21 September 2013

Journal 3

September 20, 2013. Saturday. Depression 8. Anxiety 9. Took Klonopin. Slept for a few hours. Naturally, the problem didn't go away.

I now have to fight to keep Medicaid. I lose my insurance on the 30th, because, you guessed it, I'm not disabled enough for it.

Nobody will listen to me. I really cannot work. I can barely function on an even basis. Who am I kidding? I can't even do that.

I live my life on a minute to minute, day by day basis. I have to. Being bipolar taught me that. Being abused in every way imaginable taught me that. It is the best way to survive. Having no plans in stone is better, too. Less room for failure.

I've failed at life. I'm almost 33. I live with and off of Dad. I can't get a job, let alone keep one. Stress sets off my bipolar something fierce. I cycle almost daily when under extreme stress, then I collapse into a catatonic state.

I've already noted that my family sucks, on both sides. All they see is a kid when they look at me. And damaged goods. And treat me as such. It really pisses me off, everyone playing mind games with their passive aggressive emotional blackmail. Then they all try to intrude and act like they're my mother. They don't realize that Mom was on my side.

Anyway, this bipolar I have? Yeah, you could say it interferes with my life. I was forced out of college. I couldn't handle the stress of a full load of upper level literature and history classes. I'd go real manic at the beginning of the semester and as the work got more tedious I would cycle down, missing classes, failing tests, writing shitty papers because I couldn't spare the energy to do anything up to my standards. I even have a medical withdrawal one semester because the bipolar was eating my soul.

And today...

Stressful as well. Money, loans, medicine, this doctor, that doctor. Is anything really helping? They fucking know that I'm bipolar and they rip my insurance, leaving Dad to pay for everything. He can't afford it. He should be retired. He can't. Because of me.

For the most part, leaving the house is a chore. Too many people. The only place I'm comfortable out there is the lake. I force myself to call, text or visit with anyone right now. I just want to sleep and hide from the bullshit for awhile. But I force myself to be up, running around, so the depression doesn't devour me. I do know that if I didn't have these meds life would suck more. So they're working.

Maybe I'll write a book about bipolar: The Cycles of Life or some such cliche.

7pm Depresson 4, anxiety 5.

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