dust
I have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder three times in my life.
The first after an incident that involved me kicking out the passenger side window of my then boyfriend's car while trying to escape a strangulation occurring in a moving vehicle. The second while suffering a depression so low that I couldn't even get out of bed to make it to an amazing job that I eventually lost. The third while trying to win Travis back, probably after I broke my brand new Blackberry (the first nice thing I'd ever bought myself) all over his face.
I think it's safe to say that I used to be a wreck. A fucking trainwreck, really.
I've been medicated before, but it's never really done me any good. Either I end up so emotionless that I can take a beating on a regular basis and not care enough about myself to leave, or I get so hypersensitive that you can't even look at me weird without me questioning my entire essense. All it's ever done is make me more insane than I truly am.
Typically, I'm of the mind that I'm not really bipolar. I've managed to hold down the same job for more than eight years, I somehow left a relationship that was not giving me what I need, I came home to take care of an aging grandmother and am raising a fully spectacular child all on my own. People that suffer from bipolar disorder, from what I've seen, are not typically able to function on this level for this long.
There are moments, though, when this diagnosis makes complete sense to me. Tonight is one of those.
I have been cleaning my basement for ages it seems, to the point of sweat dripping off my nose. I have managed, in mere hours, to clean the great room downstairs to a single corner. Those of you that have been over since my middle brother finally moved out know what a fucking sty it was. All because I literally don't know what else to do with this crazy amount of energy that an entire bottle of pinot won't quench.
This is one is one of those moments that I proudly declare that I am fucking crazy and am honestly grateful for it.
Death to too many dusty corners. Death to the never-ending laundry pile. Death to clutter that used to be ours, but is now just mine. Death to lugging around so much useless crap that you have nowhere to even display outside of a spider-ridden mess of boxes.
It's time to live outside of those boxes. It's time to fully experience all that can and will be my life. It's time to let go of all of the hurt that those that I chose to love have brought upon me and the pain that I myself have dealt out.
It's. Fucking. Time.
Right after I Craigslist all of this shit...
The first after an incident that involved me kicking out the passenger side window of my then boyfriend's car while trying to escape a strangulation occurring in a moving vehicle. The second while suffering a depression so low that I couldn't even get out of bed to make it to an amazing job that I eventually lost. The third while trying to win Travis back, probably after I broke my brand new Blackberry (the first nice thing I'd ever bought myself) all over his face.
I think it's safe to say that I used to be a wreck. A fucking trainwreck, really.
I've been medicated before, but it's never really done me any good. Either I end up so emotionless that I can take a beating on a regular basis and not care enough about myself to leave, or I get so hypersensitive that you can't even look at me weird without me questioning my entire essense. All it's ever done is make me more insane than I truly am.
Typically, I'm of the mind that I'm not really bipolar. I've managed to hold down the same job for more than eight years, I somehow left a relationship that was not giving me what I need, I came home to take care of an aging grandmother and am raising a fully spectacular child all on my own. People that suffer from bipolar disorder, from what I've seen, are not typically able to function on this level for this long.
There are moments, though, when this diagnosis makes complete sense to me. Tonight is one of those.
I have been cleaning my basement for ages it seems, to the point of sweat dripping off my nose. I have managed, in mere hours, to clean the great room downstairs to a single corner. Those of you that have been over since my middle brother finally moved out know what a fucking sty it was. All because I literally don't know what else to do with this crazy amount of energy that an entire bottle of pinot won't quench.
This is one is one of those moments that I proudly declare that I am fucking crazy and am honestly grateful for it.
Death to too many dusty corners. Death to the never-ending laundry pile. Death to clutter that used to be ours, but is now just mine. Death to lugging around so much useless crap that you have nowhere to even display outside of a spider-ridden mess of boxes.
It's time to live outside of those boxes. It's time to fully experience all that can and will be my life. It's time to let go of all of the hurt that those that I chose to love have brought upon me and the pain that I myself have dealt out.
It's. Fucking. Time.
Right after I Craigslist all of this shit...
Comments
Post a Comment