So for the class I’m taking, we have to share our narratives. Our stories, our struggles, our hopes.

We talked this morning about how powerful it is to be vulnerable and how it’s sometimes difficult. I felt a bit disconnected from the conversation because I’m usually able to be vulnerable very easily. At least with other people. I’m good at relating to other people. I’m an open book, I know that I’m worthy of love and kindness, and like…all the stuff we spoke about in regards to sharing excited me. Some others were excited too. Some weren’t. But I really am looking forward to the next few classe.

Anyway, I’ve been reviewing a few pieces of my writing so that I can read one out loud while I share my narrative. I think I’m gonna go with something that I’ve already written and rework it a little. But as I was figuring that out, I smashed the keyboard and something fun appeared on the screen. Something about me walking into the unit at the psych hospital for the first time, being emotional and overall just scared as shit. It isn’t finished, but I’m eager to share it with the interwebs…

They took my elephant. Sickness swirled in my stomach. I looked again, pushing everything else around frantically. I swallowed hard, hoping to suppress the rising panic at the fact that my elephant wasn’t in the brown paper bag that held (most of) the other belongings I’d brought with me. Leggings, shirts, hoodie. No notebook. No stuffed elephant. Why was I frantic? Why was I starting this whole process by having a meltdown, why was I panicking over a stuffed elephant?

I was sitting in a chair like the ones behind the desks in my old high school. I was wearing something that was basically paper. I was cold. I was grossly depressed, exhausted from weeks of it, no– years of it. And my goddamn fucking elephant wasn’t in the piece of fucking shit bag.

A yell across the unfamiliar hallway broke me from my sad-angry mixture as I helplessly stared into that stupid brown bag. I inhaled deeply, unsteadily. But before I could exhale there were more yells from the same general area, way down the hallway of the unit that looked pretty much what you would’ve expected it to look like.

I brought my hands together with stiff arms, fingers laced, thumbs alternately massaging the opposite palm: a visible representation of my twisting, writhing anxiety. 

The screaming got closer, along with banging and stomping and other voices arguing. Something happened to my right, and, oh god what was this place? What did I do to myself? Were they going to–

“Sweetie, are you okay?” said the guy who’d minutes earlier been screaming violently about the staff being idiots. He put his hand on my shoulder to comfort me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, although I had a hunch that he was harmless. Regardless, I didn’t have to ponder too long because two men in blue scrubs jumped on him to pull him off of me in a manner that was incongruent with the tiny interaction I’d just had with him.

I rocked back and forth as the scene unfolded in front of me and they pulled the man somewhere around the corner, and I didn’t realize I was sobbing until a nurse came over to the little chair where I was folded into myself, crouched down on the floor in front of me, and asked me if I was okay. I looked at her quickly and concluded that she was trustworthy (I’m good at those kinds of determinations).

“It’s so stupid,” I gasped. “I’m 28 years old and it should matter.” I wiped my nose on the sleeve of the paper scrubs they’d given me to wear. “They didn’t give me my stuffed animal, I brought him, I packed a whole bag knowing what was going to happen to me, I knew I’d come here, I need this, but my elephant…” I sobbed in one long exasperated breath.

I don’t remember how she answered. But I remember going into a little room with a table and absurdly heavy chairs with her and explaining a bit about my history for her charts while I calmed down. And I remember when we walked out of that room she handed me a blank marble notebook that she’d grabbed from the closet. I knew she’d just given me one of the most important tools I’d get in that place.

good morning, I guess

four in the morning.
too early, close your eyes again,
wait. wait some more.
four fifteen, close your eyes again,
close them, keep them closed,
fuck.
eyes open, feet on the floor, hoodie pulled tight,
good morning, I guess.
grab phone, scroll apps,
switch, scroll,
switch, scroll,
boredom,
close apps, shut phone.
change clothes in the dark.
wash face.
grab laptop, charger, book,
and leave.
coffee. need coffee.
drive to shop, greet the owner,
thank him for being open at this ungodly hour.
espresso pulls, milk froths,
the sound brings you to life.
the smell brings you to life.
you sip. banana chocolate heaven.
it brings you to life.
good morning (for real this time)

I’ve been having trouble with my sleep schedule lately. Since like, June. Since my pyschiatrist upped my lithium, since I broke out in that rash, since I started feeling weak and sore and achy and stiff and ugh.

