So I was going to stop blogging because I had great aspirations of starting a book. And I did. I started a book, and four pages in I realized it’s complete shit. Nothing about the process nor what I was getting onto the pages was coming along. I’ve never felt so disappointed with myself. Like I’ve been blogging for a number of years, and I’ve had a good number of positive feedback, and just when I was figuring I’ve discovered my writing talents, I ended up with four pages of regurgitated word vomit. So then I thanked the stars, my mom, and my day job for unconditional support, and went back to ‘normal’. Or as much normal as I could fit into myself. Which included regular shirnk visits, clean underwear, and thoughts about having children. A complete chain of events that would turn me into a functioning piece of society. Or so I thought.
With a zest of a psychopath I began dieting, getting my 10,000 steps in, working longer hours, reducing my cigarettes/alcohol/curse word consumption, engaging in social activities (regardless of whether I wanted to or not), and yes warming up to the idea that babies are cute and necessary. All this to a silent suspicion of my family, and especially my significant other. For I was digging myself into a ditch of false values. Maybe nice-sounding values, but not true to my core. And the Universe, being a bitch that she is, helped me nail my coffin shut. My doctor failed to properly refill my prescription, which being on the path of righteousness, I deemed it as a sign of being cured. So I started taking less, and less of my meds until I became completely out of touch euphoric, or as you people call it manic. And brought to the hospital. Again.
At least this time around, it wasn’t scary. I knew the process of admission. You have to walk in willingly, and strip yourself naked willingly, and put on that medical gown willingly, and take those meds willingly…OK I did resist, and they did have to strip me through a combination of force, and lies. But I’m sure they had their best intentions. Like my arms might have been bruised from being pressed to the railing, but I’ll never forget kindness in their eyes. It’s the thought that matters. That and protocol. Sure it probably felt hurtful, and confusing, but what else would you do with someone who refused to talk to her family and was instead reading signs, and labels on everything. Totally happened, by the way. Not exactly sure how or why it constituted an 8 day stay in a loony bin, but doctors know me better I suppose. So now I just need therapy for the therapy I received through my lovely stay. Which they DID set me up with. Can’t complain.
I’m doing much better these days. Since my 3rd discharge I’ve been given plenty of support groups that I have to attend. It’s like I have so many support, I don’t have time to think about what I actually need support with. I have a lot to look forward to this time around. Since I have zero intention to live up to everybody else’s standards. Like I’ll still probably shower and shit, but I will have that pack of beer after work and pick my nose while at it. Because being proper is boring. And boring is not something I chose. I wish the same upon thee.
P.S. Don’t pee your pants, but guess this kind of means I’m back to blogging.