I also didn’t eat much yesterday — an Atkins bar for breakfast, a cheese sandwich for breakfast.

I’m still not hungry.

(ASIDE: speaking of which, those of you who are celebrating the death of the lo-carb diet? please recall that different things work for different people. I used it on my doctor’s orders as a way to help control some vicious side effects from my meds. I lost 50 lbs. as an unanticipated result. I agree it was a fad, but I have to say it was one that worked for me. and I’ll never go back to another way of eating.)

I am not really sleepy either — more in a fog. I think i could sleep if i tried, but i’m not sure.

Seroquel barely dropped me last night.

This is definitely what they call a “mixed” episode — the racing thought and sleeplessness of mania, the depression of depression.

Random thinking. Don’t mind me — I jump between focus and scatter; witness the earlier poem, which worked well as a focus device; witness this post for a contrary example.

I do think I’m coming out of it a bit; but it feels fragile. I feel fragile.

apparently, we don’t need no stinking sleep.

(cue something blowing away in the wind)

as of now, 37 hours awake and nothing feels like sleep.

dear god. i’ve never had a manic episode like this. the racing thoughts and weird surges are beyond disturbing. suppose i wasn’t “controlled?” (smirk)

i’m gonna load up on one of the meds and knock myself down. if i can’t function tomorrow, i’ll skip work again and figure out the next step then.

there are times when nothing i do seems to work out.

i try to be a good guy, y’know; i try to make my life fit into my moral code.

the more i look at me, the less i like what i see. controlling, aloof, miserable, not comfortable in my skin.

this is not self pity. self pity is the poor me syndrome.

this is the cold recognition that i am responsible for all my shit. all of it.

poor me? bullshit. hate me. (you too. join in.)

at this stage of my life, you’d figure i’d have this figured out. and now that i look at me, i know better.

for the record, folks, i’m coming to nationals. i had planned to keep it a secret, make it a surprise, but i know better now; all that fucking drama? the joy of a dramatic gesture? bullshit. what ego.

but the NPS is the last place on earth where people still like me and think i’m a good guy. i hope to remember how to be that while i’m there.

for those who are a little freaked by me now: i am sorry. i will be better, i hope.

here are my steps:

therapist tonight. in-patient stint? maybe.
possible leave of absence from work until i settle.
resolve current living situation.
travel to ABQ.
hang moderately, as much as possible.
return and face shit, for real.

and if those are not enough?

well, let us see what shakes out.

still driving, still travelling, still thinking.

quick Kinko’s break for this.

am i ok? who can really say that? i don’t trust anything anymore.

i’m taking the day off. hitting the road to think and write.

reachable by cell if you need me.