on the scale of happy


well, its a new year.  and everyone else is either retrospectively talking about 2016 or clamouring about the the new bullshit things theyre going to do in 2017. im uhhh.. gonna skip that. because a) i do not believe in new years resolutions. something about have a disease that causes you to have to rebuild your entire existence every so often makes these time based things seem futile. b) i dont find those posts particularly interesting (especially not the daily update posts about how you are still doing them! yay! you made it a whole 5 days!) and c) i have nothing to say about the events that happened to me in 2016 that hasnt already been said here, so thats all pretty redundant, no?

so its 2017.

i woke up at 530pm today. thats not a great sign. the kids came down at 630 and i was in pjs without a bra on and hadnt eaten yet and was honestly kind of still asleep? so that was good, because it means i didnt spend literally the entire day in bed. just most of it. yes, i am currently in bed.

so this fucked up sleeping pattern has a few causes which are: 1. i am me. if you havent noticed, this happens at least one a month. 2. i did accidentally go to bed at 8 am. 3. when i know i have literally nothing to do in a day i try to sleep through it, because for some reason being up all night doing nothing feels less depressing than being up all day doing nothing, which really isnt true to begin with, but also kind of perpetuates the doing nothing because im like ‘is 4 am, i cant do laundry’ or ‘4 am is no time to start a painting’ so i just eat and watch tv until its 8 am again. 4. i think im subconsciously willing myself into hypomania.

being stable is so. fucking. weird. and hard. and boring. SO BORING. like i just cant handle it to a certain degree. my world feels like it shrank in dimensions and like, for the most part YAY but also like, the fuck? what do you people do here all the time? i feel moderately pleased or moderately unhappy and i truck along in a very one note life and i am both pleased about this, because i havent wanted to die in awhile and this is a pleasant thing, but also displeased because i feel like i cut off my right arm, or something. like this is a tiny fraction of life ive decided to live in and its just.. mundane. i realize this is literally how most people live and the extent of their emotional experience and thats good and great and you know, im not saying i want to be at either extreme, or whatever, but it makes me uncomfortable to not being moving from center. CENTER IS SO BORING. AND FAKE. AND JUST… CUT OFF FROM ACTUAL EXISTENCE.

i know. that paragraph made no sense. but i feel it. i feel it so entirely. i feel like half of myself is missing, and for the first time ever ive begun to understand why people go cold turkey off their meds.

to be honest, ive always thought it was because those people were sick in the delusional way where they thought they were better and thus didnt need them. which is moronic, because they are making you better, you numbskull. but its not that. meds: you get full credit. and then theres all those people talking about meds like greying them out or zombifying them, and i also thought of that like the side effects that i had on abilify. or like, being foggy brained or drooling in a chair or something.

i am none of those things.

i just. i feel completely myself, but also like if myself were a line, i cut myself into thirds and only kept the middle chunk and now im just wondering around as a third of a person.

i dont particularly MISS being actively bipolar (as i would describe myself as being passively bipolar now. i dont if other people think about it that way?) but like… it still feels like part of me? like i got rid of part of myself? and i know that those are like, not the best parts, because they make me want to die, or other bad things, but theyve always been there? they make me feel…whole?

people always talk about missing mania. maybe i miss hypomania (no one misses actual mania. no one.). i mean, i do miss hypomania because it is literally the best. but like, seperate from my actual mood (if you can think like that when talking about a mood disorder), its like my whole life has been built around going up and down, and learning how to function with and around that. which was challenging, but its my life. i dont really think about it as a…. coping mechanism, i guess. i have always worked in batches: crazy hard for three months, down for few months. it balances out to at least an average person workload, but like, honestly an above average workload because i have perfectionist issues. but like, thats how i work. thats how ive always worked. and now im just….waiting to go back up, and be super productive and get into my working groove for a few months. which i know will end in hell, but its a predictable form of unpredictable hell. and for a few months, before the hell, i feel like i am the best version of me, in my still super fucked up perfectionist full throttle personality thought patterns.

