It’s happening… I’ve got to get out of here. There is no privacy at all in this house! I feel like I’m living on a boat. A very small boat! The squeaky floors are the worst. You can hear everything that is going on everywhere. I know I am weirdly sound sensitive, but this is just fucked. The slamming of the cupboards and back door is also pushing me right over the edge. What do I have to do to make it even livable? I guess the backdoor needs some type of resistance. Maybe a thicker threshold or fluffier whatever that stuff is called that keeps the cold out…

I’m taking the clonazipam every day now. Maybe it’s earplugs that will be the solution. But why the fuck should I change me when its my house?

This is just too much… Buyers remorse? I call it Buyers Fury! Doors are coming off hinges, sprinkler systems are failing, faucets leaking, door handles coming off, doors not even closing. Every time I turn around there is something else. I got the evil eye on the wall facing the front door, and a bloody chicken foot from the witches of New Orleans at the back door! So, what the fuck?! I don’t even know what to call all these things that are going wrong. Like the front door needs a thingy is on my list.

I’m also pissed that my ex just watches TV all day long and can’t do the simplest things around the house. Yes, I did just say that. He’s living here with me until he finds a place, but in order to do that he needs a job and just how is that panning out? He says he want’s a temp job at a boatyard, so he can have November and December off to go out west and ski. I’m like, “how are you gonna pay rent?” because your not staying here! 

As far as the job front, I’ve decided it’s time to get proactive. So, yesterday I discovered that professional resume’s have come a long, long way… we’re talking full color, one page designs directed at the sole individual place of business. No more past experience, bullet pointed blah, blah, blah it’s all about the future and what you can offer the company. All the details that used to be in the fucking interview right? Oh no, this is now neatly delivered on a well designed piece of paper, pie-charts and all! And I’m not even talking about the social media arena… ramping it up to a full scale personal promo. Hell, some people even have videos out there! Not only am I intimidated by even starting one, I’m starting to feel my good ole friend bipolar disorder invading my space again.

Invading my space, what an appropriate choice of words. I have people invading my space and it’s freaking me out. They’re everywhere! Ex’s, children, parents, cousins, nieces. Fuck! I love them all to pieces, but I desperately need alone time! I’ve always needed it, and now I am so over this I’m almost ready to throw plates.

This morning, I discovered my son’s closet door was stuck. I gave it a good tug. The doorknob fell off. That’s when the plate throwing ideas came to mind. I decided to look for the most violent game online where I could kill people. What was the one that started it all? Oh yes, Grand Theft Auto. My son tells me there’s better now.

I’ve already pruned the hell out of my entire yard to deal with the mania. I finally gave my loppers to a friend. They’re in her custody until I’m sure I won’t do any permanent damage to my landscaping. Then there’s Steve…. my hedge project. Oh, that’s going to be good when I really get out there. For now, I’ve added “Watch Dexter” to my calendar every night at nine for the next week. Glorious Murder as Klaus put it. But honestly, I need something entirely more gritty than The Originals. Criminal Minds, yes, but Dexter, well… he’s the one who gets to do all the killing. This will have to suffice for a while.

I successfully drew “The Conversation” the night before last and I did it without spiraling into mania. In some way, I should be proud of this accomplishment. I even started it at three in the afternoon convinced that I wouldn’t be up all night. That was an epic failure. Up ’til 3am, drinking two pints of rum and smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. As always, the morning after I woke to an art-strewn living room with a very striking image taped up to the large dining room mirror. The first thing I thought of was, “well you nailed the hand” and that was what I was worried about. I couldn’t seem to get it old enough. I had to get the generational gap to come across. The girl, I knew, would be satisfactory. I always can get the faces right. She was however eerily disturbing. Someone I couldn’t take my eyes off but didn’t exactly want in my house.

Her eye was completely black, as it was in the photo. The pencil I used (that was supposed to be graphite) turned out more like charcoal and made it unworkable, I remember that. And even with all of the fixative that was sprayed on, it smeared just by looking at it. So, I just stared at her, knowing that I couldn’t go back in and work the eye into something more delicate, so I framed it, if at all just to keep the medium on the paper. I have her in my living room now. Facing the wall. She was supposed to be a late Fathers Day present, but now I don’t think I can give her to anyone… I’m not sure.

