Exploring again

I'm not entirely sure how to start this post. There have been a few interesting things going on over the past few days. So lets just start with the mood run down, shall we?

Saturday. I worked Saturday, and it was my first day of training for charge nurse. Yay? Notice the question mark? Yeah. I was so withdrawn and down and otherwise out of it on Saturday. Not really there. I tried to be there. I really did. Especially since I was training with one of my two best friends. But no. I faked it alright . . .but that's not the same, is it? And it got me thinking about if I really wanted the position or my job anymore. I have, after all, been thinking of changing areas for the last 2 years. But that bit is for another post. Too long for this one. The important thing is that I wasn't there. I wasn't happy. Even though I tried to be.

Sunday, if you read the previous post, I spent in the ER and in bed. Which was a delight. I'm still getting vertigo spells every now and then. Which sucks.

Monday - aka Christmas Eve. My psychiatrist Dr. C wanted to see me. Because of the post I emailed him about cutting myself. He's worried. We went in around 1130, J, myself and our son. We talked a bit about my post. We talked about my continued depressive downswings. We talked about my medications and what we could add/tweak/try. What was scary is how concerned he was. What was scary is how he mentioned being able to get me in to see a specialist out of state. What was scary is how difficult he thinks my bipolar depression is and will be to treat. And what is scary is all of this. All. Of. This. And what is scary is that I'll be fighting for the rest of my life. And what is scary is the prospect of having deeper and worse depressive episodes where I may not have the self control that I do now. It's enough to make me want to scream and cry at the same time. To pound my fists against the wall, hard enough to bust through, to draw blood, to do anything to release the fear and frustration and anger and hurt.

But that would be playing it up, yes? Making it worse than it is? Being dramatic for attention? Fuck the fact that this is very real. The risk is real. All of that? All of that is real. The tears I'm fighting back while writing this . . .they're real. But why should I wax poetic . . .I'm only looking for attention . . .

Tuesday - aka Christmas. We left the house for my mom's with me in full blown vertigo - which made for interesting stumbling episodes. I have to say it was rather pleasant. Yummy food, hanging with my bro . . .and after we headed home and my friend the bottomless pit of my soul said "hey Cami, you know what would be awesome? It would be awesome to question your existence!". So instead I went and took a nap. At least with sleep I can ignore the emptiness. I, of course, didn't tell J this. Again for the seeking attention thing. So instead I hid that pit as best I could.

And now I'm typing this while listening to Silversun Pickups. Over the past few weeks, and more noticeably the past sever days, my anger and irritability has been increasing exponentially. I'm barely able to contain it. Often I can't. It's boiling just below the surface and I don't know when it will finally blow. Some escaped last night when I blew up at J over cough medicine. I screamed at him over fucking cough medicine. That's not okay. I calmed down. I apologized. But that never should have happened in the first place. And I felt horrible. And I beat myself up over it. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just cope? I know the answer . . .but I don't. And nobody gets it.

Tomorrow I'm going to box. I'm going to kick and punch the shit out of my heavy bag. And I'm going to make tomorrow better. That's what I tell myself. And I'll believe it.

While writing this post, I've come up with another painting idea. This will be number 33 in a series that was supposed to be one . . .I don't think people will like this as much as some . . .it will invoke negative feelings. Yes.