this is the recurring drama of my life

 today's flavor: BASELINE
anxiety : 0
agitation : 0

 
A mental filter installs itself  during depressive episodes. It really depends on how bad the depression is, but we bipolars tend to color things really bad during the gloomy days.

For example.  An ordinary nicety, such as:

 

... would morph into an innuendo ...

and therefore ...

 

I rarely ever say it our loud, but I think it.  This is probably the reason why I don't - or rather, won't - often purse deeper friendships with most people. Because the way they said hello seemed to me like a masked insult.

Then come murderous intentions.  The murders immediately turn inward ...

Thus begin my suicidal ruminations.

 

Here's another recurring scenario in my life:

Someone says to me, "Oh hey, you're here!"

I would think it was meant to say, "What are you doing here?"

And then, "You aren't wanted here".
"You should leave."

And I'd think, I shouldn't be here.

I want to die.

I should kill myself.

I'm not kidding.  I'm not even exaggerating.  I may have skipped a few steps in-between, but that's the thought process.  It may be too absurd to believe, but every bipolar would know what I'm talking about and agree.

It often if not always ends up with "I should kill myself" or its different variations.

This week, I had that sort of mental drama.  A day or two after I posted the last entry (in which I was at baseline), I started drifting into sadness.  I tried to fight it of course.  But it just so happened that someone said something to me that I didn't take so well .  It was a harmless response to a statement I said, but I interpreted it as a rejection.  I didn't have the presence of mind to react to it, so I stuffed it down until I headed home, and when I got to our bedroom I was paranoid and distraught over the imagined implications.

The following day, I was paranoid.  I was in bad shape -- but I had a lot of work to do, so I yanked myself together to function.  I needed to take breaks to cry - nay, bawl - because I was so disturbed about something that wasn't said.  The interesting bit is that I logically knew that there wasn't any malice in the aforementioned remark, but I was emotionally unable to process it any other way but as a rejection.  I was pathetic. 

My thoughts had turned spiteful, and I knew it was an overreaction. But I also knew I had to wait it out.  There was no point in confrontation over something I was certain didn't really happen.  I knew it was my own problem, and making a fuss about it would only make it worse.  The most amicable solution is really to wait it out, and then interact positively when I see the concerned persons again.  Play nice.  Choose love, joy, peace and happy things.

So yeah, I waited out the cycle. And today I saw the persons concerned again, and confirmed that it was no big deal.  Really no malice, no rejection of any sort intended.  It was all in my head.  And now I feel I'm the idiot -  again - to have been the malicious one.  Such a sap.

That's just the pattern.  It happens. It will happen again.  It sucks, but that's my life.  I just have to cope with it.

I took my yellow pill today, by the way.

teenage death wish

today's weather: B A S E L I N E
anxiety : 0 | agitation : o
today's unwanted guest: the Benadryl haze

Since last week when somebody confided in me about how she wanted to have an abortion, the subject has been on my mind. I came to recalling all we were taught about it (rather, against it) in those years I went to a strictly Catholic private high school. To this day, I am personally against abortion - I have never had one, and will never have one - but I don't go around picketing or trolling pro-choicers. But I'm not exactly pro-life either. You'll get what I mean in a while.

So. Catholic high school. Since our freshman year, we were taught sex education on a foundation of morality and ethics. It was so ethical that our teachers refused to entertain questions that used slang terms - so we never did hear what Mrs. Dizon thought about finger f***ing. In tandem with our "religious sex ed", we were made to watch a very graphic documentary on the evils of abortion. Very graphic. Indelible. As an extra-curricular activity, our advisers dragged us to an anti-abortion rally outside our school, bearing the heat and smoke just to be ignored by most of those who drove by. Our little rally made it to the front page of a minor newspaper by the way; to our dismay our school's name was grossly misspelled.

Aside from "a fetus is a human being", and "no one but God has the right to take away life," I often heard the argument "it is unfair / unjust to an innocent unborn baby," and "everyone deserves to live". There is even the good old argumentum ad misericordiam, "What if your mother decided not to keep you?".

But even as a teenager, I managed to find something fallacious with the whole anti-abortion argument. I did not disagree that a fetus is human, or that abortion is murder. But I just had some controversial ideas that I knew my teachers and classmates would stone me for, so I mostly kept my musings to myself.