the meds. the meds have stripped that out of my life. theres no super productive (or super non productive) phase now.

and thats… probably good? i mean, i guess? from like a functional life of an average person perspective? but i… i dont know how to function like this? with a mediocre level of energy and motivation? how does anyone get anything done? and more to the point, do people who live in this tiny 1/3rd of life like.. do they think this is it? this is all their emotions? like… this is not very happy, the happiest i feel now. on the scale of feelings i know to be happy. the problem is like 50% of the things i know to be happy i also know to be bad. or like, leading to bad.  but i also just feel so alarmed for people who think this is all life’s feelings have to offer? on the one hand like, hallelujah if this mediocre level of sad is the saddest you ever feel, even if to you this mediocre level of sad is like THE SADDEST SAD THAT EVER SADDED because like, your emotional dimensions end here. and in that way, i guess, that point is kind of moot because if thats the saddest youre capable of feeling, relatively speaking, it probably seems equally as shitty. but like. THE HAPPY.  you are missing 33% of the bad stuff but also 33% of the mostly good stuff. though even though im talking about this all like mood is linear, it, at its most simplistic, is AT BEST a circle (we all know its actually a sphere) because the shit 33% and the good 33% that i no longer experience are very much connected. but basically, i am just ASTOUNDED that this could be someones entire emotional experience.


that is so disturbing. so disturbing. do not want.

also do not want hellish suicidal tendencies back, though, so. like. i guess these are my options now? 1/3rd of life or all of life where i spend at least 1/3rd of the time trying not to jump off a bridge plus sometime where colors are REALLY BRIGHT and thoughts move TOO FAST TO CATCH THEM.

im finding it extremely problematic that i am gravitating more and more toward the second option the longer i am without it. because when i was in it, i would have literally died for this feeling. but i feel so lost. and deadened. PART OF ME HAS GONE SOMEWHERE. and it makes me a more functional human, but also less of myself. which is supposed to be a good thing, medically.

thats a little weird. being less of myself is perceived as a good thing.

i dont know. i have lots of thoughts on this but i just want to FEEL. SOMETHING. like really feel it. feel it in my bones. not this passing, forgettable “feeling”.

life stuff.


the new years party was good. my dress fit, thank god, i drank the right amount of gin (was drunk, but not black out drunk). jon and dima came so i spent most of the night with them as it was one of their last days here. went out with jon one more time before he left. god my life was so much better when he lived here.

tomorrow there is a surprise party for sam’s birthday, which should be good. though most of her good friends are now people i dont know well (im the only one from my circle that has met them, except jenn, and no one but me and sam likes jenn…) and im not sure if theyd get along with sam and my mutual friends so its going to be weird to see them all jumbled together.

over christmas my sister and i watched gilmore girls: a year in the life. i had been saving this originally to watch with sam, because my sister doesnt live here and i didnt think id be able to hold out this long, but plans with sam never worked out, and honestly its probably better this way.

my sister and i used to rent box sets of the gilmore girls seasons at blockbuster, back when that was a thing, and binge watch them together. we were the trendsetters of the binge watching netflix generation, obvs. so it was kind of full circle to watch the reboot together.

i have to say, i was not happy with how it ended. those famous last words the original creators had for the series, that they finally got to use in this reboot (as they didnt write the final season of the show), were not ideal, to me.  but i still really enjoyed the show. it was like visiting old friends, once you got into it. i would watch gilmore girls forever, if it were still on (similar to the west wing. and how i will always listen to hanson.)

also i watched the end of please like me before christmas. it was episode six so i thought i was midseason. BUT NO. IT WAS THE LAST EPISODE. which would be distressing on its own because please like me is so great. but it is extra distressing because they might not make a season five! and i am not ok with it! i like it to the point i actually follow all the actors on twitter and read interviews with josh thomas for fun (in fairness, he is a comedian). i dont even do that for gilmore girls, the west wing OR hanson. my little tv heart is breaking.

in sum: i desperately want to be hypomanic, jon left and my life got worse, the gilmore girls reboot is worth watching, and you should absolutely watch the little known australian tv show called please like me (i guess im supposed to mention that its “gay”, because people like representation, and all, but i never really think about the gayness. its just really good). also i will be drunk tomorrow so that may or may not result in another rambling poorly planned out blog post.

the end.



