Washing my hair (and I love clean hair)
Not wearing pajamas (meaning I want to change back into my pjs)
Being asleep - or trying to fall asleep at least
Not being under a blanket
Being at all
The desire to wash my hair because everytime I get up and think I should be motivated I start to walk and then nearly start to fall. I start to sob. It doesn't last. It quickly ends but I think then that I will never get out. Not of the house, not of my brain.
I really think the author who captured my mind the best was Elizabeth Wurtzel in Prozac Nation, it was like she went inside my worst spell, my darkest secrets and recorded them and then realized we were really just looking in a mirror. My bipolar usually feels different than so many others to me - I mean it's like we all know that same language but with different dialetcs. But she spoke my dialect.
I couldn't find the quote I wanted, but I found this:
What do you do with pain so bad it has no redeeming value? It cannot even be alchemized into art, into words, into something you can chalk up to an interesting experience because the pain itself, its intensity, is so great that there is no way to objectify it or push it outside or find its beauty within. That is the pain I'm feeling now. It's so bad, it's useless. The only lesson I will ever derive from this pain is how bad pain can be.
Now, things I feel miserably guilty about:
The reality of others' pain
My father's life
The homeless, in particular in this Portland weather
My loving the rain while others suffer it
My lack of compassion to awaken action
My self-absorbant nature
My response: Nothing. Death Cab for Cutie. Otherwise silence.
Pathetic, I know. But you can't control giants, they're too big for you to hold onto.
Where's my sling shot?