I'm on Lamictal for seizures and bipolar disorder. I have been since 2010 (before that, other scripts). And lately I've been sloppy about when I take my daily dose. 7:30 p.m., 9:30 p.m., 12:30 a.m., 1:30 a.m., etc. My pills sit here on my desk in one of those compartmentalized plastic boxes with the days of the week abbreviated on each compartment: SMTWTFS. Right in front of me, just to my right, and I am almost always sitting here in this chair. So, there's really no excuse. But it's been happening. And while the seizures have stayed at bay, the peaks and valleys, troughs and crests have come rushing back down on me. Mostly valleys and troughs. I never have gotten as much of the Up Time. And the crazy, it spills over onto everything. It makes Kathryn's life hell. I make an ass of myself on Facebook. I don't work. And so on. Screwing up my Lamictal and the return of winter, which began on April 1 with that last snowstorm of the year, put me into a tailspin. And I'm trying to pull out now, get my pills back on track, cut back on the bad habits that make my swings even worse. Slow down the crazy train, as it were.
Isolate the stress.
The stress in my life is a deadly pathogen. Worry about money. Worry about my health. Worry about Kathryn. Worry about the 2016 Presidential elections and politics and transgender rights. Worry about my writing. Worry about my public image. Worry about my mother and sister. Worry about whether or not we're going to have to find a new place to live, because the owners are selling this place, and everything's up in the air. Worry about the scaffold that's been outside my office window since the beginning of October. Worry about the tree (that I did, at least, worry to salvation). Worry about being stuck in Rhode Island forever. Worry about the car needing new tires. Worry about the fact that I never leave the house anymore, and I do not have callers, and, half the time, going outside scares the shit out of me. Worry about the color of the sky.
Worry, and blinding anger.
So, yes. That's what has been going on. And the cold makes it so much worse.
I didn't write yesterday. I sat and stared at the computer screen and played music very loudly and mostly didn't talk, because talking always makes it worse, on me and on Kathryn.
I don't like talking about this sort of thing publicly. And I don't want advice. Or speculations on the validity of my diagnosis, because your Great Uncle Waldo is bipolar and was prescribed blah blah blah, but actually needed blah blah blah. I mean that. I don't want to hear that shit.
Hopefully, the boat's gonna right itself. Hopefully, soon.