Manic Bipolar Insomniac Depressive

I keep spinning back to the darkness. I have one good day and then cycle down to the lowest low. I KNOW I should be seeing a therapist but there is no money for such luxury. I am intensely jealous of all the people in my life who do not work – have not worked for years – and they have shrinks. They see doctors. They have every medication under the sun to even them out. What’s my med? I get to fake it. That’s my med. I get to wake up every day and go to work and be nice and friendly and productive. I get to pretend for 9hrs that I’m just fucking ducky.

I’m not ducky. It takes every ounce of my energy to fake this much. I come home exhausted and lie on the floor and cry. Then the hours start dragging and I crawl through them in inches. Every fiber of my being screaming for the sun to come up. Hour and minute and second while my mind plays every scenario of regret and cause of loneliness I have ever lived. Every ache of my soul is amplified to infinity. I am wracked in sobs and hopelessness; hour and minute and second. If I’m lucky, I fall asleep from exhaustion. Get an hour here or there. Then awake to find I’ve got 5 more, 4 more, 3 more hours until sunup. Until the faking starts again.

I do not want to get out of bed. I do not want to lie in bed. I do not want to go to work. All those friends who don’t work – have not worked in years – and I’ve just acquired a 2nd job to fake my way through because the first $50K won’t pay the debt he left me with. Fake it. It will all work out if I just keep faking it. One day, I’ll forget I’m faking it and I’ll think my smile is real. “Better living through denial”.

I don’t want any of it. I want to stop. I want to sleep. I want to stay asleep.

When is it my turn?

(And then I remember there are people who have it so much worse. I have a job. I’m able to work. I have people who love me. I’m a lucky, lucky person. I have no right to be sad.  – I would never tell any of them any of this. I am lucky, and loved and entirely alone.)