I’m not saying it’s all related to the lithium. I’m not saying it’s related to it at all. I could have a physical thing going on. If that’s the case, I’m hoping it’ll be solved soon, because I finallyyyyy was able to get a doctor’s appointment. It’s been really hard during covid, but if I have something physical happening, they’d most likely know or send me someone who would know. And my sleep cycle fucking up could just be a bipolar thing. I know I experienced (very muted) symptoms of an episode throughout the summer, and I mean, that’s just my bipolar fluctuations doing their thing. No amount of meds is gonna CURE me, I’m just MANAGING it all with meds. And it felt managed, but…not perfect. But whatever.

It’s just super annoying that I have soooo much trouble sleeping for two days and then I’m unconscious, absolutely dead to the world, for three.

I’m picking my battles. I’m choosing not to be angry or annoyed about this.

Similarly, I’m getting a handle on that bipolar rage while I drive. I’m not saying I don’t cut moron drivers off sometimes, but I don’t feel seething anger in each and every one of my molecules. I don’t literally see red. I don’t make their dumbassery about ME, because like, I can just let it gooooo.

It’s a skill, doing that. I never really understood that idea until I started thinking of driving like a training program…if that makes sense? Perspective shift/Mindset shift. Possible DBT skill?

It’s 6:37 right now. I’m texting my boyfriend who’s back at the apartment and getting ready. We’re sending each other memes. I recorded my moods and stuff on my phone (loveeeee me some tracking apps). I posted to instagram to feel social and connected haha.

Good morning.

Follow my train of thought

I’ve been known to become somewhat aggressive. Well, I mean I doubt anyone knows me by that and that alone, not if they actually KNOW me, anyway. I’m this little thing and I try to be as nice as I can at all times. Especially to retail workers, but I’m not gonna get into that. My point: I know myself as getting super aggressive and it’s been in the back of my head lately. You know. Blind bipolar rage.

It’s an actual thing, and it’s different from regular anger because there’s often no clear cause and therefore no clear way to diffuse it. The outburst might be caused by something, but it’s the perpetual feeling of frustration that makes no sense that’s the real issue. Like, for me I might be in traffic and start screaming bloody murder. And maybe the screaming and throwing myself around it caused by the anxiety that I’m gonna be late (or simply not early) and there’s nothing I can do about it, but there’s most likely been a storm brewing for a while.

I’ve been really good lately, though. I’ve noticed it more than a few times. I brewed my tea wrong the other day and didn’t have a conniption. It didn’t FEEL the same as it would have before I was in the hospital. And this morning when we didn’t have internet I literally felt the anger start to bubble but it was like I turned the heat on the burner down so the pot never boiled.

Boom. Victory. I am quite proud of myself.

And more seriously, I’m glad I’m able to do that. I’m glad I have finally been given the tools I need to help myself. I’m glad I’m using them to my advantage. I’m thankful.

I mean, sometimes I just WANT to get crazy mad, but it really isn’t worth it.

Anyway, the reason I wrote that whole fricken thing was so I could explain an analogy I thought of whilst not having a meltdown this morning.

I usually think of fire when I think of bipolar rage, but this time I thought of water. I was trying to grasp some sort of way to explain the way the anger used to cut into me (and how it still tries to). But weirdly enough I thought of water. Like, if I were to high-dive into a pool. I’d cut through the water. There’d be a splash. A noise. I’m not explaining the powerful image I have in my head but like, I’m trying to show that the water where my body was would be displaced and I’d be physically in that space. And maybe a human being should be in water. Well, no, I guess people can be in water. I guess a more true-to-my-nature analogy would be a knife stabbing someone, and the knife is stuck in them, and blood gushes out. A knife shouldn’t be in a person.

I’m rambling. I’m not making sense. But my goal today was to write words and upload them so I have now checked that box.

Three months.

