I've been trying to get back into blogging lately because when I had my psychological break back in November I felt that my life was over and that I was done. Since then, everything I once loved I no longer loved and that included writing. A huge loss.
For those who know me, writing has always been my thing. My oxygen. My outlet. I was that child before she even knew how to form letters who tried to write stories because she ran out of things to read. I was that child in fifth grade who pulled an all-nighter because her assignment was to write a short story for class and she was so excited about it she could not stop writing, even with sores on her hands, that writing callus. I woke up and wrote, I went to bed and wrote. When other kids cut class to smoke and go to the mall, I cut class to write or to read. It was always me with my nose in a book or my pen in a book.
On the Depakote, my mind is much more silent and my thoughts drift off into nothingness. It is helpful because as someone with bipolar that stops my brain from cycling into racing thoughts and mania, but now I have to get used to a new writing process. For the first time in my life, my energy levels react differently, my brain is an empty room with no spark. There are whole days I go without genuinely smiling and whole days I go without a genuine laugh. The real me, the minute you are gone, is glad she can stop contorting her face into expressions to be the person you expect her to be.
I woke up wanting to be with only myself today. The sounds of other people's lives crash through my consciousness and I want to run. All the small talk, the niceties, all that I need to give back I want to keep to myself and give to nobody. "Happy Friday," I say, automatically.
Part of being alive is acknowledging that, like, sneezing, feeling emotions, and sleeping: I must write. I must be part of the world, give people my face, my time, my love. It is a muscle I must flex. I took myself for granted, my loves for granted, my life for granted, and all of it weakened. I will give myself time. Do the work.
Here is a funny thing that happened earlier today to end this on a high note. The week he started, Practical Joker coworker brought in a Mr. Bill doll and placed it in the empty cabinet in our main meeting room. It would just sit there and nobody noticed it. Then, before our fiscal new year party, Arachnophobe Coworker cleaned out the refrigerator by tossing everything that had mold on it or was expired and placing Post-It notes on everything dated 6/30/2014. Practical Joker took Mr. Bill out of the cabinet and placed it in the refrigerator and dated it 6/30/2014. Then our division head took it out of the fridge and placed it on his desk and eventually Mr. Bill ended up back in the meeting room.
Arachnophobe coworker threw away everything that was still dated that on July 7th. Last Friday, somebody's frozen Sunkist can of soda exploded all over the refrigerator, leaving permanent sticky orange stains all over the surface of the refrigerator. We tried cleaning it the best we could. but they're still there, taunting us like drippy hookers. After this, Arachnophobe put up a sign that says:
ANYTHING PLACED IN THE REFRIGERATOR/FREEZER MUST HAVE YOUR NAME AND DATE ON IT. THANK YOU FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE.
I suppose she is going to try to clean out the fridge again. Anyway Practical Joker coworker took a post it note and put it on his food and it says:
Ahahahahahah. Idiot! Earlier, describing how my brain has robbed me of enjoying what I used to enjoy I said that there are some days I go without a genuine laugh. I am so glad I work with cornball cornyheads and weirdos who get me so that is not always the case.