What I Know For Sure

   The first thing I know for sure is that I straight up stole that title from Oprah and her magazine and I’m hoping she will sue me, because I need the publicity. But there are many other things I know to be true and here are just a few:

     If you are a writer, you should concentrate on your “audience” and not concern yourself about what the people close to you think about your writing, because I am here to tell you, I know for sure THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT. Most of your friends and family will not even bother reading your stuff and those that do will either tell you it’s wonderful when you know it isn’t, or just not comment at all. Because THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT. It’s not that they don’t love you. It’s just that they aren’t living the literary life. They don’t live and breathe books and reading and writing. So, THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT. Get over it. Get over yourself. Put some ice on that bruised ego and don’t insist they read your blog or your short story.  Find other readers and writers for that. 

     The movie is NEVER as good as the book. Almost NEVER. The film version may indeed be excellent, but almost without exception, the book is infinitely better. I have to give credit to the BBC’s adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and also Emma Thompson’s version of Sense and Sensibility. They stayed pretty close to the book. But still, if you liked the movie, I recommend you read the book, because you’re probably missing a lot, and likely seeing a lot that the author never intended to be part of the story. I hold up the Harry Potter series as an example. Delightful, entertaining films, but the books are better. Of course they are. How could a two hour film do those books justice?  The fourth film in particular, The Goblet of Fire, completely butchered the book. And yet it’s still better than most of what’s coming out of Hollywood these days. 

    People who care about you will make time for you. If they don’t answer your call or text or message right away, they may be busy. People have lives. They have jobs and spouses and children and responsibilities. Things come up. Emergencies, big and small. However, If they don’t respond to you for days at a time and you notice that they do seem to have time to post on Facebook, THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT. They can’t be bothered to make room in their busy lives for you, and you should stop wondering and whining about it and focus on people who do make time for you. An exception to this is a friend or family member you suspect might be depressed. Give them some time. I know from a lifetime of experience that depression causes you to withdraw from the people closest to you, even though you know they love you and want to help. Some days you just can’t deal with PEOPLE. But the others? THEY DON’T GIVE A SHIT. And you shouldn’t either. Move on. 

It is true what they say, “If you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.” I am not well. I will not bore you with a list of ailments, but suffice it so say, I am not dying, at least not imminently. Technically, we’re all dying, but you know what I mean. Anyway, while other people have jobs and children to focus on, my main focus is just on getting healthy. It’s a good thing I like to read and write, because that’s about all I’m good for, besides watching TV. I do enjoy having the time to read and write, but it comes at a cost. I am often sick, weak, tired, in pain, or all of these things. I suck as a homemaker. My husband deserves better. It’s a lonely existence. But I suck it up. Because NOBODY GIVES A SHIT. 

 There is life outside of Facebook. YES! It’s true! I deactivated my account days ago and I have survived and am actually thriving. I’ve gotten tons of reading done, started writing again, began learning piano, exercising,  and I feel so much calmer. I didn’t realize how agitated I had become. Facebook had become a sordid addiction for me, like gambling and I had to cut it off cold turkey. So I did, and apparently Facebook is rolling merrily along without me! AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT!

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depression…part three: Prozac Princess

May 1, 1995…This is the day that everything changed in my depressed world  It is the day that my ex-husband and I (FINALLY) separated, and the day I filled the new prescription my psychiatrist had given me for a new drug called PROZAC. I had never heard of it, but the doctor said it was fairly new and initial results were promising. So, why not. The demise of my marriage had proven to me that I was clearly NOT OK on my own and I hadn’t liked the weight gain that had come with my old anti-depressant, so I was game. So, I asked. How long does it take this stuff to work? Doc said I might start feeling a little better pretty quickly but it takes a few weeks to get into your system, about a full month before you start feeling the full effect. He was correct. I did feel better, though almost certainly the cause was psychological, separating from my miserable marriage and moving in with a fun friend from work and planning a new life for myself. But I felt more energetic and cheerful in those first few weeks. Then, almost a month to the day, I remember the moment I felt “IT”.

