October 23, 2018

full swing

Snippets of poems writing themselves without my input. 

Creativity. 

Racing thoughts, so fast I can't hear them, more of a hum, a lawn mower close to an open window of the house, a swarm of bees with indistinguishable buzzes. 

Static.  Electrons whizzing. 

Months of quiet withdrawal at work replaced with a return to effusive snark and droll wit.

Preoccupations with people popping up like highly toxic mushrooms, then wilting quickly, melting away.  Three in one morning.  Never has it been Cair Paravel, more than one person occupying that throne.  Immediate disillusionment, new object, displacement.

Hypomania.

This sounds like rambling, but if you've followed my other bi-polar and therapy-related posts, you'll understand the torment this represents.  Torment is not too strong a word.

Last night P.J. held me as I whispered through gritted teeth, "I fucking hate this disease.  With all that is in me, I hate it."  I cried.

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