The same thing happened to me with my self portrait. She hangs above my desk, staring at me right now with her haunting eyes and blank expression. It took me a long time to get to know her. She was frightening as well, especially since she was  supposed to be me! Absolution, I named her. It was my way of getting the bipolar disorder out of me and onto paper so I could forgive myself for the unforgivable. She acts as a reminder that it’s okay. I’m okay. So I leave her there. My illness can be outside of me, and I go somewhere outside of me when it strikes.

I go outside of me when I draw as well. I don’t like it. I don’t like the space I go into at all. I want to stop the creation of these things altogether, but as someone once said to me, “If you have a gift, you have a moral obligation to share it with the world.” I remember the girl at the bar who said that to me, young and naive. Of course I have no obligation. I can do whatever the hell I want with my life and haven’t picked up a pad of paper in 20 years because of the feeling I get along with the act of getting the images out of my head. Possession. I’m convinced someone is taking over, even if its my own alter ego. I felt that years ago and used to like it. But it pulls me down into a very deep and dark place and I wake the next day to a feeling of confusion and guilt for allowing it in again. To take over.

I guess I should date these, although I think I have it all written down here. Reason being that I wouldn’t want to do this more than once every few months. I fear for my own sanity and I have to remain solid – strong – for my son. My job as a person afflicted with a mental illness is to protect him from the worst of it. Protect those that I love from the mornings I wake up to the house in shambles due to a psychotic break from reality. That’s what they call it. The doctors. A psychotic break from reality. Ha! That’s one of the things that I agree upon with the DSM. Though those writing it and diagnosing with it have not actually experienced it.

I wonder how I am going to get through this move. I want to tell those that need to know that my sole purpose right now is to keep this under control. Meanwhile, I’ve been to my doctor and have gotten refills on all of the drugs that I took myself off. Klonapin for anxiety. Mirtazipene for sleep. And now I have Hydrocodone and Ibuprofen 800’s for the cracked ribs. Ahhh yes, with a little bit of rum in the evening I feel just fine. Then I wake the next morning feeling like a toxic waste dump. Abusing my body by trying to control my mind. Knocking down the rapid cycling. Up and Down. Up and Down. It’s usually not like this for me, and because of it, I don’t have the necessary tools to handle it. Except for this. Back to the journal. This gets it out of me at least a little bit.

Unfortunately, the stress got to me. I tried to keep it together, honestly. Although, I did just sit around and watch reruns of The Originals for weeks on end. Ahhh escapism. My ex calls it the “Approach Avoidance Syndrome.” Anyway, when I did decide to get up off the couch and get out the ole whiteboard (you gotta always worry when that thing comes out) I felt the overwhelming and all consuming disorder taking charge. At first, like always, the mania was a good thing, but the mood swings were rapidly cycling, which doesn’t usually happen to me and was a bit frightening. And people just don’t get it. I tried calling those allies and they didn’t understand the severity of what was happening once again. This illness is truly an alone thing.

It’s been 9 months since I got totally psychotic and trashed the house. Last night may have been worse though. Yeah… much worse. I decided to draw. Really bad decision. Somehow, something happened though, because I woke up the next morning unable to get out of bed. I assume I have a cracked rib and have no fucking clue as to how I got it. The really interesting part though was what I walked out into after a grueling wake up. Disaster is putting things lightly. Hurricane maybe. Fire. Tornado, thats it, tornado. Maybe even a Sharknado.

The first thing I saw was a shit load of dirt all over the living room floor. Plants had obviously taken the blame. Pots shattered and there was literally a inch of dirt on the floor. The kitchen had suffered worse. I guess I got sick of my chipped plates. Constantly repairing them. Now shattered all over the floor. Every last one of them. The hilarious part though, that I must have had for my own self preservation, was the kitchen rug laid over the top of the refuse so as not to cut my feet. It was the perfect walkway from the doorway to the sink. Smart. Protect the feet and get a cracked rib instead. It’s too bad really. The plates were quite lovely and to replace them… well with the money just flying out the door and my credit card smoking due to the move, I’m kinda stuck with plastic and paper.

I didn’t think it was beautiful. I don’t feel that its a representation of what my mind is like. I’m just over it. I figured out that no matter what the medications are (and I did call my dr. for a refill on the Klonipin) this bullshit is for real, and its here to stay! What now? I was finally thinking of falling in love again. I know there is someone there in Michigan. Don’t know how I know, but I know. But what the hell kind of freak could handle this? I was telling my mom, just last night that it’s time for me to meet a nice guy. She was like, “No you’ll find a charismatic wild one again. You like the excitement.” She’s probably right.

