So I am sitting here in these pajama pants I bought in my size, washed maybe twice, and it hits me…My legs are cold. Because even with socks, the pant legs leave four inches of bare leg. I am oddly proportioned. Not short, not exactly tall, but too tall to fit average height clothes apparently.
And that’s how my life feels, how I, on whole, feel. Nothing fits me properly. I can get the waist right but not the leg length. I can get the legs long enough, but the waist is too snug. Rarely do I find the “right” fit. And it describes bipolar to a T. There is no happy medium to be had because I don’t fit the tried and true size charts or mood charts. I am disproportionate in everything. Rather than trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, I have learned to exist over here, floating freely, on my own, isolated, outside looking in, because no matter what I do, or how hard I try…I just don’t fit. Like these pants apparently.
I still remember one of my most “wtf” moments in therapy. The counselor told me I was “failing to regulate my emotions.” Which sounded like the most ridiculous thing to say to a bipolar client. Bipolar is the epitome of emotional disregulation. My responses to things aren’t regulated because my chemicals fly wily nily. Thus the disproportion there makes absolute sense, except to the therapist. What is that? If it were as simple as regulating our emotions by sheer will, we wouldn’t need meds, we wouldn’t be advised to take them. I know some behavior can be modified by breaking old thought patterns but really…Telling a bipolar person they’re “failing” at regulating emotions they’re not even in control of, and never have been, is borderline malpractice. It’s akin to a doctor telling a pregnant woman her hormones are illogical and she just needs to “regulate” them.
So, yeah, that’s where I am today. Feeling disproportionate and castigated for being so, except as far as bipolar standards go, being disproportionate is pretty standard fucking issue.
Spook went down around seven thirty last night, slept the way though. I checked on her several times (I mean, it’s not like I slept through, wake and sleep is my thing apparently) so I was up multiple times anyway. She bounced up this morning, elated at my alarm ringtone of Sam and Dean from “Supernatural” ordering, answer the phone, you have a call, is someone gonna answer that? ANSWER the phone. That made her giggle, she wants it to be our default alarm sound now. And I asked if she felt better and she was already up and getting dressed. Thank pegacorn she rebounded quicker than I did, just hope it’s not a faux recovery like mine was. Guess she wanted that field trip so much she healed overnight.
I dealt with R’s part issue straight away, because I didn’t want him text nagging me all morning and fucking up my shows.( “How to get away with murder” was fucking awesome!) Tis another cold gloom filled day so my mood is in the “meh” zone. I almost caught up on biohazard home and one day of inertia and the being overwhelmed by the dish as well as a kid that’s sick…I’m drowning once again in housework.
(For the record, telling me my place is a pigsty is NOT helpful, otherwise my mother would have motivated me 20 years ago, so if you ever visit…Don’t do that. I will likely launch you out a window if anyone does anything to set off my mommy issues. Besides, it’s rude. An offer to help with dishes, helpful. Reminding me of my housekeeping shortcomings…Hindrance. Just saying, I’m hypersensitive about this particular shortcoming because I am supposed to care and yet…truthfully, it’s not even in my top ten of priorities.)And ya know, many people have family and roommates they live with who help out. I’ve got me and a kid. No one helps me. So if my pigsty falls short of standards…Keep that in mind. I am TRYING. If guilt and self loathing motivated the place would be a surgical suite. One of the reasons I never want Mrs R coming over, I couldn’t meet her standards hopped up on speed and with a cleaning crew.)
Yeah, I know. No one can see my mess so I am the one harping on it, why don’t I shut the fuck up and fix it or accept it. Because I truly do feel shitty about it. Much like holding a job, though, guilt and sheer willpower don’t make it happen. Kind of a sore spot with me because I have excessively low standards and everyone else it seems has excessively high standards. On the plus side, at least I keep my kid and myself clean. It’s something. Hell, at this point, it’s a damned marathon and I won it.
One more thing that’s disproportionate ( and I reminded constantly)- the perpetual exhaustion of depression. “You don’t work, why are you so tired?” You don’t know until you are *there*. You can’t know. I wouldn’t be able to fathom it either if I didn’t live it. I loathe it, resent it, try to battle through it…It’s depression. It’s legit. Otherwise, I’d be a bohemian in New York going to sleazy underground metal clubs and taking my kid to art museums instead of rotting in the rural midwest and having no grasp of the future except to make it another day without chugging Drano.
Ray of fucking sunshine, ain’t I?
Well, here’s some optimism: it’s the weekend. I pick my kid up today and I am beholden to a schedule no more for two days. There, that’s my positive thought.
And methinks tonight I will have Mangoritas as I have been such a good girl. Maybe fall asleep without a ton of sleeping pills taken throughout the two hour sleep and wake cycle. A ghoul can dream. Sometimes, I miss the ass trash shrink who nearly killed me with the meds but told me I was allowed a glass of wine at bedtime rather than shoveling out sleeping pills. The wine helped way more.