I feel like punching something, or perhaps throwing a heavy item or few toward the wall.  Alas, I refrain, only for the sake of my roommates and possible questions I’d have to answer tomorrow.  At least there is some sense left in me.

Last weekend was spent sleeping, reading, and more sleeping and reading.  All week I buzzed through work, overtime included, yet I collapsed at the end of each day, exhausted, unable to sleep.  Thus, today, I slept, again, more, more, and I tossed in the cool sheets, frustrated, hungry for some skin against skin.  A couple trips to the kitchen, quietly preparing large glasses of ice water, simple meals, I conversed little with my roommate and retreated again to my box.

The room is relatively large but my half-ass cleaning and rearranging ideas of the last couple weeks have left it a jumble, scattered containers, piles, children’s toys a disaster in waiting.   My nightly dose of lithium resides in the bathroom across the hall, an excuse at the moment for refusing to swallow the gag-inducers once again.  So I sit here, laptop not on my lap, four songs playing repeatedly; weeks later I am unable to be soothed by other music.

My days are work are exciting as I tackle a never-ending, and what seems impossible, task list in preparation of our move and eventual opening.  After leaving the office I expend myself at the gym, either cycling or bag punching, then weights.  Already drained from work, I push myself beyond what I think I can do and I sweat it out in the sauna afterwards.  Lately I have felt as if I was going to cry while on the bike and I am able to hold back, using the physical pain, the burn, to reach another point, anywhere but there.  Sadness is not the issue, for it is more indifference, an extreme case of boredom I have yet to shake.  If I am not in action, I am faced with all the possibilities, and I shrink back as if shocked by a file cabinet, retreating, refusing.

An hour ago I was singing a verse forever on continuous play in my head and I was overwhelmed.  Flinging myself back onto the bed, I cried, I punched the mattress; I pulled the pillow over my head and screamed, and cried, all the while clenching my jaw.

All this and I am angry, angry at what, I do not know.  This anger has been coursing through me the past couple weeks and I’ve poorly brushed it aside in hopes it would fade.  I have repeatedly insinuated within my mind that I was imagining the rage, it was only irritability, and perhaps I needed more sleep.  During the moments of calm, lack of whirring thoughts and relaxed body, I dismiss such emotions and unfortunately find myself facing reality later, the angry beast struggling to be free from medical containment.

Taking a break to do some sit-ups, I enjoy my body’s movements, feeling everything work, I attempt to clear my mind, focus on what I’ve been trying to explain.  I only wish to expel these conflicting emotions so sleep will come to me before 3AM, one less group of thoughts vying for my attention.  To expect others to understand would be presumptuous, and sadly those who have lived with me have seen the damage, witnessed the struggles.

Medication seems pointless in the present, but I will continue to remain compliant, although the term brings imagery of conveyer belts and drones.

Earlier I was sitting here freaking out for a few minutes because I thought I was hearing voices. I was seriously questioning my judgement and went so far as to turn off the fan (why I thought the voices would stop with the fan, I have no clue). Eventually, I shifted and finally saw the Peter Rabbit book I read to Ash earlier, which I had been sitting on, complete with buttons you press that talk and say a number of phrases. Those moments I questioned my stability were definitely not the highlight of my mental illness experience.

Currently I am on my eighth book in two weeks. I have been craving a good read (not a reed, heh) and can’t seem to stop. Anyhow, so I’m plowing through this one, and I come across some scribbled-out words. The sentences still made sense although the previous reader had made serious effort to oblterate a couple words. Later on, again, saw some more crossed out. Curious, I finally managed to decifer the text: God, and even a Christ. WTF? Someone was so offended by the use of God in the phrase “god damn”, that they crossed them out…but left the word “damn? Oooh, that taking the lord’s name in vain hooey. Right. But it’s okay to say “damn”? Hahaha. Hypocrites…so humorous. God damn.

I have discovered a new drug. At least, my body and mind reacts in the same fashion, flying high. My newest kick is Spinning, and I am hooked, hooked bad. Sure, my hoohah was sore at first, but now that I’ve found the comfortable settings on the bike, I am set. I love my bagpunching, a great avenue for shaking the day’s frustrations, and the free weights are wonderful as I feel the burn, but spinning, ah, spinning. When I plan to hit the gym at 9am for an hour session on a Saturday, I do believe there is no going back.

Two doses of lithium down and both lasted no more than five minutes before I was running to the bathroom. I’m trying. Really. But gradually each day this week I’ve had to fight hard to keep these fuckers down. I’ll attempt again in the morning but at this rate, I don’t care. I’m tired, grumpy from lack of sleep over many days, and the only thing taming me tonight is my obsessive playing of four songs…for hours now.