One of those ideas was a defense against the "unfair / unjust" argument. I strongly believed that it was more unfair and unjust to keep a child alive without being able to provide a good life for him. For example, I believe a self-absorbed teenage crackwhore would do wiser by terminating the life of her baby than to let it live retarded, unwanted, fatherless, hungry, underpriviledged and so on. In extreme instances like those, I believed that killing a fetus would be an act of mercy toward it; it would be better to just send it straight to Heaven.

I'm one of those positivists who believe unborn children go to Heaven, by the way. There's no definite scripture on it, but I just keep thiking about the nature of God. In second grade in Catholic school , were taught that unborn babies go to a state called Limbo, which was somewhere around the neighborhood of Purgatory. It was our Language teacher who taught us that (that's how it is in Catholic schools: every subject is a religion subject, every teacher is a religion teacher) - the same teacher who attempted to scare us into being good girls by telling a detailed story of how naughty kids get dragged to Hell by their feet. Years later when I was a high school sophomore, I had a problem with the whole concept of Limbo and Purgatory when we learned in Chursh History that those places were just assumed and capitalized on with the sale of indulgences. When I was indoctrinated in Evangelical Christianity, I got this notion that the unborn went to Hell because "only people who receive Jesus as Lord and savior will be saved". Of course that whole idea is inconsistent with a loving God. But that's just my opinion. I stick with the belief that babies who die go to Heaven.

Anyway.

"What if your mother decided not to keep you?", we have been asked rhetorically in those anti-abortion seminars as an atempt to create an emotional impact. While most of the other girls shuddered and/or gushed at being so blessed to be alive, the touchy-feely tactics were lost on me, a fifteen year-old misfit with a death wish. Disturbed weirdo that I was, I did not consider my own life to be a blessing and preferred to have never been born. You know how unnecessarily emotive teenagers can get. I imagined it would have been better to have been snuffed out and first opened my eyes in the presence of God.

I often thought, What's the big deal about life on earth? It's squalid. Nature is deteriorating. Society is detiorirating. What's so "blessed" about being alive? I tended to think that some mothers who killed their unwanted spawn in utero were doing both themselves and their would-have-been-offspring a favor.

I remember trying to share those sentiments with friends but it just went flying past their heads. Morbid, my friends called me, not knowing that I thought of it as a very delicious compliment.

Death was a secret obsession - it wasn't mainly about suicide, but more like wishing I was never born. I was not the kind of person who obstentatiously and pretentiously dressed goth (except for fun), drank blood or slept in a coffin. I was always too cool for poseurism. My thing though, was curling up in a fetal position whenever I was alone. I heard some psychobabble interpretation that it was my body's way of trying to remember the last time I felt safe. But really, I just thought it was a compact, space-saving but comfortable way of stowing myself away.

I don't remember the last time I went on one of my fetal-pose retreats; it must have been that long ago since I got over it.

Through the years I've discovered that the best antidote against a death wish is a reason for living - a destiny, a purpose. A real solid one that only God can reveal. I don't think I'm halfway to halfway to realizing my purpose in life, but I've at least got a loose framework that invigorates me every now and then. Apparently I managed to stay alive and productive.

The first step to finding your purpose in life and realizing your destiny is to contact your Manufacturer. He can take calls about your questions and complaints too, if you have any. You might have some difficulty adjusting the settings (and there is no "restore factory settings" option by the way), but you'll get the hang of it.

The Little Murderer

Where I'm at today: B A S E L I N E
anxiety : 0 | agitation : 0



At ten past two in the morning, I find my mind to be awfully chatty so I decided to quiet it down by writing out (or in this case, keying-in) my thoughts. My thawts at this particular instance aren't exactly happy; in fact I think I'd like to do some confession.

For some reason, my mind strolled back to that time when I was six or seven-ish, because it wanted to remember my first murderous thought. I'm not sure if it was the first or earliest, but considering the single digit of my age, it must have been one of the.

Before I proceed, I must make it clear that I have never really killed anyone, save probably a couple hundred various insects out of necessity, and several house pets by neglect. I am not an actual, intentional murderer in the forensic sense of the word.

(However, in the New Testament redefinition of murder by Christ, oh, I absolutely am, guilty to the first degree!)

I was six-ish or seven-ish when I first fantasized about killing someone - and getting a twisted sense of satisfaction in it. The intended victim was my great-grandmother, because on top pf the way she smelled, she really made my blood boil.

