I’ve been wondering why I haven’t felt like I’m moving forward in my recovery for the past week or so. I’ve still been hopeful, I had the whole manic thing and, I’ll admit, it scared me just a tetch, but I didn’t expect to end up standing still. It’s annoying. Tonight while I was doing dishes I was pondering this over the suds and realized I haven’t read, I haven’t actually put work into it to get anything out of it. I’m still holding onto my anger pretty well. I am able to get myself worked up over some sort of dreamed up scenario and how I would ‘get even’ with the perceived attackers. Then I remind myself that those people have to look beyond their own needs to be motivated enough to stick their noses into mine. That is both meant as a realization and knowing that I’m not as spectacular in everyone elses universe as I am in mine, and because, honestly, they’ve never shown an interest in the areas I’d like them to before now. I don’t think anyone in my family has read my public blog. Grant it, at first, I didn’t tell them. But now that they know they don’t have the time. Their friends have looked, and even commented on them, but my family, not so much.

See, that last comment again is evidence that I need to get back to studying and trying to grow the foundation passed where I stopped. I just wonder though, is this what I’m going to have to do every day for the rest of my life to ward off the darkness? Though I’ve been rather hopeful for the future (an idealized one I realize), the idea of getting through a day now is overwhelming. Having to have to exercise, meditate and grow my defenses against the void added to a normal human day is almost unfathomable. I’m going to need one hellavah foundation, aren’t I.

Ten years ago today I was woken up by my sister and told to turn on the TV.  Upon seeing one of the towers in flames I knew who did it.  Though I really didn’t know the whole story behind the whole thing at that time, the name that came to mind instantly was Osama Bin Ladin.  My plans for that day were changed and pushed off for a few days.  I was scheduled to be evaluated for a bi-polar therapy test panel in Berkeley.  Seems strange, as the world was introduced to global terrorism on our own soil I started recognizing the terrorism of depression and anxiety in my own mind.  I didn’t realize that until just know.  I can see the conversation my sister and I had in my car as we sat listening to the radio.  I called to change my appointment, they understood, and we just listened to NPR relate to us the events as they were unfolding at Ground Zero.  In no way am I comparing my struggle with those of the families of the victims or first responders, it just seemed odd to me that these days were somewhat uniquely commingled in my memory.

I was so ampted yesterday.  Scary so.  Mom’s funny, she’s telling me that I was scary manic with a really crazy pitch in my laugh.  I was talking loud, and I was talking quickly and yea, I was doing the whole Dug impression (Squirrel!).  But I was able to sit back and be quiet, though I was constantly twitching my glutes muscles to the beat on the radio.  So, I wasn’t that bad considering how bad mania can be.  My sister was in the car and finally turned around and said “Will you please shut up, just for a little bit.”  She was stressing and I feel bad that I was that bad.

I was terrified by the end of the day that the partner for mania is depression.  I understand the bi-polar construct in that the mania burns off the serotonin on the brain and then you’re left with the arid aftertaste of depression.  It’s kind of what I do to myself when I write too long too many days in a row.  I don’t have the good sense to write in moderation.  I’m kind of an idiot that way.  My fear was a little unwarranted this morning.  I chose to sleep in because, in theory, it was my day off. (Day off seems to be a long running joke these days.)  However, right now, I feel like I could go to sleep if I just closed my eyes.

I have to say what really helped was sitting down and talking to another writer/artist.   My friend C is like my construct of what an adult should be.  She doesn’t get sucked into the drama and she told me something priceless.  She has manic days and that it’s perfectly normal for people who are introspective and are aware of their own inner-conversations they feel these things and worry about things more so than the non-writer/artist.  And if I’m worried about being too manic, I’m okay.  People who are truly locked in a manic phase don’t take the time to wonder if they’re too manic.

I’m okay.  I’m not crazy.  I’m just a writer getting back in touch with her emotions.  However, there is this joke about how you can’t tell the difference between a schizophrenic staring at the window and talking to them selves or a writer staring at a window and talking to themselves.  Kinda scary huh.

I’m up, barely. It’s just after 9:00am and I’m needing more caffeine, I wish I knew how to mainline it faster and thicker into my system without my heart exploding.  So,three hours of sleep was a bit more than I expected, yea me.  I wish I had eight because then I could possibly feel comfortable driving.  I need to spend at least 2 hours cleaning the house today and I promised myself I would go back to working out.

I’m an idiot!  I don’t know what I was thinking when I set that goal.  I’m feeling more overwhelmed then I thought I would.

True, I’m not exactly moving yet.  Getting the inertia to start moving forward seems to take a monumental effort, especially for getting housework done or exercising.  The two big things on my list of things to do today and I can’t get seem to get the lead out of my ass to do it….no, I think I could if I really, really wanted to, but I guess I really, really, really don’t want to.

I need more sleep.  I’m going to give myself an incentive….housework and exercise and I can take a nap in my nice cold office in the heat of the day.  I’ll chant that for a while and see what happens. (Of course, it might help if I medicate and sit long enough for the pills to ruminate a bit).

I don’t know if it’s the medication, the stress, or pure unadulterated stubbornness, but I can’t sleep.  I’ve read for the past two and a half hours and my eyes just won’t do it any more.  I’ve queued up one of my most watched and favorite movies but I haven’t turned it on yet.  I don’t know if I want to sleep just yet.

