jb and one of his guys from work are bringing over the box truck and moving all the big stuff: the dressers, bed, couch, tvs, etc.

I've only had one little fit when I couldn't get out the door with all the bags I was trying to carry. We'll see how many more I have before the day is through.

6:02 p.m. More & Less

More packing, less words. Jb's late again. He's always late these days. He works hard, works for the two of us, so I can't resent it, but I get lonely. It leaves me too much time by myself. It's... hard... to be constantly alone with all these interim hours to while away. I'm tired of packing, of doing the work here at home. I'm tired of being here. I've started thinking about the hospital, wishing, almost, that I was back there. I'm feeling depressed, and... brittle. I can't shoulder much more. I feel like it'd only take some small thing to break me, and I don't know what I might say, how I might act, how the anger might come out. It is anger. I'm so angry at myself for being this way, for feeling so broken at times. I can't tolerate the thought of being touched. I want my space, I want. And I don't know what I want. It's just this gaping hole somewhere, and my brain can't wrap itself around the feelings, this ephemeral thing. It's like this dark shadow behind you, breathing down your neck, and you just want to scrub yourself clean, scrub everything raw until it's bare and white and shining and there's nothing dirty left, everything that's wrong is gone. The pressure grows inside until you feel half mad with it. It's times like that I can understand cutters. I curl my fingers in and dig my nails into my palms until the pain makes the pressure ease. But I'll manage. I'll make myself manage. I have for years. I know how to put one foot in front of the other, and there are other people depending on me. I feel indebted, and so, force myself on.

6:10 p,m, It's Been a Bad Day

Didn't get as much done as I wanted to. I'm upset about that. I'm upset about breaking a cup while cleaning. No, that's not the end of the world, but my mind has this way of convincing me that I'm a fuck up when I don't get things perfectly right, when I don't live up to my expectations. I'm an overachiever in work and school, and sometimes in stupid things like breaking cups. For some reason, that sent me into a downward spiral. Maybe because of the stress that's building. Ended up with a horrible headache on top of it, which might be because I missed my Lamictal this morning. It's known for headaches, and since I get so few headaches, when I do get one, they lay me out. I don't know how people walk around functioning when their head, one of the most used parts of their body, is throbbing like an aching tooth. I can't deal with it. And for some reason, I got so tired that I crawled back into bed until about 5:30 p.m. I was glad I got up, at least, before Jb got home because I would have been ashamed to still be in bed after he worked all day. Besides that, we can't get the keys for the new apartment until tomorrow, and I know how upset he is about that. He was hoping to move things over today. I, being subversive and just... tired, am sort of glad, but I can't seem like I need a break, not when he's pushing so hard. So it's just... a bad day. And I'll be getting through the next few days on sheer strength of will and fumes. Because I don't feel up to it at all, but I have to do it. And when I say I'm tired, I know that's a euphemism I use when I'm depressed, or heading there.

Three Days & Counting

I don't want to move. I don't want to move. I don't want to move.

It's my new mantra. It's the safeguard against change and heavy boxes and dollies and box trucks and having to haul things I know I shouldn't even be attempting to haul up and down stairs. It's the safeguard against exhaustion and the fear of finding out maybe I don't like the new place so well after all. It's the mantra of the slightly panicked and the rising anxiety. It's the mental equivalent of dragging my feet, subverting the inevitable, prying my cold, dead fingers off the door frame.

And yet, there's Jb, and a friend I owe far too much, and this lease, and a new life that I should be ecstatic over, because no one likes an opportunity to start over better than I do. But damned if I'm not getting older, and if the luster of a new life doesn't sparkle quite as sweet. It starts out promising enough, but then, the tarnish starts to show. It creeps up like a stain, 'til what was brand new is now disconcertingly the same, and all the believed-in promises of this or that are empty. All resolutions glint, then die, like far off stars you never could touch.

Moving. I hate it.

2:04 p.m. I Quit!

You would, too, if you saw our toilet bowel. Got halfway through the bathroom, realized the sink drain is clogged, and I ain't about to remedy it. Hell, after doing some dishes and the bathroom, I can't even get myself up and over to the store to get toilet paper. It is a sad day when I can't walk 2 blocks. And if Jb says anything, "Bang, zoom, straight to the moon!" (Gotta love the old sitcoms that encourage domestic abuse punchlines.)

Okay, dammit, I will go to the store, but it's because of the toilet paper. Not for any other reason! Because, you know, toilet paper is a female necessity of dire importance. Guess I'll get some stupid drain unclogger stuff, too. And finish the dishes, and cook dinner, and, and, and... Makes me exhausted just thinking about it. But, here's the kicker, Jb went out to a flat tire this morning, so the car's in the shop, and ain't no one else gonna go do these little "domestic" lovelies. The fact that we've, maybe, three days until we can start moving stuff to the new apartment and aren't at all completely packed up, well, that's no stress or motivator at all. Nope.

This is how it happens. Every time. I'll take on far more than I really should, work myself up to a frenzy, not sleep at night, wake up far too early, and utterly fizzle once we get into the new place. Once I work myself up with worry and anxiety and cranky resentment, I'll stay uber productive and hypo until I overstep myself, and... crash. With all the fanfare and pomp of my overproductive climb. I honestly don't know how I'm going to pack up some of this other stuff. It's either stuff I need Jb to haul out or down, or it's stuff we'll be using until we actually move. Thankfully, he's been a great help.

Final Countdown

Five days until the move. Five days. And I'm dragging my feet and throwing a tantrum inside my head. Honestly, there are some days when I see a kid in the store, down on the floor, slamming his fists on the carpet, face red and screwed up, kicking his legs, and all I want to say is: I totally get you, kid. I'd be down on the floor, too, if I didn't have to act like an adult.