Bell “lets talk” day


in canada there is a massive phone company called bell. once a year they have bell lets talk day, where they donate a nickle for every text, call, share, hashtag whatever into a mental health fund which people then apply for grants to get the cash.

its great. i cant complain.

today is lets talk day.

and people are talking. so many people are posting stories of their hardships and struggles and labels. and i can, and have, done this numerous times as well. here are my labels, see my labels, see words and not feelings, not states, not the disease. see normal. equate normal with these words, but not with the symptoms.

sometimes i so badly want to just post: hi, i have mental health issues and they dont go away. i did not recover. i will not recover. i spend 320-1000 dollars a month of therapy. I take 12 mental illness related pills a day. they are making me pretty sick right now.

and today i want to die.

so you want to talk about mental illness? thats the purpose of the day? there are times when i dont sleep for days on end and colors get really bright and i talk too fast like i cant catch my own thoughts. i get reckless and drink quarts of liquor by myself at night. there are times when i dont leave my house for weeks. i cant brush my hair. i cant go to the grocery store without having a panic attack. i have a suicide planned so perfectly it could be enacted at any moment and none of you would see it coming.

but im not going to kill myself. and sometimes, not killing myself is all i do with a day. and sometimes, thats an accomplishment. because i may be in bed and i spend the day staring at a wall, but i didnt spend it six feet under so today is a good day.

this is mental illness. the down and the dirty and the parts nobody wants to hear or talk about. the parts that make everyone so uncomfortable they wish they hadnt seen them. it is not the stigma of a label that is the problem it is the misunderstanding of what that it means to be accepting of mental illness, to treat and support the mentally ill, and the deluded idea that ‘recovery’ means ‘cured’.

there are people in life who feel like safe havens for my mental illness, and its usually other mentally ill people.i wish i could develop some way to translate the knowledge, the comfort, the support of those people to the general public. i wish everyone who was like me had people like them. but the truth is, most of us dont, and i have just been lucky.

and what this day should be about, needs to be about, is not placating ourselves with the idea that we are de-stigmatizing words. it needs to be about creating a culture that is always a safe haven.

do i think im going to kill myself right now?


i’ve lost the ability to tell. ive lost trust in my ability to keep myself safe. its a feeling you cant explain to someone who hasnt been there. everyone thinks suicide comes from a slow growing sadness that eventually just takes over. and it does, for some, id suppose… but i just feel like im coming unhinged. like my actions dont make sense, like my feelings are inconsistent.

public places make me anxious.
everything is sort of awful in ways i dont know how to talk about.

do i want to commit myself?
would that help?
would i lose my job?

…am i going to kill myself?

flash and back


its been a long time since i’ve written something worth writing.
i think that’s been the hardest part; the loss of my own voice.

i picked up a mug i made at clay cafe this week. i apparently painted it in early september. i have no memory of it, even after seeing it. but i wrote my name on it, and its a pattern i was drawing on everything for awhile. its a nice mug. its the little reminders of insanity, you know? it says ‘get well’ on the bottom. i feel a strange comfort and unease when i drink out of it.

people keep asking me to speak places. on stigma, or living with mental illness or disability policy. like i have something to say. like i have an opinion. like i know something. did i used to know something? was there something i used to have to say? i dont want this anymore. i want to stay down here, in my mess and my discomfort and not have anyone notice or judge me. i dont want to get up in front of people and talk. i dont want to be seen as someone with answers. i wish i could be silent.

i see things, sometimes. when im typing on laptops and i can see the open word document that isnt there. the scrambling pace of clicking keys that i know aren’t currently moving. the intense sinking feeling of panic in my chest; the thoughts rushing through my head. the frantic, desperate depression.

