AM 200 Lamictal, 10 Zyprexa, 60 Cymbalta, 20 Adderall
PM 200 Lamictal, 5 Zyprexa
Hey you, remember me?
Long time no post, but I've been thinking about you.
I told you I wouldn't be gone forever and ever.
They look really happy to be remembering each other.
He can remember me anytime he wants.
Since my last post I thought I outsmarted bipolar disorder. Seriously.I thought I could actually outsmart my brain. My brain. You know, the source of thoughts and smarts.
Well, as it ends up, bipolar disorder isn't something you can actually "outsmart."
You can outsmart sexy.
How? Wear this:
This was my brilliant thought process rooted from my brain:
If I don't write, read, or think about bipolar disorder, it won't affect me.
Hey, it might even go away.
But there's a problem with this...my asshole brain. Yes, the same brain that came up with this brilliant idea. You see, that brain, that asshole brain of mine, is made up of neurotransmitters that could really care less what I am writing, reading, or thinking about.
I honestly have to say it "worked" for over a month. I was the poster child for balanced neurotransmitters and joy. I nearly forgot I had bipolar disorder. That last sentence is true. Days would go by where bipolar disorder didn't even occur to me. Not at first, of course, but over time, like a lost lover, the feelings, memories, tears, and images of my ugly crying face vanished.
But, in honesty, it didn't "work." It was a damn nice vacation and a hell of a gift - like going on summer vacation and having Christmas in the same week - but my crazy was still always there. And unless we are celebrating the lame "Christmas in July" one of those 365 Days a Year Christmas Shops probably made up, it is also impossible.
So anyway, I'm writing to you from a nasty, dark, black place. A place that had become so unfamiliar, but in a way, has felt like coming home. I know that's depressing. I hate that I had to write that sentence, but I always promised you, "a not so gentle look into a bipolar mind," and it's just not always happy and pretty in there. Remember, my brain is an asshole.
You know those people who are really hot across the room at a party, and you are drawn, against your will, away from the bacon wrapped dates by their sexy magnetic force that feels like it should be illegal? But then they say something and you realize they're an asshole, or a Republican or something, and they go from hot to zero in one second. Yeah, that's our brain when we're depressed.
When I was little, I had a Mr. Rogers record where he sang a song with the line, "Scary, mean wishes never come true." I suppose that encompasses the wish to violently beat my brain into being "permanently balanced."
So instead, I will be gentle with my sweet, little brain. I'll quit calling it an asshole, and give it props for all that thinking. Besides, I know my brain doesn't like messed up neurotransmitters anymore than I do. That think tank wants to be its best, too.
If my brain were cat, I'd sing it the Mr. Roger's song with the line, "Meow meow pretty, meow meow nice, meow meow special, meow meow elegant."
Umm...how creepy would it be if bipolar disorder was actually a result of having a cat brain?
Anyway, cat brain or not, guess what? I'll swallow a few extra pills per Dr. Crazy's advice (ruthless, strict orders), and do you know what will happen? I will feel better. I'll also be really hungry from the extra Zyprexa (fat pills), and nothing will pull me away from those bacon wrapped dates.
Have you found yourself in a nasty, dark, black place too?
If you have, I'm sorry. I really am.
I know, deep my heart, how much it hurts, my friends. I do.
If so, call your doctor, take some pills if need be, be gentle with yourself (and your possible cat brain), and then eat something wrapped in bacon.
It's not gonna last forever - for me or for you...
Here, have a dead mouse, cat brain. My treat.
Until next time...