I press my sweet, beautiful face into my pillow to sleep. The light wakes me up, the sounds of a city that never really settles down helps me sleep; sirens, yelling people, squealing brakes, traffic noises. Noise needs to be present. I also leave The Ice Harvest playing so Cusack's soft spoken voice is also there when I hook up my star to jet off into dream world.


I have bipolar type 2 disorder. In my head, it sounds like I'm talking about diabetes. I was diagnosed in June of this year, after I tried suicide twice in the space of 4 days. I spent 2 weeks in a locked ward at the hospital. My sister came to visit and brought me cigarettes and pens with paper.

Preceeding the hospital, I was underwater all the time. I lost my job. I had no hope. MG saved me that night.

The truth is: I am a social worker, and I wonder all the time about whether or not I can be a good social worker when I have this mental illness. I keep wondering if there is a conflict of interest there.

I kept referring to that time as 'being sick', without really getting into the nitty gritty of what was going on with me. I wrote cryptic entries so I could gloss over the words 'suicide' and 'kill'. Little words that look so sharp in the daylight.

I have to take 3 different kinds of medication that are supposed to keep me 'even' now. I take them but I hate doing it. It's just not something I ever thought I would be the person to do. I have my own personal stigmas that I place on mental illness.

I had it in my head that only people who were lazy of the mind were depressed and/or suicidal. That those people were just nuts. It has been hard to place myself in that category. I know this is not supposed to be what people think about people with mental illness but it was something I could not separate myself from.

I don't remember much from the ICU of the hospital. I remember Matthew's voice messages and being scared to call him back. I remember not having the power to leave the hospital to hide under my blankets at home.

Labels: bipolar