“I have a feeling that you’re riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall.” —The Catcher in the Rye
I crashed. Of course I crashed. I woke this morning and the bright, yellow sun was blazing already. I felt leaden and full of fear like wings flapping; I’ve read bloggers calling them birds and moths lately and that’s just what it feels like. Someone else posted a photo of shirts saying, ‘anxiety is my cardio’ and true enough, it’s bloody exhausting.
It’s February, you see, and so the third anniversary of my mother’s death is coming up. Lots of bad stuff barely buried there. Synapse will be here with me for it. Might have to relax the rules and just get drunk or something. Eighteen days to go.
One of many, many things I loathe about death, is all of the conversations it cuts short, the mutual interests. Albums get released, books published and I grow angry. It’s horrible, sitting alone with a pile of stuff that should be shared. Music is a bloody nightmare, we shared a lot. Books too. Our tastes varied enough to avoid the book thing much of the time, but music, forget it. I’ll start off just listening to stuff I love that she didn’t (hip hop, for example), but soon enough, the guitars and ballads creep home. “You’re into harmony,” she said to me once, “that’s what you’re about.”
Someone I thought of as incredibly fine told me yesterday that she gets angry and wants to slash her wrists some days.
I can’t keep up (or down) with my own moods at the moment. I’m everyone’s stereotypical notion of someone with bipolar. Ultradian what what mixed fucking cycling goddamn poxy thrice accursed days are upon me. You wouldn’t be able to stand being in the same room as me for long, I can’t stand it myself.
So today was fun. When last did I say that? It was probably hypomania, but fuck it, I’ll take it. I imagine that if you have bipolar ii, coming down from hypo would be a crash, but I don’t experience it that way. To me it just feels like disappointment. That’s irrelevant for now, because I haven’t crashed slumped. Somewhere round 9pm I thought hrmm this is nice; I’m weary and a tiny bit sunburned (I love that gentle glow, don’t you?) and goodness me I do declare I just yawned. So I went to bed and *doink* motherfucking nasty sneaky RLS (restless leg syndrome aka Willis-Ekbom Disease, a fucking horrible neurological thing). The reliable antidote is to get up and wander about, which is great but not very bloody conducive to having a lovely, early sleep. Or any other flavour of sleep for that matter.
One of the strategies suggested is
“… avoiding substances or medications that may exacerbate RLS,” source
to which I’d like to respond thus,
aaahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha I’m on psych meds mofo!!
So I’m wide awake again, because ugh RLS feels vile. It’s freaking irritating. Get up, walk, move, feel annoyed that as soon as I stop, it starts again.
But today…. Today was the good. And that’s a victory.
So now I’m three days into the olanzapine and fluoxetine meds regime. I prefer the word regime to cocktail, because meds generally seem to arrive in jackboots and take over my life. Also, there are no parasols or disgusting maraschino cherries in sight. I’ve gone from spending about two thirds of my life asleep, to being wide and wired awake most of the time. I don’t like it. I need some balance. I need some sleep too. I’m not going to freak though, I live a quiet life and in terms of avoiding mania, the odds are probably in my favour. I tend more towards mixed episodes anyway.
Anxiety is a well worn Möbius strip (oh lol autocorrect made it ‘strop’, how perfect) shaped warpath in my mind. It shall henceforth be known as the Möbius strop. Möbius trip, Möbius trope… It’s almost 1am and I’m sitting fretting about a friendship. Rumination, ruination.
Ugh I bore myself shitless too.
What if I don’t manage to get back into life properly? What if I’m stuck out here on the fucking perimeter? What what what the fuck.