I wish I could report that things have gotten better since the last time you heard from me.

Unfortunately, I can do no such thing.

I am so tired. I know. I said that last time. But it is getting worse. I crawled into bed at 1 A.M. this morning. 5 hours later, I was graced with the most minimal amount of sleep it would take me to somewhat function. I was awake by 10. By the time I finished my first cup of coffee, I was ready for my first nap of the day. Another hour of sleep. By 2:30 P.M., I was napping again. In total, I have gotten a healthy 8 hours, right?

That would be enough for any normal person. Even in increments, I should still have the energy to accomplish shit throughout the day.

But I don’t.

Now, there is something known as “The Sleepless Elite.” This group makes up roughly 1-3% of the population and regularly function on less than 4 hours of sleep a day. During my manic phases, this is about where I stand. Very little sleep, if any at all. Not for a day, but days. As a matter of fact, I would argue that insomnia increases my mania. When I should be exhausted, I become indefatigable.

It never lasts, though. As soon as I have cycled back through to my depression, I crash and burn.

Don’t you agree that that is a very small price to pay in order to temporarily relieve an extraordinarily long low?

I was surprised at the negative feedback I had received after revealing my attempts to onset this mania. If you aren’t bipolar, you probably don’t understand. And if you are, you are probably asking yourself why in the hell I would welcome the immediate pitfall that comes after.

My house is a wreck. The dishes are piling up. It needs a good vacuuming. The spare couch is a mountain of clean clothes. Pretty sure the dryer has been done for 5 days now. I have 8 days to have my novel manuscript ready. My poetry has been pushed to the back burner. I literally do not even have the energy to watch a 45 minute episode of Salem. I just lay around, hoping to fall asleep.

More importantly, my mind is growing darker by the day. I have had rampant thoughts of suicide, though I dare not mention it aloud. Memories of pain flash through my brain and I miss feeling something other than the void. I have noticed myself withdrawing from my husband, my family, my friends.

As an outsider, one may think that something must be terribly wrong in my life and whatever that is, is causing my depression.

And I truly wish that were the case. But everything is wonderful. I have my doggo back. I just visited my family and will see them again within a couple months. My relationship has never been better. I am presented with vast opportunities in my career.

It is this fucking chemical imbalance. Nothing more, nothing less. I have learned to embrace this illness, but sometimes I struggle to find beauty in the breakdown. I am leaps and bounds more positive while manic, so forgive me if I seem like a hypocrite right now.

I need mania like a living being needs water to survive. At this point, the disappoint I feel for myself is overwhelming. I may not be doing anything wrong, but I don’t feel like I am doing anything right, either. I’m not doing enough, I’m lacking purpose. I have to catch myself before I plummet to rock bottom again.

Right now, I’m scared. I am scared for myself. I am scared of myself.

Induce sleep or induce mania,these are my final options before I am forced seek professional help once more.

Until next time, my lovelies.

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