Category Archives: bipolar

New Blog

I started a blog dedicated to more personal stuff. Poetry on this blog you’re reading, journaling on the other. Being bipolar as I am, it’s only obvious that some posts will be despondent, others filled with light. I’m like a box of chocolates. Truly can’t want for that box of light.
I would truly appreciate a follow: Perpetual Hallways.

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Filed under bipolar, blog, depression, writing

A Prayer

There will be no rest here. Horror overwhelms like nerve gas. Agent blue. Chills crawl up my spine. I’m torn between some sick elation and the monster of every day discomfort. I’m lost. Lost in my head. Lost in my books. Lost in my own house. Fear lurks in every corner. And no, the natron didn’t help. Not one bit.
I’ve become blind to responsibility. I haven’t showered in days. My stomach is as empty as my bank account, which just so happens to be in the red. I have no desire for food. I need clarity and light. These things I simply cannot locate and if I did, would I know what I had? Searing questions. Is it worth it to go on? To seek out elusive dreams? Or am I chasing nightmares? Perhaps I’m in hell. That would explain so much of what’s gone wrong. What’s still going wrong. And thus an atheist cries out to god to save him.


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Filed under bipolar, confusion, depression, fear, ptsd, writing

Freestylin’ It

I have no plans concerning where this post is going or what it means to me, or to you, or the world. What does anything really mean to the world, anyway? She’s a cold bitch. She scoffs at us all equally. Time for my morning scoffing.

I got a job. That’s right. Look at me growing more mundane by the moment. I am now a security guard at one of the major chemical plants in a neighboring town. Hilarious how their background checks do not include mental health records.
I’m working toward the midnight shift but for now they’ve got me training with the head guard during daytime hours. I’m off today. Joy.
I get a fucking nightstick and a pair of handcuffs. That’s about as far as my power goes. I’d rather dole out my ass kickings by hand anyway. Ninety percent of my time will be spent on my ass in front of security camera feeds in a tight little room. It’s alright. It’s not totally foreign to my alley. It beats McDonalds. The money’s a little better than minimum wage. I get to remain a night owl.

I had applied for disability a couple of years ago, and the bastards turned me down. My lawyer told me that in order for me to apply again, I’d have to earn another six grand. Has to do with how much money I’ve paid into their crooked system. This could be my ticket back in.
It really pisses me off, what they did to me. I was as fucking disabled as I’ve ever seen anyone; mentally, anyway. I’ve met people here with ADHD alone, who are getting a couple grand a month from those fuckers. And here I’ve been, disabled to the point of cowering in a corner the majority of my days. Apparently that’s not enough.
My new medicated mindset has reiterated the fact. I feel more capable of holding a job now than I ever was. And you know what, fucking disability people?, now that I’m capable, I’m fucking doing it. Don’t you think that if I could, I would have a long time ago?
There was a time I let it eat me alive, and I forced myself to get over it. Now that I’m working again that old irritation has returned. I want to write them a letter, but I’m certain they wouldn’t read it without the right paperwork and cover letter. Too bad. I can write one hell of a pissed off letter. Perhaps I’ll do it anyway just for the therapy.

Speaking of therapy, after my discharge from the hospital I was given several follow-up appointments with a therapist and psychiatrist. That didn’t quite work out. The old therapist I saw a couple of years back, the blind man, no longer takes patients without Medicaid. The psychiatrist was going to cost me fifty bucks a month just to refill my psych meds. I’ve convinced my primary care doc to keep me refilled on Lithium and Risperdal, although it isn’t normally in his job description. That’s one bit of good news. He fills my scripts for three months at a time, and since he’s already prescribing me other medications, I’m still only out the forty dollars every ninety days I would have had to pay anyway.
I’m sure a therapist and psychiatrist would have done me some good. I just can’t afford it right now. Perhaps in the future.
Unfortunately I’m wondering if the 300 mg of Lithium a day I’m currently on is quite doing the trick. Just less than a week ago my head was in the clouds, and now I’m, well, not depressed, but pretty fucking blah. I’m not sure how the good Doctor K will feel about changing my dosage, since it’s not his field. I’m thinking 300 mg in the morning, 150 in the evening would be a safe bet. I am going to ask him. I see him on Wednesday and I’ve got another mile-long list for the poor man. I’m going to ask to have my blood levels checked again as well. I certainly put the ‘practice’ into his work. I’m probably one of his most complicated cases. He better earn that fucking doctor’s salary!

