Which Comes First?

The last couple of weeks have been strangely busy for me, socially. More so than in past months. It's nice. No complaints. Been out and about on dates, meeting up with people for movie nights, and getting out of the house. Again, liking it.

I think I have hit this socially outgoing spurt in the midst of a little mania, but it is hard to diagnose that. Contrary, I could be feeling a little manic because I've been a social butterfly. I'm really unsure because for years my manic episodes were angry and stressful. I hadn't had a good upbeat, creative one in quite some times.

With the happy manic episodes comes some not so good traits. I have a libido that would rival three or so football teams comprised of the horniest teenagers imaginable at the core of me. I am insatiable. Throw in a manic episode...this could cause all sorts of trouble for me. With the dating I've been doing, it is doubly troubling. I am trying to be a good girl especially since I can separate sex from intimacy...i.e. sluthood. Again, I've been a fairly good girl because ultimately, I want to end up with my 'forever after' man and I just worry about the repercussions of actions.

I also think I'm doing reasonable well considering that I don't seduce the guy I'm currently seeing more often than others, every time we hang out. Believe me, it's been difficult sitting next to him at times and refraining from doing so. Don't want a relationship to be based purely on the physical aspect. Want no confusion in why we are attracted to each other. And it's nice to be adults about the situation developing between us instead of resorting to naked time and the magically glorious introduction of male and female parts.

But despite my thoughts that I'm doing ok with this and because I am Naomi with a mental health issue, little insecurities of mine continue to pop up in my mind. Causes an angsty, moody, impatient woman. I think I'm doing ok with not showing that side of my ass but the only one to tell you differently is him. All this emotion is forcing me to address my foibles in my journal, which makes me feel better that I'm writing again (honestly, that outpouring could be related to the mania...gotta take it where you can).

I got questions though. I want to talk them over with a therapist; but I have none at the moment because of no insurance and I refuse to see anyone at Lakeview here in Pensacola. Shitastic place that facility is. I haven't turned to any friends because well, I really don't want to say because I fear I'm just being a crazy person.

Considering the overwhelming onslaught of emotions and activities in my life (nearly 95% having to do with the normal stress I deal with), I'm surprised I'm not in a worse place than I ought to be. But how long does the high last? Aha! The countdown to an extreme episode, which could be mania or depression.

Friend boy, I am sorry. Hope you can deal with me. And if he can, boy oh boy, how that will make me squee.

This Isn't Fun.

My moods are shifting faster than I care to think, which has to do with the lack of medication again. I lost my health insurance at the end of August and my scripts have run out. Cold turkey. No meds. A crazy person going into the worse half of the year with no medications, no mental health professionals, and no support system. Can we say, "Naomi is fucked!"

I am trying to appeal the health care decision. I will continue until something happens in my favor. I can only do so. The only other option is to give into the demons which at the moment are yelling nasty, nasty things about my unloveability and razor blades. I hate those cunts. They are not very nice.

Birthday is coming up in a month so I have to give myself credit that I outlived my suicide attempt 25 years ago. Wow...that is weird to write.

I just don't want to disappear anymore and that's all I feel I am doing.

Slate Clean

I can't write anymore. I have very little inspiration. No voice. No audience. No love. Probably no hope.

There was a time that I carried my journal with me everywhere. I couldn't leave the house without my large messenger bag with my journal, a bag full of choice pens, books to read for inspiration, inks and chalks and markers and colored pencils and the kitchen sink....now?! I leave with keys. my phone. identification.

My poor journal sits neglected with maybe an entry once every couple of months. Forced. Same here.

Why bother?!

I feel abandoned. I keep saying it. My soul feels battered and abused and lonely. Left by parents and friends...and lovers who said they would never leave. Who said they could withstand the darkest part of my sorrow and just hold out and hold me.

I withdraw. It seems what everyone wants. For me to be the quiet, good girl. No complaints. No emotion. No want nor need. Just a blob of nothingness.

I'm unhappy. I'm always unhappy. And I hate that's what I seem to only have to share. So I don't. So I keep the slate clean. And I remain unhappy.