When I left our old apartment, I moved in with a friend from work, Darlene. Darlene was a party girl. Darlene was fun. Darlene was a bit of an alcoholic, I think, but I loved her to death. Good times! Her complex had a pool. We worked together at JC Penneys at Perimeter Mall and both worked night shift and sometimes we would get up in the morning and lie around by the pool before work. One morning, we did this, right around June 1st I believe, about a month in on Prozac and it was a beautiful, warm, breezy morning, and I floated on my back in the shallow end and closed my eyes and felt the heat of the sun on my face and body and the cool water under me and I spread out my arms and sort of took it all in and a wave of something nameless washed over me. It was like happiness, but it was more. Like everything was right with the world. Like bliss…like euphoria…and then I thought. “That Prozac is some good shit.” And it didn’t go away. It lasted, for days, for weeks, for months. I went through some bad days and I didn’t feel euphoric, but I felt OK. Like I could handle it. Like I could take whatever life dealt me. I stopped crying. I found that I COULDN’T cry, even when I felt like it. That was the strangest thing. I used to cry over the least thing, like a commercial or a movie , and then all of sudden, nothing. I worried briefly that the drug was changing my personality. I decided it didn’t matter. I liked the new me. I felt bolder, more confident, and more positive. I had always been so pessimistic, so negative. The new me could do things, make things happen.

After  several months, I made the decision to go back home to Cullman, and from there try to get back in school. I remember the day I left Atlanta with my dad driving me home, moving all my stuff. I didn’t cry, naturally. I played a tape of Stone Temple Pilot’s “Interstate Love Song” over and over all the way home and drove my dad crazy. I was pumped! Prozac and I had my future all planned out. No looking back. My ex and I were separated, but as far as I was concerned we were over. I just wasn’t giving in. I told him if he wanted a divorce he would have to file and pay for it. It took him a year and a half to do it. Meanwhile, I went back to school and got on with my life and when he finally sent me the divorce papers, I signed them, put a stamp on the envelope (the only thing I paid for) and went out to celebrate with friends. I had done my grieving during the marriage. Thanks to Prozac, I stayed pretty evened out and made pretty good grades. And then I got stupid. I succumbed to some faulty reasoning that plagues many well-intentioned mentally ill people. I thought I was cured. Prozac has cured me, I thought. Therefore, I DON’T NEED IT ANYMORE. So I stopped taking it. And for a while I was OK. Prozac stays in your system for a little while. I didn’t tell anyone what I had done. I didn’t tell anyone until the night I called my mother up talking about wanting to die. I think I may have called my dad too, I can’t remember. But I was deep in depression  and desperate or I never would have called her. In my right mind I would never say a thing like that to my parents. That’s just a bell you can’t unring. Once your mother or father has heard you say you want to kill yourself, they don’t forget it. and they never look at you the same way again. Every time they see you, every time they talk to you, they wonder if it’s the last time, and they wonder if it’s their fault. And you did that to them, and you have to live with it. Their guilt is your guilt. A parent shouldn’t have to wonder these things about a child they brought into the world. So I promised my mother I would go to the psychiatrist and get back on Prozac. And we joked about me signing a contract stating I would never go off my meds again.  I got back on the Prozac and was feeling better within a few weeks. But things were becoming more complicated. The doctor no longer felt Prozac was enough.It was becoming standard to have patients on a “cocktail” of drugs designed to treat their illness and I began taking more drugs. I started taking medicine for anxiety, ADD, extra drugs for depression.  I started to feel like a guinea pig. I was constantly coming home from the doctor’s with samples to take, dealing with side effects, going off and on new medications. I would get to a combination that seemed to work for a while, and then I would start getting depressed again and we would try something else. Always, the Prozac stayed the same, because whenever we altered it, I became extremely depressed. Was I addicted to it? The doctor said no, you can’t be addicted to anti-depressants, but I had my doubts.

During this time, thanks to Prozac, I was able to overcome a major obstacle in my life, a severe debilitating phobia of driving. I was in a terrible accident with my mother when I was five years old and had blocked out most memory of it but was left with this terrible fear that I didn’t realize until I  had to take driver’s ed in high school. Even in the simulators in class, I was terribly nervous and my performance was awful. When I had to get in the car, just sitting in the driver’s seat gave me panic attacks. I drove once and scraped the side of a bridge near school and never went back after that and failed the class. So my entire adult life up until I was 30, I had to rely on someone else for transportation. It was embarrassing, humiliating, inconvenient to myself and others, and really caused problems in my relationships, especially my first marriage, because I was so dependent. The fear was so strong that I couldn’t even try to overcome it. But after I started taking Prozac, I started feeling strong enough to at least try and I began to practice using an old truck of my dad’s. Finally at age 30, I got my driver’s license! Once I started driving, I couldn’t imagine how on earth I had survived up until then. How had I made it through all those lost years? How would they have been different if I could have been driving and independent. I probably would have never married my ex at all. But all we can do is look ahead. Eventually, I got my own car and haven’t been the same since. In recent years, I’ve had periods of illness where the fear has crept back in and I’ve had to stop driving for a while or take anti-anxiety meds but today I am fine and savor my freedom. And Prozac is still part of my daily drug “cocktail”.

