Memoirs of Bi Polar Activity

Posted May 14, 2011

Today was the first day in quite a while I actually woke up feeling somewhat like I actually had taken the time to sleep. Normally I wake up and wonder if I even slept at all as my worn body just melts against the mattress. I woke up, and without taking my usual 30 minute or above pep talk and endless stretching and drifting in and out of sleep, I got up, got dressed and strolled very calmly into the bathroom for my afternoon prep. I went to bed around seven o’clock this morning finally giving in to the fact that being awake two days was quite enough. I took one dosage of my “calm yo dang nerves” medication and it was quite enough to knock me into a peaceful dream state. Usually when I’m awake for my mania marathon, I don’t really think of sleeping, but after spending this marathon feeling fatigued, nauseated, and depressed, I was totally ready to submit the sandman.

Awake, wired, but at the same time, fatigued, nauseated, depressed and for the first time… persona-less. No interest in entertaining myself with a game or twenty of Bejeweled on Facebook, or a little Family Feud. No interest in scanning YouTube videos of my favorite artists. No. Nothing. I gave up. Last night I sat in one spot for almost five hours with the “dangerous for me” finger nail clipper. I was done clipping my nails after about two minutes, but I always have other plans. I wasn’t done. For some unknown reason I have the unappealing urge to trim the skin under and around my nails. This, brought on by the fact that a few of my fingers, thumb and pointer on both hands, end up with a dry patch from my excessive use of the tweezers. Where do they come into play one might ask? Well, introducing the tweezers, another handy instrument that’s sometimes fatal when in use. I enter the bathroom occasionally to ya know, answer mother nature, but I often and just about every time have to take a moment of figure and facial examination in the huge mirror which consumes a huge part of my day. Besides my inspection for “love handles”, excessive weight gain in the abdomen region and side profile, I must give my skin care an extra special inspection because my face is, to me, number one. It takes a lot to keep good skin going. I have a major interference when it comes to my skin care. I am very hairy. Strangely enough, the hair on top of my head no longer grows as it should, but I shave in the shower and a hour later I have stubble.

Where’s the problem you may ask? Well, shaving can lead to hair bumps, which in my case is always inevitable. Thankfully, I don’t deal with razor bumps, although I still use the proper skin care product to prevent them, along with rubbing alcohol along the beard and neck area. For some reason, when I look into the mirror I have in grown hairs everywhere, just out of control. Not every time, but the majority of the time, at some points, I just find so many areas on my face that need attention. The tweezers go the work, and before I realize it, an hour or two has passed, my thumb and pointers on both hands are numb and I’m breaking skin and bleeding in several areas. It hits me like a shock wave, that I must cease this activity. “Wait, one more, I just have to get this one, that’s definitely a hair bump right there!” I soothingly reassure myself in order to pursue my quest of reckless beauty practice. So, like a champ, I head right back into the boxing ring to complete the task at hand. It’s not until another hour has passed and two more shock waves that I realize I’ve fallen into a trap of visual misconception. I’ve let the obsession take me over. I drop the tweezers and look at my wounded limbs and wonder how I let this happen again. I look at my face, bleeding, patches of tweezed hair from my stubbly face. I look at the counter top filled with individual hairs, in which some made their way onto the floor. I then realize as always, if J is home, I can state stomach issues or just go ahead and complete this disaster with a nice shower and call it a stomach issue now shower combo.

Proud, I am, of having stopped myself from this insanity, but, ashamed, I am also, for falling into this state of horrid mirage. I look at my face, carefully assessing the damage and I still see more “hair bumps.” I must quickly reassure myself that I’m yanking every single hair out that’s growing, they all look like hair bumps. I shake my head, close my eyes and sigh with relief. I quickly and franticly shove the tweezers out of my sight. Then I look down at my hands and utter my favorite word of disappointment, “SHIT.” I notice that during this mission, I’ve created a definite mission for the very near future. All fingernail clippers beware!

