Two Weeks Pass

I’m back to being somewhat stable again. My upper-end dose of meds finally kicked in. I’m tired of the instability and the breaks from reality. I managed this time without going to the hospital, but I am afraid to change meds again. This time, this break, was precipitated by my psychiatric nurse wanting to try me on a new med because I have been complaining of fatigue. Lowering my dose of one med and introducing a new med screwed me up. It can take months to get back on track. With my bipolar and psychosis, it seems I cant both feel well and be well. As soon as I start to feel any semblance of a normal energy level, I crater.

Feeling better now, though. I am sleeping a lot, however, and my sleep is very disrupted in the early morning. Where two weeks ago I couldn’t get a break in the day, my days have returned to normal and my deep nights are a mess. I do feel like writing again, which is progress.

I ordered some oil paints and am going to start painting again. Oil paints are better for me than watercolors for experimental painting. Watercolors dry so fast and are so unforgiving. I am still working on my drawing skills, too, so oil is more forgiving in that regard, as well. I can rework areas that don’t look right and play with light and shadow.

I changed my space around, putting a twin bed in what was my office, and putting my desk down in the basement where I have more room and my own tv. That little room upstairs was becoming too saturated with bad energy. I was isolating far too much. Too bad it isn’t a bigger room, but I feel better being in the basement during the day. It will be nice in the summer when it is hot in the rest of the house.

Talk about bad energy, this last psychotic break was horrific. The overarching theme this time was about death and evil. It is one thing to think about your own death, quite another to be talking to the dead. My dead grandmother was recalled from the netherworld and, strangely, I started having memories I had long forgotten.

I used to have a great aunt named Helen whose husband, my grandmother’s oldest brother’s wife, had passed away. Helen was aging and my Great Aunt Jean was nice enough to put her up in her final years. As a child I recall asking of Helen, where her children were. She had none, but as a kid, I didn’t know that people didn’t have kids. I thought everyone had children. So I inquired, maybe I was five or six, about her family and who was going to take care of her. I remember her being chocked up. Over the course of a weekend, I kept grilling poor aunt Helen. I was concerned for her. And of the strangest things, I remembered telling Aunt Helen, that I would be her kid and that I would care for her. I don’t recall any other events in particular, but I do recall spending the summer with Helen and Jean and Grandma.

Now, as an adult, I wonder what became of Helen’s things. What happened to her photographs? Her art? Her jewelry? Did Jean just take it all in? Not having had children myself, I am not so worried about growing old alone. But will happen to my stuff? When I was young, I didn’t think I was ever stable enough to have kids, but I guess looking at my current situation, I would have managed just fine. I just didn’t want for my children what I had for myself– a single-parent home. I never did settle down, and that’s whole book in and of itself, but of all the things that are up in the air in my life, I feel at ease about not having had kids. I still want a mate, though. Still searching for a mate.

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