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Even someone as entrenched in denial as I can be at times couldn’t fail to notice some of the red flags waving around in my life right now. Let’s note a few of them, hmmm:

  • Chronic insomnia
  • Short temper
  • Tearfulness
  • Forgetfulness
  • Anxiety
  • … Sometimes leading to panic
  • Heavy drinking *glugs all the wine*
  • Indecisiveness
  • Lethargy
  • Self-doubt
  • Sadness
  • Withdrawal into the “I’m fine” shell

and always a favourite:

  • The “you’re shit” loop on repeat

Which may lead the casual observer to start mumbling something along the lines of, “I told you so…” DON’T DO IT! I know, I know, I came off the Lamotrigine, maybe it was working after all, maybe it was the wonder drug of awesome, whatever. It’s just not very clear cut. I see a bunch of stuff lying around the interwebs, people talking about how Bipolar is all about the not-even-a-little-bit-reactive mood swings. And I can see that. Enough to have made a deal with hubby that if I stay as I am, no better or worse, then in February I’ll start taking the pills again. I can’t go running back to the pills at the first sign of hating the world and everything in it including myself. It has to endure and it has to be unrelated to any stress I may be experiencing. So, when Christmas caused me to feel like crap I didn’t instantly start swallowing pills again because I recognised there was a very definite trigger (and maybe a little bit because I didn’t want to). If I’m going to take a drug that is prescribed for Bipolar then I’d better bloody well actually have that disorder, whatever form it may take.

But it’s not that simple, is it? Nobody’s moods exist in a vacuum. My job is quite stressful just now and I’m a worrier by nature. The insomnia has been around since before I stopped pill-popping. There’s only so long a worrying insomniac can go before she starts crackling at the edges. So what is it? Really, moods should come with labels. Sleep deprivation gave you this one, this one’s a present from your mother and this one came from your boss. This one over here waving the flags is caused by coming off the drugs that made you well again, so get back on them, you silly cow. Wouldn’t that be helpful?

Instead I’m stumbling along, forcing myself through my to-do list as best I can and hoping I don’t fuck up too badly. It’s hard to write this down because there’s a whole load of stuff I don’t want to be true, like the diagnosis itself and my own history. Really, it can piss off, it didn’t happen and what may have happened can be viewed in different ways and who’s to know anyway? That life belonged to someone else, surely? You would think the desperation to remain healthy and happy would propel me into swallowing the pills but nope. I don’t want to need them. And there’s more anyway, there’s more. There’s who I am and what I think and how I feel and what I want to do, there’s my sorrow and my hopes and my fears and my anger and my love, and none of these things have anything to do with pills, not unless I wanted to down a few too many to make all the above disappear but that red flag isn’t waving yet.

So anyway, February. If the current flags keep waving then I’ll titrate myself back up again. See, accountability, isn’t blogging useful. Until then I should maybe try to separate some stuff out, or do some stuff about some stuff, think through some stuff. Or just get through some stuff. Make it to the weekend, try and get some sleep, re-knit the hat I just had to unravel because I knitted the same stitches twice without knowing how, look forward to seeing Les Mis again which will give me the perfect excuse for another good cry. (Wow, that film is fantastic. *Cries*)

But the thing that bugs me about blogging is it’s one dimensional. Unless I want to write about ALL THE THINGS I only write about some of the things and then I worry that whoever reads it thinks that some of the things are all of the things. They’re not. Good things include a gorgeous husband and parties and friends and knitting (mistakes an’ all), a cat who is currently flopped all over my feet, and the not-yet-extinguished hope that maybe, just maybe, we might get more than the teeniest dusting of snow before the winter’s out. I just needed to admit the flags.

Cheers! *Glugs more wine*

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