She had an earthquake on her mind.

‚ÄčI almost heard her cry out as I left her far behind, and knew the world was crashing down around her.

I went to the doctor.  It sucked. Nothing unusual.  I just hate doctors.  This one listens to me for the most part, believing that I know well enough about my brain and its faults and flaws to respond accordingly.  I restarted some of my old meds, which I really didn’t want to do, but something had to change.  I guess we will have to see how they fuck with me this time.  She referred me to psych for a psychiatrist to appropriately push drugs.  Unfortunately, since I’m having a major crash, with my anxiety on top, I have this sad feeling they’ll try to say I’m not bipolar and change my meds,  which will screw me up worse. 

I lie here on the ocean floor, brown castle by the shore. And I made this mess. I built this fire.

Panicked and freaking out manic Sio is, I’m sure, fun from the outside, but not so much for me.  Though it has been a bit since I’ve been manic.  I won’t pretend that I don’t miss it.  My name is Siobhan, and I’m a mania addict. The giving no fucks, driving too fast,  walking alone in bad areas at night, and challenging someone to fuck with me.  The last time I was manic, I almost got into a bar fight defending a friend.  The rush was exhilarating. Where was I? 

Let me save us. I’ve slaughtered us. 

I miss being manic, and not caring, I think, because caring hurts too much. I feel like all I do is screw up.  I can’t talk about how I feel without making others angry or otherwise upset. I can’t NOT talk about it, because that makes others upset that I’m bottling things up and hiding.  I’m genuinely scared to open my mouth anymore, because everything I say to everyone is wrong.  I apparently don’t know how my OCD works, I don’t know how I feel, or how I’m allowed to feel. 

This blood in my mouth… This knife in my lungs…

A friend said last week that people bitch to her about me all the time.  Then she just said that her response was, “Well you know how Sio is.” Yeah. How am I? Oh, yeah, a horrible person.  I’d temporarily forgotten.  All I’m  good for its hurting, offending, and otherwise pissing  people off. I should have listened to what he told me to do after that night… and just did it.  Then no one would have to deal with me. This is why you listen to your betters, kids. 

So many questions asked

But no one’s answering. Would it be okay if I left today?

I spent the majority of today sitting in bed. It wasn’t a good day. I showered, a good sign. It’s bad when I don’t make it that far. But I did have to drag myself to the shower. I just didn’t want to put forth the effort. I had work to do. I did what I could. Tomorrow I’ll do more. 

I’m jaded, stupid and reckless. 

I know I’ll do more.  It’s what I do.  Buckle up.  Hunker down.  Fake it and smile.  It’s a necessary skill for me in my daily life. Learning to fake it was one of the first things I did when I noticed I had “The Depression.” Some days are easier than others. I CAN fake it quite well. I hide myself better than most people realize. So the cracks they see… are the tiniest hints at the cancerous gashes I hide beneath my mask. 

There’s a time and place for everything. There’s a reason why certain people meet. There’s a destination for everyone. What’s the explanation when we’re done?

Why is my brain like this?  Why do I deserve it?  Who did I fuck over in a previous life to be this way? 

We’ll never forget the places we’ve been, you and I. Our lives are slipping away. Don’t want to let time pass us by.

Tonight just reminded me how much I hurt the people around me. Why do I bother?  Why don’t I give up?  Why shouldn’t I give up?  I can’t really figure that part out. 

I looked at the skies

Running my hands over my eyes, and I fell out of bed, hurting my head from things that I said.

I’ve been mostly periscope down the last few weeks.  Not just here, mostly as much everywhere that I can be.  I’ve been trying to figure out what to write, and how to write for a bit now.  Two weeks ago was a complete disaster for me. A friend, who was a regular at one of my old jobs, hung himself.  It happens. People die.  I’ve said time and time again that depression kills. It’s a terminal disease.  Trust me, I know this.  I can handle it the same as any other death.  To me, it’s not selfish. It’s not one of those things that people do to hurt others.  It’s a disease that eventually wins. It’s your brain fucking with you until you don’t know what’s up and down, left and backwards.  I think the more difficult part about his death was actually hearing that his ex took off with their daughter, so she didn’t get to go to her father’s funeral.

‘Til I finally died, which started the whole world living. 

Funerals are for the living.  They bring people closure. They give people a chance to come together and bond and reminisce. They remember the good, they ignore the bad–well, they pretend it didn’t happen.  At least in public, and for a time.  Most do, anyway.  I remember one funeral that a classmate’s little brother had killed himself. I told his mother that he’d been a little shit, but I absolutely adored the kid. It was the truth. He sure knew how to cause trouble when he wanted, but it was always fun.

I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing.

The sadness of the week that was just destructive and devastating for me, though, was the death of a very close friend’s husband.  He was old. They were happy. He’d lived a long and wonderful life, with struggles, and successes, and children, and grandchildren.  They were a loving couple, and he had hobbies into his 90’s.  It was quick, painless, no struggle–at least that’s what I was told.  I still haven’t sent a card to his wife, my friend.  I don’t know what to say.  I’m not good with words.

I started a joke, which started the whole world crying. 

I think what was difficult–and still is.  Is that, despite my friends, the death of an acquaintance and a friend, I just feel alone.  Maybe it’s my meds being less effective.  Maybe it’s something else–probably is.  I just feel like the world is tumbling down.  I know I should be having days where the world feels good. But I haven’t even felt manic in a while. It’s not even there, bubbling beneath the haze of the meds.  Not that the meds really haze anything anymore, but it doesn’t exactly let the insanity completely take over. Just mostly. It’s difficult to explain. I have an appointment later in the month to ask my doctor to either change them or add something to make it a little less crazy.  Wonder if she’ll prescribe Gorilla Glue. Duct tape?

Oh if I’d only seen, that the joke was on me. Oh no, that the joke was on me.

I’ve been so snappy lately, and down, that it’s angering everyone around me. I just feel… empty. I don’t want to game. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to watch TV. I don’t want to eat.  I sleep when I pass out, but the nightmares aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories.  My brain is replaying things in exquisite detail that I can’t forget. Emotions, sights, smells, physical feelings. They’re vivid. I mean really vivid. I mean, three-dimensional, sensurround , the hills are alive vivid.  I don’t want to do anything. Words are hard.