I'm lying in bed with the curtains closed for the second day on holiday. May be if I sleep I will wake up feeling better. May be if I sleep for even longer, I will feel even better.
May be it's the hormone pills that's main side effects are bloatedness and depression. May be it's an episode triggered by intense emotions I experienced on Saturday and Sunday. May be it's PMS. May be it's the sleeping during the day on Monday. May be it's all the pills I drank. May be it's all the crap I ate. May be it's just another unwelcome, uninvited, unannounced visit from Bipolar, whom I loathe, fear, can't escape or resist and came to expect.
I perceive the world around me but none of it makes particular sense, provides particular joy or matters much. My senses and my centre is consumed with this feeling of aloof yet intense doom. Blood to all organs enabling engagement in life are shut down to preserve the one vital organ of heavy confusion, sadness and intense numbness.
If I knew all the words in all the dictionaries in the world, I could not explain it fully. How can I explain in detail something I don't understand. This sneaky little devious bastard of an illness that isolates me in it's existence, that prevents me completely from sharing it, that chose me and me alone to deal with it's burden and revels in my inability to do so like some sick sadistic thrill.
It sucks the beauty, the meaning, the pleasure and the desire for anything, out of everything, leaving me indecisive like a shell of a being.
I completely loose myself in the hope that my husband understands that it is bigger than me, bigger than him, bigger than us and that he accepts, instead of trying to rationalise something that can absolutely not be. I hope that only love might counter the bizarreness of this, it's opposite. Love, in it's own infinite definitions and powers, might be the only force to calm my storm.