Bipolar Disorder / depression / Diary

Well S***

“True peace comes from accepting the worst.” – Lin Yutang (?)

– Ever since I got out of the hospital, I’ve been steadily morphing into this person I don’t recognize. There wasn’t any specific point at which I realized I was different. It was slow but sure. On each successive morning I’d have less and less motivation to get out of bed. Until most of my time was being spent there, only getting out for the bathroom or food.

– Now I don’t know who I am. Even the doughy face in the mirror looks unfamiliar. I keep thinking back across my past, wondering who that person was, who thought and did so many things. Which is why I’ve been reading so much of my old messages and my journals. It’s sort of entertaining, but leads me to no answers. I look at a typical day. “work in the morning.” Work? What work? What did she use to do? Why did this make her happy, and not that? Why did she hold on so long? Why did she give up? She’s a mystery to me.

– In this mood everything seems meaningless.

– This morning my mom picked up half a dozen empty chip packets scattered around my room. The other night I saw Nick Vujicic at Araneta with her and my girlfriend. I thought he looked tired and wondered why he wouldn’t have prosthetics.

– There was once a doctor with a promising career ahead of her who got thrown from her bike in a car collision and sustained a serious head trauma. The diagnosis was permanent brain damage. She was never the same afterwards. She would forget things, be unable to process and remember things. Exactly like how it is for me during these times. She wrote: “How many suicides are stayed by exhaustion so profound that physical action is impossible?” Eventually she came to terms with her condition. I wonder if something similar will be required of me. It’s been three months. Everything ended that night my mom picked me up at my dorm and had me drugged and imprisoned.

– My old journals. I was always with someone. My actions don’t really make sense to me now. Why couldn’t I be happy?

– At the hospital, I was pretty active. I read, drew in colored pencils, wrote, watched movies, sang karaoke, and pestered the doctors for my release. But I was already starting to be hollowed out. The night I was getting out, I could hardly believe it. I was saying and doing whatever I thought they wanted. I said I was sorry for the things I posted online. (I wasn’t.) The maid had packed skimpy clothing. It was cold and tight. I was so happy to be leaving. About two or three nights before that, a young woman had gotten admitted. She was nice and pretty, and she had a small son, and I felt sorry for her, so I tried to leave her some food and magazines. The nurses took them away. She was ranting and raving down the halls when I left.

– In there, I plotted escape. At the end of the long hall was a fire exit. One night in bed, I told myself that they probably left it unlocked. After all, if there was a fire, they wouldn’t let the crazies broil alive, would they? I imagined an episode wherein I made a skirt of one of my sweaters, shucked the hospital uniform and slipped out of the fire exit. My heart thudded so wildly inside my chest that I couldn’t sleep. This fantasy ended the next morning when I walked down the hall, ostensibly to deposit laundry into the basket that sat next to the fire exit, and gave the bar an experimental push with my arm. It was locked. I suppose the nurses were expected to be quick with the keys in case of fire.

– I no longer expect remuneration for the abuse that occurred there. I’ve received no support whatsoever, no apology.

– I’m living like a dog in my parents’ house. One that’s been beaten and then coaxed back with food and favors. Oh, and the threat of homelessness. Or – not a dog, more like my cat, who’s interested in nothing but food. Whatever time isn’t spent forcefully ingesting tuna from a metal bowl is spent lying on the nearest patch of floor. She doesn’t appear to have a favorite spot or anything like that. Whatever’s convenient.

– I’m not “Trinity” anymore; I think that’s only who I was for the past year, between the time I broke up with A and now. That was an interesting time. The records are interesting. I had so many thoughts. But nothing finished.

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