I ran out of things to buy before I ran out of money. Nickel and dime shit. A poison ring from Israel, the most useless shade of eyeliner, a California flag to commemorate the honeymoon. I used to have a lot of flags, picked quickly and overpaid for in European airports. Spain, Italy, Ireland, The Netherlands, Czech Republic, dunno where they went. The attic? I can’t access the attic because the spring on the hatch is wound too tight. My husband does it for me.
A lot of people have issues with overspending when they’re manic. I overspend when I’m depressed. This is the worst episode I’ve had in at least 3 years.
Losing my appetite
Waking up an hour+ before the alarm
Crying openly in public
Silent on guitar, silent on cajon, no singing, no bedroom dancing
Envying small children and babies
Drinking ’til I puke in the Walgreen’s bathroom
Getting pissed off at daylight because I can’t sleep when the sun is up
Taking angry showers
Smoking cigs even when I don’t want one just to have something to do for 6 minutes
The overspending is just a means of giving myself something to look forward to. Tracking numbers have become my tugboat. My mail carrier is nice. For a few minutes, I have my new toy, then I hide it. I have no idea why I do that. But I made a massive Pinterest board devoted to this frivolity. It’s my chest of whims. Why do room dividers gotta be so expensive?
I’ve been sitting here typing and deleting this paragraph for almost 10 minutes. Then just staring. I’m barely doing 15 mph. I hate this car. The windows are fogged, I can’t see the road, I’m compelled to employ idiot metaphors to communicate my inability to communicate the way I should be able to communicate. I have no idea if I can’t think properly because of my depression or because of the dosage change for one of my meds. It occurs to me just now that it’s probably both. Normally, I’d have known that sooner but the dot connecting part of my brains is, I dunno, napping? I have rocks in my head. I hate everything about this.
I smell good, though. My body lotion is supposed to smell like jasmine. It smells more like baby powder. I don’t mind.
I’m thinking about joining the bone marrow registry. Just to have the opportunity to do something worthwhile. And to hope that whoever receives my donation will do more with their life than I will. The bar’s set pretty low, so, it’s not like I’m asking a lot.
People keep telling me that this will get better. If I had a dollar for every time I got better, I’d buy a damn room divider. That’s the nature of a cycling disorder. You get better. But nobody ever reminds me of the inevitability of getting worse. I guess nobody thinks I’d want to hear it. They’re right, I don’t. I don’t forget anyway. Worse is never tardy. It turns up quiet and smear proof and it brings its own flag.