Throw Out a Lifeline

The last I wrote here I'd had a breakdown. A pretty good one. I didn't take my meds for a week. I wasn't eating. I had hit apathy so hard that nothing mattered at all to me. Part of this, Jb and I am sure is that I lost my therapist for about three weeks while she was nursing her son who'd shattered his foot and had to have multiple surgeries. I don't think I understood how very important therapy had become for me. How balanced it helped to keep me.

My dose has changed again. 100MG of Zoloft, 300MG of Lamictal twice a day, and Klonopin 3 times a day. We're winnowing the meds down, which is one of the reasons I like this psych. He had tried me on Lithium, and I couldn't stay hydrated enough to keep up with the shakes and disoriented, vertigo-like sensations. So we dropped as not a good drug for me.

In between, I've been moving along as well as I'm able. I had a week and a half after the major depression where I couldn't sleep. I'd be up until 5 am and running on 4 hours of sleep a day. I was restless in bed, could not fall asleep, thinking and thinking and thinking. I think I might have swung up into a bit of a hypo mode. Anyway, now that's gone, as if hypo episodes burn my body out, and now I'm feeling exhausted and unmotivated and all around... feh.

An amazing thing happened last night, though. Jb came with me to therapy. He actually wanted to. How many guys would do that for you? My therapist thinks he's the best thing on two legs. It was a productive session. I think he got to say a lot of things that were on his mind, and none of them exactly hurt or were negative toward me, but I couldn't help feeling guilty, and ashamed, and humbled by how much he truly cares for me, regardless of my condition. There was so much love and worry there that it really made me tear up.

So. Apparently, I have the best boyfriend in the world.

Last tidbit about what I've been dealing with. Balance issues. I'm still having them. In fact, right after the therapy appoint when we got home, I literally fell on my ass when I got out of the car and rolled down the grassy slope. I'm always tottering. I almost fell on Jb while he was lying on the bed, and when I was cleaning the other week, I feel smack on the metal garbage can we keep in the front room. I've bruises on my arm, bruises on my foot where I dropped a fan on it, and I've fallen into the closet door in the bathroom more times than I can count.

What else. I've a DHHS appointment to review my foodstamps and temporary disability. It's at 8am, and there's really no way we can work the single car situation with Jb working. I've called to see if they'll reschedule, but I had to leave a message. I'll try again later because frankly, I don't trust them to get back to me.

And the SSDI. I got the info about my doctors, though I couldn't get all the dates of tests and visits. I had to fudge and guess years of when I saw some of them. Best I could do. But I can't seem to get further than that. I brought up the online application page and just sat there looking at it for an hour, overwhelmed and unable to start it.

Letting Go

I sometimes wonder if I should let Jb go. He never asked for this. He told me last night he expects me to do some cleaning today, but I'm not sure he understands how difficult that is for me. How little I give a fuck. And it hurts him. My ups and downs, his constant working to support us, my inability to keep the house clean, the dishes done. The way I drag my feet about cooking, drawing up a grocery list, going to the store, though there's only a stale box of Rice Krispies, some peanut butter, and corn tortillas in the fridge. And frankly, I don't care. I don't eat during the day anyway. I could go without dinner. The only reason I bother is for him.

There's a point in some relationships where the bad starts outweighing the good, and when the bad goes on long enough, you can't help but wonder if you've lost the good. Having said that, Jb is my lifeline right now. He's who I hold on for, as little as I'm able to hold on. I don't want to hurt him -- even when I know I am -- because without him, I'd be completely lost. I'm not sure what would stop me during my episodes if it weren't for thoughts of Jb. But I've become an absentee girlfriend. I don't have the patience or attention span to listen to him. I lose myself in games and books, and when he's harsh with me, telling me I can walk up to the store to get my American Spirits, I'm not sure he knows that, no, I really can't. I think that he thinks I need to pull myself up by my bootstraps and be done with it. I know he gets annoyed with me.

I was a crazy, awful wife to my ex. Crying all the time, moody, confrontational, hating him as much as I loved him, cheating on him, leaving him for impulsive jaunts to Michigan, Wisconsin, all with his money, buying things I didn't need. Spending, spending, spending. Being diagnosed with bipolar brings all of that into clarity for me. And while, I knew I had to leave him, that I had to hope there was something better, we were great friends, and in the end, I convinced myself that as hard as it was for me to leave, he would, eventually, realize he was better off without me. And that's what made it so hard, to know that I'd become a burden, and the sigh of relief he must have felt when that burden was lifted. How freeing that must have been for him.

