I figured out I’m bipolar. I’m uncertain how to manage it. I’m hypomanic or manic right now, I think. It’s unfortunate I’ve had to come to terms with my delusional thinking. I prefer, after months of deep, self-hating depression, to actually believe I am desirable again. To think that people ARE looking at me and undressing me with their eyes. I don’t know why that makes me feel so good, but it does.
It’s the energy. The heightened sense of everything. The racing thoughts. The super focus paired with the I can’t think about anything else. The being turned on by just about anything. The shaking of the espresso machine. People’s murmured voices. Christmas music. Pans being washed. The rush of water. The edge of a chair cutting into my shoulder. Everything.
My therapist only sees me once a month and has not seen me manic yet. I need more therapy. I signed up for an app that provides $300 a month chat with a therapist. It’s not helping.
I’m on the verge of a thousand mistakes. I’m headed to getting fired as I do during these episodes. I feel beside myself and deep inside myself. Music helps or hurts I’m not sure. I listen to the same 8 seconds of a song on repeat and come close to exploding in my seat at work as I clench my legs at my desk. I’m not supposed to be getting off. I’m supposed to be writing an article. Doing any number of projects I’m behind on. But instead I’m listening to music and holding myself together. Smelling the scent of humans around me, those pheromones. I can’t focus. I can’t do anything to stop my mind from racing racing racing.
I’d pay for some intimacy right now. But that would be a bad idea. I’m completely devastated from proving my thinking is indeed delusional. I’m not off the deep end, but I want to be. I want to be held down and used. Sometimes. Because life is short. Because I’m manic and need something to quiet this energy. Raw, intense, angry, everything—-not this make believe world not this Puritan respectable everything —- I am hungry to taste it all.
I rub my finger over the edge of a lemonade cap, scratching my flesh, and I want to feel more of it.
But I know this all isn’t real. I need to stop all of it. I need serious therapy and should just pay out of pocket for it. Or I should get in a car and drive who knows where and find a body to throw myself against and let myself be used let myself crumble into flesh perhaps—- I can’t and I won’t but i can’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t refuse anything right now. Thank god I’m unattractive.