Last night, among the misery and anxiety of an upcoming event on the 21st, I was so fatigued out of my mind and miserable. Awake, not wanting to sleep, just wanting to “be.” I kissed J goodnight after one a.m. and he quickly paced to bed. I wanted to follow, every night I want to follow, but if I follow every night, I’m likely to cause more harm than good to myself. Also, lying awake in bed for hours is really not cool, especially when someone next to you has to get up early and you’re constantly changing positions trying to find a state of comfort to fall asleep when you’re quite aware it’s not going to happen. But you try, because going to bed with someone you love, going to sleep together, is by far the most constant and unchangeable activity that you and your partner will ever share. It’s just going to sleep, for real. No tiddly widdly or “wee wee” activities. Not every time, dam. “LOL” I mean I’m not oppose to every time, but I think he’d vote otherwise. Damn democracy. No, sleeping together is one thing you can always share, and it’s actually a very romantic and loving thing when you cuddle up close and just fall asleep. If you have time on your hands, as I do, before you fall asleep, you can hear your appreciation of the moment. The room is dark and quiet, and you realize how grateful you are to have this person in your life. It’s the best feeling in the world. You feel secure, safe. It’s the one thing, beyond a doubt, that you know for sure is going the way it’s supposed to and nothing can interfere. It’s even better when you can actually fall asleep.

Forget that fairytale, because like many nights before it, last night I couldn’t endure several hours in bed awake. I wasn’t in a “happy” place. I figured I’d have to medicate and get some sleep, but the constant mind boggling questions kept racing through my brain in circles. What is going on now? Why am I manic but sad? Why am I so fatigued every day? Why is my body weight acting crazy? Why was I in a good mood when I made my best friend Kalvin a video greeting earlier in the day, but could not think of one joke. I had to fake a good attitude. Where was my personality? Why do I feel like I’m being divided into several different people. I knew of two for sure. The “happy feet” me and “depressed, irritable, tired, moody, cold, dead-like, etc.” me. Yes, all of the last couple of combinations go together, only because they come in pairs sometimes, or one by one, hour by hour or half hour or like last night, all at once. I want to cry, but I don’t really “feel.” I want to go to bed because I’m tired, but I can’t because I’m not sleepy. I’m irritated at the situation, borderline pissed off, because it’s always something new. I’ve lost my identity. I feel like parts of me is dying or being “kidnapped.” I say kidnapped because, eventually one of my other persona will make an appearance when I can least expect it, but this time it feels so different. I’m not sure, but I feel like I should hold funeral services for my long lost persona. I don’t do serious writing, not entirely. I always toss in sarcasm, even when speaking. I have to have laughs. I have to know that I’m making my listener, my reader chuckle, even though it’s a serious topic. Something is happening or has happened to me. Did I already die inside of my head? Did my identity, while ravaging through the endless maze of my brain filled with psychological passages and blockages, give up his journey to reconnect with me? Or did something kill him? Where have I gone? I can’t feel him anymore. I was trying to help him. I read all I could, I shared what I learned, I talked about this with J, with online friends. I read all I could on the medications I took. I don’t know what else to do. I looked down at my hands with the clippers in place and noticed that all ten digits have been attacked. The tips of my fingers were on the verge of throbbing. Layers of skin had been clipped and digested my moi, clearly a habit of anxiety, one done many times before, that I use to allow my fingers to recompose a new layer or smooth skin. I must justify my actions. Besides, I blame the tweezers.

On a good note, while examining my skin earlier, I found it to be in very good condition. Apparently the damage is never quite what it appears to be in the moment. I actually love the turnout each and every time. How can this be?! I just suppose I’m doing the right thing and after the “ingrowns” are removed and my face is cleansed, my face recomposes during the night. Justification in order to proceed at any time with the necessary proceedings again. I sometimes to wake up with a fresh insightful perspective on what’s happening in my life, but never does it last through the day as it is right now. I’m still in “perspective” mode. Able to decipher the many coded happenings or moments that I can’t understand. I still don’t but I can look at what happened like I’m observing something someone else did, because I positively wouldn’t do it as I am right now. I take less than a minute to observe my face in that mirror and then quickly brush. My teeth use to be the victims of passionate, obsessive crime. I’d stand in the mirror for an hour or so, flossing endlessly, scraping every bit of tartar, checking the shade of my teeth, which sometimes I just think are too yellow, but I look at photos of myself and I see they are white and J tells me they are white. But that’s just like J and anyone else telling me I don’t need to lose weight. I believe what they are saying is true, but internally my heart doesn’t agree. So if I don’t feel and believe it for myself, then it’s not so.

