this is not a gallon of milk.

{This post was actually written a few days ago. I promise I really do know what day it is - most of the time.}

It's Tuesday, it's raining, my ponytail is flat, it's exactly six days until we close on our house (which means my anxiety is in warp-speed-overdrive-murder-death-kill mode), and it's red-alert-level PMS up in here. (You're welcome for that last little nugget of honesty.)

I feel like I could go commit a crime today and then present that first sentence as my defense and end up walking out of the courtroom with the Court's most sincere apology and a gift card to Starbucks.

But really - being the weirdo that I am, I've often joked (see also: legit wondered) about whether or not my psychiatric history/medication roster would be enough to get me sent away to a psych ward as opposed to prison. You know - in the event that I really did commit a crime. It's not like becoming a felon is on my goal sheet or anything, but I've watched enough Snapped and Criminal Minds and How to Get Away With Murder that it got me to wondering. (Lawyer friends - would that count as premeditation? See! I can't stop!)

Seriously though - I feel a bit (actually a lot) like I'm walking a tight rope this week. I looked myself in the mirror this morning and told myself out loud that we (as in - me, myself, and my issues) do not under any circumstances have time for a nervous breakdown this week. I just hope they all listened.

So I sounded the alarm at home to warn my people that I'm out on the ledge this week. I'm on the verge of something - but I'm not quite sure what. This could go any number of ways. If the dam were to break, I truly don't know what would be on the other side. It could be tears. It could be rage. It could be mania accompanied by irrational, erratic, and impulsive behaviors/thoughts/outbursts.  It could be a round of depression dark enough to cast a pall over everything. I really have no idea.

Not knowing what each day (or sometimes each minute) may bring is one of the scariest parts of being bipolar, especially for this control freak. I once took an intro to philosophy class in college, and all of the That Than Which Nothing Greater Can Be Thought and relative being junk made me furious. This business major wanted NONE of that. It was seriously the longest semester of my life. This feeling feels a lot like that. I hate it now just as much as I hated it then.

I was having this conversation with an individual who is to remain nameless when she asked me how long I thought I would be like this. Figuring she meant how long would I be even more nuts than usual, I cracked a joke about feeling better when I'm not homeless anymore. (To clarify: We are not homeless. We've been living with family for a while and just bought a house. We move in next week. Wheeeee!)

But I was mistaken.

She looked at me weird and said, "No seriously. How long are you going to be like this? Are you going to have to keep taking medicine forever? Will you not ever learn to control it on your own?"

Oh honey. Bless her heart.

To say that I thoughtfully considered her question and then calmly told her that mental illness doesn't really work that way would be a lie. I burst into hot, angry, indignant tears. Through choked sobs I explained (see also: wailed) that I'm not a gallon of milk. Being bipolar doesn't have an expiration date. I won't wake up one day and no longer need my medicine. And for her (and your {and anyone else who wants to effing know}) information, I am going to be like this forever. I am going to keep taking medicine forever. I am controlling it.

I'm choosing to wallow in the bout of depression brought on by that little encounter longer than I probably should. I'm fighting the triggers that always surface. I'm fighting the urge to spiral out of control and crawl under my covers and never come out. I'm fighting the temptation to feel sorry for myself and be hateful to anyone who tries to talk me out of it. I'm fighting the nagging want to take a double dose of my anxiety meds and then sleep through the rest of today and tomorrow and maybe the day after that. I'm fighting myself.

I'll get it together and feel better at some point, but it won't be today. I'm sad today. I'm edgy today. I'm pissed today. I'm self-righteous today. And I'm fine with it today.

Take this how you will, but I appreciate the dark days sometimes. It lets me know I'm still in here. I like knowing I'm not lost in a sea of drugs and that all of my sharp edges haven't been dulled to nothing. That would suck.

So I'll stay out here on the ledge until I'm ready to go in. I'll do the best I can not to break anything or anyone or make any messes. I'll try not to lose my mind every time I feel like I could. I'll ride out the storm that no one else can see. (And I promise - I'll ask for help if it gets too rough.)

With any luck, the body count will be low.

xo.

{Edited to add: Me, myself, and my issues did NOT listen to the warning they were issued. I won't bore you with the details of exactly who did what and why the who did the what that almost caused me to scream and cry and do ALL OF THE THINGS, but we survived it. Barely. There will be mass casualties in the calorie department tonight, but it is what it is. Like I always say ... It could be worse. I could be addicted to heroin.}