Groggy

Forgot my meds again last night. Waking up groggy as hell. Having problems falling asleep and sleeping through the night. Up a couple times a night, sleeping until 10ish. My whole sleep schedule is screwed. Can't blame it on the Wellbutrin, as this had started before they upped my dose, and from what I understand, Wellbutrin acts as more of stimulant than a depressant.

Also, might have forgotten a psych appointment today, which, to be honest, is fine. I haven't even been on the higher dose of Wellbutrin for a week now. Can't imagine why they'd want me back so soon, except that, yes, they think I'm still unstable. Haven't heard back from the therapist I called. Should call another one. Everything is such a hassle, truly.

Back to sleeping, dreams are vivid, very vivid, but gone almost completely on waking. Struggle to focus on waking, as if I'd rather stay in the dream world.

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.

1:27 p.m. Breakdown & Death

It was inevitable, I guess. Last night, we watched CSI and House M.D. It was like a one-two punch. CSI focused around the "death" of a girl with bipolar. House spun around a dying man and the concept of life after death. The rest of the night, I couldn't stop thinking about death and whether there was actually anything to think about. Are near death experiences merely the last hurrah of nerve endings firing in your head, your brain flooding with endorphins, creating delusions? Is there anything out there?

At my bleakest, I am sure that religion, mythology, and spiritual beliefs are all stories we make up to convince ourselves that life is worth living, that there is some reason and reward beyond ourselves. After all, why is it easy to look back on the ancient Greeks, to throw stones at their gods, without being aware of the hypocrisy of our own belief systems. The peasants in Medieval times seem uneducated and desperate for some hope of release and reward in an unconscionably hard existence, but how much more uneducated and desperate will we seem to those who look back at us a thousand years from now?

This is where I become lost. If there is no sense to living hand-to-mouth, to spending so much time at work that we see more of our colleagues than we do our families, to death and decay and poverty and injustice and hunger, then why--why--bother? Your parents raise you, as best they can, to be a productive member in society, but what happens when that conditioning no longer rings true to you? What happens when it begins to slip? For me, I despair of having to fill countless hours with things I have to do for other people, things which have no meaning whatsoever in the grand scheme of things. Why? Why work? Why sell your life to someone else? Why struggle? Why continue on in such pain and misery and anxiety?

I spent last night grieving my wet-headed, ninja kitty again, though it's been over a year. But there's such guilt there. I knew something was wrong with him. I could tell he wasn't making his jumps, his balance was off, he was sleeping all day... And we laughed at him for being clumsy. And we didn't take him to the vet for over a week because we didn't have the money to spare. And by then, he was so sick. There was nothing we could do, except make the difficult decision, stand by him until his heart stopped. I was hysterical with tears, and was again last night, remembering it. What is it that we do here? That we can believe in to weather such things? What can we do except make up stories to give us hope, to ease the grief, to find some explanation.

But there is no explanation. There is no knowing. We are robots: our body working in set sequences until it can't anymore. We are conscious, yes, and we have free will, but what does it lead us to? So, individually, we choose what we live for: the love of family and friends, the love of a partner, the satisfaction of living life on our own terms, the pride of being successful. Each of us must find some reason to go on, else why bother? And it's during times like this I can understand those who choose suicide. What is it all for in this shallow, shadow world we live in? Tired, and alone, and depressed, how can we choose to go on when we see so clearly? What if we cannot find that one thing worth living for?

And despite this, there are moments I want to believe, but I catch myself. Even in my dreams, when I die, there is nothing. I'm alive, and then I'm not, and everything is blackness. Only once did I dream that I died, and having died in one existence, found myself in another, parallel existence, living another life in another consciousness that was like my own, but not. And perhaps we live that way, on parallel plans of existence, time meaning nothing. Or maybe the true blackness is inside of me, an empty void of loneliness. And maybe I'm grieving for myself as much as I am for my cat, my marriage, my father, my grandmother. All I know is that I cannot understand the struggle, and that I am lonely in my lack of belief.

