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.

Flannel sheets

February 9, 2017

A non-alcoholic beer is not even half as effective of a sedative as a normal beer is, sadly.

This feels like one of those weeks I could’ve gone entirely without sleep. That’s what’s supposed to happen when you get off psych meds, you’re supposed to swing in an extreme direction. That’s also the terrifying part, not knowing how I’m going to react or what state I’ll end up in and how soon? I’m not manic, but I don’t feel normal either, and way too productive and energetic for depression. In a few days I’ll be able to label it, I never can the first few days.

I bought fun k-cups at the Dollar General tonight, my flannel sheets feel amazing during the icy weather, and tomorrow’s Friday. There are good things to look forward to tomorrow.


December 17, 2016

I think I might delete this blog, start fresh. There’s a lot of suffering documented here, and a lot of feelings and memories I don’t want to be reminded of. At the time of making this (however many years ago) I was terrified of losing all the memories I’d built and getting to a point where all the details were lost. I don’t have a good memory, especially when I’m depressed, and I lose a lot of things.

Last Monday, December 12, 2016, I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar II and Panic Disorder. I’d been initially diagnosed the week prior by a psychologist I had gone to for counseling. She recommended I immediately see a psychiatrist and seek medication for what she thought might be Bipolar I with anxiety distress. I’m on medication now (anti-psychotics) for the bipolar but was told it might also help even out the anxiety attacks as well. My follow-up meeting with the psychiatrist is this following Monday to review the medication effects and if the dosage is correct. The medication is supposed to level out my moods to where I feel when I would normally be in a manic state or a depressed state, but won’t fully transition into those episodes. Instead, I’ll remain in a normal state with some side effects. It’ll take a little while to process the diagnosis and consequences the disorder has had on my life so far. A lot of the events chronicled in this blog could be defined between depressive episodes and manic episodes.

I think since I’ve written this blog I’ve never gone back through each post to read each entry, so I feel it’s almost necessary to delete the old posts and start from here, maybe even change the name of the blog.

I’ll give it a paragraph, or a list, then I can move on. Jared and the virginity during freshman year (depressive), sexual promiscuity (manic), nude modeling (manic), risk taking alone done throughout college (manic/depressive), severe weight loss during sophomore year (depressive), and Wesley (probably some manic paranoia). There were a lot more of the depressive moments than manic moments, when I think back, but that’s Bipolar II, Bipolar Depression. I’m not alone anymore. I feel like I can start adequately taking care of myself and will.

Technically, I have three tattoos now, but the second is covered by the third. Sometimes I feel the tattoos were probably more my manic side coming through, but I don’t regret them. I want to get one more on my hip of a two headed tadpole with a lightening bolt on its back. I may go to Adam again because he did such a good job with the cornfield and wind turbines on my ribs. The tadpole would represent the bipolar and the power it gave me to seek help and be diagnosed with such a sneaky disorder. Bipolar has taken a lot of years and warped them for me.Just now that I’m finally diagnosed and receiving medication (and eventually counseling again), I feel I can move on past the mental illness. So, I want to remind myself of that inner power each day. I love Andrea Gibson, and hope to see her live someday in my lifetime. Her poem, “Tadpoles,”A tadpole doesn’t know it’s gonna grow bigger. It just swims, and figures limbs are for frogs. People don’t know the power they hold. They just sing hymns, and figure saving is for God.

I feel new and older and wiser and less afraid by my life. I feel like I have more control than I’ve ever had before, and I feel so proud of myself. I want to remind myself of this feeling, because I feel like I’m at the beginning of living. Manic aside, I feel so good in my normal state. This will be the first post of this new blog. Here’s to inner power.