Time and place

When was a time where you came the closest to killing yourself?

A lightening storm in ’08…

Not when you were still just thinking about it.

A college dorm in ’11…

But when you almost left.

A kitchen floor in ’16…

So only a few times, that’s no so bad…



There was a statement I read off a suicide prevention blog back in high school.

“If you kill your self then you will never be around long enough to feel the relief of death, your last moments on earth will be in pain.”

Every time a suicide idealization came back into my thoughts I’d remember this sentence and it would instantly bring me back to reality again. I wish I could remember what site I was on or had some way of letting that person know just how powerful that sentence was, just how many times it saved my life over the last 10 years.

Extra Instagram

December 30, 2017

Alright. So, I finally made an extra email for an extra Instagram account. With that said, I may also still make a Twitter from the extra email account.

I joke on here about my mania side wanting to be famous for my writing, but I feel the need to emphasize that’s not the purpose of all these accounts. I don’t keep daily written journals by my beside and inconsistent blog posts when I’m overwhelmed, and hundreds of iPhone notes, and pictures saved from Snapchat with captions of the places and feelings that went with them at the time just because I want someone to like it. I keep everything documented in all forms and compartments of my life because I know without writing it down, I will probably (98% sure I will) forget it. Depression consumes a majority of my days, and even when I’m me I still have a poor memory. Blame it on lifelong bipolar or antipsychotics or anxiety or whatever you’d like. Regardless, I have a poor memory, and I hate that quality about myself.

I love rereading journals from college and on (I threw away all journals from middle-high school, though I desperately wish I didn’t). Every little day or crush that I thought I would remember forever has to be jogged back, but it’s a welcome thought to review all my previous stresses or obsessions or frustrations with a different mind. It’s comforting to know those experiences weren’t lost or forgotten. That each little day mattered.

And I love getting the words out of my mind. Thoughts that won’t leave me alone do so once I put them in words on a page or screen.

So, I now have just one hardcopy journal that sits on my nightstand. I have one blog that I try to be completely honest on, and in extreme situations have made those extra honest posts into private status because they’re just kind of too awful for another human to read. I have two Instagram accounts, but only one of which I actually post about my bipolar and bisexuality and general tendency to be a complete asshole; on the other, I try and convince the world I am a high functioning heterosexual adult foodie without any sexual partners or self-destructive tendencies…

Maybe I’ll get a Twitter, or maybe I’ll put all extra effort into the Instagram to make sure all little iPhone note posts or blog entries get transferred directly to that account.

I think the most exciting thing about the extra Instagram account is that it’s public and honest. I can talk about anything on there and anyone can read or like or follow me and it’s all just out there. It reminds me of being a nude model in college and that surrender of control and worry about other’s opinions or judgements. I would undress, keep my eyes open, and settle into a position for 3 solid hours. That job taught me to let go of my physical insecurities and be vulnerable. Sometimes, the vulnerability scares me more than the fear of failure.



November 24, 2017

I had a lot of crazy dreams last night (rich food always throws it off). One of those dreams I was walking across a long, windy, skyscraper-like bridge behind a long line of women. We were all wearing the same uniform and my general feeling was unease and worry with what would happen to us when we reached the other end. Very suddenly, the woman in front of me turned around and held onto my shoulders and I felt a wave of love and belonging and strength. Her face morphed into my own face, like a mirror (my dreams always morph), and she/I said to my point-of-view, “You are ready to have sex again.” The words were so shocking to me they actually woke me up completely. LOL.

I think I’ve been kind of waiting for a sign or a feeling from inside that I was ready to go back to sex from this year long break. That dream felt so real and so much like permission, like my heart telling my mind, “I trust you again.”

The dream was serious, but with it waking me up so suddenly, I was laughing at the weirdness of it. Honestly though, sex is both meaningful and irrelevant all at once. Like, I don’t care how many people I sleep with, or which gender I’m sleeping with. I don’t care if my sex preferences are kinky or how my body looks when I’m performing them. I don’t think sex with one person, your partner, or multiple, non-monogamous partners should mean anything strange. Sex can be so physical and so pleasurable without reading too much into what it says about you or what it means that you sleep with so many people, or sleep with a same-sex partner, or sleep with a different person each night, etc.

And then there’s that point where sex loses it’s meaning completely. I hit that point slowly, dully. Sex became less pleasurable. I began to use it to fill a void so I slept with dozens of people, multiples per week. I stopped being adventurous in bed, so much more insecure. I began to only sleep with men because the sex was faster and there was no cuddling afterwards. My final sexual partner was a fwb, who I’d invite over late at night by leaving my front door unlocked and falling asleep naked. He would come in, we’d have sex with me mostly motionless or feigning to be too tired to move, then he’d get dressed and leave. To no ones surprise, he eventually stopped texting back. The last time he came over was on December 9, 2016.

