So I have been riding the outskirts of mania, writing a lot, overly excited at a new relationship, obsessing over it, etc. (you know how being bipolar gets you). But sleep is my greatest enemy. I mean I can’t do it. I have had the hardest time with sleep this month than I ever had in my life. Is it because I am manic? I am so damn tired. So tired. And I lay there in bed and the thoughts come. About life, people, looking for a job, etc. I can’t seem to shake this.
This kills me because I have one night where I sleep 8 hours, (to me this means 4 hours wake up then sleep for another 2-4 hours). What I would kill to have a full 8 hour night rest! I am sitting here obsessing. I am sitting here exhausted. I am just sitting here. God I hate this illness. I hate it with a passion. What would it be like to be normal? To have a family, kids, a rewarding career (which I had but crashed and burned), and just be OK.
I have been struggling with so many things. My spirituality for one is being tested. What would it be like to pray again and not be scared that I go nuts and see visions again. I mean the God I hold in my heart did open doors for me that led me to truths that I wouldn’t have seen, but damn in my lucid states I want to call out to Him.
I am half asleep, half awake. I am struggling so much. I have the need to write which is good, but even writing I have been doing too much of. I am falling apart and I can’t handle it. The one person I want to text and tell this to I can’t because I feel I would be overstepping boundaries. “Just play it cool” Ugh. I can’t even call my best friend, because he is sleeping and today is his first day at his new job and I don’t want to ruin HIS sleep. Ruining sleep by proxy, there’s a new one.
Ugh, I hate you bipolar, I hate everything about you. You ruined my life, and you kill me a little more each day. I just want to be rid of you and all your ailments. Sometimes I even hate my parents because I know its from them that I get this horrible disease. My mom definitely has it but she won’t admit it, and my dad well he is a controlling raging alcoholic that I ran from when I was 15. But I shouldn’t complain. Years later I find myself back in their home, and I have to say I have a pretty good life. But damn, I am so tired. So exhausted. Mentally, physically. God won’t you take this from me?