Slippery Slope

I'm heading for a depression. I can feel it coming on. I've lost interest in most everything again: reading, computer games, movies, sex, going places, doing things. I am angry at myself about this, so I'm cranky all the time and restless. Sometimes, instead, I'm listless and passive. The IBS and GERDs is acting up as well. I'm beginning to stress about things like Jb coming home at night. While other things, I don't care about at all: like whether the bills get paid, whether we have money or not, whether we have food or not. When Jb tries to ask me about these things, I get annoyed, short with him. He is constantly yelling at me for snapping at him. My temper and patience are nonexistent. I resent Jb's intrusion into my "world." More and more, he says things to me like, "You know, maybe you should try living here in reality, like everybody else."

This morning, on waking, I remember having a very vivid dream about living in a city with Hitler and being somehow close to him. Because he's a despot and mercurial of mood, everyone is always on eggshells around him, not wanting to curry his disfavor. I am someone he favors, and even I am very careful about what I do and say. It is stressful, this living on the edge, never knowing whether he'll be kind or cruel. And he can be very kind, as well as very cruel. There is a small resistance in the town. They know each other by the books they read. But those loyal to Hitler know them by the books they read as well. I try to sneak past a Hitler supporter with one of these books tucked among many. I make it, barely, out to a terraced park full of students and wildflowers, and there are two women who oversee the whole body of supporters. L-----, from the psych ward, is there in my dream. She screams out at a line of nuns who walk past the park; she was always screaming out about freedom and being closed in.

The dream is telling. I am having a hard time dealing with being home all day, then having Jb come home and disrupt my little world. It's like Jayne says in Firefly, "[He] damages my calm." It also sends me back to my childhood--when I lived in fear of my mother's moods, never knowing what they might be from minute to minute. I have to admit to myself that I've felt this way for the last year or so. Even when Jb was picking me up from work, the last hour of work, before I knew he was coming, I'd start to get sick to my stomach, I'd taste cigarettes in my mouth, and my IBS would suddenly flare up, so that I missed almost a half hour of work at the end of the day, every day. I think, perhaps, this is an inability to deal with change on a small, localized scale. And like in my dream, I used to escape into books. But since the hospitalization, I've had trouble concentrating enough to read them, except in small snippets.

Jb also gets on my ass--understandably so--about not having started to unpack. I took a week off because I needed it after the move, but I've no energy for it. It's been up near the 100s this week, so I tell myself it's because it's been so hot and I've been trying to keep the A/C off during the day. But the truth is that I simply don't have the motivation to do it. And Jb's losing patience with me. We had another fight last night. He told me that I've ruined every night so far in the new apartment, that I no longer participate in our relationship. And I'm left hurt and shamed and guilty and small--and angry at him for making me face the truth. I wish, sometimes, I could not listen. That I could wrap the bubble of my quiet day alone around me.

I cannot blame Jb, though. He is working hard, for both of us. He has every right to resent what he must see as my laziness. And it's like work all over again. How many times can you say, "I don't feel well," before they begin to look at you askance, like you're lying, or making it up. Depression isn't an excuse, but it comes across as one. Unless you've been there, deep and alone, you cannot ever truly understand what it feels like. Mild depression is not the same as major depression. Trying to follow each mood swing is exhausting. Depression is depleting. You are told, expected, to be this or that, but you can't be. Part of you no longer even cares that you can't be. Another part of you is angry and bitter, guilt-ridden and ashamed. And still, even though you want to meet someone's expectations, you can't. The will to try sputters and flags like a flame about to go out, and you're left feeling helpless, and you know it's all you're fault. You are the one who is broken. You are the one who is wrong.

6:00 a.m. Med Check

Woke about 5:45 a.m. Took my meds. Ate them with some cheese and crackers--got my protein in. I now sing Kate MacLeod's "Me and My Medicine" in my head every time I have to take my meds:

"I'd rather be a pillar of salt
Then to leave my self behind"

Didn't sleep very well. Vivid dreams again. More on those in the next post. Woke up achy, probably still because of sleeping on the floor. Went to bed around 11ish last night.

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.

Vivid Dreams, Recurring Themes

Spent some time last night listening to some people talk about their children and babies, and started up a side conversation with a buddy about how I didn't think I was mommy material. So, of course, last night this leaked into my dreams. And so did a few other things I wasn't prepared for.

