Hey it's almost three years later.
So the mistake I always seem to make is thinking that I have any control in my mental wellbeing. I've been eating healthy, feeling okay for a couple weeks. It's spring, there's more light. Been looking forward to wearing some new warmer weather clothes, sandals, shopping, etc. Been going to the farmer's market the past 4(?) weeks every Tuesday. It's Tuesday today and I am just so fucking sick and tired. I want to sleep all day. Fuck you, depression. No, seriously, fuck you.
So am I even bipolar anymore? Doc doesn't think so. Misdiagnosis. 8 years of it. Well, christ.
I learned this year that nobody knows anything about anything. Mental health-wise specifically but in lots of other places. It's not so much the doctors and scientists, maybe their only fault is pretending they do actually know what's going on. Truth is that things are so big, so much bigger and bigger than we think. Just balloons inside balloons big big sky cosmos big. And so so many smalls in the big, that all we have are best guesses.
Current best guess on my head: atypical depression (treatment resistant), ADHD. Fun fun fun in the sun!
It's just that it's been so long - 13 years - so WTF, you know?
Can't write.
Can't sleep.
Can't wake up.
Can't hold a job.
No consistency (see market day above).
Unreliable (been working/unable to work on a resume for L for weeks).
Can't concentrate.
Can't read.
Can't can't can't cannot cannot.
Oh, there are things I can do. And I do them. And I have the structure of a life, the supports. Semi-comfort. Love. I mean, Amen! Like really. But not good enough.
Constant beating of myself up. Can I ever not be a liability, something to be carried? Capital S Someone? Up-fucking-hill, you know? Just always.