Well, these days the teeth are free from their imprisonment of constant ridicule. I think they are fine and that’s how I’ll keep it. I realized that I was doing more bad than good and because my smile is 80 percent of who I am in the facial zone, I can’t mess them up. Maybe 50 percent. My eyes must take at least 30. Twenty would have been my skin and features… brows, tone, etc. I still examine my teeth, floss and rinse, but it’s under control. After that quick, minty smile, I looked down at my achy fingers, slowly trying to recover from their assault. I gently massage them with “intensive care” lotion, because that’s exactly what they need! I remember what I did like flashes of photos. I sat there, on the sofa, all the lights on and TV blazing. I watched two movies on my new favorite network, “LOGO”, while all the while thinking and clipping nonstop. I can’t tell you what the name of either movie was and to be honest my head is throbbing at the thought of me trying to figure out what happened or anything. Since I’m somewhat calm and in a decent place, I won’t put it through the misery. I then glance at my body, shirt lifted, checking my frame for bulges and flab. Lately I’ve been feeling bloated and uncomfortable with my weight. I lost almost fifty pounds last year towards Christmas during a huge manic episode and got back down to my original weight of around 160. I was extremely excited, but totally unaware of the huge meltdown in my future. Now, thanks to the wonderful, miracle working angel “Seroquel”, I have gained all of it back plus some. Fat? No, but not my comfort zone. Once in college I trimmed down and settled at a small frame. It was my body for many years. My mom was very petite in her adulthood. So, through that time I became “one” with that body. All this thigh and “bum” action is all wrong. Some days I’ll accept it and say it’s okay, it’ll come off. Then I say maybe it’s a good thing, my mom says I look good, my uncle says I look good, and yes, even J says I look good. But do I feel as though I look good? Some days I do, but then other days, when I put on a pair of jeans and they tighten around my thigh and hip area, it doesn’t make me happy. Especially when the size of those jeans is a 32 or 34’s. I remember this happened to me the first time I took “Seroquel” for a sleep aid a few years ago. The dosage was like 300 mg and it made me sleep, wake up early feeling good and everything was honky dory. However, I didn’t take it for that long, maybe a week’s worth. Well, a month or so later, I started to put on my clothes, jeans, shirts, etc., and to my shock, nothing was fitting. My shirts had curves. My jeans, my adorable size 29 faded jeans I use to rock all the time at the club, or just to go out and about, wouldn’t even go all the way up. I had to buy new jeans and wear medium to large shirts. Depressed wasn’t even the word for it. I ate right, exercised, nothing worked. About a year later the weight somehow vanished, not totally, but enough for me too feel better.

I remember the day I received my script for Seroquel. It was the morning after my meltdown. I was stuttering, shaking and confused. My doctor gave me the prescription, and suggested where I could go for help, because it’s freaking expensive. I went to the local church here that helps people in need. The realization that I was one of them made the situation even worse. How did I get to this point? Two years of college in, management in retail…? WTH?! They gave me the medication and to your understanding you can probably see how I could not even began to worry or put thought onto why I wasn’t given some sort of documentation on this “crap”. No. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. I took it because I trusted the doctor and I needed relief. I fought a long battle that resulted in a total breakdown, which is stunningly more appealing and accepting than a hospital stay, another weekend to a week in the psychotic ward, due to a suicide I didn’t want to attempt, but tried too because I couldn’t handle the war in process. Well, I handled it, but in the end, I didn’t really win. A month’s supply of 25 mg Seroquel twice a day. By the time I realized there was problem with me and I should look into this medicine, it was too late. I was zombie-fied. Broken. I couldn’t put a sentence together. I could barely talk on the phone and the slightest idea of going outside or to a store made the image of “Hell” an adventure in wonderland. I researched passed the point of obsession. I read tons of cases, experiences, advice, warnings…. For once I became educated on the positives of research. I even discovered what Bi-polar disorder was….

Yea, so I was diagnosed in 2005, but right after a breakdown, of what I thought at the time was a weak moment. So, who gets told by a psychologist that your mood swings and depression seem to be Bi polar disorder and manic depression and goes straight home when you leave the psych ward and research? Not I. I first, was just happy to be out of that place. Free. Not sharing over and over the same details of my pathetic episode. It wasn’t cocaine or alcohol, it was a blade to the wrist. I left with knowing I had depression and mood swings so why did I need to research? My “psychologist” didn’t give me any further details or info nor did anyone around me. “Why did you take Prozac?” “Leave drugs alone.” “That was selfish.” “You can live your life without medication, it’s called will power.” The endless reminders that I began this journey alone. My new found realization became a reality of the present. No one can understand this disorder but people who live it, and it’s not the same for everyone. As I read and researched about my disorder, and it pains my inner soul to even say “my disorder” still to this day. I went through several things. I went into a state of rage. Anger. Hate. I then tumbled into a state of guilt, hurt, pain, regret, torment, disbelief and eventually cried a river.

