Dear Joe

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I’ve always wondered who you imagine me to be, in your head. Because much like I know you mostly through mom and dads recaps, reading abstracts of your scientific papers and vague childhood memories combined with yearly visits with screaming children at the forefront, I know it cant be very accurate. I know from the last visit that you don’t really understand much of what’s wrong with me, or how that impacts my life, and really, I don’t either. But what has become clear is that your mental version of me has little to do with the reality of my life right now. I wonder if the same is true for me with you?

I was put on thorazine recently, because sounds became louder than they were, louder than they could be, louder than any single thing and instead a chorus of many. Colors got brighter, brighter, brighter, until the ceiling started to look pink and it got a bit unnerving.

Thorazine is an anti psychotic medication, with the benefit of being an extreme tranquilizer as a side effect. Its always hard to say how much of these things is caused by my seemingly incessant state of extreme sleep deprivation, and how much is part of a bipolar symptom. I think the general conclusion is a little bit of column a, little bit of column b.

Thorazine is the brand name. My psychiatrist only refers to it by its generic name, and im unsure if this is because its simpler or if he was hoping I wouldn’t look into a seemingly innocuous name of yet another drug I shove in my body – which, to be fair, its rather surprising I did, given my current state. But I did. Apparently it’s the first, like the literal first, anti psychotic medication ever produced. There’s whole songs written about ‘thorazine dreams’ and ‘the thorazine shuffle’ and all those good dead and drooling side effects that characterize all patients who took it for decades. This is oddly not much of a deal to me. I think, at my stage, you don’t get to think about quality of life in the same way as the average person. Yes, taking this may cause all sorts of things, but are those sorts of things worse than seeing in technicolor acid trip swirls or thinking a song played through a grocery store speaker was the universe trying to send you a message? Because I feel like there’s a tipping point that comes after that that I don’t want to see.

I’m very clearly losing my grip on interpreting my reality correctly. I am not, however, actively psychotic, because I catch myself, to an extent. Like I know the ceiling should not be pink, as I know it is not painted pink, and I can usually make that logical connection. Therefore I am in, as my doctor says, “the funky stuff”.

Possibly the most frightening realization Im having is that I can understand how delusions work now. Its not something that sort of… appears and you suddenly believe you’re Christ and think you can save the world, or whatever the fuck the stereotypical thing of delusional people is. It’s the little things.

I was at the grocery store with mom, because I live with them now, because I cant function as a human. Not sure if anyone told you that yet. My apartment remains but I don’t exist in it and the idea of it makes me a bit uneasy. But I digress. The grocery store. Mom wondered away to get lemon and left me with the cart and the task of getting yogurt. I was very… alarmed inside. My doctor calls it heightened sensory perception, which is how he explains the Technicolor and such, but I wasn’t seeing things. I was just very alarmed, and suddenly very, very frightened. And I tried to reason with myself as I pushed the cart the 10 feet to the yogurt section, my fingers gripped around the cart handle, but people were in the way and I couldn’t get there and the fear just escalated so quickly. And I know you think I mean anxiety, but I don’t. I mean pure fear. Like falling out of a ten-story window accidentally.

Then suddenly I hear the store radio start playing a Billy Joel song. One of the ones mom used to play in the kitchen while we (well, I) was little. It was like a tidal wave of comfort. I felt for sure the universe was trying to provide me comfort. To take the fear away from me, personally, that this event was someone meaningful beyond mere coincidence. Part way through the song mom showed up and I was following along behind her sort of half mumbling the words to the song, catching my breath, basking in the sweet relief. She had no idea any of this happened. The song changed to something I didn’t know, and I swear to god I felt like the universe had abandoned me. Hit like a ton of bricks. Mom asks if I need to go outside but I tell her I just need to stay by her now, and she continues about her shopping while I snap back into reality enough to realize what the fuck was happening and how my brain was rebelling against logic without me. She doesn’t know any of that happened. I took an abnormally long time trying to pick a breakfast cereal. My eyes were probably really wide and I probably talked sporadically, but I don’t think shed have noticed much at all.

And isn’t that scary? That you don’t notice?

But the scary part for me is that I can see the logical connection to those feelings and normal rational feelings I would have had in that situation if I were just, say, anxious. Music is one of my calming tools it is what I do to distract myself from my other senses or to cheer myself up. That song making me feel better wasn’t illogical. But it didn’t make sense.

That’s now a thing I haven’t to consider more than I really know how. Over or under pathologizing behaviour isn’t very helpful but believing the universe is speaking to you isn’t exactly a symptom you can let slide, when you’re able to recognize it as a symptom.

So I take thorazine. It makes me sleep, so the sleep deprivation is gone, but the “funky stuff” still lingers so the dose is being increased. Although this stuff would usually be considered part of a manic episode, the fact that I’m also horribly depressed for large swaths of time indicate it’s a mixed episode. In other words, we have barely scratched the surface of the emotional well of crazy that is your sister.

I wonder how much that mental image of me has changed now. Do we know each other well enough that this is just a thing about me, or is it starting to define me, more than you want it to?

 

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on the scale of happy

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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.

and also extremely FRIGHTENED THAT IT MAY NOW ALSO BE MINE. FOREVER.

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.

ugh.

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

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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.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

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im sad. i think. im like sad and energetic at the same time. life is getting really, really confusing like that.

i am just going to make a list of things here an pretend it counts as writing a blog, ok? transitioning between subjects is just too much for me right now.

1. i ordered molotows (acrylic paint markers. …ok, graffiti pens, lets be legit here). I also ordered a bunch of free shipping labels from UPS. AKA i have all the supplies to make slaps (fancy name for stickers). I am doubtful I’ll ever use them as slaps (I am no longer 15), but I like to trade them with other slap artists. Im the collector everyone hates. either way: excited.