In the first bit of my dream, I've had a kid with my ex, a little boy, but I haven't been raising him for some reason. And the first time I see him, he's a little man--about 5 or 6? -- in jeans and a dusty, light blue polo, just like the one his dad is wearing. He has wispy blond hair for some reason, though neither me or my ex do. And we're all meeting at the movies, where I discover this kid--my kid--is the sweetest thing, and I've missed this terrible thing all these years, and now I'm dedicated to setting up time to be with him. Because we fit together perfectly.

The next dream is the gender bender, three-way, recurring theme dream. In this type of dream, there is always a love triangle, and I'm always the third wheel, the odd one out, the one looked over, the one who loses. The girl who usually wins the man or the dream is a girl I once knew in grade school--almost always. I don't know why it's always her, though I understand the underlying fears and issues of the dream for the most part.

Anyway, in this version of the dream, I'm male. The girl I once knew has had a child, my child, I think, and we were married once. We definitely aren't anymore, and I'm desperate to setup time to visit with my child--because her family is keeping him from me. At the same time, the dream warps forward and I'm in Dylan McDermott's house. Apparently, this is her finance. Like two men who've loved the same woman, we sort of eye each other, then come to a tentative sort of truce for the sake of the wedding, the woman, and the child involved.

Somehow, I find that their relationship is on rocky ground, but they plan to go through with the wedding anyway. The reception is a mess. Me and my friends are sequestered at a table far distant from the wedding party, and I'm not allowed to see my kid. I raise a ruckus about it, the bride's parents make it difficult for me, and my friends do everything they can to sabotage the reception. Eventually, the bride's parents try to make us pay for the meal. I reply, "My parents paid $11,000 for your daughter's first wedding. I think you owe me a meal."

Chaos ensues. Including a chase through some underground sewer. Don't ask me about that one. Then suddenly we're at the bride's house. All the reception favors have arrived late, they're too big, they're not right. The bride sits wilted in her chair. The fiance is nowhere to be seen. I approach her, crook my finger, and whisper in her ear, "I want to set up time to see my son." She nods, exhausted, as if she's given in. I crook my finger again and whisper, "I wish you all the luck with your new husband." She replies, bitter, "As if I could with the wedding we've had."

And then, I wake up.

10:46 Meh.

Meds check: Took them.

Sleep: Too Much. Woke at 1 a.m., 5 a.m., 7:30 a.m. 9:30 a.m. and got up at 10:30 a.m.

Feeling: Depressed, unmotivated, dreading the move, procrastinating.

Writing: Nothing to say.

Blog: Will most likely be on hiatus until Comcast decides there's an apartment to transfer our internet to. Probably a couple weeks without tv or internet. We're so pleased with the internet/cable monopoly.

Dreams: Vivid again, and remembering some on waking.

11:45 a.m. Sleep Study

I'm right back in bed after Jb leaves this morning and not up again until 11:46 a.m. I was having vivid dreams, though they were gone on waking. But this is the first time in nearly a week that I've been aware of even having them anymore. I feel like I should note this before moving on to a more thoughtful post. So, not hypomania. I can't do without the sleep. But my sleep schedule has definitely shifted. Could have been a couple days of up-up and this could be the downswing, bringing with it the over-compensating sleep. We'll see what my energy is like around 2 p.m. This is when I begin to wonder if it's bipolar, and then I think about what I'm about to write in my next post, and I think it's likely; it's just been so long since I've had an extended manic episode.

7:36 a.m. Early Mornin' Check-In

Was up around 5ish this morning, then again at 7ish when I heard Jb getting ready for work. Took meds with a Barq's, and here's the fascinating thing about Barq's (yes, yes: we all know "it has bite"): it also has caffeine, unlike almost every other brand of root beer out there. So I've a 12-pack of the stuff, and my stomach is not a happy camper (TM). Caffeine exacerbates the IBS, which is always fun, and feeling sick to my stomach, literally, does nothing for my mood.

Note to self: No vivid dreams of late. Or, at least, none I remember. I'd like to say there was something just on the edge of memory when I woke up this morning, but it's long gone now.

