Blank. Because while the rain has stopped, it is still cold and gray outside and it does nothing to inspire me out of my mental rut. On the up side…I have kicked serious ass with the housework the last two days. I did ALL the dishes, even the take home dishes from turkey day, put them away. Tidied the bathroom minutely. Cleaned all cat boxes and that entire area, washed the rugs and rubber mats. I’ve got one load of laundry drying, and I folded and put away FIVE baskets already.
Of course, my dad took my kid for a sleepover last night so I’ve not been interrupted with Uzi rapid fire at every turn. Though Chaos seems determined to take Spook’s place by being attached to me every minute. I go the other room, she follows me. I come back to my room, she follows. Folding laundry proved challenging with my feline twin. Yet…I fucking did it. And it only took three weeks of start and stop and getting caught up then buried…
Now I wait for them to return my spawn. I am watching Vampires Suck. Ya know a movie is funny when my cheapskate ass pays money to buy it on DVD. I mean, yeah, I paid like a penny for it and four bucks shipping but still…I don’t do comedy. But if it’s this funny no matter how many times you watch it…Valid expense. Methinks later after I feed and bathe and put the spawn to bed I may watch The Def Leppard Story again. I’m feeling in need of music inspiration. Theirs is a very inspiring story. Right up til they became a Vegas lounge act wooing soccer moms with tear in my beer ballads.
Of course, what I feel like doing now could change drastically between now and then. Stupid bipolar brain. “Make up your mind” becomes a comical statement when said to a bipolar person. If my mind could be made up, I’d flush all my fucking pills.
And yeah, another annoying thing people do. “You just expect the meds to fix everything, you don’t want to work for it.” Um. No. I want the meds to do their job of stabilizing my brain enough so my perceptions are correct so my choices are based on fact, not random mood swing 20182 or insecurity three million. I don’t think the term “mood disorder” has done much good to help McMuggles grasp bipolar. It’s a thought disorder. I can be manic as fuck but if my brain misinterprets, “You look nice today” as “You always look like shit, so today is a nice change” the whole mind frame disintegrates.
No amount of therapy and “retraining” my brain will change the chemical misfires that muck it all up. It’s odd how people in general accept schizophrenia and the visual/auditory hallucinations that come with it. “Take your meds, you think clearly.” Yet with bipolar, it’s all “suck it up, you just have a bad personality, blah blah blergyblarg.”
And another myth (often fed by bipolar people themselves when they hit a solid patch and want to shout it from the mountain top)….there is NO recovery. There’s periods of remission. But medicated bipolar is still bipolar and much like taking Tylenol every day…You can still end up with a headache, or in our case, bipolar/depressive periods.
One thing I have become convinced of as of late is that, while the mood stabilizers have certainly killed off all but brief hypomanic bouts…My depressions have grown deeper, longer, and all encompassing. Would I want to go back to the pre mood stabilizer days with the hypersexuality, the impulsivity, the retail theft charge after a complete crack up…Hell to the no. I just also don’t think having every bit of joyful chemicals from your brain absorbed to ward off mania should result in needing a damned army of anti depressants just to lift you from the abyss.
It’s damned if we do, damned if we don’t. And frankly, we should get a little leeway to be grumpy about it.
End of diatribe.
I am gonna blankly watch Vampires Suck (cringing because I really think that noise the hard drive is making is a sign of impending death and I cannot face the loss of another computer right now, ffs) and ponder supper since I have clean dishes and can cook now. What I really want is to write again. I need fiction soup flowing from my fingertips onto a keyboard, desperately.
Sadly, no amount of money or prescription pills can spark creativity. That bitch has a mind of her own and she’s been flipping me off for a year now. If I can’t use the “gift” I was given, then just give me a skill I can use to make a living, damn it. This tortured artist thing isn’t working for me. Let me create or let me die.