2. these pills. THESE PILLS. i feel like im dying or something. my sleep wake cycle is so fucked up i’ve lost track of space and time. i feel like i’m dropping acid on a regular basis.

3. clearly, i havent been going to work. for about 2.5 weeks. im going tog et in serious shit shortly.

4. amber moved away and i miss amber.

5. did i mention i feel like ive dropped acid ALLOFTHETIME??

6. fuck my life. for real.

coma

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soooo i feel like i should write something, but im not entirely sure what.

i had a manic spell. well, am having, maybe. my shrink gave me these like horse tranqs of sleep meds that i’ve been taking since thursday. they make me sleep about 20 hours per pill and i have to take a pill a day. so, basically what i am saying is they are the very definition of wasting your life.

i tried not taking them yesterday but then i was manic this morning (/all night). and brandon made me take more. he also texted jon that i was “calling in crazy” for the day and that he should tell me not to come into work.
which i still find sort of funny.

i wrote that last night. the situation remains relatively unchanged, however. I did manage to get up at 2pm today though, which is a solid 8 hours earlier than usual. got mah eyebrows did. went to the community garden and watered the plot and picked some lettuce and cukes and herbs for a salad tonight and tabouleh if i ever go to the store to get tomatoes. going to trivia with jon tonight. sometimes i just want to curl my entire being into jon in the most platonic way possible. i cant explain it. i think its just the completely lack of filter. he knows everything about me for far too many angles. hes a safe space for my brain. no matter what it spits out or is doing i just dont have to worry about it, and i dont have to be alone.

though he is my boss. which should feel more complicated than it does. then again, we havent had performance review week yet. ha.

amber moved to cape breton this week. has a sad.
i need to get my license. and maybe a car. or a car share. probably a car share.

its sunny. gloriously sunny.

flash and back

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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.
waiting.

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.

Going, going, gone

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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.

Crush

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Things have changed.

I know this should be the easy part. The part where I just simply recount the past couple weeks of soul crippling depression in bits and fragments… some sort of counter part to the ‘psychosis’ post from a few weeks ago. But it isnt. Its never easy for me to admit this half of the spectrum; the one I feel like I should be able to control. Its been here longer, and it takes up much more space inside me. It is a part of me in a much more tangible, recognizable way: the pitch, pitch black.

Last week, I was forcibly taken to the ER because I was suicidal and the people closest to me were gravely concerned for my well being. I’ve hinted and mentioned and touched on this fact, and the circumstances leading up to it in bits and pieces. It was (is?) a bleak period for me. there is something so inherently difficult to explain here… some coming to of an innate, constant reality that just broke me.

As a mental health advocate, its an incredibly taboo thing for me to say, but I’m going to say it: the realization that I was, in fact, bipolar, or at the very least not “just” anxious has been, at times, unbearable for me. It is not that I don’t value people with these heavy diagnoses. I do, I really, truly do. people that have these problems and cope. That make it through their lives and do what they want to do, who be who they want to be, who are good, amazing, wonderful people who better the world. The people who have such strength and fortitude to survive: they are my heroes, in every sense of the word. But lately, or maybe always, I have a deep seeded doubt that this is something I can ever personally accomplish. And that is crushing.

I cannot pretend my mental illness is not a burden: it is. it is painful. it is heavy. it is a boulder that sits on my chest and the only thing keeping it from crushing through my rib cage is the strength of my finger tips and sheer force of will. It is not easy. It is not pleasant. It is not without struggle.

I spend a lot of time fighting to not be defined by that struggle. A lot of time. So it is painful for me to admit that in the face of recognizing that that struggle was something serious, something permanent, something that wont necessarily improve with continuous hard work and diligent effort… it broke me. Looking at the state I was in, and knowing, unequivocally, that there was nothing I could do to stop it, to stop myself from being back here again, that I was already doing everything anyone could suggest… was devastating.

I work hard at being mentally healthy.
I go to therapy. I work on things that my psychologist tells me to work on. I have insight into why things are happening and what is causing what. I do my best to reason and talk through things. I use all my CBT training. I have a psychiatrist. A good one. I take the pills I’m told to take. I go to my appointments. I modify my diet. I do the stupid routines and sleep hygiene. I work. I try. There is literally nothing I could be doing right now to work any harder at this, aside from being better at doing nothing at all.

And this still happened.

This horrible, crushing, terrible thing still happened.

I cant work it away.
I have always been able to work it away.

As stupid, or misguided as it may be, having a diagnosis of depression and anxiety, as opposed to bipolar or schizoaffective, or whatever label it ends up being, made me feel like I had more control. It made me feel like I could work my way through it. It made me feel like if I just tried harder I could get somewhere, because I have always held that sliver of hope. That hope that so many people have lost.
But, for some reason, for whatever reason, the bipolar label makes me feel like I’ve lost that. And the switching of labels.. the oh your bipolar, oh nevermind you’ve got anxiety, oh i meant ptsd, oh no, “just” depression… it feels like I was robbed of time to adjust.

I know its just a word. A label meant to help those who help me; not one to define me or who I am. But it matters. I have very separate emotions attached to each. and they may be unreasonable and they may be the byproduct of stigma and internalization of bullshit, but they are mine and i have a right to work through them.

I have a right to be devastated by apparently old news. I am devastated by old news. My finger tips can only hold some much weigh before they give. The boulder is going to fall, some of the time. My ribs are going to have to learn how to take it.

I have a right to be tired. I have a right to let myself be crushed.