I wonder if the same could be said for Jb. He says he wants to stay around, that if I didn't love him, he'd cry and cry and cry. An ocean full of tears. But sometimes people don't know what they're saying, what they're asking for. Jb would be angery to read this, saying something like, "Because I'm like your ex. Because I'm like every other man. I thought you'd know me better by now." He'd be hurt by the similarities I'm drawing. And maybe he is the stronger man, but I'm a handful: suicidal one week, manic the next, and in between I walk around in a moderate depression, unable to leave my front door, not wanting to interact with the world, incapable of drawing up a grocery list, needing my therapist's help to fill out SSI.

Sometimes I think Jb'd be better off without me, and that I should be the one to set him free.

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.

"Major Life Events"

More than once, I've heard talk about "major life events" having a direct effect on your level of stress. There's a whole worksheet on the subject. According to the worksheet, my score is somewhere around 1000, putting me at "an increased risk of illness." Though it says to look over the past year, I took stock of the last three years, and this is what I came up with:

An illness that sent you to the hospital 74
Change in your responsibilities at work:
fewer responsibilities 21
transfer 32
Troubles at work:
with your boss 29
Loss of job:
fired from work 79
Major change in living conditions 42
Change in residence:
move to a different town, city, or state 47
Change in family get-togethers 25
Major change in health or behavior of family member 55
Spouse beginning or ending work 46
Change in arguments with spouse 50
Separation from spouse:
due to marital problems 76
Divorce 96
Change in personal habits 26
Change in social activities 27
New, close, personal relationship 37
Girlfriend or boyfriend problems 39
Sexual difficulties 44
Major decision about your immediate future 51
Major change in finances:
decreased income 60
investment or credit difficulties 56

Additional:
death of cat
death of grandma

Quite a resume, isn't it? All of this is brought on by an e-mail from my "husband." He's prodding at me to start the divorce process, and while it's been nearly three years, which means it's certainly high time to get this taken care of, I feel lost at sea in terms of how to go about it. There's cost involved, which I can't afford, and a sort of panicky anxiety that kept me awake last night. And I can already feel myself slipping toward a depression.

I wish I could say it's only the paperwork and proceedings that are bothering me, but there's an old grief there, and a fear, that I don't think I've dealt with entirely because I happened so quickly into my relationship with Jb. And while there's nothing I regret in doing that, in being with him -- he's better for me and so important to me -- it's hard to shake off the memories of a ten-year relationship. It's surreal looking back, as if it were a life ago, and I can't remember who that girl was who got married, bought a house, lived this life with friends and family. It was a several states and a lifetime ago.

I definitely need to bring this up with my therapist. And I feel a little desperate about wanting, needing, to see her, but I'll find a way to get through until Tuesday. Until then, I hope Jb can understand if I'm a little more down, a little more distant. He has all my love still. But he knows how difficult it is for me to let go of the past, and today, it feels like the ghost of it is enough to overwhelm. It makes me shake when I go for my Klonopin like a druggie needing a fix.

What's worse? Jb's had almost as many major life events, and who and what is there for him?

Remembering

Sometimes, beyond crying and being able to get things off your chest, a good therapist pulls a pearl out of all your perceived troubles, and you remember something you'd overlooked.

Thank you, Jb, for being the kind of man who'll turn off the computer, the tv, pull up a chair, and talk to me about our relationship. There aren't many like you. I'm truly lucky to have a man so open to communicating his emotions, and committed enough to want to. I love you.

Bipolar Relationships

Bipolar relationships are a no-win situation. A Catch-22. In the beginning, the sane person is always the one to blame. After the diagnosis, the insane person is always the one to blame.

Before, your significant other can't keep up with your mood swings, can't intuit the things you so desperately need from one minute to the next. In short, they can't gallop along with you, so they're left dragging in the dust. And you hate them for it. You hate that they can't keep up, that they can't stand up to your racing, wanting, needing. There's yelling, disappointment, accusations. And they look at you, bewildered, bowled-over, and you can't understand their surprise, or their caving, and you see it as weak. They're weak, but you're strong. So much stronger, so much better, so far above the person you claim to love, but where's the love? There's judgment, self-righteous indignation, and, unbelievably, betrayal. How could someone you love betray you so when you've given them everything, every bit of you. And god help them, you have, and now, they've no idea what to do with you, and they question themselves, and you leave them feeling as if nothing they do could ever be right. And it never could be.

