And really, am I greedy for wanting more? Things aren’t perfect, but as we know, perfection is a dangerous distraction. I’m a recovering perfectionist myself, and I know just how detrimental the concept is when applied to anyone, regardless if it’s done externally or internally. I might be a bit tired. My brain might be a bit on and off, but I feel like I’m actually doing a better job of living right now. I’m spending more time paying attention to my family, which of course, is always an awesome thing. I know that my husband appreciates it, ’cause it spells him enough that I’ve actually spotted him trying to play video games when the kiddo is awake. I’m happier, I think he’s happier, and I’m sure the little one likes having another person to pester for attention (which I’m not so good at doling out when I’m trapped in my sanity bubble).
Then I find myself asking the stupidest question — do I want too much? Deity forbid I want to feel good and enjoy life by default, ha ha. Obviously, I know it can’t all be good times, even for the most neurotypical person. But my baseline has been so pleasant since I started the antidepressant in late May that I have hopes that it can be just that little bit better. Pandora’s box is open for me — there’s actually hope. It’s sort of neat. It doesn’t trick me into thinking I should stop my meds (perish the thought!), or that I should take on gargantuan tasks, but well enough that I’m at least feeling able to challenge myself in little ways, like going for the NaNoWriMo badge this month over at 750words.com. I’m hoping that it will stretch me to a point where I can tackle ‘real’ NaNo in November again… we’ll see.
I also accept that I cannot do all the things I used to do when I was so broken that adding more weight to the pile wasn’t going to make a difference to my health (’cause yanno, health didn’t exist). And as good as I do feel, I have to keep reminding myself that I am still mentally ill, and will always likely be. I don’t feel particularly burdened by this, but then, I’ve only known definitively for less than two years, so it’s not had time to make me feel anything but relieved to know. But as said, there’s hope these days — it makes me think that maybe I’ll be able to take on doing more things that I enjoy and that I won’t find them to be a crushing burden. After all, now that I’m kind of out of the sanity bubble, I’d like to stay in the ‘real’ world.
So yeah, I guess I can say I’m worried I’ll screw it up somehow, or I’ll become complacent and get shivved by the bipolar. Which, I guess, is my true normal, ha ha. I guess if I can keep myself busy, but not too busy, it will be alright… if still dancing along the knife edge. Just ’cause it seems to be blunted to the intensity of left-handed safety scissors doesn’t mean it’s still not a narrow ledge, easy to fall off of. Still, if I can manage this semi-serene thing, the balancing should stay a bit easier. At least, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.