I have been doing poorly. My bandwidth is low. Tonight, after reading a little for inspiration, I wrote a few poems. I’m not sure I’m happy with them or that they’ll get to the point where I am happy with them. But just writing for a few minutes had to be good for me. Physically, I am sick with something. The running nose and sore throat are getting on my nerves and making me tired. Mentally, I have been in acute distress since Wednesday.
A was home with me today because since we had to pull her out of her private school, we are waiting to hear back from the registrar at her next school. I feel frazzled and guilty for pulling her out, but I need her to have a ride to school. Hopefully, tomorrow, I should hear back from the registrar.
Today I listened to hymns, including an old favorite – There’s Power in the Blood. I cried. I read part of my Bible study on Job. What I glean so far is that afflictions that cause us suffering are not punishments for sin. After all, Job is a righteous man and gets brought low. I’m not righteous like Job, but Bipolar Disorder is not a punishment. Rather it is a thorn in my side that can bring me closer to Jesus. I am so intimate with despair. I need hope. I need to draw closer to God as my mood cycles and I travel through the valley of the shadow of death.
Here are 2 poems out of the 4 I wrote today. I think they capture my low mood, at the very least. Addie, my betta fish, died. I’m thankful to my mom for taking good care of her in her last days. Now I just feel that much sadder. I am drowning in low mood, failure, stress, grief, and general sadness.
Poem 1
Time acquired dilapidated properties at the edge of my publicized lake in the inner folds of my mind. This life is a performance for the entertainment of angels who do not laugh. Their weeping kisses the lilypads with dew. Frogs sing and philosophize. Time vacations here to taunt my memories and fragile wishes. Life must be grasped by the sharp end and plundered into matter like glass shards to harvest a wine so bittersweet with lilac pain that I can’t bear the rustic smell of music.
Poem 2
In the surround sound cult of Tuesday, be a heretic. The jellyfish judge me, their electric colors pulsating reproachfully, dreaming in a sea that offers to claim me when I can no longer haul my own blood back from the shore to the home that drinks it. Cover me in stamps. Discover me under black light grinding against amoebas. You aren’t sending me anywhere. Currents take me. Currents spell my name in blue.
Life at Home 