Oh. I want to hold a smaller me. Let her rest her head on my shoulder, let me wrap my arms around her like a blanket. Tell her: this is what we do with that anger. You take that anger and you tuck it deep, deep in your stomach where it burns quiet. Put your hand on your belly. That's where your anger grows.
You gather those little flames in your hands, cradled them, press them to your lips and kiss them like a secret. Breathe in and swallow.
Breathe more. Faster, harder, alive. Swallow again. Harder. Don't let in jam in your throat and choke you to death. Let it settle in the soft, dark pit. Let it curl in on itself, tighter and tighter until it's a coal black pearl.
And when they come, they will press too hard. They will tug and tear and take. They will push and poke and prod and punch. And when they claw at your skin and at your name, it will split.
It will crack. Molten and righteous and lava and ash. Rage and power. And I promise you they won't like it. And maybe at first you won't either but the understanding will come, I promise. At least it's warm, okay? That warmth is only yours and sometimes that's the only warmth you have.
So please listen to me. Please take my advice. Please keep it. You can teach your body to live with this. To swallow stars and spit out their fire. It'll be your hearth, your home, your healing.
For the first time in my whole life, I'm understanding why people decide to kill themselves.
I turned 30 today.
And I got up and went to work. And only one of my bosses told me happy birthday. Although they usually get cupcakes or something for people's birthdays, they did not get me anything. I did get a "card," which was literally digital messages sent to me via the app we use to clock in.
I spent all day dragging 1 and 2 year olds off the furniture and trying to keep them from killing each other. With no help, because I work by myself in my classroom.
My family can't celebrate with me until next weekend. My best friend isn't free to celebrate until Sunday, and I'm sharing that with a day trying to find her other friend (who isn't really my friend) a dress for a trip we're taking in November. One of my brothers didn't even tell me happy birthday.
Me and my 3 year old went to a local place to get gelato, and she whined, loudly, the entire time.
Then we went home to our apartment that is a disaster. Like disgusting. So now I get to clean it. And that's it. That's my birthday.
Life is just so fucking boring and depressing. The more I think about it, the more I feel like it's pointless to be here. The more I feel like it will never be more interesting. It will only ever be working for people who don't even appreciate you. It will only ever be your kid whining when you're trying to enjoy the one nice thing you got for your birthday. It will only ever get more boring and more depressing and more pointless.
Like, I turned 30 today. Feels like a milestone birthday to me, but the only place where I'll ever get the intimacy and enthusiasm I'm looking for is in this made up world inside my head. I keep hoping that if I wish hard enough before I go to sleep, I could wake up there in the life I actually want.
Anyway. Sorry for being depressing. I'm feeling really disillusioned and I want to go somewhere else.
I am really struggling with the fact that my life will never be the one in my head. I just don't understand how we can create these vivid worlds in our head - and we could have them! If we wanted to! My inner world is not actually unattainable! We could have these beautiful worlds, but we choose this instead. These boring, grey, beige, square box buildings. And parking lots. And anger and hatefulness. We choose jealousy instead of compassion. Greed instead of kindness.
We could live in this truly fulfilling world, but we just... choose not to. And people like myself who desperately want that world, we try to make it so. We try to embody that. But the real world just fucking beats it out of you. Over and over, just "Work harder, be more productive." Just earn your bare minimum life with every waking hour of your day.
It's so hard to accept that this is what we chose. That my inner world is never going to be. And the love I want isn't something I'll ever have. And the beautiful experiences I want will never happen.
I hate this fucking coping mechanism. Because it's really hard to want to be here when this is all you get.
Rapid cycling is some bullshit. I'm so jealous of people that get a baseline. Like y'all have times where you... have only mild symptoms? Or like none? I'm either hyperfocusing and massively overspending, or unable to focus on anything and fucking drowning mentally and emotionally.
I want to know - not saying people with a baseline don't struggle with this too, I'm talking about non-mentally ill people - But I want to know what it's like to just wake up every single day and know what to expect from my temperament. I just want to know what it's like to be the same person every single day. If you change, it's gradually. Not like, every few weeks.
Rapid cycling is fucking exhausting. No matter how well my medication works - and it does pretty well - I'm either feeling guilty for overspending or I'm feeling guilty for having no patience with my daughter. I'm either feeling guilty for getting irritated with my wife for making any mess (because I hyperfocused and cleaned every speck of dust in the house), or because I haven't been able to get up and do anything suvstantial in a week.
no matter how terrible my day is. i can always end my day in bed imagining fictional characters making out sloppy style and fucking raw. and that's beautiful. there's some good in this world mister frodo and it's worth fighting for
do u guys ever get offended when ppl interrupt your daydreaming like?? hello?? i was clearly in the process of dissociating from reality completely. where is ur fucking respect??????
I don't remember much of my prozac induced year long manic episode.
But I remember the feeling after I got off of it finally. I finally came down, and it was so... peaceful.
I was going through a bad time, and coincidentally, I ran out of prozac just as I ended a very abusive relationship. I know now that I went into a really bad depressive episode, but it felt soo good after the last year. The quiet in my brain. I could finally think clearly again. I moved out of the house I rented with my ex and moved into a spare room in my girlfriend's house. I spent the next year hiding under her covers and reading. Nobody heard from me for most of that year. To feel invisible after that year of being so visible and embarrassing myself in front of so many people was a relief.
I don't remember most of the manic year, but I remember that year afterward really fondly.
My longterm daydream, one that I've been on for a couple years now, is one where two lord's daughters run away from their lives to be together in a cottage surrounded by flowers, in a beautiful, simple, hidden mountain town. This cottage would be my happy place in another life.
Anyway, one time I was playing with one of those dumb AI filters on TT, and someone posted "if you cover the lens, it shows you what's in your soul." And so I did, and this little picture of a cottage pops out, and it looks amazingly similar to the one in my mind.
And I know that's a stupid, silly little coincidence, but I think about it all the time.
going to the supermarket is sensory hell. cleaning is senory hell. clubbing is sensory hell. walking down the street is sensory hell. my bitch brain can't do anything
I wish I could be more open about having bipolar disorder.
I wish it would make people understand.
I'm not stumbling over my words for fun. I take medication that evens my moods, but at the cost of my brain taking like 30 seconds to load before I can speak coherently. And if I don't let it, nonsense comes out.
I'm sorry about that. I can be mildly offensive when I can't get my words out right. And then, because Bipolar disorder is like 60% mood disorder and 40% embarrassment and anxiety, I sit there thinking about how I could have said it if my brain didn't take half a minute to buffer.
But nobody would understand that if I told them. All they would hear is "bipolar" which equates to "crazy" which equates to "dangerous," and nobody wants that.
back in my “aggressively daydreaming to the point that i fully believe i’m in the same room as my person and i’m talking to them and my body language is matching theirs but i really just look crazy from everyone else’s perspective” era
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