The fact that all text editors want to start you out with a font size of 11 is proof that the young rule the tech world. I mean, I’m not that old myself, but I’m old enough that my eyes look at 11 pt font and go, “Um, yeah, no.”
Anyway, on to the bipolary stuff.
It feels like a lot has happened this week (feels like.) But I’m pretty sure that most of it has been self-created scenarios bouncing around inside my head. It’s that bizarre depressive tendency to create my own stress, break my own heart, and (mentally) wreck my own life in general.
And the tears! Holy flipping cow, the tears. I’m crying over everything. I’ve cried because I wrote a date incorrectly. I’ve cried because I haven’t wanted to go to work (in all fairness, that might be a legitimate reason). I’ve cried because laundry is hard and overwhelming. I’ve cried over the melodramatic music corporate pipes into work (“I don’t know why I’m running away, Hoobastank, I don’t know!” *sobs*) I’ve even cried because I can’t stop crying. And I’m currently crying as I’m typing this. Why? I have no idea.
In meditation there is this idea of sitting like a mountain, of allowing the weather to come and to pass, of allowing yourself to simply be (infinitives should be split and often). I have the briefest of moments when I can take a breath, see the storm raging in my head, and withdraw slightly from it, but I can’t maintain the distance, and I can’t achieve it everytime I try. My mountain is just pissed and sad and lonely and eroded and doesn’t want to be a mountain anymore.
To make matters worse, paranoia has begun to creep about the fringes of my mind. For example, I was convinced that someone was in my backseat during my commute from work this morning (when I say “convinced” I mean I knew there wasn’t, but that didn’t stop me from believing it.) I had to turn on my interior light and investigate my backseat twice. It’s one thing when my brain wants to make me grief stricken for no apparent reason, it’s quite another when it wants to make me “crazy”.
I haven’t seen/called either my psychiatrist or my psychologist in a few weeks (I know, I know). People in my life keep encouraging me to do so, but I feel like what’s the point? My psychiatrist is going to be all, “Oh, let’s do more med stuff that doesn’t work.” My psychologist is going to ask,”How are you taking care of yourself? Eating right? Exercising?” Of course not! I’m vegging on the couch eating English truffles (chocolate from across the pond trumps American chocolate in every way). Do I care? Of course not! I’m depressed. If I gave two shits about myself I wouldn’t be depressed. But I can’t give even a single shit because I’m depressed. Yes, that sounds whiny and defeatist, and I’m ashamed of myself, but thankfully the hole that the shame has created is precisely the size of a truffle.
You know that COPD commercial where the guy has an elephant sitting on his chest? That’s how I feel. There is an elephant sized object sitting on my soul, bashing itself against my brain every second of every day, and I can’t make it stop. And I’m well aware that what I am doing isn’t working, and I can’t stop that either.
So this was very long and heavy on the self-sorrow, but it’s the current state of things. Yet, the sun will come out tomorrow, right? (Mostly because it’s been doing that for about 4.5 billion years regardless of my, or anyone else’s mood.)
Cheers and contentment to you.