Seems there's an almost imperceptible pattern to this bipolarity-- inasmuch as I seem incapable of discerning when I'm manic, hypomanic, or about to slide into a depression. [ I just love that someone has taken the time to break all this down into little pieces, don't you?]

Used to be, when I was feeling good, I didn't worry whether or not anybody thought I was acting strange.  Used to be, when I was up like that, people enjoyed being around me and sought out my company.  Used to be, I could smile a great big smile just knowing that everything in my life was happening just the way it should. 

I questioned nothing-- it was all good..... until something triggered my mind into extremes of feeling.  How else can I put it?  Slightly bad turned into horrible, slightly good turned into wonderful.  And for some inexplicable reason, this lovely lithium that courses through my veins as per the doctor's orders has levelled all those sensations out to the point where, instead of riding the huge waves of a beautiful tempestuous sea, I'm stuck in a stagnant swamp.  Nothing seems to want to live here; thus I am essentially alone.  Seldom does anyone come near this swamp without taking precautions-- big hip waders and even bigger weapons to allow them a quick retreat or defense if necessary.  The looks of this swamp prohibit interest-- only aversion, it seems.

I miss the  high seas; I pine for the surprising horizon..... I live inside my head so much my brain cramps occasionally, like hiccuping to get itself some air.  Fantasies have become so much a part of my everyday life that the practicality of living takes a backseat.

I ignore my responsibilities, I get the bare minimum of work done, my kids wonder if I'm going to come back from this, my husband belittles me thinking that's going to make me snap out of it, and one day flows into another seamlessly, with no particular interest in anything of substance.  [No kidding, until this morning, I wore the same pajamas WITHOUT changing for 4 days]

Who can I blame for this?  [ignoring of course, the little voice inside my head saying only you dumbass, only you]

   I lash out at my husband, I yell at my kids or don't speak to them at all, I refuse to answer emails from my family, I don't call the few friends I have left, and it doesn't matter.  Nothing matters anymore.  It surprises me not at all that Bipolar people have such a high suicide rate that we are uninsurable[a fact I was only recently made aware of when seeking new independant insurance].  Truly, what is the point of being here? The only thing that prevents me from emptying a bank account and getting in my car to disappear is the fact that I'm a mother.  I could NOT do that to my kids.  It would be a piece of cake to disappear out of this marriage, as a matter of fact I imagine my husband would breathe a big fat sigh of relief when he found out I was not coming back. 

Which brings me to another point---- my husband--- well, my husband is a bit of a perfectionist.  Suffice it to say, if it's not attractive, decent, well groomed, or otherwise pleasing to the eye, he wants nothing to do with it.  Nothing.  I kid you not, we were driving not long ago, he in the passenger seat, me driving, when he looks at me and says, "What am I gonna do when that profile changes?  I don't know how I'm going to deal with that."  I think, my profile?  The silouhette of my face?  Of course it's going to change-- I'm going to get old, my chin will sag, possibly I'll have jowls..... Jeezus!  This stupid man is going to get rid of me when I don't look good enough to have around! Would I be able to ask him the same thing? Do I even THINK that way?  Well, hell, no...... I was a hairdresser for almost two decades, I saw beautiful people with horribly ugly insides and vice versa.  Looks account for such a small percentage of what constitutes a person-- why Hollywood has been given the right to dictate to the whole of this baby nation how they should aspire to look, eat, wear, walk, talk, drive, ad nauseum.......well, you get the idea.  For goodness' sake, they are even forging new ground in the raising kids department,  not to mention how to make kids in the first place.  But I digress.  It has become impossible for me to feel like there's any way to meet my husband's criteria.  There is NOTHING I can do to stop aging; the crows' feet will come.  Not only am I becoming less and less perfect by the day physically, now there is new fodder for his obsession with perfection--- I'm bipolar, too.  Oh, how that must grate his carefully arranged nerves. 

Ever since the first diagnosis (actually the second; I ignored the first), he has become my self-proclaimed saviour.  That is, he saved me from plummeting to earth in a bloody heap (figuratively speaking), he made sure I took my medicine like a good little girl, he watched my behavior everywhere to make sure I did not embarrass myself (translate that --- him), he paid all the bills, he encouraged (read forced) me to leave several jobs when he saw any amount of stress exhibiting itself in my manner, he made sure that my circle of friends diminished to the point of near nonexistence, he informed me whenever my face would contort into anything besides pleasant or smiling(mostly in public), and he held himself in such high esteem that mine by comparison was down the toilet.  I've never been one to be told what to do (duh-- human nature, maybe?) and this has worn me down and down and down so far that I'm not sure there's light at the end of this tunnel anymore.   Recently I was told after a minor disagreement with him in public in front of one of his friends that I had forgotten how to be "socially acceptacle" and that he no longer could "trust" me outside of the house, so he just wouldn't be seen with me anymore in public.  Ouch.  And he wanted me to apologize.  Apologize.  Apologize?  WHAT?? There was no way that was going to happen-- no way atall.

So with my dignity shredded and my self-esteem at its lowest point EVER, which direction did I want to go?  Although the appeal of simply fading away,  never speaking to anyone again did occur to me, I was grasping for things that always made me feel better.  Hell, I'm still grasping and I guess I'll continue to do it.  I most recently contacted people who had always accepted me in my bipolarness; my lawyer, my girlfriend down the street, my boyfriend from almost 30 years ago, even some strange but kind and accepting people that had befriended me online.  Enlightenment ensued.  By this of course I mean that while I'm with these various friends or speaking to them on the phone, all is right with the world.  Phew!  Life will go on.  I wander back into my little cave-life, go a few days without seeing anyone, get a couple of phone calls from my husband (did I mention that he works overseas 30 on and 30 off?) and I can feel myself sliding back down into that sad, self-loathing place I know so well.  It's like having a sore that won't heal--- just about the time you forget about it and are being good at leaving it alone and it's so close to scabbing over and just turning into a scar, someone mentions it or laughs at it, even rips it off, and you are irresistably compelled to pick at it until it's a raw, bloody gash again.  Icky metaphor, I know, but apt.  Even from half a world away, my husband seems to have that sixth sense about just where that scab is and he rips it off.  Pain. Desolation. Hopelessness. Paranoia.  Back to square one.