It’s been three months since the psychiatric hospital. And it usually happens every three months. “It” being me losing my fucking mind. I feel it coming, just like I always do. I mean, I can handle it better now. I haven’t screamed, thrown myself into a wall, cut myself. But I’m too irritable to focus. And I was having trouble focusing to begin with so fuck me twice as hard, I guess. I think that’s also why I’m anxious, so maybe anxiety shouldn’t count as its own symptom here, but I still don’t like the feeling. I’m on a relatively low dose of lithium, a dose that’s better suited for borderlines than bipolars (did I ever explain that the hospital doctor refused to believe that I was bipolar?) so I think I need a higher dose. But I don’t really trust my current psychiatrist to listen to what I have to say and take it into consideration. I am handling my emotions better (ie: the not screaming, throwing myself into a wall, or cutting), but I feel them at the same level I would have on something other than lithium. I’m wondering if I should do the experiment, go without upping my lithium dose, see how manageable this round is, and go from there. But why torture myself? I mean, maybe it’s important to see, but I’d feel bitter if that’s the case. I spent WAY too much time (14 years) suffering as I figured my bipolar disorder out, with no assistance from any professional (though not for lack of trying), and I don’t want to play games with my life anymore. That isn’t fair. I want to move on and feel successful and accomplished and proud of myself. I want to make a difference. I have goals that go beyond “survive the raging mood episodes I’m cursed with.” Fuck.

Track Your Shit

lose your mind with me

I sat on the couch in my psychiatrist’s office with my arms crossed and steam billowing out of my ears.

“Are you on cocaine?” he asked without a hint of sarcasm. 

“No,” I shot back, completely bewildered but appropriately defensive.

“Then you’re bipolar.”

Yup. That was how I was diagnosed.  And to my memory, that was really the only major piece of information my psychiatrist gave me that day.  There was no supplemental information given to me, no sort of enlightenment or introduction into the all-consuming project that would be managing my difficult and sometimes debilitating condition, and I left the office with what felt like a really random label and a higher dose of Abilify.  I was nineteen years old, I was a chemistry major in college, I’d kicked the hell out of an eating disorder, and I was bipolar. The facts didn’t matter too much. Right?

Over the…

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It might be difficult right now with all that’s going on in the world, or maybe you’re not feeling the happiest right now in general, but I hope you find the time to try and smile, even if it’s hard, because you deserve the little mood-boost that comes along with it.

I’ve been trying to keep a gratitude journal, trying to listen to and repeat positive affirmations in the morning, trying to take the time to sit quietly and steady my breathing.

I feel very fortunate that I’m able to do such things in the first place; I know what it’s like to be so grossly depressed that doing any of that isn’t even a possibility. I also know what it’s like to be slightly less depressed than that, and doing all those healthy things, and not get anywhere with them because fuck my brain. So I don’t take the fact that I’m smiling as I’m sitting here, listening to Disney World area loop music and typing this post.

But my point is to smile if you can 🙂

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“I just like to smile, smiling my favorite” 🙂 I love this because like, it’s great to show people kindness, that makes us happy, but we’re all people too so that’s a fun reminderrrr ❤

Quarantine Update

I didn’t make the bed today. I did yesterday. And the day before. I’d made the bed pretty much every day since getting home from the mental hospital, since I discovered for the first time in fourteen years what it feels like to be unburdened, to be free from constant depression and anxiety and chaotic, crazy thoughts. It’s fuckin’ enjoyable, that freedom. And while I’m enjoying it, I’ve been making the bed because why not feel like I’ve really got it all together?

That’s not the only thing to happen since my discharge, though. I could list a few key things, but the most pressing is that basically the entire planet is in quarantine. Maybe you’ve heard?

I’ve felt like I’m in a movie montage, with the days blending together and time passing quickly but also inexplicably slowly, but I think it’s all come grinding to a halt. Maybe there was no grinding; I’ve been feeling the effects of the semi-isolated boredom grow steadily each day. But regardless, today is different: I didn’t make the bed.

I’m sitting here on a mess of blankets and pillows, my stuffed elephant sitting haphazardly where I left him this morning. I’m thinking: I was doing okay with this lockdown for the most part until recently, I think. And now, I just don’t know what to do with myself. It’s the lack of structure that’s getting to me. This beats being at work, there’s no doubt about that. I’m going stir-crazy, though, and I don’t know how to fight back against the boredom.

My only real defense is routine, so I try to stick to one in the morning as rigidly as possible (though I’m not really sure that’s the right thing to do). I wake up early, wash my face, take meds and drink water, get dressed, brush my teeth, make coffee, scroll Pinterest for motivation and ideas, record my moods and meds and sleep, write a journal entry, make a healthy breakfast, take my vitamins, go for a walk. That’s me doing what I can to make the most of this situation (since I’m lucky enough to not be affected by this in a more negative way).

