Tired

When I wake up in the morning, after a very full night of sleep (thanks to what I call my "sleepy medicine,") I am still tired.

My body is tired: my brain is tired: but, most of all, my soul is tired.

I pull out my arsenal of medications which makes me look like someone with a terminal illness, and swallow them down, every day hoping that it will instantly fix me.

My soul still hurts.

I hope this doesn't become a terminal illness. Don't panic. No need to call the suicide hotline or the local officials to intervene.  Sadly, I've already been there.

I don't feel completely hopeless; not like it was before, but my soul remains injured.

We recently moved into a beautiful home;  the one that we'd been waiting for. I hasn't been so busy moving, unpacking, arranging, while keeping a house going.

I have even been ironing. I fucking hate ironing with a burning passion.

My substitute teaching has keep me busy nearly every day although my doctor recommended no more than three days per week.

I just feel like I need to contribute to the family finances because I've been such a drain. My husband insists that I haven't, but that loud, annoying voice on my head says differently.

I'd like to talk that voice and punch it in the goddamn throat.

With all this going on, it has kept me beyond busy.

Did I mention that I've also been volunteering in my children's classrooms?

What the hell am I doing?

What the hell have I been thinking??

Naturally, I have hit the wall. Not just run into it exactly. I look like a squashed bug on a windshield.

I hate bipolar.

Hate.

I am such a machine when I'm up, but I'm a waste of life when I'm down. Today I'm down. How am I supposed to deal with 1st graders, kindergarteners (did I spell that right?), and second graders, in gym class no less, this morning.

I know in my gut that I will make someone cry today. Not intentionally, but they will cry just the same.

The fourth and sixth graders (my son's class) will be perfectly content beating each other up in dodgeball (thank the lord above) so I'll get a reprieve from teaching, but it's often those reprieves that get to me, to my heart.

It makes me start thinking.

That can sometimes be a very dangerous thing, can't it?

Back to Work

It's the first week of school.  I am substitute teaching this year.  I thought that I would have a couple of weeks between my children going back to school and getting called in to work.

I mean, what self-respecting teacher takes a day off during the first week of school?

Well....I failed to account for meetings, games, teachers so far tenured that they have accumulated months off in a nine-month-a-year gig...

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy and relieved financially to get back to a routine, but I didn't realize how dependent I was becoming on those precious few weeks  that I had created in my mind.  

I've been having a really rough go of it in the afternoons and into the evening. 

I've become short, snappy, and nit-picky: fidgety, uncomfortable, and often incoherent.

My poor husband.  My poor children.  Hell, my poor cats...

Especially when one is working, one depends on the peace and comfort of their home once they finish a hard-day's-work.

The truth is, I'm almost scared to go home in the evenings.

I hate that feeling.  Super bad.

Plus, being a substitute teacher is difficult in that there is a fine line between keeping order and wanting to be the "cool" sub.  

Now try adding anxiety to that.  

This is truly a recipe for a disaster.  

Ah, to hell with being the "cool" sub.  I'd rather they shut the f&^% up.

BLACK AND WHITE

Black is my favorite color.  Not because I am viciously morbid, or because I worship the devil.  I just happend to like the color.  I don't think I should have to defend myself.

Some people may not like my choice of color, but if you want to get technical, black contains all of the colors of the rainbow, added together.  So really...I enjoy every color - as long as they combine to make black.

So, why in the hell am I talking about my favorite color?  This is the kind of question you discuss in early elementary school.

I'm discussing the color black because it is often the color that I (and most people) associate with depression.  When someone is "down," they prefer dark rooms, dark clothes, dark clouds, and generally have bleak and dark thoughts. 

Through my bipolar, I have discovered that I can begin the day brightly.  As I become productive and feel okay about myself, I can feel my colors working their way toward green or yellow.  Perhaps, I decide to do something to feed my soul, such as yoga, drawing, or reading.  As my day draws to it's close, I may be close to purple/white...

Unfortunately, what has been happening lately is that I begin my day colorfully.  However, I can never forget the fact that I also have Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  With both of these mood disorders, it is nearly impossible to maintain a stability of color.

Where I am in my recovery, newly dealing with my bipolar and throwing in the GAD.  There are far and few in between times that I feel terrific: like I am worthwhile.  I feel like I can handle identifying with white.  However, there are times, often in the same day (or maybe several times in the same day) that I feel I deserve no more than the color black.