grounding techniques they say. 5 things in the room with you, 4 things you can hear, 3 you can touch, 2 you can smell….

im getting flashbacks of being psychotic.
what a fucking weird sentence.

i get them from the rape, too, but those arent nearly as disturbing. i get those in public all the time. almost every time we go to the bar, really. i just need a couple minutes and i can keep going.

but not these. these just break me. these make me fall on the floor and cry.

it doesnt really make sense, does it?
this lives inside me. its settled there, buried. but i keep it. it doesnt leave. its mine.
it is legitimately my greatest fear, and i always know its there.

and the shittiest part is, that its set off by stress. so its always going to be like this; its always going to be tragedy turn psychotic meltdown. im never just going to have a bad thing happen. im going to have a bad thing happen and then be completely non functional, altered states and inconsistent understandings of realities.

how do you move through the day with that?

im moving forward. Im making it through the class I’m in. I still cant look at the studentsNS work… its such a bad trigger. its awful. ive developed an intense phobia of a stack of paper.
theres nothing that makes you feel weaker. honestly.

i made soft pretzels today. or tonight.. or this morning, i guess. my sleep schedule is messed; trying to pull an all nighter to correct it. the pretzels are good. new things are good. food and step. food and step.

everyone keeps telling me how much better i am.

thats all, i guess.

Dear Self


I am frustrated with myself.

I’m sleeping too much, eating shit, not working out. Not working on things I need to work on. Or I am, but not enough, with little concentration.

I have all the symptoms of depression, which is ironic because I am not depressed. I think this is what normal people think depressed is, but it’s not. I am lethargic, I am unmotivated, I am anxious and avoident, I am stuck. But I’m not fucking depressed. I know this because I have been there. I have felt that. I know what that is. That is a piece of me that I feel so intimately and so completely it escapes words and defies all logic. I know. I am so fucking tired of people telling me I am depressed and to cut myself some slack because I have depression.

Lets get this right, shall we? I do not hold a diagnosis of major depression. I’m bipolar. Swing-swing, episodic, comes and goes and all that. Last month? Last month I was depressed. This month I’m just sucking at life.

I know that this goes against everything mental health advocates are arguing for, but I’m going to fucking say it. This? This right here, with the bed and the poutine and the 7 quarts of vodka. This is poor choices. This is a buck up get off your ass and change something moment. This is not my fucking mental illness. Everything I do doesnt have some underlying bipolar cause. Sometimes, I’m just having a shitty couple weeks and I get lazy and don’t take care of myself just like everybody else.

And I know you are trying to make me feel better about the fact I am not holding my shit together, and I very much appreciate that but I can’t do this forever. I have done that, I have been broken, I took the time I did the steps. I can’t stay here basking in the excuse that is my perpetual break down. It’s done. It’s over. This is recovery. This is choosing to be better. This is moving forward.

This is not depression. This is a choice.

the flip side


I’ve been messed up for awhile now. Really, seriously, morosely messed up. I’ve felt it in my bones, in my soul, in the pressure of my eyelids over my too dilated pupils.

and I’ve written. I’ve written all the bad, scary things that live within me. I’ve written the the shit no one talks about because it is fucked up, incomprehensible, and feels stupid and small yet vast and cavernous at the same time. I’ve written about all these things that are detracting from the life I want to lead. That are pulling me apart from the inside out.

But I haven’t written about the rest. The good, the normal, the decent… I have those too. Sometimes I don’t recognize them, or sometimes they simply cannot compensate enough for the bad and scary, but I have them, just the same as everyone else. They are the fragments of the life I know that I’m fighting for. Because I am fighting… thats what all of this is. Its the constant desire for betterment; a blind faith in something not yet experienced, a life not free from symptoms but managed, understood, and contained.

I lose this belief sometimes. Not in the fact that it exists (I know it does. somehow.), but in my own capabilities to achieve it. I know I am working as hard as anyone can work, but I am not patient. It is hard to be just scraping by for so long. To be entirely dependent on a support system of other people to ensure you make it through the day, hour, minute. And there is nothing I can do but try. So we move forward, inch by inch, through sheer force of will and the strength garnered from gracious others.

