Happy Tuesday

You'd think after not writing since December, I would be overflowing with topics to write about. Seasons have passed. Loved ones have passed. Valleys of sorrow and mountains of joy, I have passed. (Wow, how freaking cliche.)

Despite all that, my thoughts at the moment, at 5:30 on a Tuesday morning, are filled with my family and coffee. But last night, with pen in hand and journal on my lap as I wrote down some ambien-fueled dreams before falling asleep, the feeling that I could maybe make a difference in the world slowly rose up in my belly. I think my peach tea drowned it slightly by the end of my writing session, but 8 hours later, there is still a bubble of hope.

No, I can't change the world. And I don't even think I want to. What I do want, and maybe think I can do, is lend my voice to those whose have been silenced by stigma and fear. Those who blame themselves. Those who can't put into words the monsters' attacks. Maybe it will give life to a movement of thousands of dead spirits who have been resurrected. Maybe I will get a single one-word email saying, "Thanks."

Hopefully tonight, when I'm back in bed writing the words I don't let the world read, I will be struck with the inspiration and motivation to take those words public, and let them know, they're not alone.

Too Frustrated to Write a Title

I was hoping to write a positive post today. I'm one full month clean. Go me! I've barely thought about hurting myself since I've come home from the hospital, and there haven't even been any close calls. But I'm slipping. It's like I've spent this whole week running downhill as fast as I can to hit rock bottom again.

It's this damn job. Not my new job, the one that I love. The one that leaves me fulfilled and hopeful. It's being a fucking freelance writer. Despite what you may have seen in the movies, it is not a glamorous day. I don't sip espresso and spew creativity. I write bullshit that I am paid pennies for. I sit in the same room for about 22 hours a day. I have a 10 foot radius that I eat all three meals in, work in, relax in, and perform daily chores in. I lose all momentum to write what I enjoy after spending a day writing shit that I don't. Being a freelance writer is actually making me despise my home and my passion.

In order to make this a profitable business for myself, I have to be at 100% every single day. I can't be tired or have a slow day or take a paid vacation. If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't work with boundless energy, efficiently  and up to a dozen people's standards, I get paid shit. Let's not forget that there are days that I am more than ready to write a novel, but no one has any work for me to do. Again, I don't get paid. And then I pace, stare at bill due dates, cry, check my email every 3 minutes hoping someone has sent me an order, hate myself, scour Craig's List for gigs, panic.

This is not the job for someone with bipolar less than one month out of a mental hospital. How the hell am I supposed to be at 100% every day? The stress is getting to me. I'm letting Boyfriend down. I'm letting myself down. I'm proving to everyone that I can't do it. I can't be normal.

So this week, I have been waking up every day dreading what is to come. I sit in front of the computer and feel the hot tears swelling up. But I'm afraid to let them drop because I've been doing so well. But I'm afraid to admit that I'm burnt out and scared.

To Whom it May Concern

Eight years ago, you told me to stop writing. You told me that putting my true feelings to paper could only get me in trouble. You told me that once it is written, I could never take it back. But you didn't consider that I didn't want to take it back, that maybe I had no other way of expressing myself. You chose to ignore the desperate cries for help that were written in those journals. Fuck, you ignored the cries for help etched into my wrist. Instead, you tried to shut me up.

Now, for the first time in my life, I am writing exactly what I feel. And I don't give a damn who reads it. But you don't get to jump in to save the day on your terms. I'm sure you have been following this blog all along and maybe mocking me for my insane behavior or congratulating yourself on being right about what a fuck up I am. Shaking your head, shrugging your shoulders, telling your friends and family, "We tried." Don't think it isn't transparent that you only reach out to me the one day I post about losing hope.

What's really fucked up is that I am more concerned about your thoughts and feelings than my own right now. I want to put on a fake smile, tell you everything will be ok, and shut down this blog. Shut down my one outlet. Again. So that you can feel better, put yourself up on your moral high horse, and take pride in thinking that I can't survive without your compass. But for my sake, I can't do that. I need to keep you at a distance until I can sort out who I can trust and who is a trigger for my insanity.

I'm sorry I don't fit into your vision of a perfect family.
I'm sorry I can't pretend the past didn't happen.
I'm sorry I have mental illnesses I don't know how to control.
I'm sorry you didn't realize this a decade ago.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you how bad it was a decade ago.

I'll probably be sorry I posted this.