Six months and a diagnosis later, and you're the one who can't do anything right. Something in your life has broken. Something in your mind is broken. Your emotions are foreign things to you. You are out of control, and your significant other knows that you are. You are now the problem. Instead of galloping ahead after a righteous mad, you smack face first into an argument, into an accusation. Your loved one has become brave, and it's time to pay the piper. You're left bewildered. You question everything about yourself: Are you to blame? Were you that bad? Was the mood justified? None of it seems to matter. The only thing you hear, over and over now, is that you are wrong, you are responsible. You listen and listen and listen, and you wonder, tears near the surface, when it'll be your turn to talk. But you've lost your turn, and you think about calling your therapist to see if you can't get in immediately because you need to talk to someone. You need to talk to someone who'll listened. You are desperate for anyone to listen to you, desperate for someone to believe you without demonizing you. Because being at home feels more full of doubt than being anywhere else. And only a stranger can listen now.

Jb and I

It's cliche. The way, when someone asks about your relationship, everyone almost always answers: It's complicated. Aren't all relationships? But ours has gotten more complicated. My irritability doesn't help; it puts him on the defensive, and there's nothing that can be said from there.

But therapy is going to open old wounds as well: the neglect from my parents, from my husband, the realization that as mother to my mother and roommate to my husband, I've had very few people -- hardly any -- who ever took care of me. I've been taking care of myself so long, of other people, that right now, I need someone who wants to take care of me. Who wants to put my needs before their own for once. And that's a tall order for any relationship.

I'm not sure Jb is up to that. Not with all the work he does to bring money home, or the way he feels as if I'm telling him he never takes care of me when he must feel like he always does now that he's supporting me. But it's a different kind of need, and one that's truly hard to explain to him. How do you tell your boyfriend you need affection, and lots of it, because you never, ever had it as a child. It's a tall order. Especially when your own experience has made you stingy.

Joint Venture

Jb and I had a talk yesterday. He doesn't think I should stop blogging; he thinks it's a good outlet for me and useful. I tried to express to him, though, that being laid bare and not being allowed into his thoughts about what's been going on is a little more vulnerable than I want to be. His response was that he didn't think he was supposed to respond to what I said here. I told him, on the contrary, I'd really like his response, especially if he posted it here -- to help me see how my perception of myself or incidents synch up with his perception of them. He agreed to try this.

This all stems from the fight we had over the weekend. Sometimes, in fights, I can't give in. I simply can't let it go. My emotions are too ... overwhelming. I become extremely tenacious or confrontational. Because I need it fixed, or else my emotions and mind go a little crazy, turning toward types of thinking that I really shouldn't: about breaking up, about hurting myself, etc. Anyway, when I finally got Jb to open up enough to tell me what, exactly, was wrong, he came back with this statement that I was always negative these days. I was negative about everything. And I felt, somehow, blind-sided. My knee-jerk reaction was to assert that I hadn't been negative all this time. But then, my belief in that became precarious. Had I been negative? Had it been something I couldn't see because I was so busy dealing inward with my own moods?

Having Jb comment on my posts, or on my emotional and mental state of mind, would help a great deal toward my own awareness, but it would also give me something to tell the psychiatrist. I can say I feel depressed, or I felt high as a kite, or I couldn't control my emotions, or half a dozen other things, but it's one thing to say how you feel or see yourself, and it's another to add, "And my boyfriends says I do this or that or the other." Since, we're assuming, this outside view of the situation is far more objective than my own inner view. Because that's what happens, isn't it? When you're inside the maelstrom, you can't see what's going on outside it. All you know is where you are, and all you can do is try to get through the worst of it.

Fight Club

Jb comes home in a mood before he even hits the door. I can hear it on the phone when I call to see when he's coming home. Early, apparently, and pissed. It doesn't take 10m for his mood to invade mine. He shuts me down until I'm so mad at myself for allowing him to have any such control over me that I can hardly look at him. He pushes. I push back. We keep at each other, picking, ignoring, picking at the scabs of a fight waiting to go. It's the shutdown I hate. It's my mother and me all over again. I don't want to feel anything, but all I have is rage, and I can't do anything about it.

Morning Check-In

Sleep: Up since 8:30ish. Not so bad. Had Jb still been around this morning, I'd have begged him to take a day off. Don't want to be alone today. Slept fairly well last night, though, I think.

