What goes up…

Oh I was so enjoying the past few days of creativity, productivity, sociability, all sorts of -ilities.  Should have used some of the energy to clean my house….but I was too busy writing my novel, which I think is going to be wonderful (and not just according to hypomanic me).

I used to write reams of poetry when depressed, only to throw it out when hypomanic;  and vice versa.  Now I haven’t written a poem in thirty years.  Nevertheless I have learned that the feelings that I feel are real, whether for up or for down.  And I don’t discount them.

My excellent psychiatrist says that just in the same way some people have sensitive lungs or sensitive stomachs, some people have sensitive brains.  Even if I were not a sensitive-braniac, I would still agree with him.  I’m sure many of you will have what to say about this.

Now it is late on Friday afternoon, and I am finishing my Shabbat preparations, which are not elaborate because I have felt like I’m swimming in a sea of cold molasses all day.  Maybe tomorrow will be better, and if not, at least it will be Shabbos and i can just do what Jews are commanded to do on Shabbos:  rest.

Good Shabbos!

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  1. Good Shabbos to you, Laura. Rest well.

  2. “Should have used some of the energy to clean my house….”

    I’ve been setting up this blog for days, learning all the ins and outs of WordPress. But my checking account is in tatters. I have a report to do for a graduate school film class. And I haven’t been watching the films. I know how it feels to be unfocused. Hello!? We’ve been there, haven’t we?

    For now, I’m enjoying my exuberance. I will continue it until it becomes unwieldy. I’m making the necessary preparations. Until then, ….

    Good Shabbos!

    Fish and you should meet. Dare I think this? Would this be a high order mitzah?

    • Yup, Taxi, you’ve been around this particular block before, I see. And whether or not you ever get your film class together, you certainly know how to write. That’s essential. One has to be able to write one’s self out of tight places, in grad school. Who the heck is Fish?

  3. When I have energy it always seems to go toward things like writing, sprucing up my blog, reading other blogs and commenting. . . I look around at how much needs to be cleaned, organized, and just plain cleaned out, and I sigh.

  4. It was forever ago that I took on the theme of the movie Strange Days as an elevation ever so eloquent up until I found myself screaming at my apartment manager during a phone call. And it was in an extremely different world that sat before me as the 11 year old sixth grade boy sat on the edge of the field crying profusely during every single recess dwelling beneath the suffocating delusion that absolutely none of my peers liked me. Their showing interest in me meant nothing. 2 years this lasted until I made friends with a short blond named Jackie. But now I have little interest in the past going even so far back as one second ago.

    It’s funny how most people I know haven’t a clue about the diagnosis of Bipolar 1 yet here resides my legal name as is the case with my own blog. That one I used my full legal name so as to insure no-one else could receive credit.

    Now Bipolar 1 is just a diagnosis. Accurate though it may be it is meaningless to me. Determinations were made in early adulthood although often forgotten as to what was existent. First I ascertained that Bipolar disorder was not a constant but rather a highly specified matter consisting of intricate rna playing with my dna in ever so naughty a fashion as well as everything else which has fit into the bio-psych-social model. Thus, in the here and now it doesn’t exist and come what may no longer fits the purview of that which I shall bore myself with. I’m aware that within the said model the clinical term is psycho but using it reaches the greatest fathoms of sheer stupidity and ignorance.

    The other determination has been that all which I shall do in order to keep the diagnosis from being non-existent and maneuvering through mine fields would be beneficial for anyone thus I excel.

    I have been knocked down a million times and arisen only a hundred times but I count only the latter. For 14 years my notions remained in the most dangerous of zones yet two chapters of a book and a chat with a man who gave sound advice eight years ago set it free forever.


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