We Are All Struggling

Since I began this blog, I have found an amazing group of people who are suffering from the horrors and prison that a bipolar mind will trap you in. I can’t say I am any better this morning. I am desperately trying to hang on to the mania that I had a few days ago, but I received a huge blow at work yesterday and at this moment, sitting in my office, seething that I have to be here and having no desire to speak with anyone all day, I do not know where my mood is, what direction my mind is going in.

My former shrink, the one I loved in the last town I lived in, told my best friend (who also sees her) that bipolar depression is crippling. And it is. It is the greatest torture I have ever faced in my life. It is suffocating. It is paralyzing. And it brings paranoia into every aspect of your life. Do my co-workers like me? Am I being punished for something I don’t know I did? Am I not good enough to do the job I was hired to do? (My mind does know this latter sentence is foolish – I rock at what I do, and if they would just let me get out of the gate and  do what I was promised when I took this goddamn position perhaps I would feel better rather than isolating myself in my office this morning).

I am blasting the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Nirvana with my door closed. I want hardness because that is the way I feel. Hard. Like a stone. Granite. My defenses are at DEFCON 5 and I am so close to wanting to release nukes on those that are pissing me off. If I were still seeing my former shrink (not the shitty one I have down here, that I only see because she is the only one within a 20 mile radius who will prescribe the benzos I need to calm my unending anxiety and panic attacks just to get me through each day), I would tell her I am having idealizations of hurting others – one specifically. This could be manic anger, or it could be my mind sinking back into a depression, where I feel that nothing and no one will ever be able to help me.

I want to drink – so badly. I want to forget about my life and how shitty I feel about the direction it is going in and how it never seems to change. I am stuck in a maze of insanity and there is no exit. I want to chain smoke and hide in my apartment and just write. I don’t want to deal with people or life. But I cannot do any of these damaging things to myself until after my partner leaves. And then I have to figure out what happens if I drink again – will he leave me? Perhaps that is what I want and I’m too afraid to admit it, so will I continue to do idiotic things to push him to his limit with me?

I feel useless. I feel I have no worth in this life. What is the point of what I do? I feel like I am a robot, doing what I am told to do, with no recourse for improving my situation. What is painful (besides all the crazy thoughts, anger and rage spinning through my head) is that I feel so alone. I cannot reach out to anyone. No one understands this except my best friend who battles the monsters too.

It is sad, because I love the area I live in. I am surrounded by nature. I watch the sky turn from streaks of orange, pink and yellow every evening, as night takes over and the stars and moon come out. I leave for work in the morning, and the early light of dawn stretches across the fleeting darkness of the night sky. I love the flora that surrounds my home and the freshness of the air that whispers across my cheek at night, through the open window, as I sleep.

But it is not enough. What boggles my mind the most is that during the 9 years I was with my husband, none of this insanity existed. Of course, before his death, I did not have the lovely additional conditions that were a result of finding him dead. Not PTSD, not the fear of abandonment, no panic attacks, and even my anxiety was under control. Yet as soon as I lost him, they came out to play and have never left. Thus I get the “pleasure” of taking even more medication now than before I lost him. But before, with him, life was serene, peaceful and safe. I worked, but I never laid in bed wondering how I would get through the day. I would come home and we would spend evenings playing with different art projects or writing or something ingenious his creative mind had come up with during the day.

I miss that. I miss serenity. My life has been anything but that for years. Even this visit with my partner has been filled with arguments, anger and frustrations. Granted when I was with my husband I was also on Paxil, the evil anti-depressant that took away a lot of my creativity, and which is why I am resisting taking the Zoloft my new shrink has prescribed. If it promised to send me into a constant manic state, I would suck down the whole bottle, just to get back to where I feel alive and in control again. But after 20 years on Paxil and 6 months of hell getting off it, an anti-depressant is not something I truly want to add to my repertoire.

So what do I do? I have 8 goddamn hours to get through before my truncated weekend begins. It is the last weekend my partner will be here, which is why our not being able to go away is such a huge disappointment. I want to make sure he enjoys himself (why I feel responsible for this I do not know – just another level of guilt and pressure I put on myself). I just hope I have the energy to do all the activities he wishes to do. And that we get along, because I REALLY need that for the next 48 hours.

Next weekend, I can hide. I can do whatever I want to do. I don’t know where my mind will be or how I will cope. He will interrogate me, before he leaves and once he is back home – 2,000 miles away from me. I don’t know what I will tell him or what I will do.

I just want to get through the day. I just want to make a difference. But the only thing I feel I am accomplishing is writing this blog. Nothing else brings me pleasure, besides reading books that have touched my soul throughout my life. Perhaps between the two, I will manage. But based on past history, I do not have much faith in myself.

© Sorrow & Kindness

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