I did learn the hard way over the last few years that Prozac can build up in my system and stop being effective, and when that happens, I have to replace it with something else temporarily and  get it all out and then restart it later. I say “the hard way” because I became depressed a couple of years ago and went to the hospital and the doc there took me off of it cold turkey and substituted something else and sent me home a few days later. A few days after that, I was back at the hospital, suicidal, and a different doc put me on something completely different. It was a few months before everything got straightened out and when I started back on Prozac under my private doc’s  care , it worked just like in the beginning. So, about that contract my mother was talking about…:)

depression…part two: medication

“Have you taken your meds today?” Sometimes this question is a serious inquiry made by medical professionals in a formal medical setting. Sometimes it is a (lame) attempt at humor by a friend who has noticed that you are a little off your game or maybe a little more serious question from a loved one who is concerned that you aren’t quite yourself. It’s one I’ve heard many times, one I’ve even asked myself in moments of confusion, honestly wondering if I had, in fact, swallowed the allotted pills in my daily pill organizer, that thing that one usually associates with senior citizens who take dozens of pills a day, a separate little compartment for day and evening of each day of the week. Believe me, that thing is a lifesaver. Without it, I never would keep my  meds straight. Yeah, that’s “meds”, short for “medications”. That’s the lingo in this business. Glad you’re keeping up.

There are far too many people in the world suffering from mental illness that are untreated, tragically, but most people with diagnosed depression and/or bipolar disorder are prescribed some kind of medication. Some choose to take it, others prefer to wing it on their own, not liking the side effects, or fearing becoming someone else other than themselves on the drugs. I am considered an ideal patient because medication has worked for me at least some of the time and I trust it and my doctor, to a degree. I know that bad things happen when I try to go off meds entirely and that I will likely be on some form of medication for the rest of my life. I can live with that. Whatever keeps me far away from the deep, dark abyss of depression, I am committed to that. When I talk to people who are going off their meds, I congratulate them on their bravery, but inside I’m thinking, “FAILURE! DOOM! DON’T DO IT!CHAOS! HELL! MISERY! SADNESS!” and I pray for them. I don’t want to hear about another suicide. I’m a believer in pharmaceuticals, because they have worked for me, sometimes.

