A rainy day

For the past five days I’ve spent the majority of my time on my couch or in my bed. I’d love to say that’s just because I’ve been sick, and that may have been true in the beginning, but now it’s becoming more than that.

Maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself because it’s summer time and I still haven’t been bothered to get my ass in gear and lose some of the extra pounds I’ve been carrying around this past year. Maybe I’m more upset than I thought that since my last post I started and ended yet another relationship. Maybe it’s because work is slow and I’m bored. It might even be a combination of all of the above.

But no. Because all of those things were there last week, and last week I didn’t feel like crawling into a hole for the rest of my life.

I’ll never figure out what the triggers are. A sad episode on TV. A song that tugs on the heartstrings. A rainy day.

Today is a rainy day.

…. I wanted to write something witty about just realizing that it really is raining out. But I’ve been sitting here with my fingers over the keys for half an hour and all I keep thinking about is how I don’t want to deal with tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that.

I know I should pick up the phone and call someone. I know I should open up and talk, and that writing it all here isn’t enough. But I just can’t. I can’t keep being that person. Plus the only person I want to talk to, probably the only one of my friends who still even reads this, I haven’t talked to in ages. And as much as I know she will read this and be pissed that I didn’t just call her — because she knows I know I can always call her — I just can’t be that person.

Because I know that this will pass. I know that months will pass before my next post because things will stabilize and I’ll be fine until the next pseudo crisis and then I’ll be right back here in the exact same spot I’m in right now. And nothing will change. It’ll be the same trigger, the same rainy day.  Another relationship will have failed. More weight will be gained. (And hopefully some will be lost as well.)  There will always be rainy days.

I just wish I could figure out how to control it. Actually, if I’m wishing for things, I wish I didn’t have this damned illness. I wish I could be like the majority of the idiots out there who just enjoy their lives. (And by idiots, I mean lucky people.) I’m not asking too much, am I? It’s not like wishing to win the lottery, or for a body like a supermodel, not that I’d turn either of those down.

I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. I’ve been sitting at this computer for two hours trying to write this.

It’s been twenty minutes since I wrote that last sentence and all I’ve been thinking about is a cigarette. Oh right, since my last post when I said I quit smoking? I started again and quit again. Then I started again and I’m back to quitting. Sometimes I don’t know why. Because my imaginary future boyfriend won’t love me if I smoke? So I won’t die of cancer? Does that really matter to a person who wants to die every other month?

Sometimes I don’t know why I write here. Why don’t I just write in a journal where nothing I write will hurt anyone? Where I won’t risk my friends reading this and worrying about me? It’s such a ridiculously selfish thing to do. It’s really not fair to my friends. And I’m really sorry about that, to those of you reading this — I’m truly not trying to make you worry about me. Like I said, I’ll get through this. I always do, right?

So I’m gonna go back to the couch now, and hope that this cold goes away soon. I’m gonna get up and shower tomorrow and go to work like everything is fine, and put on a happy face until I’m not pretending anymore. And I’ll wait. I’ll wait until I feel like this again, then I’ll come back here and air my grievances about my life and I’ll feel better, for a little while. And so on, ad nauseum.

Such is the life of a woman with bipolar.

 

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