Saturday, September 24, 2011

Beware of the Dark Side.

I hate crying.  I've been told it's cathartic.  Now just exactly who told me this and when, I can't remember.  Personally, I think it's a load of crap (pardon my French).  I always feel worse after I cry.  I can't breathe, my eyes are usually swollen shut, and I've made myself sick to my stomach.  Oh, and how I look, this just goes without saying - I'm as gruesome as I feel. 

For those of you who are attached to my Facebook pages, you know that I've been going through a rough patch of depression lately.  It's an ugly thing this bi-polar business.  It seems like I'm ok in the mornings, but towards the afternoon, I start sliding backwards again.  It better not happen today because Eric, my husband and knight in shining armour, has come down with a terrible head cold, there are flies hovering around two days worth of dirty dishes, and the kids are now eating breakfast foods for most of their meals.  Is there any redeeming nourishment in a Pop-Tart?  I think not.

So, today I must pull myself up by my boot straps.  Boots?  Why would I wear boots on a lovely 84 degree day like today?  Perhaps my flip flops, yes - that's sounds better.  I think a shower might make me feel good.  Did I get it wrong when I thought those flies were hovering around the dirty dishes?  After all, I am sitting in the kitchen too.  They've been swirling closer to me than I care to admit.  I smell like a piece of over ripe something or other.  Yes, a shower might be in order here.  Grocery shopping.  Oh no.  Costco on a Saturday.  That's enough to make me want to curl back into a fetal position and suck my thumb all over again.  There's nothing worse than dealing with people when I'm in recovery mode.  I'll ignore them.  Yup.  They'll be invisible.  Bring on those screaming babies.  I can't wait. 

In talking with my parish priest once about my diagnosis, he told me something profound.  He said that I needed to give them names - my highs and my lows.  I can't change my diagnosis, I can only live with it.  The manic sides are a part of me, of who I am.  My highs make me silly, lovable, goofy.  My lows make me introspective, dramatic, profound.  When they're brought together I am one, united in a central character.  When they shift, I need to understand them and nurture them.  I haven't come so far as to name them yet.  I still haven't come to terms with appreciating them, especially the dark side of me.  In fact, I hate the Bastard.  He makes me cry and I hate crying.  How can I possibly embrace a side of me that makes me look gruesome for three days?  Obviously, this relationship will take some time.   
    

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