* Bipolar Depression and its ups and downs, vulnerabilities, realities, etc.
* Suicide
* Psyche Ward Stays
* Motherhood (well, maybe 70% of it)
* My art processes, whether successes or failures.
* My daily ups and downs
* Motherhood (well, maybe 70% of it)
* My art processes, whether successes or failures.
* My daily ups and downs
I talk a lot. I like to talk and/or type because I feel like I'm having a conversation, even when there's no one home with me.
It is strange, however, when people I've never met before come up and talk to me as if we're best friends because they've read my blog. It's very surreal. I don't really know how to handle it when I'm staring them in the face wondering who they are. I suppose because I'm so open and let people see a lot of my inner thoughts, in a very real way they do know me.
Yet there are pieces of me that no one sees. I do not share everything. Some things I hold close and will never talk about. A few of those things are painful and hurt my heart. Others are wonderful and joyous and are too precious to be shared.
One of those precious pearls was my affection for Antelope Island, my love for that place in the middle of a giant smelly lake. Thus my wish to die there near it. Although now everyone I know and love is aware of that fact. I suppose it's for the best, but that's a part of me that was once very private and mine alone. I still don't talk about the why's of that island, although a couple of my daughters think they know. A part of me mourns that the secret of its existence in my heart is no more. However, that lock was broken open by my own hand whether I meant to do it or not.
One of those precious pearls was my affection for Antelope Island, my love for that place in the middle of a giant smelly lake. Thus my wish to die there near it. Although now everyone I know and love is aware of that fact. I suppose it's for the best, but that's a part of me that was once very private and mine alone. I still don't talk about the why's of that island, although a couple of my daughters think they know. A part of me mourns that the secret of its existence in my heart is no more. However, that lock was broken open by my own hand whether I meant to do it or not.
Once in a while I wish I could talk about the painful or the happy bits that I hold close, but they are mine and mine alone. There have been a few brief moments when I have thought, "Maybe if I share with so-n-so, or *that* person, the emotions surrounding this won't be so intense."
Perhaps that's true. It usually is for me; I talk about things or write about them, and it feels easier to live with whatever it is that I've ranted, whined, explained, or proclaimed joyously about.
Perhaps that's true. It usually is for me; I talk about things or write about them, and it feels easier to live with whatever it is that I've ranted, whined, explained, or proclaimed joyously about.
I don't even know why I'm sharing this, except to admit that I have these feelings, thoughts, and wishes that sometimes surface. Private secrets so intense that they put huge smiles on my face and I dance around. And sometimes they hurt so badly that my chest and heart physically ache.
This is how I know the difference between sadness and depression.
I'm probably not making a lot of sense, but I felt the need to admit this much. While I refuse to talk about the specifics, I had to take the time to at least admit that they exist. That in and of itself helps a little bit.
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