Dream: Had a dream about my ex-husband. How we were both dating now, how we'd both changed, seen the changes in each other, and wondered if those changes would have made a difference when we were still together. Sure that they would have. But that all passed us by.

Cigarettes: Still smoking. Probably a good 4-6 yesterday. It's good I bum off Jb so they're not around during the day, though I could use some later when I go to the DHHS.

Weight: Don't want to look. No need to ruin an already stressful day. Besides, we ordered in last night and I had a P'zone, so that can't be good.

Meds: Compliant. Took them last night and this morning.

Food: Protein Boost Special K (the psych says I need protein) with a little milk and an apple.

Mood: Enh. I'm here. Like I said, this morning I was a little grasping, would have wanted Jb to stay home, which he wouldn't have and couldn't have. I'm intensely lonely and isolated right now due to the unemployment. It's made me needy and restless. Think it might be time to find that part-time job when I get my stimulus check and can afford a new blouse to interview in.

To Do: Should call HealthChoice and see if they sent my insurance package yet. Need to reschedule psych appointment. Need to schedule a PCP appointment for blood work. Need to find a therapist, which means making some calls.

The Bad Part of My Day: Have an appointment at 4:30pm at the Department of Health and Human Services to review my need for food stamps and temporary cash assistant/temporary disability assistance. Both rather important things that are helping us get by right now. So, of course, the stress about this started last night.

Relationship: Jb and I are snapping at each other a great deal. I'm ugly and mean a great deal of the time, irritated by everything and hateful. It shows in contempt and so many other ways that I feel like if I can't control this, get even somehow, I'm going to ruin everything. I used to treat my ex this way, and it's little wonder he never wanted much to do with me. He was always happy to go his own way. I'm sure, toward the end, he never felt loved. How could he?

I miss friendship, though. Not the constant caretaking of a relationship, but the ease of a friendship where you're allowed to be who you are without having to worry about stepping on someone's overly sensitive feelings. Everything becomes internalized in relationships, when I'd really rather just have someone to listen and say, "Yeah, that really sucks, you know?" And affection, an arm around the shoulder, a hand at the small of my back, some actual caretaking, the kind you get from a parent if you have good ones: a shoulder rub, a smoothing back of your hair, a body to curl up into and hug, a sense of safety and being loved. I get tired of paying bills, doing dishes, doing the grocery list, cooking, doing this or that, being responsible for this or that. I feel like I'm only good for the things I do in this relationship, and I'm tired of taking all the responsibility for these things. It's too much, and I resent it.

Self-Medication

In researching bi-polar, you read some interesting things. Lithium for mood swings, though it leaves your speech slurred, your hands shaky, and causes possible rash. Lamictal, rash. Drug-resistant bi-polar. People who've been on the merry-go-round of drug after drug after drug with little to no real relief. And that's when you start reading about marijuana use and bipolar.

A study out of New Zealand swears marijuana use puts users at a 200% greater risk of developing bipolar. But what does it do for those who already suffer from it? Most message boards are filled with long-term pot users who claim marijuana is one of the few things that keep them straight. The other half of the forums are filled with people calling the marijuana users potheads. I decided to see what all the fuss was about.

A co-worked gave Jb some pot she had in her car yesterday. It was probably under a gram. Not very much at all. He brought it home, rolled it up in a cigarette paper, and we toked up in the bathroom. Three hits each. It was a little like the scene with Craig Ferguson and Brenda Blethyn in Saving Grace, in which, to quote IMDB, "a small-town English widow, facing financial troubles after her husband's suicide, turns to agriculture of an illegal kind." Fantastic little movie if you've never seen it. But there's a scene where Brenda and Craig are up at the bluffs because Brenda's character insists on smoking a joint if she's going to be growing marijuana. There's that 15-20 minute period of, "Is that it? Honestly, what's all the fuss about? I don't feel anything." Jb said he knew that's when it was going to hit me.

