• Broken

    I took down Sub Brother, and Sir is teetering. I’m not allowed to talk about it in those terms, but… it’s true.  My issues over the last six months have put a significant strain on the household.  I’ve had many many days and nights of screaming flashbacks, sometimes lasting hours, or coming in clusters and waves, one after the other. I’ve had night when I had to lock myself in the bathroom to take my medication because I was too afraid to take it and fall asleep with the guys in the house because in my mind I believed they would rape me when I was helpless.  (THIS IS NOT…

  • Family

    Someone asked how I identify with the guys in my life… so… I don’t really know. But I guess I consider Sir and SB my family.  Sort of.  I still am not totally sure  but for now that seems like an okay definition.  We’re a coalition of some sort.  K and J are friends.  I was asked if they are like extended family and I suppose they could be.  I think I have them in the friend category, but definitely the most intimate friends I have, or any of us have, I think… They witness and participate in our lives in ways that nobody else does, which… definitely requires and…

  • Ease

    Today is better.  Sir stepped things up today and it helped. The dishes are done and put away.  The laundry is done and put away.  The kitchen is clean.  The house is swept.  The fridge has food in it for the week.  I finished all of my school work that I needed done for tomorrow.  I’m writing my blog post and it’s not even 8. I still don’t feel totally connected to my submission.  And, even better, I think Sub Brother is struggling with his right now, too.  He didn’t say it, but I heard him sigh when Sir told him to do something today, and… he NEVER does that!…

  • Output

    I’m having a less than easy night.  It’s not terrible – certainly not by the bar set by multiple nights this summer – but not… great. I think it’s depression, or at least the leading edge of a depression front. Sir thinks that possibly my feeling is akin to burnout (and potentially that’s enough to tip my bipolar back towards depression) because I’ve been… outputting intensely for several days and likely not getting enough inputting.

  • Tired

    It’s 6:30…  I was doing okay at 6.  Now I can barely move my limbs.  It’s too hard to type.

  • Empty – SFD

    “I tried to think about photography today, I looked for things on our walk.” Devin looks at me.  “That’s good.” He drags out the second word, questioning, waiting for the rest. “I couldn’t.  Nothing was… good.” He twists his mouth slightly in sympathy.  And Sir, standing slightly behind me, brushes my hair back behind my ear.

  • The Edge

    My fingers move over the keys, not typing, just moving because… I have to move.  My legs are twitching, my eyes are too wide, I can feel it but I can’t stop. The depression has been ice in my veins, lead shot in my limbs, defeat, sloth.  But now it has been enervated like Frankenstein’s monster, a lightning storm in my brain that gave it a hideous semblance of life. Now it is restless movement, snapping temper, too much light, too much sound… too much… too much… touch… get my fucking clothes off of me NOW!

  • Shitty First Drafts #3

    The murmuration of traffic beyond the line of trees is almost hypnotic as she traces the grain of the worn wood with her fingers and her eyes. The porch creaks as he crosses the old boards and stands, wordless, behind her. A breath of wind makes the sparse spring leaves around the deck whisper. “You’ll get a splinter.”  His voice is soft, warm, curling against her ear. She shrugs.  A splinter would be something to feel, at least.

  • Fear

    I had a few better days.  Today was… shaky, and tonight it’s falling apart.  I had therapy today and it was a particularly tough therapy day.  We talked about writing, and talked about what Sir and I talked about the other night and…  what I wrote, and my feelings, and what’s happening with my depression and my writing and my bipolar… I’m supposed to try to develop softness towards my fear.  We identified that I’m afraid of writing, maybe afraid of seeing myself… because writing is… who I am inside, and I’m afraid of seeing that, and the fear is creating the wall, and if I soften to the fear…

  • Struggling

    I’m sure I’ve hidden it so well, no one has noticed… but I’ve been struggling a little bit.  Nothing life threatening, just crappy.  I’m rapid cycling, but at the low end of the spectrum… so… if mood is a continuum…  like a number line… and the distance between high mood and low mood is a constant, like… 20…  (which it isn’t, there is no constants, but just for now…)  I could go up to a high of 20 and a low of 0…  or up to a high of 40 and a low of 20…  Higher highs, higher lows.  Or lower highs, lower lows… Right? It doesn’t actually work that…