gray cookies

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx: 1, agit: 1


Down, dooby-doo down, down.
Comma, comma, down, dooby-doo down, down.

I am a slave to colorless, cookie-cuttered days.

I've reverted to waking up after noon. I like it that way - for now, at least. I actually prefer to stay in until the time the Hubby comes home from work. It saves me the energy of preparing breakfast and lunch, and spares me the agony of desolation.

And then at night i stay up as long as i can, watching or reading to keep my mind from swirling down into the murky backwaters of my distended consciousness. Just keep things surface, shallow. No delving deeply into Khazad-Dum, no discovering unwanted Balrogs. I stay up until I am definitely exhausted.

Because I just don't want to face another day.

For that matter, there are a lot of thingsssssss I don't want to do anymore.

I don't care about reading.
I don't care about making money.
I don't want to eat.
I don't want to go to sleep.
I don't want to take my meds.
I don't even want to pray.
I don't want to believe in anything.
I don't want to work on anything.
I don't care about any dreams or plans or anything of the sort.
Screw fighting for my life.

I don't see the point since I'll be pishing everything away anyway.

Every day is a bland, gray cookie cut from the boggy dough of what is supposed to be my existence, destined for the compost heap.

yes, i bite

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx: 1, agit: 1

I'm having doubts about being the director of the little production I got involved in. I still really want to do it, I'm pretty sure about that. But I'm not too confident about myself handling all the stress that'd come with the package.

I just barked at some people recently - over some seemingly small thing to them but an apparently large problem for me. Naturally I didn't think it was wrong for me to do so while I was in the incident; as far as I was concerned my reaction was in proper proportion to my anxiety and agitation. Which the other people didn't sense of course. It was only after I had withdrawn myself from the stressors that I realized I'd probably been to much for them.

I did not overreact. Triggered bipolars do not overreact. We're just really prone to excessive emotion on either end of the spectrum, depending on which side of the spectrum we're sitting on at any given time. I really hate it when people say inappropriate, insensitive things like "You're overreacting," or "Why are you angry?". Darnit. A lot of times there isn't any reason there doesn't have to be one; just an ongoing episode. Like I said, my reaction was in proper proportion to my anxiety and agitation.

But none of them "normal" folk give a damn about that explanation of course.

So anyway. Back to the directing business. I still want to do it, but I may end up murdering one too many unsuspecting victims and thus once again end up on everyone's list of most unlikeable people. Oh, screw them for getting in the way of my psychosis. I just hate everyone right now.

"career choices"

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | normal | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx : 0 , agit : 0


I don't think it's much to be proud of when I tell people that I am self-employed, because that pretty much sounds like unemployed. There's a big difference, I know; but in my case it seems like the same thing. I spend most of my days at home and I can't quite call myself busy - at least not as busy busy busy as I used to be. I'm not quite a housewife either. I don't have any kids - not really fond of them, don't want any right now.

I wonder sometimes about how it appears to people - how I've chosen not to work in an office or apply for any sort of employment in the past year. I know my mother thinks it means I'd have to be poor; a friend called me a bum, hahahaa. In my defense, I am far from. I am still able to apply my time to productive use; I just don't happen to sit behind a desk in an air-conditioned room or rake in several thousand a month. I know that some people would frown upon that, think that my current existence would be a waste of intelligence if not a waste of cellulose.

I admit I'm not completely satisfied with my here and now - but for that matter, who is? Of course a part of me would want to be busy busy busy and feel like an important contribution to society, rake in the bucks -- but most of me just wants to live a (relatively) quiet but productive, creative life. At least, for now. I've decided I'm not the desk type - never worked for me, prolly never will and I don't want to waste my time finding out.

Some people that I'm not really in relationship with like to give advice and money-making options, send links and applications and stuff. Thanks but NO; please bother someone else. I understand that they mean well, but their efforts aren't really needed nor appreciated. I don't want to get just any job that would stress me out just so I could pay the bills. If I'm going to place time and energy into something, it better be something that I enjoy, or at least like. "Needing money" should not be the sole motivation for seeking employment.

I'm not an unmotivated, lazy sort of person with no ambition. I'm the sort that carries a well-defined personal mission statement, writes out objectives and sub-objectives in color-coded, laminated print-outs and keeps them in a well filled-out filofax. Driven, goal-oriented, fast-paced and that sort is my comfort zone - at least that's how things used to be. I'd just right now prefer not to follow those goals and thought-out plans; I'd rather let them sit on the shelf for awhile, until I'm ready to evaluate and recalculate so I could make new ones. There's no point in foolishly rushing in.

So just let me think about it, pray about it, and I'd go for it when the time is right. Believe me, waiting is boring me, but let's just say I'm in the middle of an experiment. I'd rather not rush into building a house that would end up unfinished due to a lack of funds and supplies. It's always better to be wise.

"Safe"

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | normal | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx : 0 , agit : 0


As I sat on the floor this afternoon, stripping a cardboard box for my pet rabbits, I got to do a bit of thinking. I was fashioning for them a safe environment where they can run semi-freely and enjoy little bunny joys without fear of harm. While I though about what would make the rabbits feel safe, I tried to think about where I felt safe.

I tried to think about the last time I felt safe.

I tried to think about what "safe" should feel like.

I remembered this space back in the old house, from when I was a child. It was a storage room used as a luggage cabinet. Whenever I was home alone with this mean-spirited, Miss Minchin-like house helper, and she happened to be in even meaner spirits, I'd lock myself in as a sort of defense. I'd stay there until either of my parents came home, or any adult for that matter, knowing that she wouldn't dare lift a hand to harm me while anyone else was present. She knew I'd retreated there, and she always attempted to break the door open, but she never did. I was safe of course from any physical harm she intended to inflict on me, but I wasn't safe from her taunts and insults, as I could hear her quite clearly through the wood panels. And sometimes, her words could harm worse than her hand.

"Safe" is relative.

Likewise, In That Place that is supposedly a "safe" place, I don't feel safe at all. Certainly, I am safe from being stabbed or mauled; but I am not safe at all from critical gossip and unfair judgment. In that regard, it feels in a lot of ways like the most unsafe place in the world for me.

Hey, I'm not paranoid. Paranoia is in a whole other disorder.

Somewhere in my soul I seek that place of comfort and assurance, as of a shielding, nurturing womb. Not a wall; never a wall. A cocoon I can curl up in and feel safe as I wait for my wings to grow out.

That Thing With Feathers That Perches On The Soul

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | normal | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx : 1 , agit : 0


A couple of evenings ago, we chatted a bit about hope at our group thing. I paused to think a moment about how I've been doing in the hope department. I'm pretty sure faith's been on a downward trek since last year's fiasco - but hope's an entirely different thing.

Hope is the thing with feathers, right Emily?

Hope is something intangible I can keep though things of value be taken away. Hope is the substance of dreaming, which colors existence into life. Hope feeds my soul when reason falls short. It's a charm grasped in times of darkness, a piece of another reality to aim for when the present one shatters.

Hope gives me a reason to stay alive.