Morning

I woke up tired, sweaty and cranky. 

And then people talked to me. 

It was terrible. 

I should have stayed in bed. 

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Not doing

So much of my time is spent trying to decide what to do. 

How’s my brain today? 

How’s my pain today? 

Can I walk without my hip popping out of joint? 

Do I have words to say or an empty brain space to fill? 

How is my mood? 

Do I hate everyone or can I tolerate some conversation? 

Do I have errands?

Do I care that I have errands? 

I’ve spent so much time and effort assessing my status that I just go lay back down. 

And then, when I’m not so tired, I do the whole thing over again. 

Even thinking about doing stuff is exhausting. 

I’m too tired today. 

Explanation of a life

I have been questioning what it is I’m doing here on a blog for the last couple of days. 

What started as an outlet for my (usually) ever changing moods due to my rapid cycling bipolar disorder has become a mishmash of me talking about my life, my pain and my writing. 

Am I allowed to have a blog that doesn’t have a one track mind? 

I just read a blog post by Alex Press (I’d reblog it but I’m not sure the proper etiquette and lack the know how at the moment)  so I’ll just put the link here

It was written by a woman who is sick, like me, with migraines and and brain damage and heart issues (oh my), like me. She also writes despite these things, like me. 

She’s an inspiration and I love following her blog. 

So thinking about what it is I’m here to do, what it is I’m hear to say, it came to me again. 

I’m here to explain myself, to myself and to others who might be interested in understanding or learning about what it’s like to live in my shoes. 

I’m here to give my life structure and form, instead of living everyday without some sort of record of the life I’m living.

 To put myself, my life, my mind, and my atheist stand in for a soul into words. To sum up my life. So I can give it further value than it currently has. 

Explaining is not complaining. 

Sometimes when the pain is too much, when the act of writing about myself seems too presumptuous and narcissistic, I wonder to myself, am I just here to complain about this life that I have? 

Today, I think not. I am still explaining to the world who I am. I can write about my pain without it being a whimper.

 And if on occasion, a whimper is all I have, I accept that as a part of who I am. 

Maladie

There is a kind of pain where every stiff and spasming muscle in the body aches. 

The joints feel like they are melting and the bones being pulled until they rip away from each other. 

Every movement sparks electric shooting pain. 

Every part of the body that is touched feels like it’s crushed against granite.  

When upright the blood pounds in your head and the entire world spins. 

This is the kind of pain that keeps you in bed for days and makes it impossible to sleep at night.

This is a kind of pain that is so hard to see through that nothing else matters. 

There is nothing but the pain. 

Aside

I can’t come up with a clever title today

I feel terrible today. 

I’m tired and sore. 

I’m moving about a foot and a half a minute. When I’m lucky enough to be standing. 

My brain is tired and keeps urging me to curl up into a tiny ball on my bed covered with a fuzzy blanket and watch just ridiculously mindless TV until I can close my eyes and sleep at a not completely unreasonable early bed time. 

I am not doing this. 

I am laying on my couch half covered by an afghan trying to accomplish my goal of writing something everyday. 

I tend to write on days I feel okay about the days when I feel terrible. I don’t think this is what I should do. 

I need/want to push past the fuzz in my brain and the weight of my eyes. To shake off the leadenness * of my limbs and bend the pain sore joints of my fingers to form the words tumbling around in my head. 

On days like this I imagine my brain as a dark foggy gray forest running up to tall black jagged cliffs and thrashing crashing ocean.* Everything is just gray. And loud and heavy. And focusing on any one thing feels impossible. 

Pulling words out of this sort of brain is difficult. 

I have gone as far as I can today. Until tomorrow then. 
* I think I’m going to start keeping track of words I make up. But definitely not today. 

* Like this but not as pretty.