At that time, her age was somewhere between eighty and ninety. She was a stereotypical old woman who meddled in everybody else's business because she no longer had a life. Whenever she had a complaint (which was often), she took it out on whoever was present and everyone was expected to listen. We lived in the same house for several years, and I was much exposed to her harangues on manners, morals and the evils of television and whatever she thought of preaching about at any given moment. She'd totally point fingers and let someone know what a low-down, good-for-nothing scumbag he or she is, and this in the presence of others including the house helpers. She didn't care if her audience was offended or uninterested; neither did she mind the fact that we couldn't understand half her words - she didn't only come from a different century, she spoke a different language. Man, she could talk angry for over an hour and I had to sit through that torture very often, and several times, alone and defenseless.

As a kid, I could never answer back because we were taught that was bad manners (i.m.h.o., that is a very emotionally and socially harmful Filipino value; telling kids not to answer adults breeds resentment and frustration and trains them to either be rebels or milquetoasts). Besides, she was nearly deaf, she hardly understood my language and I couldn't speak much of hers, so it wasn't worth the effort to try to communicate with her.

As a mechanism to cope with the frustration that brewed into anger, I would make little murder plots in my head. While she forced me to sit through another sermon on the lunch table, I looked at the dining knife and wondered if it could kill her. That modus would have been too obvious, I thought, and not to mention too messy, so I mused about an easier, less intrusive manner: poisoning her. As I was very young and knew little about poisons, the most accessible substance I could think of was the packet of silica gel that came in every bottle of Vitamin C. I had noticed that those tiny packets had "DO NOT EAT" printed on them, so I assumed them to be poisonous. I imagined myself secretly tearing the packet open and dissolving the granules (I don't know why, but I thought they dissolved) in her drinking water. I imagined that she would notice the difference in taste so thought maybe it would be wiser to drop the poison in her Coca-Cola instead. She loved Coca-Cola. She also loved bananas, so I tried to think of ways to employ bananas in her poisoning but didn't come up with any.

Fortunately I went to a Catholic School that did a good job of making kids feel guilty for thinking nasty thoughts about their grandmothers. Every teacher there was practically a religion teacher who felt it her life's mission to scare kids into heaven (that blasted story about the girl who went to hell and Miss Del Valle's illustration of a black-spotted heart are still very clear in my head to this day, darnit). So I never carried out any of my murderous intentions, and I didn't grow up to be a deranged sociopath.

At least, not a sociopath.

For all my queasiness around blood and raw meat, it was a sinful pleasure of mine to think of ways to murder people I was angry at. I never had any Hannibal Lecter-type fantasies, but I mostly thought of poisonings or kidnappings with blindfolded tortures or a sudden rush of mutant-power that could slice people's scalps off with a single blow. I never thought that was abnormal. As I got older and experimented with poetry, I would write about my murderous intent in repulsive rhyme (And speaking of Hannibal Lecter - watching Silence of the Lambs as a kid told me that a serial killer is a person in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neigh-bor-hood that you wouldn't want to grow up into).

Despite deciding to be a follower of Christ and learning about His teachings, I can't exactly say I'm over and beyond all the carnage. I still prolly commit at least one essential murder daily. That makes me guilty enough for an essential trial, and a death penalty. The wonderful thing about being in Christ is the assurance that He is a million times more tolerant than my great-grandmother; he won't sermonize me, punish me or scare me into heaven. With the comparatively small fee of forgiving those I have been angry at, I have the absolutely blessed opportunity to come clean, make it right, and be hidden from God's vengeance by the bright glare of Jesus' righteousness, so I'm spared from the cosmic guillotine. He has been known to pardon a repentant murderer even at the last minute, so I'm sure there's hope for me.

Okay, I just sounded like a junkie on acid right there ... but seriously, without sounding too religious, I'm glad for my Catholic upbringing and my Evangelical indoctrination, and the relationship I have with Christ. I'm all screwed up, but there's a way out.

Anyway, yeah.

