That’s the last time I try to voluntarily commit myself, the last time I beg on my knees, pleading, begging for an answer, desperately crying for help…never again will I even bother.

There are no amount of words, literally nothing I can say that will make sense of all this. There’s not a way in heaven, hell, or on earth that any of this will make sense or have a purpose. I try to wrap this torturous, painful cycle up in a nice bow. I try to pull it apart, try to find meaning in it. And sometimes I fool myself into thinking I’ve succeeded. When I write feverishly in an attempt to convince myself that the chaos and torment is worth it, when I seem to have disentangled some overarching cause, some cosmic reason for my pain –the pain that is coming faster and faster and growing steadily more intense with each passing episode– I sometimes think I’ve gotten to the bottom of it. And it’s beautiful, that ever-so-brief moment. It’s a welcomed interlude. I post what I’d typed and close my laptop and sigh a breath of relief, a breath that for once is not tainted with the filth of anxiety and gloom and the nagging, vile, ambiguous sensation that something is wrong, so very wrong. But the comfort that came from the confident understanding I had just forged into existence goes away, it always goes away, sometimes mere seconds after having shut my laptop. There’s nothing I can say that will make sense of this for longer than it takes reality to punch the wind out of me. There is nothing, anywhere, that can fix me. Nothing that will help me outrun the monster of a disorder I am plagued with.

I am trying. For fuck’s sake I am giving it everything I’ve got in me, and granted that’s not much but mother FUCKER what else am I supposed to do? I’m taking the meds. I swallow the pills every morning and every night, although everyone is inclined to call me a liar in regards to that topic. I stick to a routine, I drink the water. I go to therapy twice a week and I sit there trying to be introspective and self-aware and reflective, I try. I try to do well, if only for myself. I am kind to myself, or at least as kind as my brain, saturated with terrors, allows. I have the coping skills, and I use them. I use the helpful apps. I chart my moods and literally every relevant detail, anything that can possibly give me any clues about what’s gonna cause an earthquake, and subsequent tsunami. I give the mindfulness and the meditation special time and attention, I say affirmations to myself in the goddamn fucking mirror, do you fucking see how I’m TRYING?

It. Isn’t. Working.

So I tried to seek out help. Yet again. I went to a hospital I know direct admits people to the psychiatric unit. The last two times I went to a shitty ER closer to where I live, and they basically told me to go fuck myself, which was really really not ideal to hear in such a dark moment. Seriously, the second time they printed out a fuckin’ wikipedia article about bipolar disorder and handed it to me. This was after spending nine hours with nothing but a gown and socks, with nothing to occupy my already toxified mind rocking back and forth with my hands over my ears. So I assumed going somewhere that direct admits would at least be a little bit better.

You see how that’s trying, right? You see how I tried to do the right thing for myself?

And not for nothing but it was a great cost that I was going to do this. I have family in this weekend, and it pained me to even think about not being with them to celebrate something really really good. Not to mention the idea of being confined to a psych hospital with no phone, no nothing, no one I know to comfort me, sounds absolutely terrifying. But I put all that shit out of my head and walked into the crises center (crying, as I have been for three or four days).

Aaaaaaaand, they don’t take my insurance. So fuck me AGAIN.

Right, that’s the last time I do that. Next time I’ll just remember that it’s hopeless. I am helpless. It isn’t worth it to try, not even worth it to keep pretending this all means something.

I’ve always said anger is better than sadness. It always used to be safer, less painful to feel. But now I know that’s wrong, and either way I’m BOTH right now, fucking FUCK mixed states, and while we’re at it FUCK rapid cycling, and while we’re at it FUCK bipolar disorder. Everything sucks. Everything hurts. It is painful to exist.

And now I’m out of words, left alone with the same nonsense pounding against the edges of my head, sending shock waves through my entire body. I am left to be scared. Again.

I know I have to bear with it. Get through it even if I’m bruised and battered and don’t feel like I can go on (and don’t even want to try). I can’t do anything else. So whatever, I guess.

I’m still tempted to fabricate some bullshit purpose for my suffering. I want there to be a reason.

But I’m going to bed.

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