Stronger

My shelves are painted. No ones reading this. No one really cares, but I know what that means. It means I dug out. It means I told my brain to fuck off and now there’s beautiful shelves in a beautiful room full of books.It makes me happy when I look at it. It makes me feel stronger than the depression.

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Dead Children and Happiness

I am one of the most fucked up people I know. Seriously. The other night I woke up and saw dead children playing with a ball in my bedroom. Instead of wondering why there were dead children in my room, I just wanted to know where the hell they got the super ball.I’m also one of the happiest. And not even just on my manic days.

I have to work hard to be happy most days. Not because I don’t have what amounts to a pretty beautiful, if simple life, but becuase my chemical makeup is unbalanced in such a way that in the face of happy moments, my emotional wall acts as bitch ass reflector.

Happiness terrifies me, because generally speaking it means I’m about to take a radical nose dive into the hole. But God it’s so beautiful when it’s here.

 I love my home, my fiance…I have a generally supportive family. I am at peace. I watch people my age shuffle about, miserable, always wanting more than what they have, never being satisfied when they get it. They don’t have days where they develop tunnel vision, darkness surrounding on all sides, but they still aren’t happy. They want a better job, home, friends, everything. They don’t reach for it.
I have what I want and what I need. All i have to do is work to maintain it.
I’m thankful.

Sometimes I wish everyone would have one day, just one day where they fall into the pit. Not a day where they feel “sad” but a day when they honestly tumble down, and look up and see nothing but a long tunnel, walls covered in sharp stone that cuts when you try to climb. Then, the next day, I want them to wake up and be their normal selves. I want them to see how beautiful it is to just feel ok.

I’m so full of anger sometimes. I watch people walk along and talk about their lives and I wonder if their thoughts are ever as dark as mine.

But I’m also happy. I don’t know how that works.

Sometimes I Just Get Pissed, So I Get a Tattoo

It does, you know. It lies every day. Even the ones where you feel ok. It’s still lurking there, threatening to come back and you know it will. And when it comes it promises it’s going to stay. It tells you there’s nothing you can do. The world is too much and you will fail.

Well I’m not listening any more you lying fuck. I’ve branded that promise onto my skin and I will not forget it. I am not broken. I am not alone. It is not easier to die and doing so will hurt people I care about, even if you tell me it won’t. Leaving this world will not make it easier on my mother. She loves me and so does my father. They don’t care that I crumble sometimes. I have not failed them, and listening to you would only mean I’m failing myself. Try as hard as you want you sick bitch, but eventually I will climb out of this hole. Throw everything you have at me. I may cut, I may bleed, but I will not fucking die no matter how much you will it so. You have taken many others before me. You are dragging others into this same pit right now. You are evil. I may not be a perfect person. I have let you twist me and convince me to make decisions I never would have otherwise. You may very well do so again. But eventually you will fucking lose. Come and go, in the end you will. fucking. lose.
I am smarter than you give me credit for. I am on to you. In highschool you made me want to die and in my ignorance I longed for it because I thought that was the only way to escape. I know better now. Fear me because I am not the only one in this fight. Fear me because there are a million others like me who fight you every day and will never give up. Fear me because I recognize your lies for what they are, a sad attempt to drain the life out of a strong woman.

Fear me, because I will kill you.

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My Eyelid Does the Rumba

My eyelid twitches. Not both, but just one. The right one to be exact. In some odd way this makes sense to me. I’m right handed, and generally one side of your body is predominant and stronger. Makes sense that the crazy would be stronger too.

It’s not stress. It happens at the most random of times. I have considered going to the doctor for this, because despite the fact that no one can really see when it’s happening, it feels like my eyelid is doing the Rumba and this is just plain not normal. But recently I’ve come to the conclusion that if I were to really talk to a doctor, I’d be admitted.
This is how I foresee this going…

Me: My eyelid twitches.
Dr: Perhaps you’re stressed.
Me: Nope. Well yes, but that’s not why my eyelid twitches. See, when I’m stressed I tend to hallucinate and have nightmares about dead children playing dress-up in my clothes. At least I think they’re nightmares. I tried to wake up my fiance to ask if he was seeing it too, but it was 4am and Mr. Grumpy butt decided a better response to my questions was to steal all the covers and snore.
Dr: …..
Me: I’m not crazy.

See why I might be worried about this?

A Medium Day

I was so happy. So unbelievably freaking happy, for about a day. It sucks but i know myself well enough to realize that when I get a sudden creative urge…it’s usually a manic high. I take advantage of them because as far as bipolar goes I’m on the less extreme side. Instead of a mania-fest where I sabotage my life with drugs, alcohol, and a refusal to show up to work I just become excessivley driven artisitically and in many ways OCD. I clean the house, paint a room (or three) and draw.The worst thing that results from these manias, other than the inevitable decline, is that I tend to start five million projects and only finish two. This means that until my next high those half painted stairs will be staring at me, wondering why I bothered to rip up all that nasty ass carpet if I was going to leave them a smudgy green color. And one-half of my insert will remain slightly unfinished, requiring only one more coat if I could get myself off my ass long enough to do it. Two hours tops, yet it stairs at me and seems insurmountable most days. Eventually it will get done, either when I’m manic or when I get angry enough at myself to overcome the exhaustion. It happens.I started filming me at my worst, and i guess to really see the difference I need to capture me at my highest. For some reason the video uploads upside down, but it still is effective. I had another car day, and just let lose to the camera. I tried watching it afterwards, but it’s oddly painful. Half the stuff I don’t even remember saying. Then again that happens when I’m manic too. Friends have quoted me before, things that were funny usually, or just crazy. And I have no idea when i said it, but looking back it seems like something that would pop out of my mouth when I’m like that.

Today is a medium day.

For the most part I’m fine, but feeling very doom like. Most times my low days are followed by a night of unpleasant dreams. Nightmares. No wait, not nightmares. Night terrors.

 
You know, those things where you’re actively hallucinating right after you wake up so you’re like WTF IS ET IN MY BEDROOM! and then you realize it’s not ET but an evil alien here to probe your ass with a spinning didlo of death and you’re like OH FUCK! but then you roll over to wake up your significant other to save him from violent ass probe-age and all he does is steal the covers and drool on your elbow?So you’re sitting there like, excuse me I could be running for my life here, but instead I stopped to save your ass from alien butt sex and all you do is drool??? But when you turn to pull out ninja skills on their alien asses they aren’t there anymore…
 
This was no different. Except that it was because in reality this shits terrifying.  I woke up shaken and upset, enough that when John first looked at me he asked if I was ok. I wasn’t. Still not, but it fades the longer I’m awake. I’m just grateful that this particular nightmare was less…scarring I guess. Well it was, but in a different way. Normally my nightmares are rape and death ( not alien butt sex). Loved ones disapearing. Last night was a little more mild, and about John, so it helps to wake up and him be laying there holding on to me. It makes my brain realize it was all fake so much faster.