I first began taking anti-depressants as a freshman in college. I was depressed before then but never got professional help until I was on campus at the University of Alabama. I was dating my future ex-husband, and my ex-boyfriend, whom I was still in love with came down to visit me and told me, in one breath, that he was joining the Navy, his girlfriend was pregnant and he was getting married. I didn’t cry. I just hugged him and said it was ok, everything would be ok. Later, I cried, and apologized profusely to my current boyfriend, swearing I only loved him and I didn’t know why I was crying. Then I didn’t sleep for two weeks. So I went to the student health center and saw a psychiatrist and a psychologist and was diagnosed with depression and given a prescription for Pamelor, an old school trycyclic. This was pre-Prozac days. I finally got some sleep and started feeling better and started talking to a therapist and realized I had been depressed since childhood. This was sad, of course, but in a strange way made me feel somewhat better.  I wasn’t just weird. Something had been wrong with me. and it had a name, and now I was getting help. I felt hopeful. Over the next few years I was fairly stable with a few adjustments to the dosage level of my medication. Then I dropped out of school and got married and moved to Atlanta and instead of looking for a doctor there, decided as many wrongly do,  I was all better and didn’t need meds anymore. I had worked out all my childhood traumas in therapy and I was fine. I didn’t need any help. I wasn’t suicidal, so I didn’t think I needed meds. I convinced everyone around me of this and no one argued. Within 6 months of marriage, I was miserable. We both were. It was a disaster, for reasons I don’t have room to write here. Just that our relationship had run its course before we had gotten married. We never should have done it. We had broken up before and should have stayed that way. But there we were. He decided to be as bad as he could be to make me divorce him. I was not brought up to believe in divorce so I clung to him like a snapping turtle. I was determined to make my marriage work. My husband started seeing a therapist and got a prescription for Zoloft. That same day, I got a call. He was on the top of the parking deck at his work threatening to jump off. He was taken to the psychiatric hospital where I was allowed in while he was admitted. They gave me his belt, his tie and his shoe laces to take home with me. They asked him what was going on with him that made him want to take his own life. He looked me right in the eye and said “My marriage.” Thanks for nothing, you bastard, I thought. Rather be dead than live with me? Fine. I asked if there was anything he needed. He wanted me to call his parents and tell them but ask them not to come. I agreed, but told him I couldn’t prevent his mom from coming over. That was the hardest thing, telling his mom over the phone. She thought I was about to say he was dead, so she was a little relieved but, the hurt in her voice when I said he wanted to die. And then that he didn’t want to see anyone, not even her. She probably blamed me. That’s ok, if it made her feel better, may she rest in peace. I went home and got the best night’s sleep I had had in a long, long time. It was a peaceful few days that he was gone, but it had to end. He came home, and all I can say is Zoloft may cure depression, but it doesn’t make you a better person. It just made him more of a self-absorbed jackass than usual. He became the “victim” in our relationship, according to his therapist. I was the bad guy, though not quite sure what I was supposed to have done, since he was the one with other women on the side and I was just working and trying to be a housewife, the latter of which has never been my calling. We inflicted ourselves on each other another year until he forced a separation by giving notice on our apartment, knowing I couldn’t afford rent by myself. I resisted. We fought all night. I remember throwing a Bible at him, screaming scriptures at him. “God hates divorce!” Then I found a leftover bottle of Pamelor and took what was left and swallowed it and went to hide in the closet. He dragged me out and took me to the hospital, more angry than concerned. The nurse there caught his vibe and asked when we were alone if he was abusive. “Not physically,” I answered. I convinced her I hadn’t taken enough to harm me and she let me drink charcoal instead of pumping my stomach and he took me home. We separated a month later.

On May 1. 1995, the day I separated from my ex-husband, I took the first pill of a new prescription called Prozac and my life changed forever….

to be continued in  depression…part three: Prozac Princess

 

All I can do is all is all I can do.

Question to myself from a private journal:

Why am I always worried about what others think of me? When did I become such a people-pleaser? Why doesn’t anyone worry about what I think?

Answer:

Because you are WEAK. You seek others’ approval to build up your low self-esteem. You always have and you will do this until you learn to love and approve yourself. And no one cares what you think, love.

(True enough.)

The thing is, I could please people more if I would stop being quite so much myself, if I could tone THIS down a bit, maybe. Posted less politics and opinion and more Harry Potter and cats. Then more people would like me. But then, why don’t people worry about getting along with me? Why do I always have to be the one to change? Well, I’m not, that’s all. I will pick and choose my battles and decide what’s worth fighting for and what can fall by the wayside. I just have to give up this juvenile desire to be loved by everyone because it ain’t gonna happen. I’m never going to please everyone and I have to stop trying. Some people are easy. Give them a smile and a kind word and they are good to go. Some people are never going to be satisfied with me no matter how hard I try or what magnificent feat I pull off. I have to cut myself some slack and stop trying so hard. All I can do is all I can do, as the song goes.

 

 

 

Bipolar and the Hall of Shame

First of all, let me say that if I was to tell you every negative, embarrassing, humiliating, horrible, awful, thing I have ever done because of having bipolar disorder, this would be a book, not a blog. Not that I blame all my bad behavior on my illness. Just most of it. Some days I’m just a bitch, and no amount of medication is going to fix that. That’s just me being me. But usually, most people who know me will tell you that I am a laid-back easy-going kind of person. One friend once told me if I got any more laid-back she was going to check me for a pulse. I am a confirmed introvert, a homebody, almost a hermit. I don’t go out much. I don’t do much. I am happiest at home in my comfortable little nest with  my loved ones and my wi-fi and my books. I don’t start trouble. Generally. Hardly ever. So the story I am about to share with you will shed some light on the power of  mania in a bipolar person’s life. The following is the biggest trouble I have gotten into while suffering a manic episode. I won’t say it’s the worst thing I’ve done, because technically there are things that are morally far worse, but anyway….

