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I’ve been away for almost three months. I feel rather awful about that, I really do. Not that I’m trying to make excuses, just understanding that once I fall, sometimes, picking myself up off the ground takes a while. I can usually find a way to make it happen, but I just lost track of time.

How that all happened, I think I need to explain. Not that I feel the need to validate myself, I know I’m much too hard on myself to ever actually let that go, but still, rational explanations and vocalizing a feeling (as much one can take that phrasing literally) often helps. It’s also true that since all of this ties into my writing, I feel that it’s a fair point to examine.

The best place to start is just after I decided to revamp how I handled this blog. Not in any specific way, but that pressure of doing so took all the fun out of posting. I understand there needs to be structure and a purpose, and posting regularly will certainly help that, but that need drove the spontaneity away.

….

No, scratch all of that. That’s a side effect The main cause was, and is, far greater. I have bipolar disorder. A know that mental illness is as much a stigma as one can have. Partially because we don’t really understand much about them and partially because, along with other contributing factors, our society doesn’t look highly upon them. Those are considered weaknesses that most need to simply push past.

For most of the last five years, I’ve been treating my disorder with medications, ranging from lithium to depakote to lamictal (which is turns out I’m severely allergic to). Mostly, though, I’ve been on lithium. The thing of all this is that I haven’t been taking medication since the beginning of the year. My closest friends know this. One of them is even a doctor, so she gave me some advice on the matter.

Why now? Why, if it’s been working for 5 years, did I decide to stop? Well, a couple of factors, actually. One, these medications moderate the mood swings. The lows aren’t nearly as low and the highs aren’t nearly as high. Also, I’ve recently obtained a steady job, a 9-5, hate your life, Office Space is not-a-parody-but-a-way-of-life job. If I had any chance of ever attempting to handle my life without mediation, this was going to be the time. And, for the most part, I succeeded.

I kept myself level, despite moving, and hating my job. Until all of a sudden, I wasn’t. It’s hard to know when I first became seriously depressed. Probably late march.

It’s strange, because you’d think it was obvious. And yet, with all the signs and symptoms and my experience with it, I didn’t know till it was almost too late. I found myself sitting under my desk, wondering how many of my sleeping pills it would take to simply never wake up.

In retrospect, I wanted to tell myself I wasn’t serious about the question, but I can’t look myself in the face and sell that line. Because, for those few minutes, that was the reality. Looking off that edge is unsettling.

Plus, there’s also my sleep disorder, which means I naturally want to go to sleep at 5am and wake up at 2pm, but that’s another story.

This is all a long way of saying that I wasn’t able to do what I love. Which is write. I’ve been told that I need to write to escape my depression. So far, it hasn’t worked that way. Putting rules and restrictions of my escape just weights it down. I don’t know what that means. Maybe it’s something I have to work through. I’ve been getting better tat that over all, I think. Yeah.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, let’s get back to it.

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