But the fact of the matter is, for all my dark and morbid, or my psychotic and colourful, there’s been a semblance of regular life. And I think, honestly, this is the part people on the outside struggle with the most– the inability to reconcile the words of a seriously depressed/manic/suicidal/whatever person, with that of a person continuing to lead an apparently functional life. You’re one or the other; you’re sick or you’re healthy. You’re perfectly normal or you’re so insane anyone who looked at you would notice. I think this is something I suffer from myself… like if I can do anything at all, I’m not that sick and there’s so many people who are sicker than me because I can still do such and such and real sick people couldn’t get through that. So I should just suck it up and get through it and stop complaining, because somebody somewhere is really sick, and I’m just failing. Stigma’s a bitch.

So I’ve decided to talk about the normal. The flip side. The bits and pieces that fill my day while I’m busy being bipolar. This is my good.


I have been moving forward. And although that choice is mine and mine alone, it’s been made with the help of many others – some of whom realize it and some of whom do not. And yet I’ve never written a thing about them. So here goes.

1. My family
My parents are extremely invested in my well being. I am 27. They not only let me, but encourage me to go home for weeks at a time when I’m not well. They drive me to doctors appointments, they pay for my prescriptions, they cook my meals, they drag me around on errands with them so I’m forced to leave the house. My dad got me to take daily walks on trails when my pills were making it hard to move without getting dizzy. They don’t push, they don’t yell, they don’t try to make sense of it. They just try to be supportive and to get me help. I am unbelievably lucky.

But aside from all that, my family.. like the whole thing… is really close. We have dinner every Thursday night out at my parent place- me, my sister and her husband, my brother and his wife and their two kids. Every week. So we all get together, I get at least one full, balanced meal a week even when I’m too gone or too broke to make one myself, and I get to be in a room full of people who dont give a shit if I didnt manage to get out of my pajamas or shower that day. And my brother’s kids. I love those kids. They just don’t give a shit. It’s really hard to see absolutely no hope for the future when a 3 year old is asking you to be their friend. It just is. It doesnt fix it, or negate it, but for those 10 seconds, it helps a little bit.
family print-96



2. The Poop Circle

This is the ever so affectionate name I gave our circle of friends. There’s apparently a bird that poops in a circle and lays its eggs in the middle. If the egg is inside the circle, it protects it as it’s own; should the egg roll outside the circle, it no longer recognizes it as it’s own and attacks it. Seemed accurate.

Anyway, theres about 15 of us, give or take. We all invite each other to everything, everyone makes an effort to include everyone in plans. Everyone made an effort to invite me to things even when I was ruining everything by crying in the corner or having panic attacks at the fair. I have friends who sat in hospital waiting rooms with me. I have friends who answered the phone at 5 am and talked to me while I was literally psychotic and they had no idea I was even bipolar. I have friends who will drop everything and help me, if I really, honestly need it.

Brandon, the roommate who actually worrys about my well being.

Sometimes they get me to put on make up, even.

Kale waiting with me in the ER.

3. My thesis advisor

Angie. Angie is the only reason I have gotten through this year in tact. Angie fought for me well above and beyond the call of duty. Angie helped me get my medical deferrals when I was too sick to do it myself. Angie met me over and over again, talked me through things, calmed my anxiety. Shared experiences. She made me feel ok. She made me feel like even though I may have had a massive mental breakdown, I was still smart, and still belonged in school, and was still the best in my class. She helped me when she could have easily let me slide, fail, or leave. She pushed me when I couldn’t do it for myself.

4. My therapist

Ok, so maybe this is stupid because he’s my therapist, aka I pay him and it is his job, but I have had a lot of shitty mental health professionals in my life so I’m counting it. Matthew is awesome. He gave me is cell phone number for emergencies. His actual cell phone number. And he answered it at 10pm on a Saturday when I ran home from a party, everyone else I knew was drunk and I was holding a knife and a bottle of pills. He fucking answered.