It all started because I had a doctor’s appointment at 9:00am, which is a reasonable time, unless you work 3rd shift and get off at 6 am and have to stay awake and wait for that appointment. I was tired and stressed when I got off work at the police department where I was a dispatcher. I tried to take a short nap, but to no avail. I made it to the appointment, more tired still, where I proceeded to wait in the waiting room for  two hours. TWO. HOURS. I did not complain or ask what the holdup was. I knew there was no point. You’ve all had to wait at the doctor’s before; you know how it is. I suffered in silence, becoming more and more exhausted.Finally, my turn came to see the doctor. He breezed in and looked at my chart for about two seconds and wrote me some prescriptions and left. I got out of there and went to the nearest pharmacy on the corner, not even wanting to go to my usual pharmacy. I remember it was a warm September day, the kind of day where you knew fall was coming, but it was still comfortable outside. I walked into the pharmacy and was blasted with cold air. The air conditioning in there was unreal. I wondered if I had wandered into a meat locker. There were others ahead of me so I sat down, crossed my arms to keep warm and put my head down. I stayed like this for a long time. I think I began to fall over, because I overheard one woman ask another if I  was passing out and if they needed to call an ambulance. I sat up then to let them know I was ok, but I was really feeling bad. I wanted to lie down on the floor. Finally, the pharmacist called me up and apologized for the wait and told me the problem. My doctor had prescribed me a medication that was contraindicated with one of the meds I was already taking. He had been on the phone an hour trying to get him to give him a substitute. AN HOUR. He said, “I’m so sorry,  honey, it might be quicker if you just go back over there and see if you can pick it up from the nurses’ station.”  I said thank you. I must have looked like a zombie. Flat affect, flat dead voice. I felt half frozen. I shuffled my way to the door, and went outside to my car. I don’t know if it was the sunlight or the heat that affected me more, but suddenly, I was wide awake. Wide awake and mad as hell. I got into my car and tore around the corner back to the doctor’s office. Thank God no one was in my way. I got out, slammed the door, marched into the office, slamming every door I came to, marching like going to war until I met the receptionist who, I noticed for the first time, was behind protective glass. Probably because of people like me, I thought. And laughed. I felt high. I felt invincible. Nobody was going to tell me no today! I walked up to her and told her I needed to see the doctor RIGHT NOW. She skittered away, apologizing profusely and came back with a nurse in about twenty seconds who led me straight to an exam room, the door of which I SLAMMED as she was saying “The doc will be right with you.” It slammed a lot louder than I expected. Really, really loud.I started to talk to myself in my head. OK. You are out of control here. You have got to stop. But I couldn’t stop. I was still trying to calm myself down  when the door eased open an inch or two and a hand appeared with a prescription, then finally a whole nurse looking nervous came in with it and handed it to me. One was for a drug for fibromyalgia, which I don’t have, which I threw back in her face with a look of disgust and said, “I’m not taking THAT”  and the other was the one I needed. I got up to go and asked if I would just sign for them at the nurses’ desk.  I said of course and I said “May I leave the doctor a note, since he is obviously too busy to see me?” My voice was pure sugar coated sarcasm. They all nodded. “Or maybe you all could just remind him that next time he writes someone a prescription he should maybe check and see what other drugs she’s taking so he doesn’t waste her time, make her sick, or GET HER KILLED!!!!” Then  I stormed out, slamming all doors behind me, and got the hell out of there before they called my own police officers to come and arrest me. I got home safely, took my meds, went to bed and slept like a baby. As far as I know, they didn’t do a police report.  No one ever talked to me about it at work, and after a few days, I breathed easier. But about two weeks later, I got a letter in the mail telling me that I was banned from all doctor’s offices within that group, which was practically every doctor in town. They didn’t say “banned”. They said something like they were “discontinuing services” or some such nonsense. But it meant banned. Because I called a doctor later that I wasn’t sure was part of the system, and his receptionist told me that  “Dr____ doesn’t feel that he can be of service to you now.” Alrighty then! So that’s basically how I got blackballed out of medical care in my hometown. I’m not sure how far it spreads. I assume the ER won’t turn me out, surely. But, I live elsewhere now, anyway, so, it’s all good. And now you all know, there’s another side to me, a side you want to avoid seeing if at all possible. There are many sides of me, actually.”More sides than Sybil!” Just kidding. I DO NOT have multiple personalities. If I did, I would make them write their own blogs. 🙂

Manic Tuesday: One week later.

