the life of zooey who happens to be Bipolar 2
There is a fine line between letting the black dog drag me down and punching it in the face. A razor’s edge difference. Each moment of the day, turning from negative thinking back to the task at hand, back talking depression, and redirecting thoughts is almost a full time job.
Within this struggle, I’ve worked on being as close to neutral as I can. Shitty little songs like, “Accentuate the Positive,” and “I believe I can fly,” irritate me like a splinter. I go for the middle ground, placing a foot firmly on the dog’s forehead and pushing as hard as I can. I try NOT to talk about the Fight Club to keep it at bay. This is hard fucking work.
This weekend, I’ve had my ‘it’s all good’ facade going in high gear. I’ve done this a lot in my life, rarely letting people see in public or private what’s up under the hood. It’s a skin I can slip back into if needed, although dear hubby can read me. He catches slight nuances of how I am reacting to things or talking about something. He is the first person who can sniff this out. It’s weird to have someone in my life sensitive to my current mental state, but I have to admit the hugs and snuggles helped a lot these past couple of days.
Being authentic is the aim, but there are situations where I must put on the Eleanor Rigby face stored in a jar by the door and pony up. My daughter’s birthday celebration started with a trip to the Renaissance Festival Saturday and will end with gifts, dinner and cheesecake on Monday. Keeping up appearances has been especially critical as Lucy’s best friend has been hanging around most of the weekend.
Now it’s Sunday, and I am exhausted. Monday is tomorrow. A Monday full of departmental change and musical chairs. Blech.
Going out to howl at the bloodmoon,