7:06 Meds, Check

2 Lamictal, 1 Klonopin, and 1 Seagrams Ginger Ale (Note: Caffeine Free). Went to bed at 1:30 a.m. Maybe more like 2 a.m. I resent the way Jb rolls over and is out like a light and snoring within a minute of deciding he's tired while I lie there, thoughts random and a mess. Forecast for staying up? Slim to none. Maybe. If I dreamed, I remember nothing. Haven't in days. May be starting a downward trend. Too early to tell, but spent parts of yesterday and the day before morose and in a general funk. Emotionally sensitive. The regular symptoms. Could it be the lower dose of Remeron -- an antidepressant -- finally leaving my system? Unsure. Maybe going down 15MG was a bad idea.

6:03 a.m. Compliant

Up at 6 this morning. Having my breakfast, which I don't want, and taking my 200MG of Lamictal and 1MG of Klonopin. My neck muscles and shoulder muscles and most of my other muscles are sore, like they've taken a good beating. I've read this can be a side effect. My eyes are also bloodshot, which is new, and somewhat disturbing. If I had any dreams last night, I don't remember them. Too tired to say much else.

11:02 a.m. Stupid, Stupid

Stupid, stupid me. I didn't take my Lamictal or Klonopin this morning. I wonder if it's too late to now. I wonder if I forgot to yesterday, too. I'm not used to taking anything in the morning. And I wonder if this has anything to do with the tireds. I think I took my Lamictal last night without thinking and wonder if it's worth taking two this morning or waiting now.

And speaking of stupid, my morning dreams are coming back to me now. I'm in a college dorm and Jb and B, an old co-worker of mine, are stripping naked and jumping out the window to a snow-covered ledge below to... flaunt their nakedness? I've honestly no idea. It's clear they think it's a good idea, despite the snow. There is some public security officer talk out on the roof, and a little defiance, but eventually, they come back upstairs. I, of course, am only afraid of getting into trouble and don't see the humor in the whole thing. This is typical of me. Everything must be just right, I must be just right, I must not get into trouble, I must keep the status quo, I must be perfect.

Because deep inside I know how truly imperfect I am.

Later in the dream, I'm frying my uncle Frank a salmon sandwich, except the salmon curls up into grey little elephants that talk to each other in the pan, and I'm wondering how I'm going to be able to serve this on a sandwich, and they're certainly not big enough for two sandwiches.

Strange take on the usual pink elephant dream, especially considering I was completely sober this morning. Unless a lack of meds can simulate such things.

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.

1:16 a.m. Drained

Up at 1 in the morning. Maybe the lamictal. Psychiatric nurse practitioner mentioned it might mess with my sleep. Will start taking 2 lamictal in the morning and none at night.

Otherwise, woke up from a sex dream, again. Vivid. But I've forgotten it now.

Before bed, Jb and I were at it again. touchy and upset, arguing. Jb has a way of instigating things that makes me want to hurt him. He's the one who started off with the sullen, passive-aggressive shit, but he won't admit to it. So he goads me, which I don't deserve, and I end up confused and hurt and yelling back about what, I don't really know. Sometimes it just drains me.

11:58 a.m.Perky!

Didn't wake up until 11 a.m. I could have woken up earlier, but I was having this delicious dream that involved some sort of family business rivalry, and perfume, and sex and seduction. I kept trying to fall asleep and recapture it because my dreams are so vivid right now, but I couldn't. And finally, a lady from 1-800-THERAPIST called me back and woke me up. We talked for a few minutes and she gave me some numbers for a few places with sliding scale fees, medication management, and support groups. The support group is every other Thursday, but downtown. I'm not quite sure how I feel about a support group at the moment, but it's a good resource to know about.

And here's the reason I'm unsure about a support group: I feel perky! I feel awake, I feel fine, I feel... just great, really. I took a Klonopin and more Lamictal this morning, so maybe the Klonopin took the edge off the more out-of-control fine I was feeling yesterday. I don't know. If I do what McMan calls a "systems check," I can still feel a little fraying at the edges.

