I'm lying on my bed with the dog and cat waiting for 7 PM to roll around so I can take my meds. I've decided this is an O.K. time to get ready to go to sleep. Once I take my pills it takes an hour and ½ to fall asleep. 8:30 is very early, but long ago I figured I could end my day then. I hate summer. The days are too long. They ask too much from someone who only has so much to give. Sunlight guarantees mania peeking out from under the bipolar meds as much as they allow. Especially at times like these when we are working on a new medication combination.
Obviously when you go to sleep at 8:30 you wake up insanely early, generally around 3. I have a routine. Nowadays its: stumble to kitchen and press the button on the coffeemaker, turn on computer, get cup of coffee, check school website, post a comment if I have something to say, fill out contest web pages, walk dog. Then I move all of the paraphernalia to the living room to start that day's project, whatever I have to do for school, maybe a writing project, or just random internet searching.
Most days I have one activity that takes me out of the house. A doctor's appointment, grocery shopping with mom, walk to the pharmacy or library. Recently I actually started swimming three days a week. It's a sign of improvement that I am capable of that form of activity.
Lately things have been a little better. I moved to Eureka in January only knowing my family. In the last few weeks of July I made three friends. I'm not panicking about having my Xanax or Klonopin right on time. I'm breathing without having to think about it.
It's nice. Yet, if it's so nice why does it scare the hell out of me? I keep telling myself I'm safe here. Yes, its summer. Yes, I always implode during the summer. But, here I always have food. My bills get paid. I get to my appointments. My homework is getting done. I'm writing. Yes, my mother is controlling my finances, so I lose some autonomy but I'm actually finding it comforting. Sometimes is frustrating not being able to go to Target and spend $150. Until I realize that means I have food for three real meals that day.
The fear never leaves. I feel its presence at all times. The medications seem to be working. I feel better then I have in two years. But, considering what those two years were like that's not saying much. I've made friends; I can go to public places but still prefer my apartment.
How about writing about a manic episode you may have had for your project?
You write extremely well and what I feel your "friend" is forgetting to say is
whether it is too depressing or not, it is what we are and in that I find originality.
It is your pain - and I'm sure there are plenty of people who will be able to
relate to it and feel yours' too.
Only people who have this illness know the struggles we face, but once we
have a connection with someone we usually blossom a bit and express our
ingenuity.
florida girl
I did write about one later on, and he experienced one first hand! He no longer sees me as just depressed! I think he might have wanted me to go back to depressed after a manic phase - the paint the bathroom with a toothbrush kind. It was a little overwhelming for him!