I just want to feel productive and accomplished and proud of myself. That’s basically what I always want anyway. I want to feel like I’m doing things that are important. Like I matter.

Yeah, that’s a bit of a dramatic leap, I know. It makes sense in my head.

Before my hospitalization, boredom and emptiness seemed to be predominant in my life, so much so that it made me begin to question my identity. My therapist and I had spoken about how boredom was a sign that I wasn’t doing anything I felt was meaningful. In a journal from that week, I wrote that “being bored means I’m not being crazy, meaning I’m not in the middle of an episode, meaning I’m really not sure about anything.” That still seems dramatic. Existential. But put simply, boredom is a trigger. Too much time to think, too much time to be unsure. To combat it, I have to “find my why” and “work toward my purpose.” That obviously seems difficult. Do I even know what’s really meaningful to me?

I haven’t spent too much time working to figure it out because I’ve been trying to fill my days will as much good as possible in a more immediate way; while I certainly see the value in looking at the big picture, I’ve felt that throughout this period of uncertainty, it’s better not to zoom out too far.

I’ve had the topic of uncertainty on my mind for a while. Since I was in the mental hospital, actually. So maybe I’m at a particular advantage since I’m a step ahead of most people. Then again, maybe I’m at a disadvantage because I’m crazy enough to have been in a mental hospital (the way I write and speak about my mental illnesses applies only to me, by the mean, and I don’t mean to call anyone else crazy; I identify with it in a very positive way, but that’s just me). But my point is that I already knew I had to find a new normal. I didn’t want to go back to the life marked with such extreme mood fluctuations that I endured before. I couldn’t have gone back even if I wanted to (thanks to lots of new insight and a cocktail of meds that actually work for me). My mood has been stable, my anxiety has been minor if I have it at all. Things are different (and thankfully better!) and I have to start from here now. It’s like when I was recovering from anorexia in high school; I couldn’t return to my previous “normal,” so I had to find a new one.

That’s what all of us have to do now. We have to find a way to gain some sense of normalcy now. And if we can’t find normal, we have to create it. We have to determine how we’re going to survive this…and then survive. It’s scary to not know how, I know that. But I’ve been thinking about that, too (I guess I’m doing more than I think I’ve been doing, because processing feelings and ideas seems to be something I’ve done a lot of).

Fear of the unknown is a unique feature of people with anxiety. I’ve definitely wished that I had the power to know more things with certainty, but I’ve learned the hard way that that’s not how it works. Life wouldn’t be what it is if we had all the answers, anyway. Uncertainty, unpredictability, and doubt are not awful things.

But right now, during a worldwide pandemic, when the death count is rising and there’s still no vaccine, when our lives are disrupted and we’ve had to adjust to working or learning from home, when we’re concerned about our health, our loved ones, our financial status? It’s difficult to think otherwise. We’re living through a historic event. This is huge. And quite frankly it sucks.

I know I’m not alone in the panic-scrolling of my social media and news feeds. It feels like there’s nothing else to do. It feels like at least if I’m updated on what’s happening, I’m doing something. It affects my mental health, though.

And as it is, April has been a little been more varied in terms of my moods. The boredom from the quarantine is getting to me, which is normal, and to be expected. I don’t want to say I’m anxious because this by no means compares to the anxiety I’m unfortunately accustomed to, but there’s a definite increase in that “iffy” and uncomfortable feeling of “what the fuck do I do with myself?” I’m having this back and forth motivation. And when I’m not focused and motivated, I feel this vague sense of “what’s the point?” It’s like the ghost of my depression, something that’s recently become a thing of the past but that I still remember clearly enough to be like “yup, that’s it, that’s the ghost of it.”

It’s worse when I don’t take my ADHD medication (that’s become a complicated issue thanks to my new psychiatrist, who I saw virtually for the first time last week) but it makes sense that the Vyvanse helps my moods; ADHD makes everything more overwhelming and being overwhelmed makes everyone more emotional.

Other than that, my mood is low but it’s probably unrelated to bipolar disorder. It’s definitely normal to be mopier these days. It’s new territory for me to feel emotionally dull, or even sad, and not have it be a warning sign for a major depressive or mixed episode to come. But then again, I still have to keep at eye on things, keep track of my moods, do what’s best for my physical and mental health, and be proactive.

