When I fall into those deep, and oh-so-long depressions, all I seem to do is sleep. 

     I drag myself out of bed after 14, or even 17 hours, and try to accomplish the bare minimum. In my exhaustion, I brush my teeth and then try to force myself to take a shower. Dressing is an excruciating ordeal. I walk downstairs, make coffee, and make myself feed and water the cats. I cannot process any type of emotion:  both television and reading help by numbing me.

     I think I am improving--I am actually accomplishing small goals like cleaning the kitchen or preparing a meal. I am clean and dressed. I can concentrate and even read the newspaper. I am eating nourishing food. I can converse.

My sleep periods have shrunk to 12-hours.

Perhaps I could begin to take my psychiatrist's constant advice and start walking each day, even if it was only around the block... . I begin to walk.  What a small triumph.

    The fatigue permeates everything--my mind, my soul, my body. Worse, I can't seem to care, not about my family, not about food, not about the gold finches at the feeder, not even about whether my hair is combed. Guilt overwhelms. Still, I am more active. An occasional smile, a small delight in a vibrant, petaled colour.

     Last month, my husband began screaming at me.  "You have a CHOICE--you don't need to sleep. It is your decision to sleep!" I try once again to explain about bipolar disorder, the constant, eternal fatigue. I try to tell him how much better I am.  He tells me he just doesn't want to know about it.  He needs to "protect" himself from the details. I start to cry because he says he's  been so afraid to criticize anything, has been terrified that if he yelled at me, I might commit suicide. I promise him that I would never ever hurt him that way, 'would hospitalize myself as soon as that became a possibility. I tell him I need him to talk to me even when something minor I do upsets him.  Keeping his feelings inside until he explodes will only injure him (and me).

       In private, I cry for three days. Rage. Confusion. Guilt. Resentment. But most of all, I hate, hate, hate! this disease.  I will try even harder. I WILL repair the hurts and scars.  Dear God, please give me some energy, some initiative, some intellect. I have so many emotional scars:  they open and bleed.  Balance is what I crave.