Yesterday was bad, though. I kept doing a shuffling dance waiting for the bus. Everything was so slooooow, and because I didn't want to miss my second appointment, I got there an hour and a half early. So I sat down on a bench outside to get my 10m of sunlight, like the therapist I broke up with, said I should. In case there was any benefit to the hooey. And I kept calling Jb, like 3 times: "You're driving near home? Oh, hi! -wavewave-," which he didn't get and I repeated many times, then I called him about bumble bees because there was a big one, and he was all up in my space: "Do bumblebees sting? No, the big ones, like at the arboretum, do they sting? Wouldn't their stinger be even bigger than regular ones? Wouldn't that hurt more? Are you sure they don't sting? But you said they don't sting! I don't care if they sting different! Are you suuuure they don't sting? 99.9% sure? Well, okay. I just wanted to know if they sting."

And so on and so on. I already mentioned the fiasco in the office, hands shaking, trying to show the psychiatric nurse practitioner my list, being told things about my medications I wasn't quite sure I'd remember, talking too much. Then not being able to wait for the bus because it was so sloooooow, and the wind was getting my hair in my face, and doing that shuffling, rocking dance again at the stop, and deciding no, no: I'll go wait in the hospital cafeteria, yeah, which was a longer wait, but which also had food, which the nurse said I needed. So I ate a salad with eggs and nuts and cheese for the protein and read more Madness.

When Jb finally picked me up, I couldn't stop talking. He definitely noticed I was a little hyper, a little too happy. In the Subway line, I couldn't stop giggling and laughing. I'd just thought of the funniest joke, and it was so funny I couldn't keep the laughter in. And that was the ride home, giggling, and all the way up in the elevator, where I just wanted to laugh and laugh, and should have put both hands over my mouth to keep it in, but couldn't. He called me "crazy," which I sort of resented, but then, inside, he said, "Hey!" And I asked, "What?" And he said, "I love you." And I asked, "Even though I'm crazy?" And he said, "Unh huh." And I said, "I love you too. ... Even though you're sane." And we were good.

I'm finding that I'm also getting more pokey and wrestley when I'm like this. I antagonize Jb into getting into small wrestling bouts. I'm more touchy, but not in the good way. I poke and prod and try to get him to pay attention, and he ham-handles me back, which I deserve, but then, which I resent, and so it sort of escalates until someone gets pinched too hard and pouts. Sometimes me, sometimes him. And we're mad for minutes at a time. But then, I start up all over again, and it's not something I can help. I think it's a need to be doing something, I want for attention. I'm bored easily, and Jb's the nearest one around.

I take my meds at 9 p.m., but I'm not asleep until almost 12. My new meds as of May 19th, 2008 are:

• Remeron 30MG taken as 15MG 1x a day
• Lamcital 200MG taken as 100MG 2x a day, or if it starts messing with my sleep, 2 100MG tabs in the morning
• Klonopin 1MG 2x a day
• No Adderall refill
• Benitar HCT 40/25 1x a day

I see the psychiatrist again in 2 weeks.

12:17 p.m. Missed Appt. & List of Symptoms

Dammit, I've forgotten my psych appointment. I had to call them to find out because I couldn't find my appointment card among the trash, the bills, the folders of county info and medical info.

The receptionist sounds vaguely amused when she tells me I missed it; it was earlier today. I'm vaguely annoyed and feel as if she's patpat'd me via phone. They have a cancellation for later today, though, so I'll be going at 5:15 p.m. I call Jb to tell him this, to tell him I might not be home by the time he is, so, "Don't worry! Just at the psych's!" He suggests that maybe we should start writing down my appointments, like on a whiteboard that we post on the bathroom door, a cheap one with cheap markers -- since that's really all we can afford. I feel like a child now, who's been talked to like a child, and shamed into looking at her feet as she digs a toe into the ground.

Feeling child-like, and pissed at myself for what I see as continued incompetence, I tell myself I will look at my blog. I will write down the points I would like to discuss with my psych. Better yet, I'll write them down now! Here is what I will tell my psych:

• I'm am so forgetful I forget appointments and lock myself out of my apartment regularly.
• I would lick sugar off the floor if it spilled. I think this is a Remeron side effect.
• I sleep until 10 p.m., then again at 2 p.m., then again at 11 p.m.
• Sometimes, I cannot sleep because I talk to myself all night long.
• When I am not asleep, I run a constant dialogue with myself in my head.
• I obsess over lyrics, poems, my diagnosis.
• Everything seems dirty to me. I can't touch or eat off certain things until they're clean.
• I screen my calls and avoid people.
• I still don't shower for days. My personal hygiene is definitely lacking.
• I'm writing some, but it's all crap, and I've only begun to read very little bits.
• My dreams are especially vivid, but often forgotten, except in the morning.
• I am feeling somewhat better. The peaks and valleys are less extreme, but the rotation seems quicker, and it's exhausting trying to keep up.
• I saw something the other day that probably wasn't there.
  

