Bi-polar. Such a lovely word isn't it? It's the new fancy terminology for manic depressant. That's me. I should be on medication, but I'm not. Why? I guess it's because like all bi-polar people, I think I can handle it. That's what happens during my "manic" moments. I think that I'm all better and I shouldn't have to take it, so I stop.
Not that I can afford the medication anyway. I have no insurance. Why don't I have insurance? Because simply, I can't afford it. Why can't I afford it? Because I work a shit job for shit money and I have a family of five to support.
My family. That should be my shinning light right? Of course. But is it? At the moment, no. Why is that? Because when I get depressed, all I can do is sleep. So, not a big deal right? Well, yeah, because then my children don't get up on time to get themselves to school. Well, now I'm sure you wondering why I don't drive them. Because I can't. Why can't I? Because no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to drive them to school. So they miss a day, who cares right? Well, I care, I feel like a horrible mother.
It isn't just that. I woke up this morning, the children had missed getting to school. Not because they weren't up on time, but because they decided to watch television instead of getting ready and leaving for school. Oh well, I guess I need to go back to the old policy. That used to be "If you miss school and are not sick, you will be put to work all day long." the thought behind it being that they would prefer to be at school during the day.
So, after much effort, I climb my ass out of bed only to find that my eight year old son, for reasons still unknown, has spit on the floor. Not just once, but, he's made an entire pile of spit, the size of my hand, on the floor. Nothing is more disguisting to me then fluids out of the mouth. Be it spit or vomit. I can't hack it.
I remember once, when I was younger, going on a trip to a cabin. There was no running water up there, so, we had to brush our teeth and spit into a cup. I was so grossed out that I began to wretch, which led into me vomiting. I have a very sensative stomach. Once I start gagging, I know it is going to end up in me vomiting. Now, even though he's cleaned it up, I can still picture it on the floor. I am struggling to not start gagging. Ugh. Thank God I didn't step in it.
My daughter, has decided, that even though she was up in time, and decided to climb back into bed, that it's all her brother's fault she didn't make it to school. So, of course, she has a nasty little attitude. Wonderful. Just what I needed this morning.
My youngest, I can't complain about. Other then, the first thing he does is ask me if I have to go to work. I tell him later since I have to work graveyard tonight. He says "yay!". Daddy asks him why he said "yay" and he says "Because mom doesn't have to go to work right now" Awwwww. I start to cry.
One of my best friends asks me how I'm doing this morning. I try to tell him I am depressed. He asks if I have started my medication. For the first time ever. I lie to him and tell him I started them again a few weeks ago. I just can't deal with the disapointment from him. I can't tell him I can't afford the medication, or even the doctor visit. I don't know why. He's never judged me before. He even offered to send me some of his antideppresents. I should take him up on it, but, I can't.
I should maybe force myself to get up and get something done. I can't. I don't feel like doing anything. I want to curl up in a corner of my bed and just cry myself to sleep. But, I can't. I can't let it win. I feel like I would die crying if I started. I feel like I have this darkness hovering over me, waiting to swoop in and smother me at the first sign of weakness. I have to be strong. I have to keep going for my family.
I want to tell my husband how bad I feel inside. But I can't. Not without making him feel bad too. How can I tell him I hate my life? That I am feeling suicidal. I mean, I know, and he knows, I would never actually hurt myself. But, I want to. I think that he would be better off if he found someone more stable. As would my children. But, the thought of that, the pain of thinking of him with someone else, cuts through my heart. It hurts so bad that it phsyically hurts me, makes my stomach hurt. How can I tell him it is how I honestly feel right now. He obviously knows I'm bi-polar. He doesn't understand it. He has a very logical mind, and so for him, there is a very simple solution. Stop feeling like that. I want to scream every time he says that. I can't fucking stop. Trust me, I'd love to stop this roller coaster of emotions I always seem to be on. I hate it.
I want to be a better mother. I want to be a better wife. A better sister. A better daughter. A better aunt. A better grandaughter. I want to be a better person period. I just don't know how.
Have I mentioned I hate Christmas? I do. I think I officially hate all holidays. Here is a little story that makes me smile because I can relate to Santa in this.
When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves
did not prooduce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was
beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.
Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This
stressed Santa even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three
of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were
out, heaven knows where. More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards
cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.
So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of
apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered
that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In
his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it
broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get
the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw
end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to
the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a
great big Christmas tree. The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas,
Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would
you like me to stick it?"
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of
the Christmas tree.
did not prooduce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was
beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.
Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This
stressed Santa even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three
of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were
out, heaven knows where. More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards
cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.
So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of
apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered
that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In
his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it
broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get
the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw
end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to
the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a
great big Christmas tree. The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas,
Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would
you like me to stick it?"
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of
the Christmas tree.
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