Lately I haven't had any murder-fantasies, so I guess that's great. Coming to think of it, I haven't been murderous-angry these past few weeks (just hurt-angry, or protective-angry, which are very different). I credit the improvement to the trigger-drought precipitated by the resignation from Raven Co.*

*Raven Co. : A nickname I thought for "the biggest trigger". I figured if I should be mentioning it over and over, I might as well have a name for it. I thought of calling it Raven Co. because of the word that is used to refer to a group of ravens. That word is what was served me in that place, and was the cause for the massive triggers.

broken glasses and crashing plates

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx: 1, agit: 2


Thanks to a series of unmanaged stressors and numerous insensitive people, I melted into a mashdown the other night throughout yesterday morning. Broken glasses and crashing plates while moaning over soapy, soiled dishes; pleas of I can't do this any more.

It seems I've shifted into a depression. Or maybe it's just nearly that insufferably despicable time of the month?

Maraming salamat.

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.

Venomous Head-Biting Week

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx:1, agit:2



I just about bit heads off this week.

I'm not proud of it of course; it's just a fact. I'm owning up. I hadn't been taking my Lithium as often as I should have been.

Alright, alright; I'm a nasty bwitch. I've always been one and I'm hopelessly wicked. And I deserve to go to Hell.

But so do you, so get over it.

Yeah hell, I'm evil. This week had an unmanageable overflow of vitriol. Of course, people around me have been heavily guilty of being idjits too, but I admit it's primarily my fault for being chemically imbalanced and not being responsible enough to take the proper dosage of medication.

And here's why: I entertained the idea that it might possibly be beneficial to skip the mood-suppressors these days - for a good reason actually. I have a long list of things to do and I want to be productive. I thought of maxing out on the energy and creativity that come with the elevation, so I didn't mind being faithful with the meds. Of course if I allow the elevation, I allow all the other things that come with it - including the irrational anxiety, the extreme irritability, an overbloated sense of self-importance, a blatant disregard for other people, a wicked-quick mind and razor-sharp tongue that doesn't ever back down on hacking-and-slashing especially when provoked.

Thus the vile predicament of being in a position once again of having to apologize for my behavior. I went on a hacking-and-slashing spree because of my obsessive need to be productive. Big sigh.

Some people are prolly tired of it, but I'm certain they aren't even half as tired of it as I am. They can call me abusive if they like; they're entitled to their own opinion. I can at least have it to my credit that I actually bother to make apologies and restitution later on, (unlike some others who aren't even bipolar, so there), so I technically can't be accused of being insensitive, unforgiving, unChristian and / or a jerk. Hmph [SNORT!]

Go hang yourself, I'd like to say to them. Or go hang me. Whichever is fine by me. See if i care.

But seriously, I hate being in this place but can't seem to help ending up in it over and over again, no matter how much I try to avoid it. Believe me, I have been.

Or don't believe me. You can just stone me and heap judgment on your own head. See. I told you you deserve it.

Hearts All Over The World Tonight?

severe elevation|high elevation| moderate elevation| slight elevation|stable| slight depression|moderate depression|deep depression|severe depression||anx: 1, agit: 3


Ugh. Not tonight - not for me anyway. Today 's just too tiring, I feel like pulled taffy. Maybe on Monday.

I think it's been a week that I haven't been taking my meds. I'm not really doing it on purpose; I just keep forgetting to take those frakkin' pills. Raspberries to me. I haven't been journalling faithfully either. It's not that I've been busy or anything; I guess I've just been too scatterbrained lately.

Right now I just feel so wound up - not so much in a good way - and antsy and anxious and just about ready to maim some random bloke. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! I don't feel particularly angry toward anyone; I just feel extra tense and pent-up and I have to let it out somehow.

I think I managed to mow down a few people earlier. Without doing it on purpose of course.

Racing mind and rambling mouth again today. I must have delivered several thousand words, and no properly finished sentences. I'm not sure I was coherent. I need to check tomorrow with those people I talked to, whether I made sense or a fool of myself.

Earlier I made an unnecessary mess in the kitchen as I washed the bunnies' food bowls. For some reason, Watto from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace was on my mind. I had this mad urge to exaggerate my movements - I just had to shake the bottled tension out. Splish, splash. Im glad I did, despite the mess I made. I just thought of it as performance art that no one got to see.

There's No Such Thing As "Upset"

slight dysphoria
anxiety : 1
agitatedness : 1


I pondered on some stuff I recently read in the blog of a woman who lives with a bipolar husband, and something something that I heard on Oprah in one of those episodes on Bipolar Mood.  Here is my reaction paper of sorts.

