Like every other thing I do when I'm manic, I've opted to start blogging again for the sheer satisfaction of knowing I did *something* remotely productive for the day.
To summarize: I am twenty-eight years old. I have a beautiful four-month old little boy whom is affectionately nicknamed "Fat Louie". I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder twelve years ago, and only in the past year did I stop resisting treatment and give in to it. Maintaining a life less medicated got to be fucking exhausting, and when I began getting myself in trouble with the law over my behavior did I finally accept that I couldn't keep swimming against the current.
I have Bipolar I, rapid cycling, which is one of the most difficult to treat. I've taken Zoloft, Seroquel, Depakote, Effexor, Celexa, Paxil, Prozac, Klonopin, Tegretol and Saphris. I will probably be put on lithium soon, as the Saphris isn't working quite that well. But, it does keep me from eating the grapes off the wallpaper and keeps me from chasing Mr. Poppins around the house with sharp, pointy objects... So I guess it's sorta working.
Life with me is never dull. One moment, I'm depressed and curled up in fetal position in the bathtub with the shower on...because the pain hurts that fucking much, the next I'm careening through the house at top speed looking for a book that hasn't seen the light of day in four years...insisting to my husband, "I have to read it again. I have to read it NOW." Two hours later, I find the book, read three or four pages, toss it aside and forget about it for another four years. I can be happy and euphoric, gregarious and chatty...and in the next moment I become wildly angry and vicious. I can hide under my bed for hours, only emerging to take care of the baby, or I can be on the fucking ceiling, unable to come down because once again, I'm on the wrong goddamn medication and I'm psychotic.
I love Chardonnay with a passion, but I'm a mean drunk. I don't like AA, but I go for the free coffee and the satisfaction of smoking indoors for once. When I drink on my meds, my husband knows to go stay at my parents house for a night because he knows that no matter how good of a mood I seem to be in, I can snap at any moment.
Sometimes, it makes me feel interesting, touched by fire, but a lot of times, I just feel like something monstrous.
My husband tells me that at least life with me is never boring. I have to concur. Plus it does have some added bonuses: since the neighbors have seen me hauled off in handcuffs to the hospital several times, I no longer have people knocking on my door trying to sell me shit for their kid's school, I don't have kids knocking on my door to retrieve a ball from my backyard (seriously. My dog has two baseballs and a kickball to play with out back and I didn't buy a single one.) and since I'm officially the crazy cat lady on the street, I haven't had to worry about trick or treaters in quite a while.
A life less ordinary, indeed. But at least it's fucking quiet around here now.
Amen to all of it.
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