Warning: Contains inordinate amounts of self-pity

I can’t decide if I’ve been down this past week, or if this is my “normal” mood. I’ve been thrown off by working evenings, so my schedule has made a 180 degree turn. I don’t get to bed until between 1 and 3 in the morning, and then I’m sleeping until noon or 1-2 pm. Sometimes work is so busy that I don’t get a chance to eat dinner, so I eat at midnight when I finish. Or I don’t eat at all.

Because I’m working evenings, I work at home. Which also means that I barely leave the apartment, especially on the days when I sleep until 2 and have to work at 4.

So it could be all of that, making me feel a little lower than normal. I haven’t been suicidal, but I will admit that thoughts have crossed my mind. I can’t seem to stop thinking about what things would be like without me. The other night when I couldn’t sleep (despite the Seroquel), I was lying in bed trying to get my brain to stop bouncing around. I got an idea for a story about a manic-depressive woman. The story would run through two possible futures for the woman — either she kills herself or she doesn’t. Think Sliding Doors meets Girl, Interrupted. I wasn’t sure if it would work as a novel, but it got me thinking about my family and friends, and how my death might affect them. I’ll admit that most of the time I’m depressed, I don’t think about the implications on those around me. However, now it’s all I can think about.

In some earlier posts, I said that every day was just a lead up to going back to sleep. Now it feels like a lead up to the day I gather the courage to follow through. I’m not sure if that day will ever come, but it’s always in the back of my mind. Haven’t found the right guy to spend my life with? Doesn’t matter, I’d just end up hurting him when I die. Haven’t had a child yet? No problem, you don’t want to pass along this illness anyway, and then you’d just end up hurting it when you’re gone.

What’s the point in going through the motions? It’s been eight years since I was officially diagnosed, and 13 or so years since I figured out what I was suffering from. Nothing has changed. Except now I’m also an insomniac.

I’m almost 30 years old. Can I deal with this for the next 50 years? Can I get married and find happiness, find a man who can handle loving a manic-depressive? Can I really have children, with all the risks of passing this on, not to mention having to be off meds for more than 9 months? If those are the two things I want most in this world and they seem so impossible to get, why am I even bothering?

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