Venti Mocha, Non-Fat, Shot of Peppermint, Shot of Bailey's, No Whip

     I awoke at the crisp early time of 1:41 a.m.  I curled up in the living room with my dog and Borges until about 3, when I decided to try sleeping again.  But my other dog wanted to hang, too.  Somewhere around 5 I fell asleep again on the couch.  You know what this means?  It's another episode.

     The problem with being diagnosed with bipolar disorder and going untreated is that, well, the disorder just kind of does its own thing.  Even though I sometimes question whether I am or am not bipolar, there's no doubt that there exists in my mind some sort of mental and emotional disorder.  The biggest problem, aside from the crazy running unchecked, is that I can't seem to tell the difference between the ups and the downs.  That's not true.  When I feel and episode coming on, when I know it's about to peak, the symptoms are very similar.  It's the big outburst that defines it for me.  The sleeplessness, desire for a cigarette (has to be real bad for me to actually have one), and creative writing spurts come in the approach.  A good episode results in my house becoming spotless in the middle of the night, people getting presents from me just because, and lots of music with a horn section.  A bad episode results in crying, calling in sick just so I can drink, and the occasional act of dragging my fingernails up my arm or thigh. 
     They usually all peak the same way, too:  I have some sort of fight with Da Vinci.  It used to be whoever was nearest to me.  In high school it was mom and school officials.  In college it was roommates and friends.  Then it was the Pretender.  He really couldn't take it.  He had his own kind of issues, mostly regarding drugs and family issues to rival my own.  But during the fight I tend to run away.  I don't mean I am a coward and can't stand the fight.  I run away like a 6 year-old kid.  I take a highway and drive, just drive, until I begin to think clearly again.  I can never stop the thoughts.  They move so fast they hurt.
     I'm not very nice when I get like this.  The non-sleep is hard enough.  Since I'm awake, I might as well be miserable, right?  I remind myself how I'm 40 pounds overweight.  Shut Up!  I'm 40 pounds overweight, have no friends, am the laziest person I know, and am incapable of being on my own.
     I have some people I consider friends.  I have one who lives too far away and is too busy to be my friend.  She's also a bit of a extremist.  If I'm having a bad day, she assumes I might kill myself; if her husband got a correction from a director, she assumes he's fired and needs a new job.  The other women around me are pretty useless.  One wears hot pink velour running suits and pretends to be a housewife.  She's really only good at making kids.  Whenever one is old enough to go to school, she gets pregnant with another.  Their dog (no longer a pup) is locked away from everyone all day, and she has decided her life in incomplete without a kitten.  It goes on.
     Being 40 pounds overweight sucks.  I feel too ashamed about it to even have sex.  Which leads to me not having sex, and then thinking I'm not having sex because I'm unattractive.  At least the boobs are big.  The DaVinci is kind and comforting, but not very helpful.  He really can't be.  When I'm fat and miserable about my weight, he knows better than to say, "Do you really want to eat that, too?"  He may die for that, and he knows it.  But he's overweight also.  His dad is trying to lose weight by correcting his eating habits, not changing in exercise though.  This would work for me because I'm so lazy it's exhausting.  But I don't cook.  I know I could cook, if left to my own devices, I guess.  As a family and a person with odd social obligations, a change in diet would entail a total life makeover.  Change is the hardest thing in the world for me.
     So in the meantime, I'm fat and sad today.  All I really want is liquor.  That's all I want, liquor- and maybe my pj's, couch, and some Harold Pinter.  Shit, if my life could be that perfect.  I'd wear hot pink velour suits as a uniform if I was allowed to just do what makes me happy. 
     But today I'm pretty sure it's a bad episode.  And all I want to do is drink myself to numbness.