Another week begins. And I feel no better than when I did on Friday leaving work in tears. I was in tears before I left my house this morning. I had told my partner this was not a good time for him to come, but he insisted, sure that he could “save me”. No one can. Most days, I don’t even believe I can save myself. We fought a great deal over the weekend, and he finally played the hand that I hate the most, “you are not seeing reality as it is. You are playing the victim. You are spinning“. How many times have I told him not to say this to me? How many times will he continue to try and fix me, when it is an impossible thing to do?

I need silence. I need to understand what I fucking want in this life. I’ve been running through the hoops others have put in front of me for over 13 years (and long before that) and I am completely exhausted. If there were a word that expressed what is beyond exhaustion, I would use that. But right now, my befuddled mind cannot think of one.

I know part of the issue is the time of year. In 9 days the summer solstice will be upon us, and for almost everyone suffering from bipolar issues, this event in conjunction with the winter one, fucks with us and our brains in unimaginable ways. It causes all our symptoms to go into hyper-drive. People without this do not understand that such a simple rotation of the earth could have such an effect on a person. But it does, every year. Sometimes it makes us manic (which I beg my mind for everyday), but mostly it sends us into the gallows of depression – as if one is drowning, never knowing when you will surface or if you ever will.

So, I am a piece of fine china right now – ready to break at the first instance of anything that affects me in a negative manner (or rather, how I perceive the instance since, according to my partner, my relationship with reality is upside down now). I see my shrink tomorrow morning. She will do nothing but hand me more Rx slips and want to up the dosage of anti-depressants she thinks I am taking, though I refuse to. I just keep throwing the bottles I pick up from the pharmacy in the box of pills I horde to see if someday I will use them for some other purpose. What I really want to do right now is cut myself again, but I cannot as my partner is still here. I am getting close to wanting to peel all the skin off my body, just for a release from all this angst. All this uncertainty. All this isolation and anger and fear.

I see my therapist (the good one) on Friday. It is the one thing getting me through this week, knowing I will be able to see her. She will listen, she will care, unlike everyone else in my world who simply doesn’t give a damn about human emotions or wants to “fix me”. With her I can let it all out and hope that when I leave her office I will feel somewhat better about life, myself and the future than I have for the past week, or for months. I just wish I had a cocoon I could hide away in and no one would interfere. But I can’t escape. I have to be “professional”. I have to show up every goddamn workday and pretend all is GREAT, even as the earth is opening below my feet. I have to go home, and rather than hiding out and trying to recoup from these agonizing hours, I have to be a “good girlfriend” and support the man in my life, making sure he is happy and his time here was worth the effort of coming to see me.

I hate all of this.

I hate the charade. I hate that people cannot be compassionate, or even understanding of what happens to those of us cursed by this disease. My best friend, who is the only person who understands this, is going through her own levels of shit and I haven’t heard from her in what feels like forever. I am alone, in so many ways. I don’t even want to be touched. I am at that level of hatred toward myself.

There is a comment on one of my recent posts, which I appreciate for the effort of reaching out and saying “don’t give up”. I looked up the writer of it – a student in college. I remember those halcyon days when life was a wide open arena just waiting for me to take on the world. But this disease, years of loss and heartbreak, and “reality” – whether the way I see it or how the rest of the world does – has beaten me to a pulp, and reading those words, though knowing they were given with the best of intentions, made me want to scream. “We” hear them all the time – those of us suffering from mental illnesses. But really, does it? Does it ever get better?

If you are lucky, the sun breaks through for a day. But I am at an age where I understand why people give up. I have no one, other than my partner who I am not sure is the support I need right now. I have a friend I can confide in. But I am losing my family, ties that normally bind and choke me, yet now make me feel even more isolated from the rest of the world because once my parents die, what will keep the five of us from vanishing from one another’s lives?

So, I understand. I get why Virginia Woolf put rocks in her pockets and walked into the river. Even though it still pains me, I know why David Foster Wallace hung himself. I see why Hemingway took out the gun and pulled the trigger. Madness will drive you to the limit, and unless there is something on the horizon that makes it worthwhile to hang on to the cliff edge your fingers are growing numb from grasping, the rest of you is telling yourself to let go.

© Sorrow & Kindness


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