The fight

Every morning I paint my lipstick on

and I con the world into believing that I belong

I smile and joke

and try to float

the current to the end of day

trying, trying to pave my way

to seamlessly behave

as is expected

living others’ perspective

then home, where I’m alone

my lipstick washed by tears

the pressured load to please

its finally released

and I can breath

now freed

to mourn my desperation

for this depression situation

and with each tear that falls

you’re a failure” Life calls

ungrateful and lazy

pull yourself together you crazy!”

failure, failure, failure echos

as death solemnly smiles and beckons

but still I wake and put my lipstick on

I might be done but I won’t be gone

a tug of war Depression and Life

I’ll participate, butI don’t walk away from a fight



The tide of life swims in and out

sometimes so fast I can’t keep count

its tiring

the sighing

and crying

and ‘I don’t want to keep trying’

then up and away

my emotions sway

thoughts stretched tight and in motion

the brain drinking dry the magic potion

then the high drops

and more crying won’t stop

and she drowns

without a sound

sapped dry by the lie

of happy endings

and broken hearts mending

Two down, but still so much farther to go

The needle was sunk deep into my ass and the plunger wouldn’t work. I was twisted as far around as I could go, manhandling the Voltaren syringe now dangling from my butt, and all I wanted was to shout for someone to come and help me. But I had to figure it out because I’m alone and only I could fix this.

And fix it I did, but this time it hurt. The indignity of my vulnerability brought me to tears. Although, in my current state of depression, pretty much everything brings me to tears – every day. And so I cried because the injection hurt. And I cried because yesterday, as so often happens, I passed my ex-husband in traffic and he didn’t notice me. It was a metaphor for our marriage – I was as invisible to him now as I was then.

I cried for the loss of Lover, a stranger I never knew, who’s abuse has changed me at such a fundamental level I know I will never be the same again. I cried over every other man who had mistreated me, abused me, raped me. Every friend who has discarded me, every colleague who has judged me. I cried because my father loves money and appearances more than he loves me. And, as always when I cry, I cried for the loss of my mother and her abandonment by chosing suicide. I just curled into a heap and cried snot and tears and emotional anguish.

Crying by stardixa -

I cry for loss [source]

But, as much as I am resistant to see a psychologist, at the insistence of my doc I have made an appointment for Thursday next week. I have no doubt I will cry some more. But, perhaps the pain can be channeled into some healing of sorts? I dunno. I’m kind of giving up.

yesterday i cried

yesterday I cried. I cried for all the loss, the loneliness, confusion, betrayal and fear. I mourned my pets, both living and dead, that I will never hold again. I wept at the cruelty of my husband. Choosing alcohol, not me, never looking back. My mother choosing death over me. My father never choosing me. I cried for the times I tried to please but brought only disappointment. For my endless failures. Wrong choices, missteps, bad decisions. My body aches with unbeaten sorrow. An unbearable misery that makes me want to claw my skin off my bones. I cry until my beath is short and my vision blurred.

The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on

The Cry By. Stèphane Berla on


Bipolar, I fucking hate you, I silently screamed. I hate that you make everything hurt so much, amplify every emotion to the point of physical pain. You give no answers. All the while feeding me with confusion, betrayal, self-doubt, isolation, anger. You’ve taken so much, how much more do you want from me? Except, maybe for me to give in? Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard. So much time, money, effort, to achieve, what exactly? Because no matter how much medication, therapy, support, its always there, tucked just below the surface, laughing at me, waiting to draw back the curtain of sanity and show the world just how crazy and different and scary I am. It revels in the judgments and the obvious whispers of you don’t belong here and you never will.

But today is yesterday’s tomorrow. It may hold hope. So I put my mask on, try to look my best and carry on with the mundane, like a programmed robot (fixed smile, robot voice “hello, I am fine. Hello, I am fine”)

ANNOUNCEMENT: This episode was brought to you courtesy of the trigger gastroenteritis. Bipolar exploits any weakness.

Love, meatloaf and chocolate

I’ve had such a horrible day. Everything’s gone wrong, as if conspiring against me. At work, computers were down, connections were lost, people were absent and work continued to perplex my confused memory. I plodded along with my mind focused on 4:30pm, like a carrot swaying on a stick.

Traffic was jammed because electricity was out and traffic lights were winking red, red, red, red, red. I sat, car idling, in the middle of the traffic war, listening to Meatloaf’s “I Would Do Anything For Love” and started to cry. I cried all the way home. And I continued crying long after I was home. And to bloody compound the situation, I was making meatloaf for dinner. No lie. So I cried some more.

I am enveloped by sorrow. I feel alone, unloved, unloveable. I have no direction in my life, no achievement. I’m wafting along, alone, living one day at a time. I know in bipolar terms, I’m doing well. Hey, I’m not dead yet! That’s what I mean by ‘doing well’.

But I want more. I want love, companionship, success in the workplace. I want FUN! I want to laugh, not cry. And I don’t even have any chocolate left in the house. Trying to curb comfort eating means I only buy chocolate (double the amount – shhhh don’t tell) on weekends. So in all my glorious moodiness I plopped down on the sofa to watch TV, shifted the blanket to cover my feet aaaaaaand…. uncovered half a bar of chocolate. I LOVE IT WHEN I’M FORGETFUL.

Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, it’s off to court I go

Welcome to my Pity Party. Jump in, the water’s warm.


Right. So, I’m officially depressed. That much has been established. What’s triggered this state of chocolate-eating, serial sleeping, mindless weeping, attention deficit, quietly creeping melancholy? Isn’t it usually a man’s fault? In this case yes, it’s my soon-to-be ex-husband’s fault.


Well technically, he’s not ex-husband yet. Long story short, I left our 15 year marriage because he is an alcoholic. I filed for divorce, and instead of us splitting everything in a fair manner, he has chosen to sue me in an effort to leave me with nothing. The divorce has been ongoing for almost three years. The three day trial is booked for court 10-12 September 2014.


As time draws near I am becoming more frightened. Not nervous. I have bipolar remember, no half measures. So I am bloody frightened! I will testify. I will be cross-examined. The stability of my future rests on those three days. I don’t know how well I will hold up under those conditions. On an average day I shake blatantly, even my head wobbles! I get confused, I forget, I can’t get words out, I can’t remember words, my mouth goes so dry I’ll probably need a 2 litre water bottle with me. I am petrified.


The closer the dates draw near, the more stress fractures are beginning to show in my fortitude and in my game face. So let sleep enfold me and shield me from anxiety. Let me weep some more for my lost marriage and family. Please forgive my lack of focus because right now, my mind falls only on those 3 critical days in September, when my life will forever be changed.