Crappy Birthday to Me

Yesterday was my birthday. No, I didn’t do anything special. The boyfriend made me a nice cake and was warm. But I can’t seem to control this rage, this inquietude, this undermedicated-ness that is casting a dark shadow over everything.

I am not taking enough medication. Obviously. But the doc won’t let me take more, because he thinks I am going manic, and you aren’t supposed to take this shit when you are. But every time I have gone manic, it has been from not having enough of this shit, fuck whatever the textbook says.

It is enough to make me feel more energetic. I no longer sleep 22 hours a day. But all I can do is panic about how I have to take care of everything that I haven’t been able to for the last three months. In a way, it was better to be so depressed I couldn’t move.

And once again, I have to put my entire life back together. I don’t know how many more times I can do this. Doesn’t a phoenix even have a limited number of lives? I spent three of the last 7 days dealing with doctors and labs and this stupid disease. All I can think about between appointments is this.

I just want my life back.

Right now, I’m apologizing to the universe profusely for ever thinking that sunburn was a bad enough side effect to stop taking the good drugs. I would gladly go back to living at night after this three month hell tour. I want to go back to being me, to being warm, and giving, and competent. To contributing something to the world. To being a person, not just a mass of symptoms and misery. Not this half-life, in which every moment, I’m trying to figure out how to get through the next one with a singularity of purpose that precludes anything else meaningful coexisting in my life.

I wish I had a real parental figure in my life. Someone I could talk to honestly, who wouldn’t judge me and who would stroke my head and help me and comfort me and tell me that everything will be ok, somehow. When I feel better, I can comfort myself (and everyone around me, too), which I guess is the mark of adulthood. Do we ever stop needing, stop hoping, for a little love and care? Immature, I know. If there is one thing I have learned from this sorry world, it is that we are born alone, die alone, can only save ourselves. Can we be blamed if sometimes saving ourselves becomes exhausting, starts to look like too much work? That we’d rather save everyone else?

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5 Comments

  1. Hey,
    no way is it “Immature” to want to be loved, to be taken care of….i dearly wish there were someone there that could do that for you…you deserve soooo much more than the crap that life is throwing at you, my friend, soooo much more. i wanted you to know i am thinking of you and wanting so much to be able to help in some way…
    love, t

    ps sorry about the b-day…

  2. Happy Birthday… I’m so glad you’re here crap and all xx

  3. “i just want my life back….

    I want to go back to being me, to being warm, and giving, and competent. To contributing something to the world. To being a person, not just a mass of symptoms and misery. Not this half-life, in which every moment, I’m trying to figure out how to get through the next one with a singularity of purpose that precludes anything else meaningful coexisting in my life….”

    your words echo the pleading of my heart as a background of every minute of every day, to please, please, somehow, some way give my life back….

  4. God. I cannot begin to tell you how much I relate to this. I didnt think there was anyone else out there that slept 22 hours a day and had been goin thru all this shitty medication stuff. We need to talk.

  5. Omg my birthday is the same day!!my bday is always sad cuz my grandma died and we had the same bday and my dog died on my birthday


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