Please welcome new blogger, Sara!
Sara Berelsman has an MA in literature from Eastern Michigan University and spent several years teaching college English, literature, and psychology courses. She now lives in Ohio, in a tiny town which is basically a giant cornfield. This turned Sara into an alcoholic, which led to the discovery of her bipolar diagnosis. She writes two regular columns for the local newspaper and is also a contributor to the blog Living Sober Sucks (but living drunk sucks more). She enjoys reading, forcing herself to exercise, and spending time with her husband, Andy, who is a firefighter, and their two daughters, Adele and Eleanor. She is currently working on a memoir.
Where to begin?
Well, first, I’d like to give a shout-out to Cover Girl Lash Blast mascara. I spent a better part of today crying, and no smudging, no running, nothing! So that was a bright, shiny, silver lining. Other than that…well, one silver lining per day is better than nothing, right?
My mood swings have been out of control lately. I’ve never experienced such extremes so quickly. I’ll be at the gym in the morning, feeling great, releasing those wonderful endorphins, blah, blah, blah, and then by mid-afternoon, I’m a sobbing mess, unable to pry myself off the couch. Unable to eat. Unable to move. What is wrong with me?
I have been on some new medication recently, and I’m suspecting it’s the culprit. Seroquel, in case you were wondering. Knocks me out at night (which is what I need; I’m a giant insomniac) but then I can’t wake up in the morning…not to mention the crazy mood swings, which I’m thinking might have something to do with it. (I’m returning to the doctor again shortly.)
I used to experience some mania fairly often…but it was spread out. Now I rarely feel happy. Lately I’m either “okay” or just depressed. Or really depressed. Like I was today. It’s the worst feeling ever. Feeling like I don’t want to be alive, but I don’t want to kill myself. Just feeling trapped in my own mind, with no means of escape. I know my husband still doesn’t “get it,” and if it weren’t me and if this weren’t all I’d ever known my whole life, I probably wouldn’t get it at all, either. When I cry, he always wants a reason why I’m crying. I wish I had a valid reason to produce, I really do. Then this would all make more sense to me. But I don’t have a reason. And it doesn’t make sense. And perhaps it never will.
But investing in a good mascara…that makes sense, every time.