People who live with bipolars have a lot to complain about.  I don't blame them; we bipolars are really difficult to deal with and it's easier to just dismiss us leave us, or stuff us with sedatives so we wouldn't be such a pain in the ass.  While those courses of action keep things civil at the surface, they're not really the right way to deal with things because it resolves nothing, it stops nothing, and creates nothing good. 

The first step in dealing with anything is to be informed.  If you live with a bipolar, it's counterproductive to just rant and blame.  Instead of just wishing that your mood-swingy loved one would change (or die) for your benefit, you have to be a part of the solution too.   It's very unfair to impose rules of behavior on them if you aren't willing to change your behavior yourself.  There are some things you and need to know and keep in mind.



One of the biggest complaints about bipolars is the anger.  Related to that is  impatience, irritability, crankiness, snarky language, and so on.



Here's what you have to understand: For a normal (not that we bipolars aren't normal), hormonally-balanced person, being upset is just "being upset".
For a bipolar, particularly in an episode, there is no such thing as "upset".There is no such thing as a "minor irritation".
"Upset" can mean having a strong urge to destroy something or hurt someone.
"Upset" can mean offended to the point of hopelessness.
I'm not kidding.
For a "normal" person, anger is a strong, potentially violent emotion .
For a bipolar, anger is a violent, explosive emotion. In a lot of cases, there isn't even such a thing as anger, just rage.

There's no point in wondering why their anger is often not proportional to the situation. 
You have to understand, it's hard to control.  It's just there, and it has to go somewhere.  He/she needs to express it somehow, and you have to help/ him her find a way to do that in the least violent manner possible.  Be firm if you must, but don't react to his/her anger with more anger.

It even might have nothing to do with you, so don't take it personally.  And yes, a bipolar in a manic episode can be happy and angry at the same time.

Can't imagine that? Just think of this guy:

"Let's put a smile on that face!"

There's nothing to fear though. It's not sociopathic; just manic.
Nothing personal - it's just hormonal.
Nothing psychological even - just biological.

How to avoid angry episodes:  As much as possible, you have to work together to avoid all possible triggers. Know what those triggers are - substances, situations, even specific persons - and help keep your dear bipolar far away from them.
When a bipolar is already enraged, there's no point in telling him to "calm down" because that isn't going to happen.
It's like telling the Incredible Hulk to chill.  Like he'll listen.

"You won't like me when I'm angry". Indeed.

Chances are, when you need to tell him / her to calm down, it's already too late for that, so you have to be ready with another course of action.

What should be done? The necessary thing to do is to remove or deal with whatever caused the upset / anger in the first place.  If it's a situation, find a quick escape route.  If it was caused by a person, confront that person before the bipolar does; it will be less bloody that way.

If the upsetting agent was you, just apologize.  Even if it's not your fault, just to pacify things, but bring it up again when he/ she is in a calmer, stabler mood so you can tell him/ her about what upset you (this is so you can have a healthy relationship).  

The chemical imbalance is due to a biological fault; the episode can't be combated by mere mental manipulations like debating or over-explaining.  Retaliating with more anger will further agitate your bipolar loved one, and he/ she will have no trouble releasing a barrage of verbal attacks that will decimate your self-esteem in no time. Take my word for it: shorten the war as soon as possible; employ a temporary peace treaty whenever applicable.

Avoid enraging the hulk to avoid engaging him. I can't emphasize this enough: Keep away from every possible trigger.





What works for me

Every bipolar is different, so you have to find out what works for the particular bipolar in your life.  In my case, "calm down" is not only useless; it's insulting (because it makes me feel like you see me more of a problem than a person).  It will only produce the opposite effect, and I will direct my anger at the person who said it.


I personally have found it very pacifying and much more beneficial to hear someone say, "I'm sorry," It's my fault," "I'll take care of that for you," or "I love you".
Let me just say I'm not trying to make excuses for our ugly behavior; I acknowledge my own tendency to be hurtful, I'm a huge jerk too, I swear, and I'm not proud of that.  The things I do aren't (always) intentional, and I am willing to make the necessary amends and amendments. I am just stating facts that other people probably need to consider before throwing unnecessary judgment and expectations .  

The behavior can be controlled but the emotion cannot, and that makes the behavior a little more difficult than "normal" folks can possibly imagine. It's not at all pretty, but heck, it's a reality.

