Tiffany Marvelous (dominamia) wrote in bipolar_ljers,
Tiffany Marvelous

how i knew i was sick, and what i want to do about it

cut because this is one long ass diatribe:

What is it called when you accept that what you are doing to yourself isn't 'living', but the the thought of dying isn't an acceptable alternative?

Is it a clusterfuck? Or is it just 'stasis' for someone who is mentally ill and doesn't want to fuck up anyone else?

I know that at one point I was capable of so much. I graduated high school without any std's or illegitimate children, I went to college and had jobs to pay for my living expenses.

All the while, I knew there was something inside me that wasn't me. It wasn't separate from me, but more or less a duality. There was me, then there were parts of me that didn't act sensibly, or rationally. I knew that healthy people didn't carve into themselves (literally) when a weight gained occurred, the grade wasn't desirable, or felt slighted for whatever reason.

I also understood that most people didn't feel like the color orange some days, and the color indigo on others.

Then I was in college, and more colors occurred in my 'emotions', or 'moods'. Some days I would feel like the color gray, or the color black, and then for no reason, I would feel like the color red, or the color yellow.

When I would skate through the color spectrum rapidly I wouldn't want to be around me, or anyone else. I didn't even want to be me.

After A died, the color shifts got much, much worse at an inhuman speed. The voices in my head (one of which was like another person entirely, giving me directions) were getting louder, taking more control.

I got locked up in a bad hospital. I was fondled and touched inappropriately (while asleep, that is what woke me up), and the incident was arresting. I don't think I ever recovered my trust in anything after that.

Then I finished college after that. I was told by several people in authority that they wanted me back to the girl that lived 'before all that mess'.

I cried a lot then. My optimism mostly died as well.

I graduated, I got a job. The colors lasted longer sometimes, and others times they kept the erratic shifting.

Six months into my job I locked myself in my apartment bathroom for three days believing my cats were trying to kill me and that there was a plan to lock me up. I didn't go to work, I didn't answer my phone.

Eventually my friend R came down to see what the hell was happening. She made me get a p-doc appointment. I was drugged, and all was well.

Except six months after that, I swallowed two months worth of pills in two minutes.

I was hospitalized, and my secret wasn't so secret anymore.

My parents looked at me with anger, disappointment, and shame. When I was released from the nut-farm, they didn't trust me anymore.

R and I quit being friends. I can't go into the reasons without fading to black.

I worked 8 months after that before the drugs the psychiatrists gave me made me too terrible to deal with at a work place. Due to the environment and the rumors at my job, I left.

I didn't work, I sold my things to pawn shops, I stole, I borrowed, I begged.

Four months after I couldn't work because of my sickness, R killed herself.

We hadn't spoke since our horrible argument. She killed herself one year exactly after I tried.

That fucks with me.

Two weeks after that happened, I decided to pack my things and move to Pennsylvania. I needed to escape all the bad that I created.

Now I've been in Pennsylvania for two months. I'm looking for work, looking for new p-doc help, and trying to change myself -

because I can't stand all the things I've let myself become.

So for now, I am a work in progress.

And it is so hard to chose sanity -

but I want it.

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