Lordie I’m tired.
Going from working 7-3 to 4-12 doesn’t go down too well on an old lady. The sudden inability to sleep before 2am isn’t helping either. I like the nights, but I liked them better before children. I’m happier now though. I don’t bring stress home with me. I don’t feel a burning in my stomach like I did before. I don’t cringe when the phone rings.
It’s so nice.
I’ll move beyond what I’m doing eventually, but right now, for me, it’s just fine. Although I could use more money. Send money, m’kay?
It’s weird, feeling so closeted about the bipolar though. I keep hearing the word “crazy” in jokes, in “doooode, I got CRAZY messed up last night!”, in all the casual ways people (myself included) use it in casual conversation. It’s been bothering me, in this relatively inane way, how often it’s used, and how no one ever has a campaign against it like they might for the word “retarded” or “cripple”. And maybe it’s different-maybe no one has ever looked at crazy in the same light, but I can feel it. When I say crazy, I mean batshit, not drunk and peeing on a wall. It’s almost like the use deflates the meaning, makes it less of a problem. Simplifies it.
Or maybe I’m just petty. I can’t put my finger on why it’s been bothering me so much. Maybe because I don’t feel safe to talk about it with most people, preferring to be judged solely upon my merits right now. Maybe because I’ve grown tired of hearing people called “crazy” because they’re loud or dress weird. Crazy to me is work. It’s effort to stay together, to not break, to take meds daily, to hunt down a doctor. Crazy is ill, not fun. Maybe that’s my problem.
I’ve been stable though, blessedly so. I’m watching, hawklike, for the summer surge of my mania to crack through, but so far, aside from being a little happier than usual most days, I’ve been safe. What scares me is that part of me misses that wave of joy, the bliss of loving the people in my life just that much more, the heat scorching my body. I don’t miss what happens when I start to crash, but the body wants what it remembers, right?
So I’m hoping I just won’t climb up, and that all will be ok. I have a doctor, I have a plan if something escalates, and I have a job that isn’t stressing me out to the point of tears once daily. It can only be better now.
I worry about that too-that I’ll never keep a job with responsibility ever again. It’s frustrating to have the talent and the brain, and just not the will or ability to keep it going. As a coworker once said “There’s no one better then a Dora on a good day.” Problem is finding those good days. I always want to be in charge, to own projects. But I always unravel if they go on too long. I lose my momentum, I run out of steam, or I crash from manic to depressed, unable to move. My smaller cycles of hypomania to depression have never helped.
Being desperately unhappy at my last job didn’t either.
I just wish I could talk about it more. I feel much better, talking about it. I wish I could do advocacy work at least, talking to groups, schools, workplaces about living, working, thriving with mental illness. I wish I was doing more.
But, for now, having the day off tomorrow will suffice. If only I was drunk in the bush somewhere, peeing on my shoes against a pine tree.
Ah, Canadian adolescence in the woods. How I miss thee.