It would be helpful to remember that a bipolar's volcanic eruptions thrown your way may really have nothing to do with you. But whether you like it or not, you're in the lava flow, so it would be best to know what you have to do

A big, fat sorry for your luck to people with the condition, or to those who live with bipolars in the family - but your love just has to be bigger than the disorder.
And oh, it's not a "dis-order" by the way; it's a different kind of order, something normal to those born with it.

Bam-bam-bam-bam, Buh-bam-bam-bam-bam; I Wanna Be Sedated

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

The previously mentioned depressive symptoms didn't last long; as soon as my flu went away, I was back on the elevated path.

Flippit, I've really got to find more synonyms to nip at unnecessary redundundundundundancy.

Anyway, the weekend was a happy, healthy salad of productive meetings, ministry, worship, cake and birthday gifts. And the essence of manslaughter. Don't ask.

I haven't been sleeping well for over a week now; I suppose that is the cause of my monster headaches. I'd stay up for most of after-midnight reading or pondering with quasi-theoretician jargon the difference between "probable" and "possible", or "rational" and "logical" or "flammable" and "inflammable". Or "bunny" and "rabbit".

Shoot. Me.

And, OMG, I just realized I'd skipped the Lithium the past two days.
[sfx: screamo music]

My formerly-trusty sedatives have ceased to be reliable. Perhaps they've sat too long in my medicine cabinet since I took them last? Or maybe I've developed an immunity, or am just especially elevated these days? I tried the shiny, blue, gel-filled, over-the-counter capsule - the one that used to be capable of knocking me out within thirty minutes and holding me in a stupor until late afternoon the following day. But no luck. I resorted to the ever-handy-dandy antihistamine. Still no luck.

Tonight, I shall try take two antihistamine tabs. If I remember to, that is.

If that still doesn't work, I may have to ask the doctor for another high-security prescription for those special, sure-knockout drugs legally classified as "dangerous". No-joke dangerous. Let me explain, I mean, in the way I see it:

Level 0: Normal ---------------------- Melatonin tablets, 3.0 mg (natural supplement; OTC)
Level 1: Slight restlessness --------- Melatonin, 6mg or "Sleep Doctor" (natural supplement; OTC)
Level 2: Difficulty in sleeping ------- Antihistamine, 50 mg (OTC drug)
Level 3: Hyperactivity at night ------ Antihistamine, 100 mg
Level 4: Consecutive hyper nights -- OTC Sleeping pills
Level 5: No need for sleep ----------- "Dangerous Drugs"

* OTC: over-the-counter


The first and so-far-last time I was given a prescription for Level 5, the E.R. doctor had to interview me until he was really sure I needed those drugs (i.e., I was already crying in frustration). He had to secure a prescription pad from another department in the hospital. The said pad had a stern warning at its header with the phrase dangerous drugs in it somewhere, and had to be filled in triplicate. Before he handed my copy to me, he explained the gravity of the prescription and the legal implications. He instructed me to strictly adhere with the stated dosage and administration, and made me swear to destroy the prescription paper after the drugs have been bought. Pretty cool, huh?

I'd really love to ramble on some more, but I need to lay this headache down.

I made strawberry pancakes this morning and scalloped potatoes this afterneen

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


Upped the Li to one tab every single day now, as necessary. I can get through a day hunky-dorily as long as there are few-to-no triggers and / or stimuli. Things are rather fine and dandy except for an manageable amount of anxiety and agitation.

Contemplating less, writing less . Reading faster. Wanting to take advantage of the energy. Aching to go out more. Wanting to go to the beach (in September?!)

I habitually contemplate having ready access to one great cosmic eraser. Due to the excess in energy and enthusiasm, I happen to do and say things without much thought - pretty much like hitting the "publish" button without choosing the "edit" option. Thus my mind uses a whole chunk of its energy wishing I didn't do certain things I did the previous day. I muse about the Cosmic Eraser coming upon my summoning to rub out the recent past's stupidity.

Either that or I think about that Beatles song about happiness - the one that says happiness is a warm gun - and how it relates. Go figure what I've been thinking. The thing with most Beatles songs are their lyrics are too poetic and abstract that they can mean anything you want them to. In fact, I have a theory that for every situation in a person's life, there is a corresponding (or rather, correspond-able) Beatles song.

I made strawberry pancakes this morning and scalloped potatoes this afterneen . I realized I haven't cooked in a while. It felt nice to . I must be happy today .