March 6, 20013
I love sitting in the kitchen when I write in the afternoon.
The sun hits the patio door just enough so that I can feel it’s warmth without making my right armpit sweat.
It’s really beautiful outside today.
I can finally hear the birds singing louder than the snow and ice crackling.
You can almost smell spring in the puddles.
I kind of want to run out into the yard without shoes.
I’d sting the bottoms of my feet as I kick the remaining signs of winter away.
I just decided that we need to break down the play set in the spring.
Chunky can’t fit into that red baby swing anymore.
It’s swaying in the wind.
I don’t know why, but it’s fucking hilarious.
I remember the day when Shawn forgot to strap Chunky into it.
Poor guy was launched like superman across the yard.
His face broke the fall when it hit a brick bordering our garden.
Why am I laughing?
Everything is so beautiful.
Colours are wildly vivid.
The lines that distinguishes one object from another are crisp and not fuzzy like they were a few days ago.
Everything is clear.
My head is beautiful.
Thoughts moving in and out pushing me, motivating me to do all the things.
“Too many things”, Shawn says.
I’ve got this.
My house is impeccably clean.
I think I need a mom-iform.
Uniforms for a mom.
I liked wearing my nursing uniforms. So easy to put on in the morning. I didn’t have to worry about stuffy pants and ironing.
Oh and blouses irritate my hair.
Hair doesn’t have feelings.
I have feelings.
I like me today and yesterday and the day before.
Everyone liked me too.
Everyone was happy.
I was happy.
Everyone was happy.
Now they’re all:
“You’re scaring me,” Shawn says.
“Mom can you stop partying at night because I can’t sleep?” Chunky asks.
“You’re perfect? Did you just say that? I asked you what’s for lunch,” my Dad says.
“Are you high?” my Mom says.
At what point did you all fucking think that maybe there was something wrong with me?
I know exactly what’s happening.
I know what I feel like inside and it’s amazing.
But I don’t know how that reflects in my behaviours.
I’m fucking scary apparently.
So that is why I just emailed Dr.B.
I know that it doesn’t end well when I’m like this.
So I probably should just admit that my head is funny.
It really is.
In my email, I told him that I wasn’t a drug “mixologist”.
Fucking cracked me up.
I have no idea what pills to take more of or less of whatever.
I should write a dictionary.
* I am hypomanic. I wrote well over 15 posts in a day. All of them in draft. I have no idea if they were starts, middles, or ends. They don’t make sense. I was motivated to take on sponsored posts…a lot of them. I thought I could do them all. So get ready to have them jammed down your throat.
Anyways, since nothing makes sense, I decided to share my journal. They don’t make sense either but at least they are “finished” pieces and that they will shed some light into the brain of a hypomanic.
** I was put on horse tranquilziers