Just in here today to type, to feel like I’m thinking, but also to feel that I’m feeling anything other than the hell of the past few months. Something really came over me. That’s saying nothing. Something opened up under me is the better way of putting it. I was standing over nothing, the abyss, the old abyss. It felt new, though, not like it was an old traditional fear, something inside all of us, something I could help through some traditional means or through some kind of faith. This was the pure, physical thing, the thing from inside, the lonely thing. There’s nothing eternal about it, nothing noble. It takes me in a grip – another cliché that doesn’t do it justice – and it doesn’t let go until I’ve fallen down inside so many times. I fail every day walking around the corner, talking to someone at work. Nowhere am I present in these interactions, at no time am I myself. There’s no one I actually talk to, trust. And this is not because there’s no one trustworthy around. There’s always been trustworthy people around and I’ve never recognized it. Because this disease takes you away from other people, makes you run away from them. Maybe there is something old about this, the leprous and the outcast people. Maybe they were thrown out of their villages because they were insane and a drag. They were called possessed as a good excuse to just get the hell rid of them. There’s a tradition for ya, something to make you feel real good about yourself, outcast you.

I missed the meeting time tonight.

Welcome to my blog about bipolar depression.

I will tell you what’s been working for me lately, as in, the last few days. Taking lots of clonazepam. Like triple the amount Dr prescribed to me, which wasn’t very much to begin with. I think he started me off with 1.0 milligrams during the entire day and I think I need something more like three milligrams. There I was yesterday morning nearly going out of my head with anxiety over nothing at all. Over having nothing to do, no hobbies, not avocations, no writing, nothing that I came all the way out here to do and took out loans to do. Nothing that I would say I was raised to do. And that brings with it a lot of guilt and anger turned toward myself. To not be doing the thing you think you’re meant to do. Isn’t that the worst thing you can (not) do to yourself? Doesn’t that bring on the drinking and the drugging, the worse of the compensatory behaviors, the worst of the self-attacks and the self-hatreds? In this society where there’s so much freedom, those whose self-confidence and self-worth are so low thanks to mental illness, don’t they have a special level of hell? The level were nothing happens, where people (their friends and the people they see on TV) pass them by? Where they feel worse sometimes by the day because they can’t do, or even bear to think about doing, the thing they came here to do?

So earn a little money and occasionally go out and buy yourself a little something.