5. Eddie

Eddie is a random I met on OkCupid, but who lives in another country and thus remains a total random. And this is weird because I know he will read this. But anyway, I talk to Eddie more or less daily in the early morning hours, about nothing, or something, or somewhere in between. I don’t feel like he judges me. He’s interesting and distracting and he helps me get through the night, every night. I’m unclear if he realizes this.

6. Jon

Jon was my boss at StudentsNS, but since I had to… shall we say leave?… that position, he’s just my friend now. and that’s pretty killer. because you know what? He hired me, saw me have a mental breakdown and screw him over, and he called me up and was like I want to be friends, lets get a drink. And you know what, that made me feel awesome. That is awesome. Jon is awesome.

This is my support system. These are my people. They are many, and they are awesome. I couldn’t ask for better.
Some of them know how bad it is, and some would be shocked.

Sometimes having a support system like this is enough– you always think it would be when you’re down and entirely alone (I have been there before), but in reality, there are somethings a support system can’t do. I do my best, they try their hardest, and with any luck we will make it to the other side in tact. But whatever happens, I am someone to all of these people. And that means something.

Suicide Barriers


I just finished my thesis. submitted, accepted, done. i thought i would feel more relieved. i feel exactly the same.

I’ve been weird states lately. A lot of up and down and back and forth, I suppose. My sleep schedule is reversed, which isnt helping. I don’t go outside and I dont really see the sun.

My mom and I went to the hanson concert on Thursday. It really deserves it’s own post and I wish I had written more about it already. I loved hanson growing up. I loved them with every fiber of my being; my room was a shrine, I still know every actual word in mmmbop, you know, the usually preteen fangirldom. And for me, my preteen years were.. shall we say… rough. Hanson was like my little piece of calm. They never came here when I was little. I generally grew out of my fangirlness and became a functioning (ha.) adult since, but I still like their music and listen to it regularly. So it was nice, when way back in July, way back at the beginning of all the awful, my mother announced she was buying us tickets to the hanson concert so I could fulfill all my childhood dreams. and I did. I even bought a tshirt. and stickers. and screamed. We went to the stubborn goat before hand, i sang along to where’s the love and my mother danced through get the girl back. it was everything the night was supposed to be.
It was my moment of calm.

13 - 1

I haven’t been doing well lately. I think this is probably an understatement if we view this as a period of months instead of days or hours. But there was a general upward trend for awhile that stalled, and now is slipping backwards. I don’t want to tell anyone because they’re all so hopeful for my recovery.

I did complete my thesis. I’ve written all the essays for adolescent development, though admittedly they are not my best work. they’re done. one more social psych exam in december. I thought this would bring relief? like I would experience less stress. feel less tight; more together. But I don’t. I feel the scary sort of calm. The calm where at 4 am, when I realized it was complete, I just felt like I had closure enough to die now. Like I couldn’t have died without finishing that, but it was ok now. This terrifies me.

I don’t sleep at night, like I said. It’s hard because then theres no people to distract me from all the horridness that collects at the back of my mind at 5 am. It’s lead to a lot of misc giving out my phone number to men on okcupid. I think I give people false hope. Like theres this normalcy of casual flirting, and I get that, but I don’t want it. Even the suggestion of people touching me makes me anxious enough to want to stop the conversation. I spent last night plotting ways to get hospitalized. How horrible is that? I can’t decide if it’s worse that I want to be hospitalized so badly, or that I could have been so close to death and have been ignored. I feel like I can get myself hospitalized now because I’ve learned the answers to the questions. I also learned not to go with family or friends. I learned that if my therapist wants to get me hospitalized I should let him call the cops. I learned that if your friends are going to stop you, they should wait until your half way through or they will send you home.

Theres all this focus on MY coping skills and MY abilities and MY support system at the hospital. I don’t understand. They can send me home because I have friends, I have parents who care. I have friends and parents who care and have recognized that what I need is beyond what they can offer. and yet this is never taken into consideration. Their needs, their coping skills, their support systems. It’s painful. I am going to cause them pain.