It all started with a bit of lightheadedness, which I get as a side effect from my medication anyway, then the giggles kicked in. It creeps up on you slowly, but once it does, it feels like you've just stepped out of the best massage, sauna and whirlpool treatment you've ever had. You are utterly, completely relaxed. So relaxed that for the first time you realize how stressed and anxious you had been. For anxiety, it's ten times better than Klonopin. I had been in a depressive funk all yesterday, asleep when Jb got home, emotionally inaccessible. But as soon as the marijuana hit, I felt like me again. I could laugh. I could feel. I could interact with Jb. For the first time in a long while, we really connected, had fun together, participated in a relationship that had gone somewhat dry with the extent of my mood swings. Three hits kicked me right out of depression, and I still feel fine today, the day after. There's no mixed mood: no depression, no anger, no racing thoughts, no irritation. There was only the feeling that, for a couple hours, I didn't have to deal with the constant mood swings. I felt relieved, relaxed, revived.

This isn't to say that I necessarily agree with self-medication. Nor that I think becoming a pothead is the way to go. I wouldn't want to do it all the time, but I genuinely understand the recreational use of pot. And, having done it, it felt a little like the first time I had sex. People try to scare you, guilt you, warn you off of it, but once you're adult enough to responsibly handle the decision to indulge in your first time, you're left wondering afterwards: "What was all the fuss?" It feels good, it hurts no one, and as long as you're responsible, why not?

I can't tell what sort of long-term effects marijuana use might have on bi-polar patients. I understand enough that it could affect the effectiveness of your medication. But then, most bipolar marijuana users seem to suggest they use it as an alternative to medication. And that I could understand. Because all too often, the side effects are worse than the disease, and they're almost never as effective as your psych would lead you to believe. I've been on a med cocktail since March, nearly four months now, and I'm still in this half-life, neither sick enough for hospital, nor well enough for the real world. But last night, I slept the best sleep I've had all week.

Good Day

Today is a good day. It's strange to write that and know that what should be normal for most people is extraordinary for me. I am . . . happy today. I say that tentatively, as if I might jinx myself. Today, I can access my emotions, the love I feel for my boyfriend, the fondness, the affection. I had been withdrawn lately, unable to participate in our relationship, less than affectionate, and it had left us at arm's length from each other--a painful thing when you know, logically, that this person is someone you love, someone who is supportive, someone who is, in fact, special. But I can still remember back to being in hospital and how, no matter how much I knew he loved me, I also knew love wasn't enough to make me better. It's strange to be so solipsistic, so self-absorbed. I dislike having to be so focused on myself, how I feel, how I'm acting. In all honesty, I don't feel as if I deserve that much attention.

Fireworks

The 4th was mostly rained out. I caught a few flashes through the window, and Jb said if I wanted to try to find them, he would love to take me. "Love to take me." He's generous like that--in ways I could never be. So we went out driving in the rain, saw no fireworks, but rolled the windows down, turned the country music up, and watched the lights flash by and reflect up off the road. At a stoplight, he leaned in and said the sweetest damn thing to me. So sweet I'm going to keep it to myself, and horde it in my heart, and feel, for the first time in a while, the bliss that used to mark my highs. Maybe this is happiness, this quiet, glad, contentment that fills the chest without being so extreme that you can't control it or feel as if you can't hold it all in. Who knew there could be too much happiness, and who knew that a baseline could feel less like a loss and more like a gain.

All in My Head

I don't know who I am. I can't define myself by any one title: friend, daughter, partner, writer, bum, mentally ill. I love animals, books, words, things beyond my ken. But more and more, Shakespeare runs through my head:

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That thousands of strange shadows on you tend.

I live so much of my life in my head that at times I feel completely disconnected from reality and from those around me, as if the only reality is that of my dreams, my inner imaginings. Characters, dialogue, scenes, whole stories, vivid dreams, they play themselves out inside my head so that it's more interesting to reside there, where things seem more true than the brittle reality of the world around me. I always feel twice removed from the world.

Maybe that's why I'm always so desperate for my loves to pull me into and keep me in the real world, as if they could possibly have responsibility for me. It's an expectation doomed to disappointment. And I always am. Stupid me.

Mixed State?

I'm depressed and irritable. My irritation is extreme. For example, Jb and I went to the store the other day. He usually can't stand the store, tries to rush me, acts out, won't go unless I have a list, but yesterday, he is all good humor, making smiley faces on the freezer doors, chattering at me, trying to get my attention, and I keep brushing him off, keep giving him looks, rolling my eyes. I cannot stand the constant nattering for attention. I'm irritated, so irritated I don't even want to be touched. Jb's ADD-like conversation and actions are overwhelming to me. I don't want to be pestered. I am upset at having to be at the store, at having to focus on the list I've made. I am functioning because I have to, because I can't let Jb down, but even then, the aisles are too many, the list too long, and I don't give a damn what kind of bread we get, or how much anything costs. I know I'm being cold to Jb, hurting him. But I can't help it.

