Thank you very much to those who responded. Even though this is an internet journal, I find it interesting that the most unexpected of people are stepping up to the plate when the shit hit the fan, which it has. So, to those of you who took the time to respond, thank you very, very much for listening and actually caring. Even here on the nebulous amplitude of the internet it's becoming quickly clear which friendships I should pursue.Please ignore if you are just watching me for art updates, this journal is unrelated to that. This also gets kind of heavy for the holidays; the reason I posted it is pretty selfish, so I won't be upset if no one replies.
I had started writing this whole huge spiel explaining my brain to whoever is reading this, but then I realized how pointless trying to explain it is. That's how intense this feeling of hopelessness is. So, here comes the super-condensed version. Let's face it, who really wants to sign on to deviantART to read about this kind of crap? I'll make it as brief as I can.
I suffer from bipolar disorder,
severe clinical depression, and a panic disorder that terrorizes my life with a ferocity most people will, thankfully, never know themselves. In order to function as a semi-'normal' human being (and I say semi-normal intentionally, with 'normal', of course, referring to my personal standard), I have been medicated pretty heavily. I am currently in-between medications, which I hope is the reason for the shit hitting the fan recently. The bipolar aspect causes me to flip-flop between extreme happiness and extreme depression rapidly (these giant mood swings fluctuate in their half-life). When I am severely depressed, I put up a joyful façade. The end result? Constant happiness.
Most people who 'know' me insist I am one of the most cheerful people they've ever met. They're right; more than half of the time, it's genuine good cheer. The other half is a desperate survival maneuver crafted over the years to keep my precious friends from running for the hills. So, to those of you who are finding me hard to get ahold of this month, I'm so sorry. I've been getting oodles of e-mails, text messages, and calls about hanging out now that I'm back up at home, and I just can't do it like I thought I would be able to. I went from 180mph to 0 in a snap of fingers, and I'm having severe issues with the enormous ups and downs of the stress levels in my life. Please understand this is not personal - I just can't do it right now. Even something that is joyful for me (hanging out with friends) involves even a minimal amount of planning and for some odd reason I am incapable of adhering to that right now. (I am only working one job up here over the holidays, but it's also a very time-consuming one. That is another factor.)
I'm really hard to get into contact with; this is nothing new. The flip-flop of the bipolar means that I'm either enthusiastic as all hell about life (and a social butterfly) or ready to fling myself bodily off a bridge with no provocation (a social recluse). To explain some of this, I took excerpts out of my, uh, diary. Yeah, I keep a diary, but it's only for when I'm surrounded by people but am the
definition of alone.
I am nineteen years old. When I was ten years old, I had my first panic attack. It was late at night. As I lay down to sleep, something strange happened. It all began with a sudden shortness of breath, which rapidly multiplied into a feeling that I was going to die within five minutes. I rushed to my parent's room, flung myself onto their bed, and busted into horrified tears. I pretty much confessed all of the sins I could think of and then lay there waiting to die. My mother couldn't figure me out. My father growled at me to go back to sleep and rolled over to go back to bed. I felt:
Shortness of breath.
Heart palpitations that patter in my chest like a frantic child's feet.
Uncontrollable and surreal trembling.
Dizziness -- forget standing up.
Chest pain that incites confusion; am I having a heart attack?
Perspiration. The back of my shirt is soaked with sweat.
Hot flashes; why is my body temperature doing this?
Headache. It's the least of my problems.
Derealization. Where the fuck am I?
Paresthesia; my hands feel like little prickly needles are in them!
Hyperventilation; I can't get enough air!
Nausea; am I going to lose my dinner?
Vertigo.
Lightheadedness -- I'm giggly, because I'm going to die.
Burning sensations in the heart.
Choking sensations around the throat.
Fear of dying.
A feeling of being trapped, no matter how clearly free I am.
A desire to call 911 -- who else can help me?
Fear of insanity.
Imagine those feelings manifesting themselves in one heady, horrible rush every single night for nine years. That's my life. That was me last night, and it will be me again tonight. They come like clockwork. Get this; if I miss a panic attack, I get so panicked about missing it that I end up having one. They vary in strength; not every night has all of the above symptoms (when I have a panic attack with all of those symptoms, which happens about once a month for some hellish reason, I call it my 'mega monthly monster' ). These symptoms are interpreted with great alarm by me, understandably I think, and usually result in another aftershock panic attack.
Anxiety attacks are crippling my life.I won't get into the depression or bipolar aspects.
On the surface, life is good. I am a successful student making good marks at an established and respected university. I have a huge social network that is entirely based in real life - a tangible circle of friends. I am well-liked for some inexplicable reason. But for the life of me, I often wonder who my real friends really are. My personal standard of friendship is a responsibility, on my end. If my friend is in need, it's my duty to support them as best I can. But I think now, with the dawn of the Facebook friend, the meaning has become cheapened. (Let me say now that I don't have a Facebook or a Myspace - I'm a dinosaur who believes that it's ruining our generation, blahblahblah, ask me about it sometime but not right now. xD) Not everyone believes that a friendship is a kind of self-imposed responsibility (one born of love) anymore. You can just drop a sentence on someone's Facebook wall, instead of dropping them a line. (Okay, hating on Facebook stops
now.) When a person drops hints in conversation about being depressed or their life's difficulties (especially the ones that feel unsolvable), that is a blatant cry for help. One that for me, has been answered only twice. (Note that I love the people who've answered that call more than anything on the planet. I least expected it from these people, too.)
None of my 'friends' are willing to listen, it feels like, so I've been living by a suicide hotline these past three weeks. I feel closer to that anonymous voice on the end of the other line than I do to my best friend. And that's okay. We live in an exhausting, fast-paced world. Solving one's own problems, let alone tackling another person's, is the bravest and most exhausting task one can take on. Why, then, have I, the most emotionally crippled person I know, taken on so many charges? How then, can people who live exponentially simpler lives emotionally than me, (I am thinking of specific people here) not help me when I'm
begging for it? Just some food for thought, I'm sure some of you have felt the same way.
I care about my friends and I guess I want to feel cared about on more than just a superficial level. It's important for me to add the disclaimer that this isn't all of my friends, of course, just the overwhelming majority.
A lot of my friends are decidedly unwilling to get into this. It hurts my feelings and makes me feel resentful towards this section of people, because the ones I'm thinking of are those for whom I've sat down and taken a mental bullet, so to speak. This holiday season is both wonderfully good and astounding horrible. I tried to off myself the other day, and sang the world's praises not three hours later. I've been drawing productively and simultaneously breaking down into shrieking hysterics over the stupidest things imaginable. I sleep nonstop, my classic escapist move, and the panic attacks have gotten so bad that I literally cannot function as a semi-'normal' person (with normality being my subjective view on functionality and productivity as I know I should be, well, capable of). I have to prove I can be more stable before next week or my mother hospitalizes me again.
I'm going stop this verbal vomit now before it gets too excessive; if I really wanted the whole internet to know about the intimate details of my mental processes I'd post the fifty-seven page depression diary. Haha. I wish Sylvie was real and could kick my mental monster's butts!
I go into surgery this upcoming month for a physical ailment. Nervous! I hate surgeries. Anyways, to change gears like my mood has just changed, everyone have a Merry Christmas! I am really excited for this year's excellent holiday. I am drawing productively despite myself and I miss you all. (Wow, sometimes my mood swings make themselves apparent even in just one journal entry.) Thanks so much for being my listening ear just now, I
really need it.

Be safe!

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