I am sorry to those who thought I was capable of daily updates. I wish I had so many beautiful words to say that they poured from me as easily as the sands in the hourglass, these days of our lives…
Alas, I am lacking. I find myself without the words I’m searching for. I am living too quickly to feel it, chewing each moment with such haste that I choke a little on the bigger ones and let the small ones pass by. I regret this, not tasting the various flavors of each day, but I’ve tripped up into a tumble and I fear I cannot stop myself.
I am waiting for the crash. I am waiting for this mania to stop, to come to a peak and crash in an explosive free-fall, and I am waiting for the sharp crack and the dull pain of regaining my wind and finding my footing back here on Earth. A nurse said to me yesterday that she thought I was “remarkably strong” for managing bipolar disorder without medicine or counseling. Apparently she doesn’t know I’m smoking a joint as I write this blog to all of my imaginary friends.
I appreciate each and every reader. I wish I had more to say, more to offer right now than my fumbling apologies and my self-loathing monologues. My hands feel dead and my mind feels like mush. I am drowning in Christmas spirit and the excitement of all the things I’m expected to do for the holiday. I want so much to make it special, but even now that classes have ended, I am without a moment of peace to myself, let alone time to bake these thousands of cookies and pies I’ve committed myself to.
I’m so tired. I cannot sleep anymore. I am awake at each hour, my fingers tingling and my wrist screaming in pain. I would hate to think that at 26, I’ve already caused enough nerve damage in my writing hand to be unable to hold a pen for longer than a sentence. But this is a fear and right now it feels very real.
Work feels like a chore, and not one of the ones I’ve been intensely interested in the past few days. I have perhaps gone a bit mad, filling empty boxes with all of my worldly possessions and leaving them at the Salvation Army. Let someone else sort through the pieces of my life that dictated to me for too long what I was supposed to be. I apologize profusely in advance to the poor volunteer who finds the entire scrapbook of love notes between me and an ex boyfriend that I accidentally donated. Or maybe they should thank me. I’m sure it will fill at least an hour with some ridiculous free entertainment. In any case, I’m sorry and you’re welcome.
Last weekend, the kids and my Fair Ginger Lover cleaned our entire house. I left a list and it was completed when I returned from work. It was so unbelievably comforting to come home to a clean house after a long day. I hope that’s what he feels like when he walks in the door every day, too. But it sparked a sort of madness in me, and since then I have been ruthlessly clearing out the closets and emptying out the cache of unnecessary bullshit. So far, we’ve donated about 8 large boxes this week and there are more to be loaded up. I can’t wait. I feel lightened already.
Ahh, light. A word I’ve been shying away from since I last caught a glimpse of the number on a scale I told myself not to step on but did anyway.
212.5. That’s what it is. That’s what that number was. It made me sad, angry and scared when I saw it, and it has taken me a lot of tears, negative self-talk and cheesecake to come to the conclusion that I need to stop being a sorry-ass loser and get moving again. I feel like a loser because I’ve acted like one. I’m not one and I need to remind myself.
Now that I’ve said it, I need to step back and breathe. I need to remind myself that I don’t have to be afraid of it. Just something else to deal with. I can do this.
Just not right now.