Control:Or, Hanging By My Fingertips From The Rim Of My Own Asshole
I've been having moments lately...
The meds I've been taking aren't quite having as much of a balancing effect on my moodswings. There's a chance my new RN will tell me to up it to three times a day. Nine hundred milligrams of lithium a day, kinda like swallowing a battery every day just to keep me from having moments like this. I'm just barely squeaking past most of my classes, praying to whoever'll listen that I'll get enough grant/loan money to keep me in classes and a roof over my head next semester. I'm in a new apartment, a better, less roachy apartment. An apartment that costs me twenty three bucks more than the old shithole. There's a group of interesting and entertaining people I hang out with between classes.
Not that I call them friends. Anyone that knows me knows that I don't DO friends. Just varying degrees of associate. Comrades-in-arms against a world of homework and just making it through the day.
But the six million dollar question is.. when did I stop finishing "I'm still alive.." with "which means I must be doing something wrong." and start using "which means I'm not trying hard enough."?
The upswings hit hard and fast like a sucker punch to the gut. A rush of thought and emotion and panic so strong it pushes the air out of my chest. A feeling not unlike having a celtic line dancer bust a routine on my abdomen. A heart attack wrapped in silk. The downs come softer now, sliding up to grab a hold of my spine and mind to the point I don't even bother saying my goodbyes. I just pack up and slip out, suddenly in the mood for no company other than my own feelings of worthlessness.
It's all going to end ugly, I can feel it.
Here (reluctantly), Shyfty
The meds I've been taking aren't quite having as much of a balancing effect on my moodswings. There's a chance my new RN will tell me to up it to three times a day. Nine hundred milligrams of lithium a day, kinda like swallowing a battery every day just to keep me from having moments like this. I'm just barely squeaking past most of my classes, praying to whoever'll listen that I'll get enough grant/loan money to keep me in classes and a roof over my head next semester. I'm in a new apartment, a better, less roachy apartment. An apartment that costs me twenty three bucks more than the old shithole. There's a group of interesting and entertaining people I hang out with between classes.
Not that I call them friends. Anyone that knows me knows that I don't DO friends. Just varying degrees of associate. Comrades-in-arms against a world of homework and just making it through the day.
But the six million dollar question is.. when did I stop finishing "I'm still alive.." with "which means I must be doing something wrong." and start using "which means I'm not trying hard enough."?
The upswings hit hard and fast like a sucker punch to the gut. A rush of thought and emotion and panic so strong it pushes the air out of my chest. A feeling not unlike having a celtic line dancer bust a routine on my abdomen. A heart attack wrapped in silk. The downs come softer now, sliding up to grab a hold of my spine and mind to the point I don't even bother saying my goodbyes. I just pack up and slip out, suddenly in the mood for no company other than my own feelings of worthlessness.
It's all going to end ugly, I can feel it.
Here (reluctantly), Shyfty