And so on from that song that was in The Sword in the Stone. This line is the main one of interest.
Which is to say yeah, I’m down. I’m keeping it together, but I’m down. I almost started sobbing Sunday for absolutely no reason. I snarkily attributed it to an early case of the Mondays, because why not. Humour is my weapon against The Pit, and I will use it until I can’t any longer. My BFFFFF bat knows that if I can’t crack a joke, then I’m in incredibly dangerous territory. So yeah, weathered that.
And then Monday. Monday… I just wanted to go back to bed. I don’t do that, because I can’t risk a nap attack. Naps have always made me feel incredibly shitty, like I was tossed in a sack and bashed to bits. And of course, if for some reason I drift off and take one, it fucks up my night sleep, which is fragile and rigidly maintained as the #1 non-medicinal weapon against bipolar. So wanting to do that is a pretty good sign of wanting to check out in a massive way. Seriously, the only thing I managed was:
Step 1: Vaguely wash a spoon
Step 2: Feed toddler with it
Seriously. That was the extent of it. I was well proud of myself for it. I think I might’ve managed some dishes later, but I felt so physically worn out and sore that movement was beyond me.
And today? Well. I got work done. I did dishes. I’ve bathed so that I can be normal passing for an outing tomorrow. Having that outing to look forward to helped me get through today, though I half-suspect that tomorrow it’s going to make me anxious and wanting to hide. I don’t know. It’s going to be a nice meal out with friends and my husband, which is something we don’t get a lot of since having the second kiddo. I don’t know. Even thinking about it is exhausting.
I guess I’m annoyed. Does this mean the meds don’t work anymore? Does it mean they won’t work at a higher dose? Does it mean I need to go through the pain in the ass of changing them? I don’t really know. It’s not as bad as when I was off of meds, but like… *waves hands* It’s still bad? It’s not ‘supposed’ to be happening anymore sort of thing. But is it bad enough to warrant calling Dr. K? She’s adamant that I should contact her without hesitation if I think I need help, but what if this is just a momentary dip into the Fetid Pool o’ Depression? I know it’s legit ’cause I can taste the chemical sad as I have times in the past, even if it’s just the faintest taste swirling around the edges of my tongue.
Eh. What can you do. I guess I’m going to try to see if I can focus on my knitting a bit, though my focus continues to escape me. I guess I blew the clandestine-to-me daily allotment in getting work done earlier or something. So it sometimes goes.
Hope y’all are doing well.