This is what I would ask my psych:

• Is Lamictal really supposed to be used as a mood stabilizer?I read that a study from the APA said that it didn't work any better as a mood stabilizer than placebos did.
• Is there something we can try besides Remeron? Something weight neutral that doesn't make me feel like a junky without the benefit of a high?
• Am I really bipolar? Because I'm not sure I am. Shouldn't I be cycling less if I am? And if I'm not, what the hell is this? Because I'd feel so much better if I could label it. If I could hold it in my hands and work around a definition.
• And what about work? It's been 3 months. But I still feel too unstable, like if I tried to find another job now, it'd be a month, maybe more, before I'd be hey-ho! for the hospital again. Should I go for disability and will you support me?
  

I think that's all. I know I have forgotten something. I'm always forgetting something. I just worry it's not a big something. I'd rather it be a small something, like how I've forgotten which bus to take to the hospital to see my psych doctor, though I rode that bus everyday for nearly two weeks. And why is it that I can't get my mind to stop, and yet, I can't get it to function either?

Oh! I did forget. I will take a list of my meds! A list. Not my white bag. The white bag will stay home. I will take white paper instead. Because white paper is more normal. (Only the labels for my posts -- "dosage" -- reminded me that, yes, I'm going to the psych doctor to check the dosage of my meds. How clever. After all, that's what psych doctors are for, yes.)

11:24 p.m. Wake Up Call

In and out of sleep until 10ish. Try to find it again, but my brain is wracked with scenes from the novel I woke up to yesterday morning. I lie in bed and let them play out in my mind. Question them. Turn them over. Is it too much like any other book I've read? Of course, aren't all plots derivative? It's the characters that drive the story, make it unique. I'm unconvinced. Still, the characters seem to live and breath in my head, having their own voices and desires.

I've been reading Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher. Not the way I usually read, devouring books in a day's time, but in the way I read now, quick, but slow, scanning pages, but only able to ever absorb a few pages at a time. This makes Marya's book perfect, as her chapters are often only a few pages at a time. Sometimes, it's not until I've read some of her book that I understand what is going on in my own head. For example, I am, and have been, screening my calls. Not because I don't want to talk to people, but because I can't. It's exhausting. Similarly, I don't think I'll be going out today. At best, I hope to take a shower. I haven't in days. And I'm not sure if I've missed my appointment with my psych.

11:25 a.m. Full Blown

I wake up with a full blown book plot in my head.

Actually, rewind. I wake up earlier: 6ish. I'm dreaming the plot, so I go back to sleep. I do this several more times, each time dreaming more and more of a plot that I'm beginning to think I can thread together into a story. Not surprisingly, the heroine has bipolar. But it becomes a blessing rather than a curse, and why not?

So I get up and jot everything down in Notepad. We'll see if I manage to do anything with it.

11:26 a.m. There and Back Again

I'm back in bed by 8:30 a.m. -- just as Jb's getting up. I stay in bed until 10:30 a.m. My dreams are vivid, some sexual, though I don't remember any of them. I heard the phone ring at one point, but decided, as I usually do these days, to ignore it.

Once I'm up, I'm... up. I still have energy. I still feel good. I'm ready to take on the day. I hop right into the kitchen to make Pillsbury Sausage and Cheese Crescent Squares for breakfast. Another surprise for Jb. They take preparation -- love -- to make and bake.

I want to play WoW today too, which I haven't really wanted to do in ages, though I have -- for Jb's sake. But it was always a task, something I was doing as a means to an end: to make Jb happy. Now, I actually want to. The way I want to read. Knit. Write.

My focus still isn't what it might be. I want to do everything at the same time, or 2 or 3 things, at the very least, and so sometimes I alt-tab between 3 different wants, not really focusing on any one thing, but spreading my focus, and thus, my productivity, thin.

Note to self: I am still unable to reach for some words. "Productivity" eluded me.