Right now I’m just doing what I can to get by. Like, I’m using technology to its fullest. I video call friends and family frequently. I go for virtual walks with my cousin every day, and I use FaceTime for my therapy sessions now. I’m trying to stay connected emotionally, even though we’re all physically apart. A video call does wonders to ease the loneliness that this situation is causing. I’d include texting in this, but I can’t focus on texting people lately. It’s weird. But I’m dealing with it.

I’m using Hulu to live stream the news (although I’m trying to limit the amount of news I consume because too much is just bad for my mental health). Sometimes I download to podcasts so I have something to listen to while I walk. They’re usually news-related, but I have some in other genres. I downloaded the CDC app too, which I scroll through every now and then for added info.

I use Google calendar to stay organized and track my writing deadlines, as well as plan out a schedule so I can have personal accountability. I’m continuing to track my moods, anxiety, meds, sleep, and habits on my phone, which is important with bipolar anyway, but it also makes me feel kind of like I accomplished something. I’m trying to stick with my goal of drinking enough water. I might as well work on it now, and crossing off the cups I’ve had is a definite happiness booster.

A quick aside about goals right now: So many people have these big plans to use this time to get in shape or start their dream business or begin some sort of tremendous undertaking. And that’s wonderful for those so inclined. But not everyone has the luxury of having that option. Some people have been impacted by the coronavirus more than others. Essential workers are busting their butts every day still. Some people have family who’ve caught coronavirus. Some people have gotten sick themselves. But even people not in those circumstances don’t need to feel guilty for just getting through this time however they can, even if it’s just struggling to stay entertained.

I made a list of how to entertain myself, way back when this thing started. I wanted to stay busy, since boredom has proven itself one of my triggers. So I listed as many things as I could think of, and I planned on referring back to it if the excessive free time started to get to me. There weren’t very many things on the list (read, play video games, puzzles, etc), but I found myself unable to do most of the things on it anyway. It was almost like a depression thing, when you want to do something but can’t bring yourself to do the thing. But either wat, I don’t know if my old method of frantically distracting myself to run from boredom and the eventual mood episode it brings is the right one to use. I need to find and keep a sense of balance. I need to let go of what I can’t control but work on what I can. I need to recharge. I want to recharge.

My plan to do that will involve setting guidelines. I only want to watch or read the news in the morning, and not for too long. It will involve doing things I haven’t been doing lately, any things, just to get myself a change. Maybe I’ll crochet some hats (even though it’s spring now). Because maybe it’ll help relax my brain, help me heal even more. Maybe I’ll be struck with brilliant inspiration while mindlessly crocheting. Basically, my plan is to do stuff that’s helpful and then enjoy the good feelings after.

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Also, after writing this…I just decided to make my bed

So, I’ve been feeling really good since getting out of the hospital. I’ve had time to process a lot of the craziness that had happened, and the space needed for that processing to happen, and I’ve been enjoying what I’d certainly call stability (fucking finally!). I have not been taking it for granted. I mean, it’s just crazy how I felt so bad for so long, and now I feel like a normal human being (or what I assume normal feels like, because it’s definitely subjective and different for everyone, but you know what I mean). I’m not crying daily. I’m not even really consciously thinking about my moods and I’m not constantly readjusting them. That’s mind-blowing to me. I feel so lucky.

But I kinda freaked out a little yesterday, and I’ve been spending the morning trying not to overthink the whole thing.

