today's flavor: D E E P ( I S H ) D E P R E S S I O Nanxiety : 4
agitation : 3
See how crazily rapid I cycle. Just a few days ago I was at baseline, cheery and anxiety-free. Today I'm in the depths of dejection. Weeping has graduated to howling, and I can't blame the Benadryl since I hadn't taken it. I don't simply wish to die anymore; between wails I found myself assuring myself that I can slice my jugular open quickly and all will be over briefly. I came close to building the resolve to do it. But of course I didn't do it. Obviously.
And I'd like to thank my husband for stowing away my craft knives. I love you Babe, you always do whatever it takes to keep me from acting out my suicidal fantasies.
And whoever misplaced the kitchen whetstone, thank you, that our knives can't even slice tomatoes.
And thank you, kitchen knives - though you frustrate me when I prepare food, I appreciate your uselessness at times like these when I want to use you on my throat.
The past few days have been horrible. Pramis. The worst was Friday. I cognitively knew I was nowhere near rock-bottom, but I sure felt like life had nothing good for me any further. Until today, I can't even bother to think about betterment. Because I really can't -- i.e., I am unable to muster enough mental energy needed to think positive. I can't do this anymore is once again my automatic mantra. Tomorrow, if I still feel indigo (that is, darker than blue), I shall take a happy yellow pill and hope that it helps.
Waking up this morning was unbearable, but I had to pick myself up, paste on a smile that says "I'm hunky-dory" and wear a guise of functionality. Because that's what smart bipolars should do if they want to stay human.
That's not being artificial. It's appropriate to be presentable when having to face other people. My love is real, and my joyful expectation for others besides myself is real; it's just that I have to wear a face that does not coincide with how I feel about ME.
It's a tiring ordeal, constantly putting on a perception filter. But it's necessary, so as to keep a more-or-less decent personal image, and so as to protect people's judgment-prone hearts from judging me. If I showed everyone how f***ed up I really feel inside, it will detonate the chance of gaining new friends. And I really want / need new friends. I can't afford to blow it, considering that:
my confuddled self-esteem
my uninteresting non-rockstar lifestyle
my loud mouth and intimidating personality
my abject selfishness like everyone else's
+ my bungee jumping catapulting moods
my uninteresting non-rockstar lifestyle
my loud mouth and intimidating personality
my abject selfishness like everyone else's
+ my bungee jumping catapulting moods
----------------------------------------------------
= the least desirable option for anybody's BFF
(or plain F, for that matter)
(or plain F, for that matter)
I'm pathetic, dammit. I'm not very likable, so I have to compensate somehow.
Not that I feel the urge to change myself to kiss asses, but I do have a hunger to connect with worthwhile individuals, and it pays to be perceived as somewhat pleasant.
New friends are sweet. I want new friends. Lord, I need new friends, I hunger for them, especially since a lot of the old ones have gotten moldy and sour. Eventually I'd like for my new friends to become trusted friends, so I can have a safe place to disclose the mystery that is me, and be honest about it, and not feel judged for being so carnal, particularly during indigo seasons like the one I'm in now.