–A Special Case


Filed under bipolar, mad ruminations, medication


I know I haven’t written anything about my personal life in a while. I’m certain the lot of you don’t care, and I mean that in a nice way. Those little ‘life updates’ I write for myself, mainly. Not much has changed. Life is pretty fucking great for me. Lithium and I have become something like divine lovers; intertwined. It’s changed everything for me. Not only is my mood stable, but it’s settled in a happy place, and I’ve got my energy back as well. Getting shit done around the house, spending lots of quality time with Briley, not being an ass to my roommate anymore. I no longer feel defective. I’m actually considering getting a job, though I’m not sure what I’d enjoy doing. Certainly nothing in the food industry. It’s not more than a notion at the moment. I can get by on what money I have, although I can’t afford much more than the basics at the moment. Perhaps something will fall in my lap. Lots of great things have been popping up recently.

Briley and I have been discussing the topic of spirituality excessively. I really enjoy her ideas. I don’t believe in magic quite the same way she does, but I do believe in something. I’ve been lighting incense and candles daily on the little shrine she provided for me. I enjoy it. Even if it’s all a delusion, it gives me some sort of focus and trust in the world. That’s something I’ve been so devoid of for so long. I’m happy to have it.
I’m just happy. Not manic, not crazy, not overly deluded; just happy. Shit’s going well. So long as I can stay on this medication, which I must admit I cannot live without, I’ll be alright. I can handle anything that’s thrown at me. Hot potatoes, broken glass, flaming sticks, shot-puts, whatever. Nothing is as hot, sharp, or heavy as I made them out to be. Brain chemicals are the governors of our world and mine are nicely balanced. Finally.

I’ve risen from the fucking ashes. All the dross is burned away. Fuck yeah.

–Brain Chemicals

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Filed under bipolar, lithium, mad ruminations, phoenix, writing

Must be Bipolar, Then

There are times in life
that the sun shines,
and every color comes alive.

The wind’s whispers
turn to insistence that
everything’s going to be alright.

Those are the days I can sprout
and grow,
and trust.

But I’m a shoot and
I do just that,
growing and changing far too fast.
What roots can take hold?

When finally the clouds
blow in from the north
Lightning reaping awful sounds

I’ve grown as if summer
Could go on forever
and I don’t stand a chance

Before the coming Winter freeze.
my roots just aren’t deep enough
to shed those spring hopeful leaves.

For every season’s change and end
I grow, only weaker.
Far too strong to apprehend’s
Elusive hope around the bend.

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Filed under bipolar, change, poem, poetry, seasons


140920_0000It’s always amusing to me the various diagnoses I receive for every different doctor or therapist I’ve had to see. I wouldn’t disagree with the notion of Bipolar Disorder with all my highs and lows, if it could be diagnosed alongside schizophrenia. Apparently that’s not possible. Psychotic symptoms present with bipolar are known as a schizoaffective disorder. Yeah, I guess I could accept that too. Then again, this doctor may have spent ten minutes with me. I know my mother had a severe case of schizophrenia, plain and fucking simple. The last therapist I saw on a regular basis diagnosed me as a schizophrenic as well.
So, I’m not entirely sure, and I’m not sure if I even care anymore.
Except when it comes to which tags I should be using on my blog posts.
As long as the medication I’m on is finally fucking working.
As far as post traumatic stress disorder goes, yeah, I’ve got no question concerning the validity of that diagnosis.

Who else thinks they know what I’ve got? Come on, throw some labels at me. I can take ’em.

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Filed under bipolar, diagnosis, lithium, mad ruminations, pictures, ptsd, schizophrenia, writing