Struggling…  trying to keep it together.  My shrink doubled my dose of Lamictal.  Hope that helps.  My mind has been spinning out on me, lately.  I really let this friend of mine get under my skin, telling me I need to figure out what I want.  Why do I have to do that, right now?  Can’t I do what feels right, in the moment, and sort it out, later?  Haha…  right, because that’s how it works.  I know better.  And, I am seeing things more clearly than I’d like to, in some ways.  And, in some ways, I remain mystified.  Lost, like a child, wandering around without a parent… 

As a kid, did you ever find yourself standing next to one of the tall, adult people, thinking you’d been next to your mom, or dad, only to look up and see that you’re now standing next to some stranger?  This happened to me, a couple of times. 

I have never allowed myself to lose my sense of wonder.  It’s one of the most beautiful qualities of childhood that gets buried in cynicism.  Cynicism and pessimism are taken more seriously in our culture.  It is generally assumed that the more cynical or pessimistic view is probably the intelligent one, and that anything positive or good has to be intrinsically silly or trite.  These perceptions are obviously unfair, to say the least.  No one ever changed the world, cured a disease, or did anything that people previously regarded as impossible by sitting around enumerating all the reasons it could not be done.  The skeptics do that while creative thinkers actually dream up ways of getting around that sh*t.  Dreamers – people with imagination, who believe anything is possible – those are the people who make things happen. 

Not that I think I am necessarily going to make anything happen, personally.  Eventually, I would like to run a writing work shop in a correctional facility.  That’s a long term dream of mine.  And, the idea isn’t limited to correctional facilities.  I would like to bring creative writing work shops to women’s shelters, and homeless shelters – any group that would not normally have a creative outlet.  Everyone has a story to tell, and putting that story on paper can be empowering.

Returning to this blog after a lengthy interruption, I am taking a header, and quick.

I am trying to hang in.  I am putting too much pressure on myself.  Thinking too much, too fast…  I try not to focus on the past – mistakes I’ve made.  I know better than to get hung up second guessing someone who didn’t know then, what I know now.  I know, it’s unfair, and even absurd, but my mind is coughing up a dozen regrets a minute.  As my head gets clearer, I start to remember why I always wanted to block something out.  The memories that creep up.  Some my fault…  some not…  but none of it’s any good.  So much pain…  embarrassment…  sadness…  and memories that have me thinking back, and asking myself, "is that really me?"  And, I know that it is, and it isn’t.  I was in fact there, but I was an unmedicated bipolar on heroin.  I don’t know if some of the people close to me will ever understand just what that meant, or what it’s done to me.  What so many things have done to me… 

My psychological stability is completely absent, at the moment.

Trying to fight…  trying to breathe…

The doctor asked me, what was different this time?  The shrink…  he asked me what made me think I could stay off heroin this time, when I hadn’t been able to before – I could not give him a good answer.  I always lose this fight.  I always end up back where I started – f@cked.

I need to turn this off.

I need to stop feeling these things. 

I cannot stand feeling this way, anymore.

I am way past fleeting thoughts.  I’ve gotten as far as considering, and I am toying with planning.  I don’t have the right numbers in my phone, anymore.  I don’t think I even have them in my house.  But, I know who does.  Because, some time back, I gave him the number.

Charlie will wig out if I do this.

But, f@ck it.