We never speak anymore. You go off in your little world of dreams and fantasies, and I live in my bleak shadows.
It's like we're two different people.
But we're not.
There's me, when I'm on top of the world. When nothing can bring me down, and I can stay up for days, running on fumes because the high is just so high.
And then there's me, when I'm under it, crushed by its weight. When nothing can drag me up, and it takes all my energy just to get out of bed.
Today is one of the latter days.
The doctors say to 'diet and exercise' - nevermind that they don't give a good idea of what to at or which movements will help the most. I suppose anything would do, wouldn't it?
It's supposed to make you feel better.
I stayed up too late last night, and couldn't stay asleep this morning. I'm feeling queasy and sick.
I like telling stories, but I don't have thoughts of my own. I ... extrapolate, on other thoughts.
My head is all over the place, a billion pieces that all say 'suck.'
So when I got up this morning, it was still morning, and so I thought to myself, "Let's accomplish something!" ... only no forward progress was made on any goals, and I quickly got frustrated, depressed, and self-loathing.
Depression, they call the one. Bipolar, they amend, when they hear about the other.
Mom thinks it's an autoimmune thing. Hashimoto's disease or disorder or some such thing - it starts, just as the doctors told me so long ago, "Like your thyroid caught a cold."
Only it never quite seems to have gotten better.
Of course, that kind of thing just doesn't. If it's how she thinks it is, then I'm stuck, because not only is it a lifelong sentence, but the doctors don't understand this kind of shit well enough to even diagnose it half the time, much less actually treat it.
- Crashing from the high.
