So an aching, early good morning dear reader(s), it’s my 3rd day in a row of an early wake up call—at 1:45 a.m. this morning, not sure yet if I can fall back asleep, like yesterday. May have to alert Dr. Levy, though I might hold off on that one more day. My concern of course is I’m on some pattern which might lead to hypomania, then a quick ramp up into psychotic mania. Obviously the death of Legs followed quickly by mom’s Covid case has rattled me deeply. If anything, I’m acutely aware of any possible signs that I might be getting unstable—I’ve gone through the rodeo of sickness so many times, been in so many hospitals, that honestly I’m feeling like I can weather this current situation with the medication I’m currently taking. I just panic whenever my sleep gets disrupted, as sleep is the number one indicator of stability in bipolar patients. I know I’d be thoroughly screwed if I wasn’t getting any sleep at all, but certainly getting only 4-5 hours a night is problematic when you are used to getting 9-10 hours a night.
I’m not going to make that mistake of taking more Simply Sleep, only to risk it not working and me sitting here groggy and completely zoned out. I just wish I understood why my eyes suddenly opened at 1:45, was I dreaming, did Lily will me awake, is something not right with the Force, is someone else up at this hour worrying and questioning like I am? I hear the annoying pulsatile tinnitus in my ears, and I’m annoyed that’s apparently back again, thanks to whatever is causing that nuisance. I just want to sleep, I’m so very tired, maybe I go get back in bed and try to drift off. I wonder if the ABC Nightly News is somehow responsible for me being awake—unfortunately, I caught a snippet of some of their coverage last night, about a mass shooter, nope, I certainly didn’t need to hear about that on Valentine’s Day. Oh, I can’t stand what television has become, my serenity is wrecked, I need to do what sponsor Shawn did and get rid of the TV—or at least hide upstairs in my solitary confinement room with no TV present.
Nope, no more hospitals for me, this last go around with Dublin Springs was a disaster, what with me being put in a room right next to the blaring TV set. What were they thinking?! Wanting to drive me completely crazy?! And the tattooed staff, Jesus, how unprofessional, what in the hell was that place? Prison? I don’t trust any hospital here in Columbus anymore, I’d rather just live in my toilet closet until the meds knock me out. Sorry to be so dark, I’m just so, so tired, I just want to be sleeping, maybe if I close my eyes I can drift off in my chair. Won’t try to go back upstairs, Lily will just start crying and get me to come back downstairs. This is horrible.
I’m going to start crying again, I just feel tears welling up, why doesn’t anyone else see what a mess this country is, how TV and the news all play a part, there is just sickness everywhere, no one is laughing, people are hurting, no leaders to be found, everyone lost—or maybe that’s some big U.S. Mind Control Massive, like I saw spray painted on the pavement in front of Howrey & Simon at the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th Sts., NW, so long ago. I’m sick of the cold, chilly characters who have descended on my neighborhood. I don’t know where they come from, I can guess their M.O., they aren’t the cool cats you want to have as neighbors, the ones who used to stand with me in Schiller Park back in the 1990s when I went there for Happy Hour with our dogs who all played together. This place has changed, and it’s for the worse. Screw City Hall, screw the Democrats and Republicans, the cowards who got us all in this mess to begin with. How in the world are we going to get our youngsters into Civil Service, which is exactly where they are needed most, not trapped in their parent’s basements, playing Nintendo way into their 30s.
Big Lou, Legs, I miss my male hounds terribly. I’m just not complete without them. I mean, Lily is smart, yes, it’s just the male Bassets have so much character, they always do. And yes, they are the lookers. Legs, your passing has really set me back, I never anticipated how deeply I would feel your loss. I definitely better alert Dr. Levy, I will send a text this morning explaining my situation. Perhaps he can see me earlier than our scheduled appointment later this month. But then again maybe he is booked, who knows, I will find out. Or maybe all I need is my Fetter appointment tomorrow? Maybe I just need to talk to someone about my grief, and maybe that’s not Levy but Fetter. Maybe talk about it at the First Things First AA meeting. Maybe I need to call sponsor Shawn. I’ve got options.
Time for a prayer:
Dear God, help me through my grief, I’m hurting so much. Help me to find kind, compassionate people to guide me through this painful process. Help me to sleep, I’m scared of getting sick again, I don’t want to be afraid of my bipolar. Speak to me through Fetter tomorrow, or anyone else I might talk to today. Walk with me today God, guide Lily, I will follow her. Work through my hands in the kitchen today. Dear God, watch over Legs, and Lou and Nell; say hi to Dad and his poker group; and help those troubled souls back down here on Earth to find peace. Amen.
I hope I don’t get angry today, no, I don’t want that. Just feel like I need to be away from the TV for awhile. Yup, maybe it’s a day for staying up in bed. Except I do want to take Lily for a walk. I need my exercise and so does she. Maybe today we will hunt for honesty. Could be tricky, as people are omitting facts right and left. Oh well. Far be it from me to figure that out. I’m turning things over…right?
Took a listen to a podcast my psychologist brother sent me about healing anxiety for good, and it was all blame the mother, nurture the Inner Child, trying to repackage all the stuff I’ve been working on in therapy since before my brother even knew he wanted to be a therapist. My poor mother, how about giving her a break, she’s simply the product of her fucked up childhood, and trying to do the best she can.
Time for a poem, Philip Larkin’s “This Be The Verse,” maybe Chip’s podcast host needs to do a reading of this gem on her show. Thank God for the poets, probably anxious all, and thank God we didn’t throw them all on Risperdal, for the world would be missing out.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad, they do not mean to, but they do
They fill you with the faults they have, and add some extra, just for you!
But they were fucked up in their day, by fools in old-style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy stern, and half at one another’s throats
Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf
Get out as early as you can
And don’t have kids yourself.
***
And on this happy note, go back to your podcasts, your temples, your massage parlors. For me, it’s Sleepless In Seattle, but I’ve got my hand over my heart now. Guess that’s enough.
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