Empty

I hate that all my posts are when I'm down. I guess that's just when I feel like writing. Anyway, I've had some good days. Days where I feel like myself. Where I'm happy and open and I talk and  joke and laugh. and sadly, those days are few and far between.
Most days I'm empty. Just . . .empty. I want to hide from the world. I'm withdrawn and quiet. My smiles are forced. I feel like everything is pointless. Melancholy and darkness rule. I feel so bad and it's useless.
This is most days. MOST days. I should be feeling better. But I'm not. I force myself to do things on those days - I've sewn a lot lately, drafted new patterns. Kept busy. That's more productive than hiding in bed, which is what I want to do. I make believe that I'm alright because I don't know what else to do. I don't know why I feel this way and I can't control it.
I don't say much when I'm with people because I'm worried about what might come out of my mouth. Something inappropriate? Something about bipolar? A scream? People generally don't want to be burdened with someone's mental illness. It's not a convenient or nice subject to talk about. It makes people feel uneasy. So I keep my mouth shut and I nod and smile and act like I'm interested while on the inside I'm dead and screaming, waiting for someone to notice.
No one does though. No one comes to the rescue. I can't be saved from myself, from my mental illness. It's with me always, looming, smothering, a stranglehold on my life.
I know things will get better, eventually. My psychiatrist and therapist tell me this. Everyone tells me this. Try living it, and then telling me that. When you wake up and know that you have to struggle to get through the day, just to make it to bedtime because at bedtime you get to sleep and forget, but then you wake up to do it again . . .then tell me it will get better. I hear those words but they're empty.
Like me.