Prelude to a Prelude to a Prelude to a Prelude

It is a constant need of mine, as well as a constant requirement of my continued existence, that I continue to disassemble and then reassemble and disassemble again and repeat the parts of me in the recesses of my mind that made me who I am and led me to where I am today.
I like where I am today. There is little more to say about that.
Then there’s The Illness. It comes and goes and comes and goes again and it changes forms sometimes and lurks places, unseen until too late, haunting those same recesses of my mind because it knows damn well I can’t be so many places at once.

Bipolar is just a word today. I take just enough but not too much medication. It wants to happen to me sometimes; wants to pull me hard by the edge of my sweater in the park on an early autumn day in one direction, be it skyward or navel-gazing, be it brave, bold, shy, or afraid. I feel it, but I am not beholden to it like I was once, an idiot trudging down the long hard road to despair or more accurately self-immolation despite my self, and knowing the difference the whole way through the journey.

Today more of my energy goes towards moderating the more toxic combination of ADHD and occasionally severe and almost always there, somewhere, anxiety that form together into something that makes me both unable to hear what people are trying to say to me and at the same time unable to communicate the fact that I am trying to hear them. It is misdiagnosed as disinterest or distractedness or disregard. I understand why this happens. Mostly I keep working on that today, when I work on a million things at once, while at the same time working on knowing when to work on nothing.

 

 

 

 

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