People who don’t know what bi-polar means, or even bi-polar 2, for that matter, and just think of it as anxiety or a bit of OCD or being “on the spectrum”, which seems the latest catch phrase if assholes, say things like “doesn’rt crying just make you feel better? Don’t you get it our of your system?”
No, crying just makes your make your mascara run.
And I have nothing to get out of my system.
I spilled coffee on myself and on my bed this morning.
Last night, late, I sat with a group of patients. Even in one day I could tell h=they were the interesting ones.
There was the youngish Syrian who assures us he suffered not a bit getting our of Syria.
The Macedonian who doesn’t trust the doctors. He’s a doctor, philosopher.
A Mauritian who I talk to about Creole and languages.
The drug fucked one – he’s like the big Indian in Cuckoo’s Nest. He could barely eat his jelly. But he seemed much better than earlier.
The other Jo who talks too much is just chirpy. I guess I’m a little envious.
Another woman who brought out a bunch of Orthodox icons for us to admire. I tell her I’m an atheist but by the end we decide I’m just agnostic. Feels like I climbed a run or two up from hell.
PS. The smoking pregnant woman turns out to not be pregnant. I asked her when she was due and she laughed and told me it’s the meds; she gets it all the time.
I’m drinking lots of fluids because they’ve warned me.
I also suspect this is higher than usual because of the morning’s activities.
Jeff visited last night and it was some of the nicest time we’ve spent together in ages. We talk about work a bit, about the Jen Cloher show on Friday night that I might get to go to if I’m allowed leave. We talk in the room, he gave me some lollies that someone brought back from the Melbourne show – some Bertie Beetles.
One of the symptoms of bipolar disorders is making rash decisions, like leaving your husband. But I don’t think it was rash.
We shared a plate of sticky date pudding in the meals room and I had fridge sandwich for dinner again. I don’t want to sit with strangers at dinner. Feels weird.
I made a third coffee and take it to the communal table upstairs. Nobody is there so I figure they must be smoking or at breakfast. It pays to eat breakfast and smoke, I guess.
I wan to cry again but I’ll only do it in my room. Too bad I do it several times at the communal table today, luckily not facing the nurse’s fishbowl.
Today there is hopelessness that I can’t chart, not even on the line chart whiteboard chart at group. my meds have been halved and c=doubled. That could explain ir.
I’m alone inside my own head. My nurse just came to chat, I tell her rubbish I know she wants to hear because telling them about the hopelessness achieves nothing.
I should be able to do things other than be in my own head.
Today my first session is group problem solving and I’m going to attend au-naturelle, diazepam free!
Good Luck Suckers!