July 20, 2022
Still struggling. Badly, actually. Suicidal Ideation, my old friend, is back for a visit. He’s been hanging out in the shadows for a while, and now he’s cuddled up close to me on the couch.
Did you know that up to one in five people with bipolar take their own lives? Interesting statistic. And up to 60% attempt. Well, so much for the irrevocable decision I made a while back, and formally announced on my blog, that I’d ruled suicide out entirely. That I was no longer going to entertain the notion as a viable option.
I was doing so well! That’s what makes this so much more difficult, so much more depressing. Things took a turn for the worse, and I resisted, but eventually dove down the negative vortex telling myself over and over, “It’s too hard it’s too hard it’s too hard.” Yes, it is too hard. Not always. But right now, it is pretty motherfucking hard.
When I say bad scary shit like that, I always couch it in something positive, like I know things will get better, and I always hold onto Hope. And I do. The memory of Hope lingers as a speck of light in the far recess of my mind. But maybe she has hangover and she’s still sleeping, or she took a little vacay, or something, because I sure don’t feel her right now.
Today, I will make some hippie jewelry for the marvelous hippie belly dancer woman I work with that’s been selling my hippie jewelry to her hippie belly dancer friends. I’d love to see her troupe perform, and I’m sure I will.
But I sure miss my burlesque friends in Louisville. Desperately, in fact.
I sure miss Louisville. Desperately, in fact.
I Persevere. And life goes on.