On December 8, 2016, I was unofficially diagnosed with Bipolar 1 with anxious tendencies by a local counselor. And on December 12, 2016, I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar 2 and Panic Disorder by my first psychiatrist.

I’ve mentioned it before, but this year has been a whirlwind and a much needed break from where I was on December 9, 2016. I haven’t figured everything out, but I’m much healthier and have much better coping mechanisms in place than I did then. Having Nicole has been enjoyable, but I don’t think having a monogamous partner means I’m anymore healed than I would feel now if I was still casually dating. Still, it feels good to walk back to sex (semi nervous and still a little insecure) healthy and proud of myself. I am excited to get back to that point where again where sex is a fun activity, not a product of my mania or depression.

Homesick for somewhere

March 25, 2017

I wish I had a name for this feeling, and at the same time, I wish I’d never feel it again. I can’t stop the feeling from coming in, stronger and faster now that the panic has set in.

When I went to see my counselor the first time, she’d convinced me to get back on meds. I called my psychiatrist, got an appt., then canceled a week beforehand. After seeing my counselor a second time, I admitted I cancelled and she encouraged me to get the appt. back so I tried and got one for the following Monday. The office just called to cancel that appt. because the doctor is in the hospital and on medical leave. I’ve called the office to reschedule about ten times between yesterday and today and no one’s picking up the phones. Pure frustration.

Because, this last week was insanely stressful at work, and I slipped into a hypomanic episode. Work continues to be stressful, but I’ve crashed since the weekend started. I am fully aware I need to be on meds and seeing a counselor regularly and possibly a support group. I have a sign on my mirror that reads, “You have Bipolar, and you’ll be okay.” The part where I realized that I need meds, like everyday, is the part that started making the bipolar real for me. I can’t live being tossed back and forth like this. My counselor is right too in that every episode I’ve had, depressive or manic, has slowly grown stronger over the years. What was first just hard to get out of bed and a little more energy every once in awhile has transformed into suicide attempts and blackout periods during my four-day-no-sleep manic episodes. I’m lying to myself when I say I don’t need meds because bipolar makes me feel like I’ve got the potential to break my own heart from sadness or murder myself without realizing it, I just feel like I’ve got no control and if I let it go I will do damage. So I’m seeking help, again, and hopfully in a few weeks I’ll be back on meds. Different meds though because Latuda was terrible and expensive.

But the feeling. It’s like homesickness, but I’m homesick for somewhere I’ve never been, or I’m homesick for an idea. I feel alone and sad and on the edge of something. Mania makes me feel alive and drunk and invincable. With depression I don’t feel anything, nothing makes me feel anything except tired. When I’m normal obviously I’ve got nothing to complain about, just dread the next episode. When I’m in the middle, mixed, I feel that homesick feeling like I want to do anything to fufill it and get it out of my head. It’s so hard to put into words. I just feel desperate to feel something and stop feeling everything all at once.

Hypomania is exhausting, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I slip back into it this following week. I’m staying in this weekend doing paperwork, eating Burger King tonight, and renting Amazon movies. I was thinking about my old mania the other night and how I always used to have a pattern when I was manic. Those were the weeks where I would buy at least five new things for my wardrobe, sleep with at least three different men, and change my hair in some way (usually by dying or cutting it myself.) I knew moving up here would solve the issue of sex, but the hair became more of an issue with me turning it orange and shaggy before finally getting it professionally dyed and leaving it alone.

It sounds so dramatic to say I’m just trying to keep my head afloat, but it also seems pretty accurate. Just trying to make it with this brain.

Mixed state

February 26, 2017

I’m in a mixed state. It’s almost worse being so aware of each stage now, like I’m constantly trying to analyze where I’m at.

I should probably be on meds, or seeing Jennifer for this, I just have to make it through the night.

This is usually the state I’m suicidal, which I’d only admit on here. Jennifer always brings up the hospital when I say things like that.

I’m just trying to focus myself on one task at a time, always doing something, never stop until sleep. Hopefully I can sleep. There’s literally a billion things in my mind at the moment.

Kellyn came yesterday and we went hiking and shopping. It was so nice to see her. We talked about getting an Airbnb in a few weeks and I wish I was about to travel with her on spring break than Liz. We could’ve gone to New Orleans, I want to go there for the history not just the party. Kellyn got me back on Tinder too and Snapchat.

I want to run or buy something, maybe spoon related, I like that comfort of the spoon theory. I need to make lesson plans after this. Mixed state only ever lasts for a night and maybe a morning, but I should be okay tomorrow. I don’t know what state I’ll be in though, it’d be nice to be something other than depressed. My hands are typing so fast I wonder if I was always this fast.

I’m going to finish this episode of vampire diaries then I’ve finished season 2.

My brain and my heart just feel so jittery.