This is what I write to myself in my planner lately: Run (ha, sure, we’ll see, you sad sack), find a job, figure out your fucking shit, get yourself together, stop being such a waste of space, STOP BEING A FUCKING FAILURE, YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOT.
I cannot. I think I might be inching closer to “okay,” whatever the fuck that means, but I still cannot really breathe. I feel as though I have been having a panic attack since the middle of December, and it still feels like my fault that the world is not back under me yet. It feels like everything could fall apart again at the drop of a hat, and, to be fair, I’m kind of the one who started the landslide in the first place.
I long for change, for growth, without casualty.
My back hurts, and I cannot breathe. Maybe this is some load-bearing panic right here, and, if I really breathe again, this whole thing comes crashing down entirely. (Maybe that would be for the best, actually? I am not ready.)
Back at the coffee shop. I pretend that I write better when I’m not at home, but, really, I just feel better when another human hands me a warm vanilla coffee-monstrosity. Hands me a warm drink like someone loves me. I like that I had to put on my shoes to get over here. Proof that I am still willing to move, even though hunching over in this chair is HURTING MY FUCKING BACK.
Back at the coffee shop, where oh, how I intend to write us something beautiful. I even opened up a shiny new Google doc. I stared at it for a while, fingers trembling against my coffee cup. (I am still shaking most of the time.) I finally just wrote, “I don’t know. I’M SAD.”
I DON’T KNOW. I’M SAD.
BUT I PUT ON SHOES TO GET HERE, SO THAT’S SOMETHING, RIGHT?
I am tired, and my back hurts, and I am decidedly not ready for the Princess Half Marathon at the end of the month, and I don’t really feel like I deserve to go to Disney World at all, I don’t feel like I have earned Mickey’s pride, and, fuck, I hated typing that.
Here is what I’m trying to remind myself, and maybe we can remind one another, we can keep one another honest: I am a person with a mental illness. My bipolar II feels all over the place lately. I’ve been mostly depressed for a long time, but lately, I find myself wanting to drink too much and stay awake until 3 am. I can’t even focus on watching a movie, because I need to be writing, talking, thinking, constantly expressing myself, I have so much that I need to say, and sometimes it’s all easier to do when I have had too much wine.
Everything about this was always going to be awful, and also, I happen to be bipolar. I fucking hate it. It’s been over three years since the diagnosis, and I’m mostly fine, but sometimes I still want to climb a building King Kong-style, and howl into the wind about how unfair this is. About how I am an okay person, and how I should not have a brain that is chemically disposed to hate me. We are supposed to be on a team together, Brain. You fucking dick.
Because what if we never really get anything accomplished? What if we are always at odds, this brain of mine and I? What if there is a multiverse (my obsession lately) wherein I don’t have this disorder, and damn, what are they out there accomplishing? Does that Dani have an Oscar already? Damn.
Or am I just using this as an excuse? Am I just lazy and untalented? Is it just easy to blame my mental illness for everything I haven’t done yet? For the things I probably will not do?
At the coffee shop still. My fancy latte is finished. I do not feel like I deserved it, do not feel like I deserve anything nice. My back hurts, and my fingers wobble against the keyboard.
My fancy latte is finished, and I do not know how to finish this particular ramble-nightmare. I’m sorry that I am so repetitive.
I cannot climb a building, so I will just howl here instead:
YOU ARE GOOD. YOU ARE PLENTY. YOU ARE EXQUISITE IN ALL YOUR WONKY IMPERFECTIONS, AND I ADORE YOU.
All we have to do for now is put our shoes on.