This is my journal from last night which explains what happened

I saw my new psych yesterday (virtually). I haven’t seen a psychiatrist since I was in the hospital a month ago and I needed my meds. So yeah. I discussed everything with her. And she’s very much like my first psych where she doesn’t like to prescribe pills. Which is baffling to me. Like why are you a psychiatrist if you think medication isn’t a solution for mental illnsssed? I’m overgeneralizing but still. I hung up after the appt thinking I’d get all my same meds. Including my adhd stuff. Because I need to focus to write. Since that’s the literal crux of who I am as a human being and since writing is my only income at the moment. And I’ve done the experiment countless times: I don’t take the pill and I’m moodier and sad and it affects me very negatively. I understand her perspective on not over-prescribing. But I explained my case and she said and I quote “I’ll work with you on this one” and I go to pick up my meds and she never called in the Vyvanse. And now. When I’m home do the foreseeable future with nothing to do but write. I will have a much harder time doing so. Like it’s possible to concentrate without them but why put myself at an unfair disadvantage?! And it’s difficult because I hate that I’m dependent on the shit. I do. But WHY SHOULD I?! I don’t hate myself for having to take my Lithium or Prozac or Rexulti or Remeron or or or or…like why is it such a sin to have adhd? I understand it’s difficult with bipolar bc stimulants can trigger mania. I’m rather smart, and I’ve done the research, and I even brought it up to her. If there’s another solution to my concentration problem it should have been discussed with me at our appt. I shouldn’t have had to find out she never called on my Vyvanse at the fucking pharmacy. I gave her the benefit of the doubt when I called the office to leave a voicemail, saying she must have forgotten. But I sincerely doubt that bc she also said how she’s conservative about prescribing meds like Vyvanse and Klonopin (which I don’t need right now, I haven’t had a panic attack, thank GOD, but it’s just shitty to know if I did need it she wouldn’t give it to me). I’m also really annoyed because I took great care during our video call to be calm and polite. Idk. I just have to wait at this point. I’m fuming but like I wassssss in a blind bipolar rage and I toned it back so I’m proud of myself. Also, I’m pretty sure anger is normal in this situation. Being frustrated and upset is normal now, right? I was lied to and it affects my life and I’m mad. That’s gotta be normal.

TLDR: I saw a new psychiatrist on Friday and after giving my history and talking, I explained that I’ve been taking meds for ADHD since I was 20 and that those pills are crucial for my concentration and subsequent mood management, but she didn’t send those pills to the pharmacy for me, I assume because she said she’s conservative with prescribing meds

I’m NOT gonna beat myself up over normal emotions. And even if I did overreact (which I admit is likely), I’m not gonna beat myself up over THAT either. I was able to bring it in and calm myself down, and I NEVER would have been able to do that a month and a half ago. Progress is progress, and I’m giving myself credit where credit is due.

I’m mad that some lady I don’t know has just damned me to a bitter with my concentration (and again, writing is who I am on a fundamental level and if I can’t concentrate enough to do it, it feels like a fuckin’ crisis for me). How dare she, ya know?

But I’m moving on. I’ll figure it out. Maybe it was just a mistake on her part and this can be fixed. If not, I’ll find a new doctor, whatever.

And just like with my whole mood situation as a whole, maybe time some and space to think about it all will be helpful. I dunno.

We shall see.

World Bipolar Day!

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Bipolars! We have a day, apparently! And it’s today! I feel like I might have known that. But I definitely forgot. And this is certainly the first Bipolar Day where I haven’t been fucking out of my mindddd. My google photo memories actually just reminded of me last year’s major depression (the second out of four for last year, I think?) by showing me all the depression memes I saved and the occasional crazy-eyed selfie lmao. Needless to say I’m in love with my lithium, I want to shout it from a mountaintop, and honorable mention to all the other meds I take too, of course. I don’t know about all of you, but I’m celebrating today by rereading some books/memoirs about bipolar (once I get my writing done, there’s not much else to do since we’re quarantined here).

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This Morning vs Last Week …guess where I like working better!

 

I miss my little man so much. I didn’t actually write a lot while I was down there (I definitely prioritized my nephew over my writing, and I’m glad I did!), but I’m so glad I got to spend time with him, and with my sister and brother-in-law. It was amazing. In lots of ways. I was thinking a lot (while playing with my munchkin!) and it’s funny because the last time I was happy for as long as I’ve been happy now was when he was born in July. (Not that I’d call myself an unhappy person, which is weird bc my life is a constant battle against depression, and I definitely battled it from July to February). I was down there a few times back in July, and I remember working on an essay about stability. I wrote that it’s alluded me for quite some time and that mental healthiness is different than mental stability. You can be doing the self-care, mental health thing, and be doing it well, and still be unstable. Whiiiiich I was. But I think this time I’m actually stable. Stable. It’s fucking weird to even say. I use my Daylio and eMoods apps to track my symptoms and meds and moods, and it’s insanely bizarre to see straight lines and consistency. It’s almost annoying lol. That’s probably because I’m definitely a little “flat,” a little dull. I’m definitely experiencing the reason why so many bipolar people go off their meds. But I’m not gonna do that bc I’ll take this over being depressed one half of the time ANY day. Bc like…I was able to focus on my nephew/family. And unfortunately I wouldn’t have been able to do that while unstable. Idk what I wanted this post to be about, really. I think I just wanted to talk about my main little man lol. But have some bipolar wisdom too