Mom has been a little sick today.  Having just had the pacemaker to see her go back to the heaving (ewwlekeew) and wet strands of mucous draining from her mouth make me ill, but are an especially bad sign for her.  I thought the pacemaker would take care of it.  So, I’m worried.

I promised not to take a sleeping aid tonight, which is fine.  After the change of mental status after taking the last one, I’m thinking of just doing 1/2 of one from now on, and if I’m still having issues, I’ll take 1/4 and if still, then I’ll start brewing sleeping potion tea again.

I keep thinking that the sleeping problem is payment for sort of fibbing to my psychiatrist in order to get them for my sister.  She’s sorta attached to them and she doesn’t have the great insurance that I have.  (I think I just confessed to a misdemeanor…oops).  It’s not like it’s oxycoton or anything like that so I don’t feel so bad.  Anyway, you know Murphy’s law, you use your dying grandmother to get out of work for a day and then Grandma becomes critical and you can’t take the time off.

I’m also wondering if the lack of sleep is another fun side-effect of the higher dose of the Lexapro.  I’m at the max at 50mg per day.  Mom gave me her prescription of 10 mg so I don’t have to break a tablet in half every day, but I’m thinking to back myself down to 45mg a day and see if that will reverse the cheek numbing jaw clenching I’ve been doing and the sleeplessness that I can’t seem to find a cure of.

I’ve sleep deprivation issues before.  I would sleep and wake up between 4-6 times a night.  It got to the point that I saw big huge spiders crawling across the floor or up a wall, jump and turn only to find nothing.  I actually stopped driving because I wouldn’t see the cars driving in the lane I wanted to go into and just pull out and they’d “poof” appear.  I don’t want to go through that again.  I know part of this is that I’m worried for mom, but I was having issues before she went into the hospital.

The OCD, I realize, is where all my stupid rules come from.  My rule for staying up late is a fun one when you’re writing, so I’m not holding myself to it on these nights.  If I am up and awake at 4:ooam I have to stay up to greet the sunrise.  It’s a great rule when you’ve written the whole night and it’s like a victorious salute to the day because you beat the night.  I don’t have those rules now, it’s not a victory to have your body and brain refuse to let go of the day and make you go into the next day without needed rest and relaxation.  There aren’t pills big enough to slay the dragon I become after day two.

I’m different.  Yes, I’m still struggling with the same problems; depression, anxiety and anger.  But I’m different.  Even my sister who doesn’t really have much of a clue of what I’m going through (she even admits it to me outright, but she is trying) sees a difference in me.  So, even though I’m still dragging my bum around from task to task, and I can’t get past hearing the characters talking to me and getting it onto paper, but I am improving.  I think it’s stamina.  I wish stamina came in pill form too.  I know, that’s the lazy way of doing it.

So, I’m recommitted to going to the gym on Monday.  The heat normally keeps me away so I need to come home and get into the shower and get my body temp down.  I hate the heat.  I want to move to Oregon or Washington where it’s rainy and green and wet and overcast like my personality.

Along with the aerobic exercise I want to start some sort of Yoga practice as well.  I’m hoping the relaxation of the yoga will take the need off the jaw clenching when I get over-excited.  I need to put my needs first.  I need to stop putting myself on the back burner like I have been.  Tomorrow.  Remember that post?  Tomorrow is only a day away, but I need to be more focused on today and taking care of myself today.

This blog is so self serving.  It’s a auto-biographical, pep-talk, and quick expulsion of what is bothering me all in one.  I feel so self-centered doing it, same with my journal.  Therapy, psychology, all circled around the “ID” or the “ME” I’m supposed to be.   You’d think it would make me more willing to do something to support their work.  Here’s the catch, if I do it for them, I’m less likely to do it for me when I’m supposed to be through with the process.  They are putting me first when we chat, I have to be able to put my needs/requirements/goals first.  Righteous goals, healthy goals, attainable goals.  Good luck to me! (Meant with all sincerity, not sarcasm…I swear)

I was so happy.

Then I took a sleeping pill.

I slept forever.

I woke up angry.

I’ve been trying to get my happy back.

Why is this this taking so long???

Yea, who thought I’d ever see anything positive coming from this plague.  While talking to Mom today about my writing and I realized the genesis of this life path started with a fit of anger.  Yes, at twelve seems a little early to start such a path, considering my idea for a cool job was archeologist.  (Actually, I still think that would be a cool job).

I don’t know the impetus of this current bout of anger, I just remember feeling the need to make myself stand apart from my family.  I was going to show them that I would write a book and become a famous author without them knowing.  Had I known then what I know now about the process of getting published, I think I might have stayed with the archeology.  If Indiana Jones were  a teacher/co-digger it would have sealed the deal.

Looking back over my words above, I realize I have become an archeologist.  I’m digging out the secretes of the lost relics of my life.  I’ve talked to my sisters about this and we all seem to agree that none of us can really remember a lot of our childhood, at least not as well as my mother seems to remember it, anyway.  It’s time to pull out my old journals and read the memories, if I even recorded them.  I’ve always used my journal more as an intellectual repository rather than the pavers in memory lane.  I hope there are enough clues to lead me to enough of the lost memories to understand what makes me, well, me.  Maybe if I rebuild my foundation I can rise from the emotional detritus, above the anger and become who I was meant to be.