Wouldn’t it be nice
To find pennies scattered all around
Or to have conversations with leprechauns
With pots of sparkling gold.
Could it be possible to have a dream come true?
With no price to pay
Or anything to sacrifice
Like true love
Lucky, wouldn’t I be
If all my dreams came true
Without lucky pants or shoes
A story or a superstition
Salt all down my back
Counting magpies with a mild panic attack.
via Daily Prompt: Luck
My third first day sober.
Wow, that’s embarrassing but this time I mean it. This time I am pretty sure I will not be able to drink safely again. The last time was horrendous. I guess I have a problem. Best move on, onto a day more level than the last.
Did not brush them yesterday, I guess that’s what I call depression. I guess I am what people call depressed.
I washed briefly under the shower. That’s what I call success, I got into clean pyjamas and asked my mum to put on a load. That’s what I call sad as the independence depletes and the urges to take my medication overloads. So I overdose daily. I want the insanity to fade, the voices and thoughts.
Every day I have to remind myself to breathe when anxiety flies up and down my oesophagus. I have to breathe when my mind races or a noise doesn’t sound normal to me; or is it too normal to not believe?
I did not get outside today. The nature’s air did not caress me. I am merely a prisoner with not door to flee. I am just a person haunted by me.
Medication gives me more awareness to the highs and lows. It stops the hypomania creeping into mania, saddles the depression and takes it for a ride right out of bed into the everyday grind. Maybe it makes me a normal neurotic person and not the bipolar neurotic. I get through the day.
I recently added a old friend quetiapine back into the mix. Quetiapine is like a old lady on your back, she makes you hungry and makes you foggy like you would looking down from the highest peak. She seems to make me brain dead, out of it completely and I don’t hate it. She desensitises so much that I’m not even bothered by death, that a lot of the time I am just trying to get through the day back into my bed where I can relax and be myself.
Crying in the toilet is a normal thing when you struggle to manage your emotions. Having nobody to talk to is my norm as I struggle to maintain every thoughts effect on my heart.
Busted, happy valentines day and already started on a bad note. My colleague came to work too early meaning I rushed to get up and felt exposed. I walked from the house to the town centre feeling on edge. The mizzle turned to rain and my mood plummeted. Then I resisted buying wine before my bus ride home. I am going to remain sober, I am not going to let myself get out of control. I resisted the urge to cry when something made me jump. I hate being so jumpy. I hate feeling bad about myself. It’s been getting worse and worse. I normally try and kill myself by this time of the year. Should I feel proud or that I know that I have a pattern which is so regular that with out it I begin to feel lost.
Lost, losing my my mind. Am I lost? I have begun to see the world in black and white. Is this worth it, should I give it a chance?
A guy I know came over, he didn’t even want me. Nobody does. They say I need to work on myself but is it possible to grow with no idea where you are going.
Isolation is my middle name,
In depression I hide in the dark,
In mania I scare everyone away.
This loneliness imprinted on my heart.
I lash out at everyone whilst screaming help
I open up my eyes to see a sick and dying dove.
Devils claws sinking into my skin,
It was all a part of my living sins.
Up and down, round and round.
Blood dripping everywhere,
I am a bipolar bitch and nothing else.
What is even real?