Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Next Morning

I didn't get to sleep until about 2 a.m. because the kittens decided the bed was the place to stage late night big time wrestling. Then I woke up at 6 to pee and couldn't go back to sleep because Onyx decided that he liked playing with my hair with his claws out, especially the wispy hair around my face. Needless to say, I am not feeling at all charitable towards the kittens just now.

I still feel scumbossa. Maybe worse that I did yesterday and I can;t decide if I think that's a good or bad thing, because maybe I'm feeling SOMETHING, but it's very, very bad things. Like not wanting to be here. Like just wishing I wouldn't wake up. Well, those are thoughts, not feelings. The feeling is a pain in my heart that radiates down into my stomach. I guess I associate this kind of pain with sorrow or grief but it just sits there and doesn't do anything, doesn;t move and go on. It's just been there in a lump forever. And I'm so tired of being here; so tired of being. And I feel guilty for writing that because I know some people will read it and get really upset that I feel that way, but sometimes I feel like I'm just staying on this planet for other people, that there's nothing for me here at all. Everything is hollow and empty and lifeless.

I finally heard from my brother; he sent me a birthday card with a note in it. He said he thought it was a very brave thing to do, telling the family about my Bipolar diagnosis. ("from a few months back," he said, yeah well, I guess a year and a half constitutes a few months...). And it puzzles me because I don't consider that particularly brave; it just seems responsible if you find out you have a genetic illness to inform the people who share your genes about it. Then it occured to me that maybe he thought or meant that by telling people about my illness I was taking the blame for things that happpened, the difficulties I had as a teenager. And that made me really mad. Because I'm not taking responsibility for those things; I';m trying my best NOT to take responsibility for the fact that our parents were at best neglectful and at worst abusive of me. The fact that I'm bipolar has very little to do with that and doesn;t excuse their actions.

I'm really very tired. I need more coffee.

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