Everything that happened with me, everything I felt the past couple of years, every moment of confusion about past actions were explained in black and white in front of my very own eyes. Pages of truth that now have appeared only years late. The question that stayed with me: “Could everything or even half of what has happened have been avoided?” It tore me up inside. That coupled with the knowledge that I was taking a poison that was eating away at my brain and now know, slowly decomposing all natural functions of my metabolism and thyroids, meanwhile increasing my intake of sugar to eventually lead to diabetes, was enough information to take a gun, aim for my newly disrupted, decomposed, possibly destroyed brain and fire. And, if I could, I would fire twice. However, the “crap” did do one thing right. It stopped the depression, so although I cried, I had no intention of offing myself due to the pain. After I stopped the “crap”, the days following, I cried longer and harder. I couldn’t cry during “good” while on the meds, and I’m surprised I cried at all. Prior to the discovery of my heartache, I had been staring at walls, no emotions, no smile, no life, nothing. Slept hours and hours for days. I had a moment where I felt that I was living while asleep, because I had wonderful dreams. I was loved, appreciated, free of sadness, anger and regret. I was able to be “me”. I was relevant. When I woke up, mostly at late evening to night time, I awoke to pain. I lived in a fog, a hazy midst of confusion and irrelevance to the world. I didn’t go anywhere, see anyone, nor did I want too. How would I dare see anyone in the state I was in? If anyone knew anything about me, my smile met people before I did. My spirit has always been calm and peaceful. I love to joke, be sarcastic and witty and make cheesy yet wonderfully crafted jokes and paralleled comments that make “strange” since even about myself. Who was this person. Who was this, “me”?

I feel cut off. I feel like I’m in a time bubble in my apt, but time is still moving outside. Every once and a while I go out, but only a little at a time, and I don’t do much but grocery shop or if I’m really feeling confident and wanna take a chance, I go see my mom and dad and siblings. That takes days of prep time. Every appearance in the outside world takes prep time. I know no matter how much prepping I do to myself that in the end it won’t matter, but it makes me feel good to at least try and sometimes it’s beneficial. Why prep time you ask? Well, it’s for my image of course. I wouldn’t dare appear broken or in the least bit fragile in the viewpoint of my family or anyone else. So, I “chalk” it up, prepare myself accordingly, put on my happy face and fake it till I make it. Once I get there, honestly, I really don’t have to fake anything. The love, joy and similar sarcastic witty personalities of my family give me a very enjoyable time. I find that I laugh all of my worries and issues away. Laughter is my closest ally. It’s the most important asset right now in my life. It’s the bandages in my first aid kit. Without the bandages, it’s not really a kit now is it? Because it’s the most vital and important product. People always seem to need a bandage. J always needs a bandage. P.S., truth be told, he needs a standby ambulance or at least a body double to do all risky things. Risky is regarding to anything that deals with sharp objects, climbing ladders, or stools, he’s just accident prone. “LOL” I suddenly feel a piece of “me” coming out a little bit. Has this conversation helped me as I hoped? I’ll keep going. Laughter is key. Thank the tech wizard from “OZ” that I have access to a DVR and internet. I can record tons of “The Nanny”, “King of Queens”, “Wendy Williams”, Chelsea Lately”, my new favorite: “1 girl and 5 gays”, and other amazingly funny shows. When I laugh, it’s like a shot of ambrosia from the Greek gods. Sometimes I can create “the funny”, but sometimes I need the funny to come to me. So, I run straight to the “ER”, the living area, and turn on some funny. I love to laugh and I’ve always been that way, so it’s sort of a bonding moment with one of my traits lost among the ashes.

