Days alive: 12,189
No real summary to today. Did stuff, ate food. Made a holiday wreath.
The holidays always make me reflect a bit. Make me think back to days of metaphoric yore. Ya know, the nineties.
Anyway. As my mother would tell you, with no small amount of annoyance, younger me was a difficult creature to deal with.
I would bounce from barely able to function lows to sleepless for days highs where I was invincible, outgoing, fantastic.
I wonder if having the label of Bipolar 1 would have made my formative years any easier to bear? Not in a what-if kind of way, at least not meant as such? If I knew that was what was wrong, or why I was the way I was, could I have explained it better to others? Would I be better with myself, better with my diagnosis by now?
Would I still see only the shadows of those I have seen before stretching out before me like some boogeyman escaping a closet? Or would I know them to be just figments of my admittedly overactive imagination?
Some days, I think I’m actually handling this whole thing fairly well… If you ignore the massive crying jag I had when I first got the diagnosis.
It was the epitome of “Thanks, I hate it!” for me. And other days i know that I’m just wearing a sewed on smile. Less of a mask to show the world and more of a mental shoving of the screaming, crying mess that wants to be outside-me down deep. There that mess sits, burning like an ember of un-shed tears behind my eyes and a clutch of clawed anxiety around my heart all damn day.
I’ve faked my way across this merry stage before. For many years, I just kept going, for lack of perceived ability to do otherwise.
There are days where I wish I could go back to ignorant suffering. But then I question how it would be better or how this is worse. And I have an answer for neither.
Just some navel-gazing for today. I’d apologize for the melancholic tone, but this is who and what I am. So. Have a better day.