We get through the store with only two brief brushes of rushing, snapping words. I can tell I'm wounding Jb when I don't appreciate the humor of his actions, or the way he's being so good at the store, helpful even. The rest of the trip goes fine. We drop the groceries off, pick up food. We get home, though, and it's suddenly a whole other game. We're arguing again. I'm not even sure about what, except I know, I know, Jb is trying to box me in. There's a sort of hopeless anxiety about it, where I want to cry because I can't do something simple like watch a movie. The argument gets way out of line, as they seem to these days. I'm going places I don't mean to go, saying things I can't take back, and Jb's had enough that he won't put up with it. I am being irrational. When we quit, Jb's the one who comes over and tries to talk to me, to tell me that I need to be more proactive in our relationship, that I need to participate in it. I have, obviously, been withdrawn. Jb is frustrated because I am not accessible. I am the burden. The depression deepens and I withdraw more.

Today, I know I am supposed to unpack something, one thing, sort through a bag of clothes, but I wander around, knowing I should do something, but unable to make myself do it. Instead, I'm online, in-game, blogging, reading, getting up, sitting down, and none of these activities last for more than 10 minutes at a time. I am unable to focus. I am writing in fits and starts. I am thinking about calling Jb to tell him I love him and that I'm sorry. I am thinking about cleaning. I am thinking about eating. I don't do any of it. There are things I should be doing: following up with my unpaid leave status at work, calling the county to check on my assistance and status, calling the credit counseling center or rescheduling my bankruptcy class. I have done none of these things. I break down and take Protonix and Levsin for my stomach and IBS. My stomach has been killing me. I only eat to calm it down, and that only lasts a little while. I probably wouldn't eat otherwise. IBS tends to be seasonal, and stress-related: both conditions are being met.

My symptoms are symptomatic. I can't focus, I feel awful. When Jb asks me how I feel, it's always, "I don't feel well," or, "I'm tired," things that mean, "I'm depressed. I'm unstable right now." Sometime toward the end of the night, during a CSI episode, I suddenly have this need to just kick and thrash about. Jb looks at me awkwardly, and asks what all that was about. All I have to say is, "I don't know. I just had to." A sudden surge of hypomania? Of wanting to crawl right out of my skin? I honestly don't know. Is this a mixed state? The depression is there, my anger and irritation are extreme. I don't care about anything. I have very little focus. I'm wanting to do something, then not wanting to do it. I stumble from one "diversion" to the next, not diverted, not really interested in doing anything at all. The tv annoys me, the internet is boring, gaming is unsatisfying. Of course, the IBS takes everything to another level. Not only do I feel mentally unstable, but I feel physically ill, as well. It's a double-hitter that makes the depression and irritation worse.

9:59 a.m. How Do I Feel Today?

It's one of those "activities" they make you do in therapy and at the hospital. In the hospital, you rated yourself on a scale of 1 to 10. In therapy, I had a sheet of faces with the names of different emotions beneath them. Often, there wasn't an emotion that ever fit how I felt, or I couldn't quite name how I felt. On a 1 to 10 scale? About a 3 today. I'm feeling numb. I don't care about much. There will be no shower today. I will put my hair up in a makeshift bun with a hairband. I will not unpack--something I haven't really done since we moved in. I will not play on the computer. I will not read a book. If I do either, it will be for 10 minutes, maybe less. I may turn on the tv, but I will not watch it. If Jb comes home and asks anything of me, I will be upset and put out. I'm supposed to make a grocery list today. I will wait until the last minute to do it. When we go to the store, I will shuffle around from aisle to aisle without really seeing anything. I will not want to be there. I do not care about eating, though I will when I'm hungry later. I ate half of one of Jb's Nutty Bars because I couldn't be bothered to make anything more complicated. Jb will probably be upset that I did. I don't much care. He will take that as me not caring about him, or his feelings, but it's simply apathy. He can be mad at me if he wants to--he often is these days--and I don't care. I do not want to write. That is how I feel today.

7:43 a.m. Med Check

"Me and my medicine we are
So hard to take
Me and my medicine we are
So hard to take"

Kate MacLeod, "Me and My Medicine"

Meds: Took 'em. Didn't want to, but did.