Speaking of healing, I am a huge music fan! Music has carried me through the worst of times. Mariah Carey, Toni Braxton, Patti Labelle, Beyonce, Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Faith Hill, Shanice, Deborah Cox, Yolanda Adams, Chante Moore, Destiny’s Child, EnVogue, Christina Aguilera, among others, have been in my life giving me the sweetest of joy. Inspiration through vocally, amazingly crafted, brilliantly sang lyrics that sometimes came at the exact moment of my own personal despair. Say what you will about these ladies in regards to troubles in their personal lives, but they are human beings and their talent over shadows trash talk. P.S., I will not leave out Whitney Houston. Yes, she’s dealing with her own demons and truth be told, it’s not my or anyone that’s not in her life personally else’s business. She gave lots of great music and I still go through her catalog of awesomeness. Oh, b.t.w, I will not and cannot leave out my new vocalist, Jennifer Hudson. She dropped an album recently called “I Remember Me”, and I couldn’t have seen it that coming with a gigantic green sign on an interstate that her album would be the turning point of my musical association to my life. The moment I’d realize that it’s not only a great thing, but an amazing, fabulous, fantastic, awesome, rejuvenating association, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say freaking magical. Throughout this process I kept saying that I lost myself, still do in fact, that I have become someone else, everything has been swiped away. I popped my dosages of Seroquel and as quick as a debit card at Wal-Mart swiping the machine for your 100 dollars of cosmetics and beauty supply and your 80 bucks in light grocery, I was totally deleted. Charged away into a multitude of tech particles and never ending transactions. The “me” I once knew, is, or was locked away in the deepest dungeon of my brain. I felt him. From time to time he’d make an appearance through channeling, like Whoopi on “Ghost”. He escaped the dungeon and other blocked passages in the maze of my head, and with every new hope I thought I found or thought would last, he’d make more progress to escape the “Labyrinth” of my mind, so that we would reunite. I think something’s wrong now, I feel time is running out, he’s like a ghost running out of time to finish “unfinished” business. He’s still there, because I still have some humor, I undoubtedly still have a grasp on reality at times and I am still able to make a distinct and clear clarification of moments of “bi-polar activity induced attacks”. I’m composing this essay of work quite well, even if spell check has helped me, but writing and typing a lot has never been my weakness, but some days, now, I can’t even bear the thought of typing anything, thinking, reading, sharing, no. It becomes too much, and although I’m relying on this therapy type composing, sometimes it’s actually too much and by the end I’m outdone, “spent”. Mainly because I can’t control myself, just like my talk, whenever I get it going. From “quiet” to total over share and passionate “top debate” representative on Pop culture and all things that matter to me. Sometimes I get so “OOC” I tend to unknowingly to me, get argumentative and too loud. So in attempt to prevent those measures, I try to stay away from those type of conversations, which involves politics, artists in music, topics that contain opinions…okay just about everything. Avoid is not the way too grow, and besides, like I’m ever not going to talk about Beyonce or Mariah Carey, please! So, control is my answer. I try my best but sometimes it just doesn’t work. I get passionate or unknowingly defensive and it becomes a cracked, cocaine induced rubble of words spinning out of control, and my adrenaline kicks in and suddenly I’m in a state of mania. I can’t even have a normal discussion or watch something on TV that strikes a nerve in me, because I get too overly involved. Why? I don’t know. Once that happens, I get angry with the topic, or emotional, may have a debate turned argument if I’m not alone, and then I get a headache and sick to the stomach because of the stress. My head is actually starting right now. It begins as a slow, throb, then shifts into both sides throbbing like two hearts on both ends of my head. Why now? Because I’ve shared way too much. I revisited “Elm Street” and relieved things that have happened, and as a deep, compositional person, I relive all of the emotions as I do it. Which is why the wonderful “Memoir” I’ve been working on, hasn’t even obtained one properly composed, chapter title related, chapter. I started working on it and as I started the first chapter I rambled off into other things as usual and got lost. I had too much of everything and a whole bunch of nothing all at the same time. Sarcasm overload. It was like a manic conversation in overdrive. Truth be told, I wanted it to feel like a conversational piece, and I did want to show examples of what happens, but I also know, like myself, most people with bi polar don’t want to really read other people’s rambling. Then I realized, through my own experience, we really don’t like reading much of anything. For example, this blog would be considered a total nightmare to me or any other bi polar person that deals with this issue. Too much. I wouldn’t even began or attempt to get into this composition because it’s too much. For one, I can relate, so my emotions would spike and for two, some days I don’t feel like writing or reading anything. I literally can’t. My head starts too throb, I become panicky, and I just shut down. I can’t just pick up a pen or hop on the computer and began. I have to be in a “place” mentally, in which I’m in the mood to share and unfortunately that mood will have manic inspired traits which will beyond a shadow of a doubt end up having me rambling and over creatively induced. Here’s your shock factor before I wrap up. I like it. Because, it’s at this time, that I feel some part of “me”. The sarcastic, fun, uplifted, creative, funny…”me”.

