The Uninspired Babe

I haven't posted in awhile because I've been vegging on the couch between doctor's appointments. Literally. I've thought about blogging, but have felt so wholly uninspired, that just lifting the lid to my laptop seemed to be a Herculean effort. (That didn't stop me from getting on Facebook or Twitter, though. Go figure.)

Truth is, I just haven't had anything to say that didn't sound angry or whiney or dark. I've been fighting against the persistent depression that's had a hold on me for some time now, and the last thing I wanted to do was write about it. Even as I sit here, willing the words to come forth from my fingertips, I pause wondering what the hell should come next.

I always want to write something worth reading. Something that might be entertaining, but also give some insight to me and how I view being Bipolar, my world, my life. It's a mixed bag, and if I allow myself to take it to morose levels in my writing, it will just swallow me alive. It's already so dark in my head, my expression of it has to show it with the levity that's there or I just can't bear it. You see, it's not that I don't ever take any of it seriously whatsoever. I probably take it way too seriously. Writing is supposed to be therapeutic, and also my way of destigmatizing it for the masses. Understand y'all...we suffer greatly. Some of us cannot break free from the gripping pain and fear even for a minute. So much so we reach out with a tenacious grasp for anyone who will listen or help and can seem or be so very needy. Others retreat completely inward and seek the solitude of ourselves. I tend to be the latter, and this is my way of grasping the proverbial log that keeps me from going under. My humor, if it can be called that, has always been my saving grace--even though it sometimes surfaces at inappropriate moments. Remember, it's a life preserver in difficult times. My inflatable banana in the murky pool of sadness.

I've had a lot of episodes of paranoia lately, which has left me feeling lost and discouraged. Fearful that I might not recover and reach a place of normalcy ever again. I couldn't find any humor in that at all. It left me feeling beat by my illness, hollow and impotent. Hardly any levity or humor in that. Alterations in the dosages in my medications did not prove helpful, so stubborn is this particular episode of depression, of these psychotic features. With the addition of the anti-depressants, the spector of mania looms large. What awaits me around the corner? More hallucinations? No humor there, just a blanket of fear and anxiety. Not worth reading, I thought.

In the end, I decided this was about me, more than about any readers I may have (but probably don't!) This is part of my therapy, so after much conversation with Mr. PolarBabe, I'm putting it out there. Sometimes PolarBabe is paralyzed by the destruction that sometimes comes with being Bipolar. I have to focus on it being temporary, that the symptoms will not last forever, otherwise I will go back to wanting to kill myself to make it stop. I have to cling to that being a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Think of it as water wings to go with my inflatable banana. An inner tube might be something to look into too. You can never be too safe when you're in the sadness pool...

PolarBabe