What a difference a week makes. I just reread last week’s post and it’s like it was written by another person. I guess you could say I am back to “normal”, whatever “normal” is. I am definitely  not manic. I had about 2 days of high energy and then I just plateaued. I am not exactly depressed, though sad. (I found out yesterday a Facebook friend died. Even though I never met her in person, I would have liked to have and I am feeling the loss.) I kind of feel myself sinking back into my old rut of mild to moderate depression, the kind where I’m not suicidal, but I’m quiet and disinterested in everything and sort of lost in my own head.  I am not in the danger zone, but it’s not a good place to be. I expect I’m not a joy to be around, if you were to ask my husband or family and friends. Of course I’ll be avoiding all of them except my husband as much as possible, because that’s what I do. I withdraw. The fact that I am writing this is something new. I don’t know if I will continue. Just depends how low I get. I may  log off here and focus on other writing projects. A few days ago I forgot to take my bed time meds with dinner and I didn’t sleep all night and was sick and miserable. I didn’t figure it out until the next night, and I was angry with myself, because it was my own fault.  It depresses me that my wellness depends on a couple of handfuls of pills a day. I don’t know who I am without drugs. Every time I go off meds, I become suicidal. So I take my meds faithfully, because the hospital is not a place I want to be ever again. But I just forgot.  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Nothing for it. Just have to get back on the program and try to stick with it. I’ve never been very good at taking care of myself. I think that’s why God sent me Steve. Steve takes very good care of me. Steve notices when I don’t feel well. He makes sure I eat and drink even when I don’t feel like it. But even he can’t save me. I have to save myself. I have to make the choice every day to get out of bed (or not) and take my meds and try to live my life. He can’t do it for me. No one can. Some days I can’t. Currently, I’m getting out of bed around noon. I get up with him when he goes to work, but I go back to sleep “for a few minutes” and then it’s noon. A whole morning wasted. So I get up and eat and take meds and try to get things done and not think about going back to bed. Recently, I started taking Adderall for ADD. That’s what caused the manic episode. It felt great. I wish I could be slightly manic all the time. Laughing at everything until it hurts, full of energy, getting things done, mind sharp as a tack, thinking positive thoughts, not dwelling on gloom and doom. That would be ideal..That would be the real Me. That’s my goal, always, to be centered. Neither too high, nor too low. Lord, let me be.

Manic Tuesday

​It’s almost time to go see my therapist and I’m nervous. I am full on manic mode right now. I’m bipolar, for those of you that don’t know, and manic means I’m on a high mood swing. It’s kinda fun. I’ve been laughing my butt off all day long, so much that my side hurts. But I’ve got to calm down and get serious now. It’s weird. It feels good, but a little scary, too. Like a roller coaster ride. That’s the easiest way to describe bipolar, I guess. Up and down and all around. Keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times. LOL My brain is running 90 miles per hour stopping on nothing in particular. I had to make myself eat lunch and tell myself when I needed to go to the bathroom because I was so hyper-focused on what I was doing. If I can stay at this level, it’s ok. I’m ok like this. If I get higher there might be trouble. Like when I get in the car. Gotta lay off the gas pedal. I am a speed demon when I’m manic. Gotta focus when I”m driving and not get road rage. Gotta focus at the therapist’s and try to make some progress. Gotta put my credit card up and quit shopping on the internet. I may have to call and ask them to freeze my account. I have to watch my temper when my husband comes home tonight. I have to make up my mind now I am not going to pick a fight with him or respond in anger. I have to be affectionate, but sensitive to his moods. I have to feed him and make myself eat something even though I won’t be hungry. Then, tonight, I will take my nighttime meds and pray they are enough to make me go to sleep and that I am not up  ALL NIGHT LONG as I have spent many other manic nights. (there’s the downside). If I am so blessed, I will sleep, and get up tomorrow and start all over again. Will I be manic tomorrow? With bipolar you get a 50/50 chance. I might be depressed. I might be somewhere in the middle. I just started new meds so I’m guessing I will be at least a little manic again. WEEEEEE!!!!!! 🙂