I’m so tired lately. No matter how much I sleep, I feel like I could sleep more — except I can’t. I’m exhausted, but I toss and turn restlessly. I feel wrung out. I feel wrung out and cranky and overwhelmed. Little things make cry or make me angry. I’m completely unstable.
Disregarding my feelings entirely, life continues to run its course inside the measure of my breaking arms. There’s bills (and bills and bills) that need to be paid and meals that are supposed to be eaten even though they all taste exactly like nothing. I’m also supposed to be writing something that might turn into a novel.
I’ll pause for your laughter because once it sinks in that I am unable to even focus enough to read a book or do the dishes, the idea of me writing a novel will be completely hilarious. The rumors that being crazy make people wild artistic beasts are untrue; it’s more like being crazy makes me an artistic werewolf and I produce fantastic stuff occasionally when the night sky aligns in my hypomanic favor. Those nights, I see clearly what I want to create and the exact words to cut the path from here to there; what I write needs minimal editing and it’s so sharp it makes my tongue bleed. Much of the rest of the time I lay on the couch and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD while occasionally crying about nothing at all and wondering if I can wear this shirt for one more day — at least lately.
Malackey keeps telling me that it will get better, that I will get better. My life isn’t going to be one mood swing after another, and I need to give it time. Patience and all that. Now, if someone could just hurry up and give me some patience.
