I’m Not Manic Anymore. Now, I’m Just Pissed Off.
And I really have no idea why.
But of course, I’m going to sit down in front of the computer and attempt to analyze (read: over-think) it all so I can figure out the ‘why’ that bugs me so much. My p-doc has often mentioned journaling……well, it didn’t occur to me until relatively recently that this blog IS my journal. My big, bold, badass bipolar journal. So make yourself at home while I futz around trying to figure out who pissed in my cornflakes this morning.
Let me rephrase that. The morning and early afternoon were fine; I was finishing up my training seminar, and other than a horrid case of indigestion from eating high-fat, high-calorie foods for three days, I’d been enjoying myself. I’d even kept my restlessness at bay for the most part. And as much fun as I’d had, I was eagerly anticipating going home.
The foul mood started with my getting lost on the way there and driving around and around a part of Springfield I’d never seen before only to end up in Marcola, a small town I’ve never been to and never had a reason to visit. I’m directionally dyslexic and could get lost looking for a way out of a paper bag…..but how the F does one try to find Interstate 5 and land in Marcola of all places??!
Then, of course, there was the matter of driving the forty miles home once I finally got onto the freeway. I used to love driving, and spent every weekend cruising the streets of my hometown or running back and forth between San Diego and L.A.; now, if something is more than 25 miles away, it’s a “long drive” and I’d rather not, thank you very much. This one isn’t hard to figure out, because I have very little patience for stupid and sometimes I wonder how come I’m the only person on the road who knows how to drive.
Naturally, the phone yelped at me twice on the way home, and as much as my fingers itched to answer it, I’m a good girl who doesn’t mess with devices in the car unless I’m the passenger. I pulled over to discover that one call was from the social services worker at my relative’s nursing home, who as it turned out had some very good news for me; the other was blocked, and since it is my personal policy NEVER to answer “Unknown” or “Blocked” calls, I deleted it.
It was great to see my dog come barreling around the corner followed swiftly by the love of my life, Will, both of whom embraced and kissed me like they hadn’t seen me in DAYS! But after we ate and talked for a while and he left for his Thursday-night model club meeting, a very familiar feeling of irritability, discontent and overall poutiness came over me, and now I’m pissed off about being pissed off because there is absolutely no reason for it.
I’m still mad at myself for that outburst at my son’s birthday party, and even more so at the person whose behavior prompted it. I also remain annoyed with my p-doc’s receptionist for making me feel like my concerns were unimportant. But I’m incensed that my relative’s situation has forced me to be the bad guy in not allowing her to live with us after she gets out of rehab. I hate it that her caseworker and case manager probably think I am a terrible, selfish bitch because I won’t let her move back in. And I’m really, REALLY pissed that I can’t.
I am also more distressed about needing more meds than I want to admit. I had things under such good control for awhile there, and now my bipolar apparently does not wish to play well with others. AGAIN. I know, I know, worrying about the number of milligrams in a pill is like getting hung up on a clothing size—if it fits, who CARES about the number on the label? But of course I turn the blame inward, just like I was taught to do from the time I was old enough to know when I was angry, and it’s coming out tonight as a whiny, petulant, and yes, shitty attitude.
Ah, well, tomorrow is another day, and I’ve got that psych appointment in the morning. Hell, I need to apologize to him too, so I’ll do that BEFORE I start in on the snippy chick. What can go wrong, right?