So, there’s the East and the West. I’ve always preferred the West. In the US anyway. I now find myself moving back to Michigan where I grew up. Good God! I got out of there for a reason! Now I bought a house. Buyers Remorse? Are you kidding me? I’m like a freak of nature boxing things up and trying to deal with moving contracts, hotel reservations, air travel… All I really want to do is train for an event (horse show) something I just want to do for myself. For me and me alone! But, theres been a death in the family. I have no choice in the matter.

One week later, then bam! My own mother needed to be admitted to the ED for an illness that we still don’t know the diagnoses for. Suddenly she was on deaths door as well. I still had my badge from working there and got more information than most would. It was a sickness that almost took her life. So now… I am broken. I don’t know how else to put it. I am not the same person. I dont think that I ever will be again. I’m torn between two places. I live 2000 miles apart from my family and here where I convinced my mother to move to, but what I have realized is that I can’t take care of her on my own.

I wrote a really nasty text to her family after about 7 days in the hospital watching her deteriorate, me there by myself. It was, well.. it went something like this: This is the last group message that I am writing. If any of you want to know how mom is doing then call the hospital. As I have relayed to you, she is still in critical condition and has has had multiple tests. The CT of her body came back negative and she is now going for a CT on her brain and will have a consult with Neurology tomorrow. So, this is how I feel: Brother, if you give a flying fuck about the woman who gave birth to you, get on a plane and get The Hell up here. Aunt Sh: I appreciate your prayers, but quite frankly I do not believe in god and if I ever do get to meet him face to face I will do my best to kick the living shit out of him. M: take your positive energy and shove it up your ass. S: You have been calling almost every day and I am sorry I haven’t gotten back with you more often. Aunt Su: Thanks for the comic relief. It is much needed at this point. J: you get the gold star! You have been the picture of support. I’ll tell you what. Those of you who I have just bitched out, how about you call J and ask her what it means to truly care. So, like I said, call the hospital if you want any information. I’m sure SPH is listed in the phonebook. Under hospitals.

All I feel is pain.

It’s, deep and debilitating.

I aided in my step-moms death a month ago. She was the replacement of my own mother while my mom decided to fall off the wagon after her second husband passed.

I prayed, screamed actually, that she don’t leave until I got there, back to Michigan that is. I knew that my father needed me and my step-brother. I had to go in and take over. After all I’m the strong one right? I always have been. I crossed the Atlantic in November on a 46 foot sailboat. Half way across, 1000 miles out and 100o miles to go, the self-steering broke. Well, that was it for the fun-days-in-the-sun ahead. So, I knew what I might have to do… but I didn’t have any idea what I was walking into. I had 2 minutes with her coherent, and all she said was “I’m so glad you’re here honey”. Honey. That could have meant anyone. Just before that she thought I was Jen D, a friend of my step-brothers and mine that died years ago.So what did she know? I don’t know.

I took care of her for the week that she died at home. I played RN (like I knew what I was doing) but like I said, when the shit hits the fan I am the one to step up to the plate. We had round the clock care, but they sent CNA’s or HCA’s and they were all very young. One of them, it was her first day working in homecare and she was a bit shell-shocked working with a patient who was choosing to die at home. And that’s what was going on. Watching the deterioration is difficult, and I swore to myself I would never do it again, but here I was. These girls (other than one) needed support and I was it. Besides, they weren’t allowed to administer drugs and at this point she was on morphine every 4-6 hours to allow her to pass peacefully.

I detached immediately. I had to. I treated her like a patient. I slept intermittently. 4 hrs here and there. Drugging and bathing and changing briefs. Talking to her. Brushing her hair, making sure she was bathed and looking good. I was trying to keep her dignity and isolate my dad and her son from seeing her as anything other than the woman that she had alway been. A lady. It didn’t take long though. That last night, the girl that came on had just worked another shift, so this would make it a double for her. She was the one who had just started, and was having trouble with it all anyway. I said, “get some rest on the couch. I won’t tell anyone”, besides I knew this was the last 24hrs and I wouldn’t be sleeping anyway. You see, I talked to the RN’s from Hospice privately, asked for the signs… blood pressure dropping, heart rate increasing, breathing changes, and eventually the extremities going cold.