If you can keep up with the Kardashians or count to two, then you already know that I’m in that place now, somewhat. I just remembered I think I was talking about Jennifer Hudson’s album. I won’t go back, I never do. I like to tell things as it is because it helps in the understanding of this disorder. The “Memoir” I was going to compose was going to detail life as a person with Bi Polar disorder, and I was also going to lightly touch on other topics. However, I realize that I went about it the wrong way. I mean, did I really think I’d be able to sit down, compose chapter titles one day, write material for each sequential chapter days later. PLEASE. Not anymore. I can’t. I can only write when I feel it and it’s from the heart, and my heart has to be willing to go there. I did compose random thoughts of what I thought i’d put into the memoir, but I’m just going to put them up as just that, “thoughts”. This, what you’re reading right now is part of a never ending story, or memoir. Although a nicely crafted piece titled: “Vivid Dreams, Psychological Labyrinths, and The Departure From Shattered Fairy tales”, would be amazingly perfect, I think that I’ve just done that in one blog from start to finish as I’ve sat here. Okay, no, I haven’t covered two of the three main title topics, but I’ve clearly outlined and highlighted “Psychological Labyrinths”. So, I am going to finish that Memoir and title it as so, but I also realize this is the prelude to that. This, however, will be properly named the title of my main blog’s page “Memoirs of Bi Polar Activity”, and we shall appropriately attach the date of today, because the activity doesn’t cease to exist as of today. It will, to my distress, live on. This piece came just as I must compose the other, as a complete and utter surprise. I was just going to blog my despair with my current emotions and it turned into a complete informational and pinpointed document of happenings and real, unscripted examples of what simple “is”.

So, while I know some bi polar sufferers will not read this because of its length, I hold hope that some sufferers deal differently and obsessively read! I read a lot sometimes. That’s how I became informed on other people’s journey and medication and it’s how I finally became self-educated on my disorder. I want other victims to read this and not feel alone. Find the similarities and feel the link in our chain of hope for everyday to be a good day, and to wake up in the morning without having to worry about how you’re going to feel that day. To just wake up and feel good. That’s the day hope will become the ultimate gift. Jennifer Hudson’s album, b.t.w, is truly a testament to my life as I was saying. Her title track, the song itself, “I Remember Me”, is an example of what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to remember me. I’m trying to get me back. The way I use to feel. Trying to find familiar faces, meanwhile trying to keep on living without the fear of what’s next. What’s going to happen to me? Is this just going to keep getting worse? What happens when I lose touch with reality for good? Will I? My head is really throbbing right now because I’m going too deep and it’s more than I can bear right now. I think I’ve shared all I can. I now have to focus on prepping. Yes, prepping for my twin sisters’ graduation May 21st at 8:30 a.m. If you can relate to BP, then you feel my pain. Not only must I show up gleaming and full of life, but I’m going through a mood swing that may still be going downhill, and to top it off I have to be up by at least six a.m. Situation as of now. If I sleep, I oversleep. If I dare try to sleep and wake up early, I’ll become agitated and the whole day ruined. My only choice, sleep, force myself, medication wise, to sleep, tonight, and the rest of the week until Friday. Stay awake through Saturday night. Hopefully, with the extra rest and a prayer or two, my mood will be okay. I am excited but I can’t control something that’s beyond control. I can’t get aggravated at all this week, I have to stay positive, I have to think happy thoughts and I must rest. That, folks, is what is called prep time. Planning out what I must do, including and not limited to, days I will force myself to sleep through medication if I don’t sleep, and planning on which days I will let myself stay awake. It’s really a well-crafted, yet disturbing way too live, but you have to do what you have to do, and this is an important event. If I can’t enjoy it, it’ll destroy me. Point of interest: I also have to get out at least twice this week, cruise my local grocery store, Wal-Mart preferably, so that I can, no, not pick up guys, but I need to be surrounded by people to ease the anxiety of lots of people Saturday. I feel like I’m butt naked standing in central time square. Just exposed and revealed. I’m really tired, mentally, emotionally and physically. That’s how I’ll end this. One more wish, I wish and hope other people, parents especially, who don’t know about Bi polar disorder to read this and get informed. Maybe they will see something they can relate too, not that I wish this on anyone. It’s a fight every day. I fight every single day. I use to just plan on overdose or the quick multi motions of a razor blade. So, I know I’m stronger…do you see the irony in that?

Much more insight and my personal “Memoir” on my pages bipolarljc.blogspot.com and connectandrelate.blogspot.com.