I’m nowhere near as bad as I was– I don’t think I actively want to die. In fact when I contemplate downing a bottle of tylonal now I’m almost certain I would call 911 before I actually died; especially given how ineffective it is. I’d probably throw half of them up before I could consume a lethal amount. But I do spend most of my nights thinking about walking to the bridge. About seeing if I could actually climb the suicide barriers; about how easy it would be to just walk along the road on the opposite side of the bridge at 4 am. Theres got to be a way to dive off that thing. Like the ER doctor said, if you really want to kill yourself, you find a way.

The hospital can’t stop me, if I were really sick, I’d find a way.

My brother is coming home for Christmas. This gets me through a lot of shitty times right now. I really, really, really want to make it to that. At worst, I placate myself with the idea of killing myself on Jan. 2. How perverse.

I have been writing all this shit about adolescence and developmental stages and I’ve realized I’m really not making it through this whole “intimacy vs isolation” stage of psychosocial development. I really want human contact, to connect with someone, to be able to feel something. But I can’t quite… manage it. And in actuality, when it happens, I hate it. I hate it so much. But life feels so meaningless now, with out school, or work, or intimacy. I guess maybe I should embrace that as freeing? Nothing to hold me anywhere, nothing to worry about.

(Use Me Up – Hanson)

Going, going, gone


I’ve been sliding in and around some hypomanic tendencies this week, which is fabulous for school and very difficult for cohesive thoughts. My therapist kept asking me about my anxieties, what was making me so anxious to talk so quickly, to speed up up up and then calm. Shifting, twitching, laughing, fidgeting. But I don’t feel anxious, I just feel this weird energy in my limbs. Though I’m also anxious, because that’s what I do and that’s who I am and everything is due and I’m supposed to be better better better, but instead I’m just still me. But the weird tightness in my chest, that constant pressing feeling.. the rigidness of my muscles, the bracing for impact… I don’t know where it went. I don’t miss it. I do wish I could be more still.

The hypomania has come at a delightful time. I’ve gotten my thesis draft done. Thank fuck. Editing in progress. The next two weeks are crunch time for everything else. Easily doable, realistically. Just need to …do it.

I’ve been drinking again even though I said I would stop. Professionals always seem so concerned with my drinking. My friends dont. I binge drink. I dont see this as problematic. It felt nice to just go and be with everyone and not be seeing too bright colours or trying not to claw my skin off. The pot helped. going on a date tomorrow, maybe, they asked i said yes. probably a bad idea? with the mania? but it also makes me less of an anxious weirdo so, fuck it. why not.

I really want to write something here, something worthwhile or at least explanatory but I don’t have the words. I’m just buzzing from my fingertips to my temples. it feels like the skin on my forehead is being pulled back, my eyes are so wide; I can tell without looking at them. Kale always tells me you can tell when I’m manic by my crazy wide eyes.

Things are good, for the most part. moving forward. going out a lot, seeing lots of people, often, is helping. I’ve stopped sleeping, which is going to be problematic in a few days but for now just affords me a lot of time to watch tv and paint things and craft complex sculptures out of watercolor paper.

i love making things. nothing is calmer than making. it’s funny because im a shitty artist- no one explained the difference between being an artist and just being good at making shit to me before art school- but I am awesome at just making shit. I should have been a carpenter or a special effects make up artist or a shipbuilder. or something. can you imagine how calm life would be? i was thinking that while watching face off (this stupid stupid reality show. it was 5 am.) people watch those shows and are impressed by the talent: and sometimes, yes its mind blowing but i mostly sit there and am like i could totally do this. this is within the realm of reasonable things i could do. why dont i make things? i guess i just wish i had more opportunities to make useful objects. whats the point of sculpting something random to sit on a shelf forever.
funny, my art school education.

and my ridiculous thesis that the science world thinks is pretentious and the art world finds offensive i would imply empirical evidence would be needed.
life is funny. people are funny.

normalcy soon, i think.