Daily Archives: January 8, 2013

so many thoughts and ideas, so little time

I am at the shop and I am hypomanic. My heart is racing, my mind is racing…So many ideas and thoughts and to do lists forming in my mind. I need to write. It’s like a compulsion. An addiction. I want to do this, and that, and oh, I’ve been meaning to do this forever…

Then reality smashes into me like a train around 4pm.

The sundown depression begins.

I go home to housework that needs done, a kid that needs my attention, cats demanding their noms…

And by the time I am done with all that, I just slither off to my dungeon bedroom and seek solace in nothingness, aka sleep.

What a waste of a good hypo manic episode.

The shifts in mood just never occur when it would be beneficial to me in any way.

Don’t Tell Me to Relax

I was out for a driving lesson, and my instructor commented that I should relax and slow down. I usually handle his suggestions with good grace, because I agree that slowing down gives more time to make things happen. But the r-word? The r-word is triggering. When he repeated it later, I commented that he’d not tell a cancer patient to stop having cancer, I’d hope. I wasn’t mean, but… that’s sort of where it is for me. Between my brain and its woes and my body and its ailments, relaxation isn’t something I’m good at. Slowing down definitely isn’t either, because the brain has usually gone so yappy as to shut down.

I’m not mad at him, mind — I know he means well and is trying to help me do well so that my licence test will be a dawdle. But that’s always the worst — people mean well when they tell you to relax and slow down with no regard for how hard it is for those of us who aren’t neuro-typical. There is only so much grinning and bearing one can do, and I think that most of my friends would agree that we do a lot of it. And why wouldn’t we? I know for me, I get a lot of ‘hookay… backing away now’ if I’m honest about how my quirky little pile of brainmeats ‘work’. I still try to be honest because I feel that the best service I can do for myself and others with bipolar and other mental conditions is to be politely frank about what’s going on with me.

And I know, I know, it’s so easy to miss with me, or just to assume I’m cranky because I (like to think) do such a thorough job of applying positivity and optimism to my life. That isn’t a service to society — that is a service to myself. I know it can work against me and has in the past because people assume that I’m around to take all their licks… and then get very surprised when I cut them out of my life. That isn’t to say I don’t give people chances, because I do… but because I have to take care of me, I have a lot less room for keeping bullshit and bullshit’s owners in my lives, even if doing so would be ‘being nice’ (a phrase I find repugnant). If I can’t relax, why am I going to waste spoons letting children continue to misbehave by ‘being nice’? Yeah…

Anyways, there’s no angry behind this. Nobody is about to get the chop. Just… a little vent. Those are good for keeping the sanity peace, yanno? :)



Morgue on Mute

Over the weekend I had the stomach flu.

Now my cold has returned with a vengeance, leaving me hoarse and half mute at the most inopportune times.

Still, I told R I would be at the shop, since he is sick too. Suck it up time. I’m just gonna be a little late.

For I have been writing, and with a kid, I don’t get blocks of time every night to just immerse myself in my fictional world. So I am learning to adapt and steal a half hour here, an hour there. I started writing this morning, got four pages done. It’s nothing like my old marathons where I could easily write 20 pages in four hours. It’s something, though.

My mood is better today. At least I no longer have faucet nose like I did yesterday. I was chained to a box of tissues.

Yesterday, for a change, my mind and body were on the same page. We did not want to be at the shop. We went anyway (listen to me, I sound schizophrenic, but in a way, mind and body are two separate entities who just happen to reside together.) but  every hour seemed grueling, especially having a cold and him keeping it so cold in there.

Today I don’t want to go, but that is less physical or mental.

When my writing is “on”, I need to run with it because it can go away at any time. An eight hour break to go help him might bring me home to stare at a blinking cursor for the next six months. Creativity is such a fluid thing, and more so when you’re moods and anxiety suck the life out  of you.

Which the anxiety at times is unbearable. When they do my autopsy, I bet they are going to find my chest cavity wall dented and banged up from all the pounding heart shit that comes with panic.

Do I get two points for morbidity in the A.M?

Blah. Time to get dressed.

Time to go make the donuts.

I feel a mood swing coming on.