Jb spent half the morning, I think, slamming every drawer in the file cabinet to find every single freakin' pen because I said I needed one to make a grocery list. I swear it's the stupid, petty things like this that make me want to give it all up. Why bother taking my meds? It's not as if it helps anything. I'm still down. Jb and I still fight. And almost always it ends up being my fault: I've snapped at him, I can't control my moods. It makes a person tired.

Breakfast: I don't feel like eating.

Now back to bed so I can sleep out the day rather than deal with it. I'm too damn tired. And again, that's just another way of saying I'm depressed, down, not up to dealing with the day.

Dreams: Vivid, but I don't remember them.

Everybody's Comin' to Get Me

Last night, paranoia hit me hard. It's been hitting me on and off for a long while, though it gets stronger and weaker at times. But it's only last night that I think I started seeing it for what it is. Half the time it manifests itself in the usual ways: thinking people are always watching me, talking about me behind my back, thinking mean thoughts about me, conspiring about me at work. Now I'm starting to think it manifests itself heavily in my relationships. I start thinking things about my significant other like, "Oh, he doesn't really love me. I just want him to admit what I already know: he doesn't actually love me." And there's paranoia about what they're doing, thinking, mostly in regards to me or how it affects me. Are they cheating? Would they ever? Do they want to? What are they hiding on their computers? What are they hiding in their lives? Why don't they ever want to spend time with me? The computer/tv/object must be more important than I am. Maybe I'm not capable of being loved. Etc., etc.

My thoughts were on the mental downward train last night because Jb was on the computer most of the night, watched a tiny bit of tv with me, then zonked out. I immediately started in with the whole, "He never wants to spend time with me anymore. He must not love me. The computer and tv are more important than me. This is just like my last relationship. I'm losing him. What if he cheats on me? He probably doesn't love me anymore. He probably hates me and thinks I'm crazy." Which he should when I think things like that. Because, you know, he couldn't possibly be tired because he's had a long week at work in 90 degree weather, which would be enough to sap anyone. So this becomes just another symptom to bring up to my psych doctor.

Also, I willfully didn't take my meds last night. I didn't want to. I didn't want to have to be taking meds, and certainly not so damn many. Most of the time, I'm extremely faithful to the idea of being med compliant. But last night, I was so down with the paranoid thinking that I didn't see how it mattered if I took meds or not. I didn't care. I didn't care about me.

On a better note, I did take my meds this morning. Lamictal and Wellbutrin down. As far as my sleep schedule, tried to go to bed around 10:30-ish. Not sure when I actually got to sleep. Slept until about 10:30-ish this morning. 12 hours. A little too long, maybe.

7:45 p.m. Up and Down the Merry-Go-Round

It can be the best day one minute, then one song -- one song -- and my eyes are burning, my heart's aching, and something in my stomach turns sour. I want a cigarette more than life, and even then, the tears start to well up.

Early in the day, Jb and I drive out to Cracker Barrel. All the way there and back we listen to country, Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer, my music, and sometime in the last few weeks, Jb's bothered to listen to some of it, has learned to appreciate some of the songs. It means so much to me that the car flies down the highway, the wind blows in the windows, and everything is green, lush, flowing. And I'm happy; I'm content. Nothing sparkles, the colors don't glow vibrant, so intense they light up my heart, and the pure feeling, the feeling of the moment doesn't overwhelm, doesn't fill me to the brim, not like it used to. And I miss it. The day has been beautiful. I recognize that, appreciate it, but I miss the ecstasy of it. I miss the unnatural high.

We come home, and suddenly, I can't stand being here in the dark when the day's so beautiful. I get antsy, something beneath my skin starts to itch, for the sunlight, for relief. Waiting on Jb, I'm surfing YouTube and I'm watching some Firefly montage to "Ain't No Reason" by Brett Dennen, a song I've never heard before, and it hits home unexpectedly:

There ain’t no reason things are this way.
Its how they always been and they intend to stay.
I can't explain why we live this way, we do it everyday.
Preachers on the podium speakin’ of saints,
Prophets on the sidewalk beggin’ for change,
Old ladies laughing from the fire escape, cursing my name.
I got a basket full of lemons and they all taste the same,
A window and a pigeon with a broken wing,
You can spend your whole life workin’ for something
Just to have it taken away.
People walk around pushing back their debts,
Wearing pay checks like necklaces and bracelets,
Talking ‘bout nothing, not thinking ‘bout death,
Every little heartbeat, every little breath.
People walk a tight rope on a razor's edge
Carrying their hurt and hatred and weapons.
It could be a bomb or a bullet or a pen
Or a thought or a word or a sentence.

