Well, Shit

This the worst I think I've been since being diagnosed. I'm nauseous. I feel hollow. My heart hurts. My head hurts. I don't want to kill myself but sure as shit don't want to be alive. I know what I have but am blinded by what I don't. I hate this disease. It takes over and makes me awful. Yes. I've been taking my medication. No I haven't called my therapist. I'm trying to see about a new one. Yes I left her a message. I'm hoping she calls back soon. I don't know if she handles this. I have an appointment with my medication therapist next Friday. Something needs to change. I'm so exhausted by this. I want to curl up and die. Putting Monkey through this is so unfair to her. It's so unfair that I did everything right and I'm still going trough this. And explaining to someone that yes, I know what's real, the problem is all this feels real too. That I'm going to be alone forever. No one wants me. I don't want me, why would anyone else? I was truly happy for a brief moment but I don't get to keep it. How do I know I will find that again? I need to KNOW. Why is it wrong to want what everyone else has? Why can't I have that too? Why can't he drop everything to help me right now? We've seen when I'm good I can handle things. We know this. I stepped aside when she needed his help. I said I'd wait and do what I could to help. But when it's me, I'm told not to be selfish and manipulative. How is a fucking disease I was most likely born with manipulative of anyone other than me??? It's so hard not to just scream at the top of my lungs until I have no voice. Or break everything I can get my hands on. "Hulk smash!" Maybe that's what was wrong with Bruce Banner. I want to cut my heart out, toss it in the trash and just walk away. I want to vomit so much I finally just pass out. Or maybe I should just dope up until I'm a zombie (hello Prozac). If I can't feel it won't hurt. There's no cat for me to get at the end of this. Marti would be jealous. For how much this hurts I'm angry I won't have any external injuries to show for this. I want to look as beat up as I feel. And I want to be able to say, "You should see the other guy.". A writer I am not. Paragraphs that make sense don't flow from me. Stream of consciousness makes sense to me if I read it months later or even if it's someone else's consciousness. Puffy eyes. Tear stains on my cheeks. Exhaustion in my face. Pants that will fall off me soon. This is the face of a crash victim of bi polar. Not a scar or bruise to be seen, but I wish there was. I'd have war wounds from my battles. Claw marks that run across my body. Get mauled by a tiger, everyone can tell. Get mauled by bi polar, you're the only one. Get over it. Get back to work, to life. Snap out of it. You're being a baby. Believe me. I would do just that if I could.

The problem is I can't.