The figurative fever has returned and I’m tossing around on the bed, kicking covers off, closing my eyes as I wait for the flush to pass, for the refreshing chill upon my skin.

I am weak. Physically, I’ve reached an exhaustion level I haven’t seen in years (though you’d never know last night). Mentally, I am drained, my mind spinning, looking for answers to unasked questions, or just a grounding point. Perhaps a solid wall of grey nothingness would suffice.

A plate of quite peculiar
On a dish of my own
A tablespoon of feather
tickle me to the bone
Give me recipes for happy
with the chemicals gone

“X-Amount Of Words” by Blue October

We Feel Fine by Jonathan Harris and Sepandar Kanvar is a program that searches across blogs for phrases containing “I feel” and parses them into a field for analysis from many different angles, creating a visualization of how the internet community feels. Amazing!

I know I’m not the only person with a blog, I’ve watched the online form of a journal take off from unknown to being an everyday term (even in the dictionary). While I have a list of those I read regularly, there’s something about randomly reading such statements by these people about how they’re feeling. Maybe I’m a bit emotional lately and might not have reacted as I am now, but currently, I’m fascinated. For six years I’ve vented, shared excitement, confusion, frustration, happiness and well, any other possible feeling on my mind. Kinda has me wondering how others view what I have to say and how they react to my words.

Earlier this week I said something to someone and it was as far from professional as possible.  I know I wasn’t the only one thinking what I said, but unfortunately I voiced the thoughts, though I didn’t realize what I said until afterward, much too late.  Every day since that moment has been full of tension and wonder of the outcome of my idiocy.

I really dislike being out of control, and at that time, I was, my anger and irritation dominant.  When I am angry and it escapes, I remember my Dad, remember what I work on every day to contain, and it upsets me to realize I could be so cruel.  Ah, he is a grown man and survived my brief verbal lashing but I was reminded of how powerful words can be, especially when used carelessly.

I meant every word originally spoken but am quite sure there was a more tactful way to express it.  Perhaps I could’ve swallowed the pride, but considering I had already done the stupid thing I only apologized for how I delivered my message.  No matter, I received a thank you for my honesty and apparently the matter is no longer an issue.

Words are a passion of mine.  I love to write, as writing helps me generate my thoughts on screen or paper quite well.  I just wish I had the control when it comes to verbalizing.  It seems as if I struggle to produce the right words when in discussion, yet when I put forth little effort the supposed appropriate words let loose.  Many people wish to have the skill of quick wit yet all I wish for is the ability to keep my mouth shut.

My world has been spinning, though it seems odd to say so after such a slow holiday weekend. Really, the action is in my head, and I’ve been grateful for the downtime or I gather I would have exploded by now. At the finale to a rough work atmosphere and an exhilarating hour of bag punching, I stare at the screen, anxious for the words to cooperate, the creativity to function. A soft pink shirt clings with humidity against my skin, frustrating me as I brush back loose strands of hair; I feel good, though tired and worn, but ultimately quite sexy. Upper-cuts and “feeling the burn” seem to have that affect, the grandest of all aphrodisiacs.

As I enjoyed the prior weekend, dangling feet in the water, resting at a local park, I also powered through extended workouts, cleaned as if I was nesting. And as I entertained myself, I attempted to capture my thoughts, make sense of all the ideas, plans and concerns roaming around. Unsuccessful, I fell to obsessions, a song played repeatedly for hours, Google searches on a topic (anthropology graduate programs for the curious) spanning the weekend, and memories, faces. Repetition, repetition, repetition, like calming, barely-there fingertips moving quickly on the bottom of my feet.

All this business amongst the boredom and still I am withdrawing. So, I increase the workouts (attempting Spinning tomorrow), talk to those I haven’t in months, years, and I try to remind this stubborn soul of mine that I enjoy people. The hole is easy to find with my new stack of library books, a familiar escape, and new places to direct the swirling mind, a familiar friend the last few days, absorbing the hours before I sleep.

Before I slip away from the confusing days into slumber, each night I prepare, my stomach flip-flops and I fight the lump in my throat which doesn’t exist. Four peach-colored pills are followed by anything but water and I close my eyes, imaging all but the vile aftertaste.

I recall when identical medication gave little thought or hesitation, but I imagine the struggle for control was non-existent at the time. Years ago I wanted help and today I fear what is needed to survive, only succumbing for the sanity of others. The aftertaste is more of a mental trigger, a reminder that I am never in control.

I miss Ashleigh. My world and mind are both extremely quiet these days without her chatter. Perhaps my head is a whirligig since she is not here to interrupt all the fluttering thoughts.

(if any of this makes sense to y’all, peachy….little of it made sense as I wrote…I just needed to write, get at least a small portion of the words out of head)