There ain't no reason things are this way.
It's how they always been and they intend to stay
I don’t know why I say the things I say, but I say them anyway.
But love will come set me free
Love will come set me free, I do believe
Love will come set me free, I know it will
Love will come set me free, yes.

Prison walls still standing tall,
Some things never change at all.
Keep on buildin’ prisons, gonna fill them all,
Keep on buildin’ bombs, gonna drop them all.
Working your fingers bare to the bone,
Breaking your back, make you sell your soul.
Like a lung that’s filled with coal, suffocatin’ slow.
The wind blows wild and I may move,
The politicians lie and I am not fooled.
You don't need no reason or a three piece suit to argue the truth.
The air on my skin and the world under my toes,
Slavery stitched into the fabric of my clothes,
Chaos and commotion wherever I go, love I try to follow.

Love will come set me free
Love will come set me free, I do believe
Love will come set me free, I know it will
Love will come set me free, yes.

There ain't no reason things are this way
It’s how they always been and they intend to stay
I can't explain why we live this way, we do it everyday.

It brings me down to a level I haven't been at for almost two weeks now. I'm ready to cry. I can't understand the meaning of it all, and everything seems momentary: this too shall pass, this too shall pass. But no one ever acknowledges that also means that this happiness, that passes, too. And we're left on the up and down of a merry-go-round, holding tight to a pole, sometimes brave enough to reach for the brass ring, but mostly so frightened that all we can do is hold on tight and close our eyes and wait for the world to stop.

The worst is that I remember the hospital again. I remember how faithful Jb was, coming every night for that single hour they allowed visitors, and twice on the weekend. Every time he came, and when he left, the girls in the ward made such fun of me: "You know he loves you; you can see it in how he looks at you," "Oo, J-----, hug me, too!" Even the nurses, one of them noting how'd come in the middle of the night to bring me something when I couldn't, and hadn't, slept for three nights in row. She told me if he didn't so obviously love me, she might have a go at him.

Half the women in ward sat in group and talked about love, failed relationships, divorce, and every single one of them got a sort of hungry look when Jb was with me, as if they'd give their selves for something, for someone, to look at them like that, to make life more bearable. And all I could think, swallowed by the deep water of depression and lost to the currents of my own thoughts, was that love couldn't fix me. I had the perfect boyfriend; he loved me, was there for me, supported me in ways I'd never expected anyone to support me. But love couldn't fix me.

6:08 a.m. Paranoia Sets In

I wake early from a vivid dream in which I am furious with Jb. Furious. And betrayed. A girl named Kristen is visiting with us, and while I've been away, she and Jb have developed some sort of bond, and I know -- I know -- they've kissed, that Jb has done something to compromise our relationship. When I confront him, he plays arrogant, won't tell me anything, denies everything, and that's how I know it's true. And when his elbow jostles me in bed, waking me, I have an urge to slap him senseless across the face. How could he do that to me?

Vivid dreams like this, where I wake up as furious, or as upset, or as fearful as I would be in the waking world, bleed from my subconscious to my conscious mind. And it's difficult for me to sort through what's real and what's the overwhelming feeling I've woken up to. Jb would say I was paranoid. In fact, he's used that exact term twice in the last week. And I know I am. Except it's getting worse, and this, too, is a sign of bipolar. Hypomania/Mania, I believe.

The paranoia creeps in so that I hardly see it until someone points it out to me. I think the people on the bus are watching me. Marya Hornbacher calls them The Watchers in her book, Madness. And it's one of the sections I can relate too. Everyone is watching me. Everyone is critizing me. Everyone is talking about me. Jb's reading my blog and thinking he's ended up with a nutcase. I constantly question him if I think he's reading this. I'm even paranoid in my dreams. It's laughably egotistical, really. Solopsitic to the nth degree.

But there's some truth to the paranoia, especially about Jb. I constantly worry over the bickering. It's coming more and more. We're a couple less and less. There's constant outside strain on the relationship, and constant stress at home. Nothing is easy with me -- for a million reasons. And I can't fix that. I can only take my meds and ride my moods and hope to see them in some rational way that I can talk about them, get a handle on them. I worry about the day Jb can no longer handle them, or me. I've already lost a marriage. I don't want to lose him.