My life is full of late-night ramblings.

From my LiveJournal, May 17, 2007:

(I get the feeling this is going to be the forward of the book I’ve been trying to write for the better part of two years…)

So, here I sit, another night spent- rather, wasted- reading other people’s blogs and wondering what, exactly, I’m doing with my life. I have a job interview scheduled in a week and a half and I have no idea what I’ll do until then- I quit Wendy’s out of sheer frustration and a desire to keep my hard-won, very expensive sanity intact. I haven’t quite run out of money yet, so here I sit, reading blogs.

It’s five thirty am, nearly six, when I finally haul off and go to bed. My roommate doesn’t know, she’s working a night shift. So long as I am up when she gets up the next afternoon she can stay in the dark about it. It’s one of my triggers, staying up all night, but we don’t discuss it if I can help it, because it makes us both feel terrible about things.

I change into my pajamas and lie down, turning the light on, thinking about my failed book attempts, thinking about my illness and how long I went before I had a proper diagnosis, when statistics blindsided me. On average, most people with bipolar disorder go ten years before they get a proper diagnosis. How long did I go from when my general practitioner mentioned manic depression that first time? Was I twelve, thirteen perhaps?

One of my most recent favorite books pops into my head. “Stop Pretending,” by Sonya Sones. It is a heartwrenching tale told in journal-style of a sister whose older sister has been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I have made most of my close relatives read it at this point. The journal-style is a sticking point in my late-night, sleep-addled state: I kept journals sporadically through my teen years. I was a prolific writer. What if I combined some of my journal entries over the years and made a book out of them? Eight years passed between that first tentative diagnosis that never really was and the official one in the hospital during college. My journal entries are a window into a tortured mind that really had no idea why she was so tortured, not until years later.

I leapt from bed and started leafing through old journals, most of which are up in storage and at six in the morning I doubt my upstairs neighbors would appreciate my rattling about. The older ones will be retrieved later. For now, the two I have closely at hand work, as well as old entries in my blog, which date back a few years at least.

I suppose this is the most rambling forward an author could ever hope to write, but it is a journal of sorts, really and truly. My disjointed ramblings for the world to see and to hopefully glean a bit of truth. I now present to you my journals, my deepest soul ventings. I’ve kept a few parts to myself, and changed a few names to protect the guilty, but for the most part, they’re here.

Same mission, different day.



Filed under Then

2 responses to “My life is full of late-night ramblings.

  1. I was 6 when I first heard the phrase “manic depression.” My mom was livid that my psychiatrist said it within ear shot. I was 26 when I finally found proper treatment. And I have several family members with schizophrenia, which was really a blessing in disguise for me, having something to compare myself to, because bipolar seems like a touch of pneumonia compared to that. By the way, my blog has a new address, Long story short, I’m blaming it on my manic impulsivity that made me click the “delete” button by accident.

  2. I’m noticing the trend that well-meaning family (and sometimes, well-meaning family doctors) seem to be the ones keeping people who need proper treatment early, from getting proper treatment early. They want so desperately to believe that their loved one is okay that they go into hardcore denial. If I’d been diagnosed with childhood cancer, my mom would’ve been all over the doctors to do whatever it took. Childhood bipolar disorder? Nope. A phase. It’s a phase. Maybe if people treated mental illness more like any other sort of illness, it would get better treatment. (Of course, people go into denial over any and every health diagnosis all the time, and there’s no changing that.)

    And yeah, compared to schizophrenia? It really is more like pneumonia, or like, chronic asthma. Annoying as hell, yes, but not the end of the world like schizophrenia can be.

    *snrk* Manic impulsivity, eh? Ah, well, I do stuff like that all the time.

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