That last dose of morphine at around 3 am her feet were cold. I decided not to wake my dad. Why make him suffer more. I caught an hour’s sleep then was woken by this girl,”Come upstairs. Your dad thinks she’s not breathing.” I knelt down by her bedside. My dad said,” I touched her arm and it was cold, just cold. I don’t think she’s breathing.” I listened. I put my hand her chest… barely a thing, then a breath. “She’s still breathing.” I looked at the second hand on my watch… 20, 30, 40. I took her pulse. Nothing. She was gone. Time of death 4:40. She literally took her last breath with me. I had held things in for so long. So fucking tightly you can’t even believe, then, the moment arrived. My dad left. The girl left, and I grabbed onto her and couldn’t let go. Her body was still warm, but she had left. Her cheeks were sunken in. Her pallor was pale grey, obviously a shell, a shell that housed a soul. A dead thing, where less than a minute ago was a woman I loved.

It’s honorable for me to think that she would want me to be the one to be there. To take her last breath. To tell the others she was in fact gone. But I am traumatized by it now I think. I’m not the same. It took its toll on me. I still  haven’t had the chance to morn her death. My son needed me after me being gone for 3 weeks so I took a flight home right after the service and immediately got the flu when I got home.

So I’ve realized that there is no such thing as curses and the universe responds to our thinking just the way that people do. If the expression you teach people how to treat you is correct, then it also must apply to life itself, or the group conscious, or God if that being exists. I ruminate upon sins of the past and will not forgive myself for the extreme actions that I’ve displayed. Why can’t I at least remind myself that I do have an illness and that it takes over more often than I’d like to admit. I guess I don’t want to rely on that as an excuse.

I often think that I should just be on my own. That somehow that will protect my son from any serious mood swings. I’ve been having a lot, minor ones, but regularly since my breakdown two months ago. I feel so fragile. It’s been two months. People don’t know how close I was to ending it though. I had the bottle of wine open, the handful of pills in my hand and was contemplating writing a suicide note on my iPad. You see, no one had called… I left everything, lights on in the house, doors and windows open, dumped my son at his dads. And nobody was alerted. Nobody called. I don’t know what stopped me. Maybe my Guardian Angel. I didn’t feel anything special though, anything sacred. And the surprising part is that it was not the thought of my son that stayed my hand. It’s always been him.  I guess that’s how I know it was serious. But the funny thing is, I didn’t want the maid to find me dead. I felt for the young woman who would have to find me. Go fucking figure.

Yes, I want my son to be protected from this. He is tense and closes in on himself when he see’s that I am tired. When mom is overly tired she gets angry. Please mom and be quiet when she’s tired and has that look on her face… I’m actually considering Botox to relax the scowl lines that must appear when I’m over-extended. I don’t want people to be afraid of me and they are. I can even sense it in my mom. Certainly in the dog, she doesn’t want to be anywhere near me now. There was a period of time when I thought the dog and I were restoring our relationship, but now it’s right back to where it was before.

What have I become? All of these New Age books say that you can change your life in an instant. The PhD’s say it will take time to retrain your brain from old existing patterns. Either way, since I’ve been working on it, myself that is, I haven’t had much success if those around me are walking on eggshells. I’m not sure what I am at this point in my life. Maybe I have to adopt the destiny theory. Maybe we all just exist and no matter what we do, well, it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. None of us want to accept that though. Why would anyone want to feel like they were not in control of their own life? I’m starting to accept it. It’s like giving up. Let go and let God right? Except my giving up feels more and more like suicide. It seems like it would be such a relief to check out. People say it’s selfish.

I’ve been thinking of drawing again and maybe even painting. I feel like getting these disturbing images out of my mind. I want to go big. Full sheets at least. I stopped being an artist because I felt like something, or someone, was taking over my body and mind. Talk about disturbing. Fucking hell. It was like possession, and I was highly praised for it. But now that I am alone, and can be considerably alone at certain times, I want it to be disturbing. I want to get it out of me. I am afraid of opening Pandora’s Box though. What if it makes things worse… And what if people see it as greatness? What then? It may just add to the confusion and trigger more episodes with my bipolar.

See, this is all of the fucking crap that goes along with it. With bipolar disorder. One minute I want to end my existence and the next I think of creating works of art again. And I know what will happen if anyone sees them. People will be impressed. They will see it as greatness. They will encourage me, which is exactly what I don’t want. I ran from it before. Now I feel like it’s the only way for me to survive this darkness inside. A way to keep me alive. The light and the dark the light and the dark the light and the dark…