day three again
two of those. two of these. two of that. oh and two more of those for 5:00AM, along with two of this.
don’t forget to take your medicine.
Colored World in Black and White
day three
i’m overwhelmed.
1. school applications are all finished, but I somehow have to come up with the $600 I still owe Davidson before my transcripts can be sent.
speaking of Davidson, let’s set the record straight. I did not get kicked out of Davidson. I did not get kicked out of Davidson. I did not get kicked out of Davidson. I left, because my grades were fucked, my financial aid was taken (paid my whole tuition and room and board and books and everything), and I didn’t want to take out a loan to finish. I was in a really bad place and taking out a loan to fail some more didn’t seem like a good idea.
actually, Dean Bray wants me to come back. so run and tell that like y’all did the “news” that I got kicked out last year when I left.
what I don’t get is that I’m an open person. I am not ashamed of who I am, what I do, and what I’ve been through. if y’all wanted to know what was up, all you had to do was ask. instead you let your minds wander to something you wanted to believe. rude.
2. trying to get a job. delta and american are interested in me, and I have an interview with American in a week. delta just called me and told me to get my passport. that costs money too, so I’m stressed about that. I am a bit low on funds after giving my sister money for Greece.
3. trying to get a business off the ground when you’re working full time and applying for jobs and trying to go back to school is hard work. I don’t regret getting the ball rolling, though.
4. weight issues. if you’re close to me, you know my disordered eating past/present. that deserves its own post.
while overwhelmed, I’d rather be busy than not. when I’m not, my mind starts to get weird and bad things happen.
something else has been on my mind, though. when I was in and out of the counseling center, struggling my ass off, seeing deans, everything, for almost a year….how come nobody caught this sooner? I feel like I was just in the shitter for a long time, and no one was really giving me help that I needed. people who’s job it was to help. with the exception of Dean Bray, I’m going to say they really fucked up. prolonged my shitty shit days, threw me on whatever meds they could think of, just threw me on new meds when they weren’t working, and told me to get better.
the fuck?
day two
being diagnosed as bi polar is terrifying.
I was looking for help. I felt like my life was falling apart and at some point, I realized that I couldn’t help myself. I knew I was depressed. no, not “aw man I can’t go out tonight”. I was “oh man, why am I alive”, “I hope I don’t wake up tomorrow”, “maybe I should just end things now”, depressed.
when my psychiatrist told me I could be bi polar, I was devastated. worried. afraid. I talked with her about the feelings I was having and things that were going on in my life, and how I was acting. she took a lot of notes, and said she would hold off on a diagnosis until she reviewed them.
after I got the official diagnosis, I spent a good amount of time crying. I wanted help, but I wasn’t expecting this. the black community isn’t big on mental health, what would I tell my family? they didn’t even know I was seeing someone. what did the diagnosis mean for me? I spent hours on the internet, trying to figure out just how crazy I was. but looking at the symptoms, things started to make sense. and I can’t deny how much better I feel on medication. all in all, I’m happy to have finally sought out and received the help that I needed to live my life.
I hate when I reveal to someone that I was recently diagnosed as bi polar and they say “no you’re not, blah blah blah”. please, don’t try to tell me about my life, asshole. knowing and seeing me occasionally does not mean that you know everything about me and my actions and my brain. so fuckity fuck off.
when I go to the doctor or to therapy, the worst part for me is the waiting room. I get uncomfortable. I feel like I don’t belong, yet damn near everyone in there shares my skin tone. some people are homeless. some live in shelters. most are struggling. my anxiety gets rough and I start to worry about ending up in that kind of situation. where would I go if I spent too much money during a manic episode, and got kicked out of my apartment? how woud I eat? how would I get my medication? it’s not far fetched, because I’ve spent way too much money before, on shit I don’t even need. what if I get so irritable that I say something out of line to a coworker? to my boss? it scares me.
this is all a process. I don’t plan on waking up and feeling “cured”. the medication helps but I still have rough times.
a few weeks back I was planning hardcore to commit suicide. something sent me into a rage, and I told someone I loved that I hated him. I said some pretty nasty things and then he told me that he wasn’t talking to me anymore. I didn’t care. Later, when I had calmed down, I thought I was done. I hated myself, and I was just sick of thinking things were better when I felt like they weren’t. so I started making plans. I deleted my facebook and twitter so nobody would leave lame ass messages about how they missed me. I planned lunch with my sister so I could see her one last time before I did it. I started packing things up around my room so whoever came to get my things didn’t have a lot to do. I debated about whether or not to leave a letter, decided not to. I picked a place, I picked a time, I picked a method. and if it wasn’t for the persistence of the same person I had told I hated, I am positive I wouldn’t be here today. I didn’t want him to suffer because of something I did. I didn’t want my sister to be fucked up like me because of what I did. he said my sister needed me, and he said he didn’t want me to do it. and I slept on it. I woke up, and I thought I had made up my mind. I had what I thought was my final lunch with my sister. I called him afterwards.
and because of his words, I’m still here. but I’m afraid of the day when the possibility of other people’s suffering and pain do not seem to outweigh my own.
because then, I’m in trouble.
day one
some days, I would rather be unstable. let me explain.
being out of control is easy. effortless. some days I want to die, and other times I feel fanfuckingtastic. and that’s how I’ve learned to live my life. adapt and survive. my extreme moods, my strange thoughts, they’re expected. they’re almost predictable, if I’m thinking clearly (whatever that means?). long ago, I began to tell myself that I was okay with all of it. things get shitty pretty regularly, but I just thought, “this is the life I was given, so this is the life that I’m living”.
control is hard, and I’m never really sure if it’s worth it. take your medicine. see the psychiatrist. go to therapy. try to stay on top of things. keep relationships healthy. don’t take on too much. keep stress levels low. take your medicine. try to sleep. focus on getting “better”.
but what is “better”, exactly? this is who I am. so who will I be, what will I be, when I am “better”?
there is a constant stream of thoughts on my thoughts in my head. and right now it’s telling me that this isn’t worth it. oh, and please don’t forget to take your medicine.
