Why I hate this bipolar bullshit

So I’m sitting here in my bed, pondering why exactly I feel so shitty right now.

As I’ve said before, many, many, many, many times, this blog is, first and foremost, for me. I use it as a tool to try and make sense of my life, the good and the bad. The breathtakingly beautiful and the sickeningly ugly. And now especially, since my therapist is gone and likely not coming back, I need to get this shit out of my head. So this post? This post is me trying to work out what it is exactly that makes this part of my disease so downright oppressive.

In my ponderings, I’ve come to this conclusion…

I don’t like me when I’m like this.

If I could just push away all of the miserable things that I hate about myself, the things that some part of me knows is just Bipolar making me its bitch, I might be able to ride it out a little better.

The following things happen to me when I’m in a down-swing like I’m experiencing now…

  • I am horrible to my children. This is, first and foremost, the thing that bothers me the most. Because that shit? It lasts. It lasts beyond the depressive phase and my Peach is scared of me and my Princess is angry with me. I am irritable. I am emotional. I am cranky. I yell. I scream. I cry, all triggered by inconsequential things like Princess Punk leaving her clothes on the floor in her bathroom, or The Peach playing in Fairy Dog’s water bowl. I will Fucking. Lose. My. Shit. And I don’t want them to touch me. For some reason, When I’m in this state, I am… Claustrophobic? My children seeking affection becomes a heavy responsibility, more than I have to give. I feel as if they are sucking the life out of me and I literally recoil when they reach for me. Which makes me feel awful. And like I’m the worst mom in the world. Because what mom doesn’t want a hug or a kiss from their children? Fuck me, now I’m crying. Did I mention how much I hate this shit?
  • I am not quite as horrible to my husband. He is, by his very nature, giving. So I very rarely feel like he is taking something away from me, something that I am desperately trying to hold on to, like say, my humanity. But, because he is so caring and understanding, I am completely and utterly neurotic. Because I imagine that I am considerably unpleasant to live with when I’m like this, and the thought of him going away makes me physically sick. I am less claustrophobic about affection from him than the girls. That makes me feel bad too. I have not been able to understand why I can hug my husband like this but if Princess Punk runs a hug blitz or The Peach tugs on my shirt hem, pleading to be picked up, I start to hyperventilate. See? This is why I write this. Because reading back over this I just solved this particular quandary. Children need attention, affection, demonstrations of love. They need to feel secure and protected and loved. I can’t deal with that. That kind of emotion, and the ability to demonstrate it easily, escapes me. The unfathomable burden of that basic need is too much for me to bear. The Zen Master? He gives. That’s what he does. He quietly gives himself to me and he doesn’t care that I don’t have access to anything within myself to reciprocate. Despite that, I am still mean. I am snippy and critical and then immediately weepy and apologetic. And if he should deign to do any more than give me a hug or chaste kiss, if I feel like he is getting “romantic,” I have the same reaction that I do with the girls. Over the years, he has learned where my limits are and if he pushes against my ridiculous limitations, he accepts my rejection without complaint.
  • My already limited capacity for social interaction is reduced to nearly nothing. If necessary, I am able to engage with others. I can greet people with a smile and even hold a brief conversation. I hide the mantle of apathy laying precariously over the river of volatile emotions threatening to break through and erupt, destroying any semblance of a relationship I’ve had with whoever is in the blast zone. And I can feel the cracks separating and will awkwardly excuse myself before running into my office, or the bathroom, or anywhere there is no one else and cry until the cracks shift together again and I can at least appear normal. I can occasionally manage to shift the conversation to my girls, because despite my reaction to their physical closeness, they are my life and joy and they will thicken the mantle and allow me to be me for a brief period of time.
  • I hide. I am angry and bitter and I just don’t want to speak to anyone.
  • I am weak… I am, by nature, a fighter. I have pushed through and overcome many, many difficulties in my life. But when this hits me, I become a weak, whiny, sniveling victim and I can’t stand myself or the self-pity that plagues me. I feel worthless and stupid and mean. And because this is what it is, I feel like I’m always this way.
  • My brain ceases to function logically. I have trouble completing sentences, I forget what I’m doing and I frequently catch myself staring off into space at nothing at all, thinking about what I should be doing and wondering why I’m not doing it.
  • I don’t care. I’m lazy and unmotivated and can push myself just enough to go to work and get enough done that my coworkers and supervisors can’t complain. I don’t clean, I cook rarely. I eat when my hands start to shake. I brush my hair when enough of it comes out of the braid that it gets annoying. I shower if I have to, which is not often as long as I keep the important areas clean. That was an overshare. I don’t care. If it wasn’t for The Zen Master, I’d be sitting on the couch, in a dirty nightgown, surrounded by dirty dishes, looking around at a room strewn with toys and dog hair and various objects The Peach has obtained and then discarded in the middle of the floor. And I really just wouldn’t give a shit.

That’s pretty much it I think. Whatever. I’m just riding it out. Grabbing the brief moments when the real me pokes through, when The Peach does something exceptionally cute or Princess Punk does something exceptionally funny. Letting The Zen Master anchor me in reality and away from the abyss looming not too far in the distance.

So although it is hard to believe, it’s not always like this. And it’ll be okay. Just waiting for me to come back.

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