Tornado Brain

Another night of waking up pretty much every two hours on the dot. No idea what that is about. I do know when the alarm went off I hit snooze six times and was going for a seventh until I realized my kid wasn’t going to permit it. So I dragged my cobwebbed brain out of bed and went through the motions. Lately I’ve just been blasting music first thing to wake myself up.
What it doesn’t do is make me feel ready to face the day.
I don’t want to deal with people.
I already regret agreeing to the playdate for Spook tonight. God, I don’t want to be around anyone.
And that stupid flat tire has cost me three weekends of dog sitting for my dad since they paid for the repair. Seven plus hours outside my bubble in the boondocks with some chick making trouble all because she couldn’t even dogsit properly.
I want out.
Out of this rat race. It’s moving too fast for me and I just want out.
I can’t do this social thing, I swear to god it’s killing me. It’s like forcing yourself to put on the smile mask 24-7 and after awhile, the pain is just unbearable. Smiling becomes a synonym for pain and exertion.

I really hate the manic crashes. I had a good streak, four days of morning mania. The evening crashes suck, of course. But I had some consistency for a few hours for a few days. It’s something, right?
There’s celebrating little victories and then there’s just pathetic desperation for grabbing at straws.
I feel like I am grabbing at straws.
I don’t want to go back to bed. I don’t want to be awake. I definitely do not want to deal with people.
My brain is swirling like a funnel cloud.
My misanthropy is in high gear. I mean, I put myself out there and well…One more person reminds me of why I fucking hate people and prefer cats and computers for company. Seriously? This is what life is for m? Mood swings and people proving me right for being a misanthrope?

About the only time I feel even a flicker of hope for humanity is watching television shows and hell, why not. It’s FICTION. Good people are fiction.

I keep reminding myself I’m just bored and if I were back in my writing bubble, all would be less sucky.
But without that escape I am lost and shambling about like a zombie but I can’t even work up the energy to demand brains to eat.
I can’t even work up the motivation to feed myself even though my stomach is rumbling.
I keep thinking, well, I can breathe the next day. Except my kid has Sunday school the next day. And while she’s the one who goes and technically, I get an hour break…I spend that hour watching the clock, worrying if she’s okay, scared if she’s even five minutes late being returned.
I swear the experience of life itself is making me crazy because I am ill equipped to keep up with the fast pace. Things weren’t always like this. Least I don’t remember them being like this. Of course, I had a whole life prior to being diagnosed bipolar, then there was the brain damage from the drug interaction so..I have blank patches in my memory. Maybe life was always this fast paced and my swiss cheese brain simply doesn’t recall.

I prattle a lot. I can’t seem to stop. I’ve got so much swirling in my brain it’s almost like having the flu and needing to throw up. Except I do the written purge. And I end up saying nothing profound or even remotely interesting but it’s a compulsion.

My stomach is knotted. My hands are sweaty. I’m back to the “when did I shower last” thing. My brain is on obsessive compulsive duty. Taking little things that shouldn’t even be in my peripheral mind let alone consuming the largest space. It’s like a mental flogging that never lets up. And it’s part of the cyclothymia, I know. There are times during the depressions when I will do something that maybe warrants some ocd pondering and yet…it just floats away like a balloon going up into the sky.
No, this is definitely part of the mood cycle.

I want off this roller coaster, out of this tornado.
I want out.
But there is no out of your own mind.
I feel like a part of me is about to shut down. Not because I want it to but because I’ve overloaded the circuits and that breaker switch is going to flip at any moment.
Me, me, me. I feel, me, me…
God, mental illness is a self absorbed illness.
But you are supposed to write what you know. Sadly, this is what I know.

My gut is begging me not to go out into the dish.
My sweaty palms are reminding me I really need a shower.
My give a damn is busted.
Not sure it ever really worked anyway.
I’ve spent so much of my life on auto pilot and circuit protection shut down…
I don’t know anything else.

Bipolar really is like being under the influence. One minute I am ten feet tall, bulletproof, and I love who I am. The next, I am full of self loathing, no hope, and fairly certain my only purpose on earth has been as a welcome mat for shitty people to step on.

Of course, that sounds self pitying and I don’t pity myself. Lots of people have it much worse. I am strong, I have managed. I may have dents in my psyche but I keep fighting. I’ve got moxie. No reason to pity someone who keeps trying their hardest.

Empathy from those around me would be nice, but again…That’s me making demands on people who simply don’t have that skillset.

Is it possible to be allergic to yourself?
Because I am breaking out in hives and my scalp is tingling and…
Crazy is knocking again.

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5 Responses to “Tornado Brain”

  1. *clicks dislike button* bastard bastard bastard bipolar disorder.

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