Thursday, November 8, 2007

Get a job

(Note: Written back in September. But still true in November, though meds are stable now.)


One of the weirder songs I somehow collected my ipod is "Get a Job" by Sha Na Na.

That song must have been in my mother's mind today when she called me and was quite exasperated.   "Get a job" she said. "Anything."

Now this is the weird thing. When I was in school, I had several jobs at the same time. I cleaned houses. I taught Sunday School. I tutored spoiled kids in history and English.  I waited on tables to graduate to cocktail waitress. I even considered the offer I got when people from Playboy came to our school and one of them offered me 2,500 to take my top off for one of their spreads. I turned it down, though it did appeal to my wild manic side I had back then.

All the years after school, I worked in jobs I was overqualified for. Secretarial because I didn't think I could do better. I wanted to work in Manhattan reading manuscripts in slush piles. But thouse girls got no money, and I was my family's daughter. A personal assistant was the best I could attain.


And even though the money was good, I hated it. I worked part time at a bookstore, to help pay off the student loan, and frankly, I was so manic back then I could work almost 2 full time jobs and party. 

And then through circumstance, and bipolar spending, I learned to curb the money and save everything. Live frugal, put half salary away every pay check. Invest. Be Smart.


So now when I fell on my feet I had a little safety net. 

So what's changed? In my 20s and 30s, I ran on pure mania, crashing and going back to mania.

In my 40s, I am finding I am no longer on mania, the manic moods are fleeting, lasting only a day, a week, and hour. 


The depression hangs on, going to suicidal thoughts, and for the first time in my life, I hear voives, and smell things that aren't there. 


I am no longer bipolar. I am bipolar schizoaffective. 


I have to take my ipod when I go shopping, so I don't hear voices.  It's become my steady companion. 

My parents don't understand this.  So far, the voices are all benign, because I cannot understand them. It's like they are talking Latin for all I know. But the smells are driving me crazy.  And hearing things that aren't there. Every night I wake up at 3:33 am thinking I hear a baby crying.

There are no babies in any of the flats near me. The oldest child in the complex is in grammar school.

Most of the time I cannot take care of myself. The depression is so bad I cannot do more than bathe, letting my hair go a week before I realize it's time to be washed. I might go to the bathroom and get undressed, forgetting  why I was there in the first place. 
'

I am turning into my Grandfather who had Alzheimer's. But I am still young.

And scared.

None of my friends know this. When I go out with them I am an actress. It might take me all day to look good, get the makeup right and all, but I pull it off.


I have been pulling it off my entire life. Smile when you feel like dying. 

I wish my parents understood.  I wish someone understood. I wish I had a real friend in real life, not cyber life, who understood.

I hate me.  I would gladly sell my soul to feel better again, but this illness has stolen my soul. Instead, I hear voices in my ears, the sounds of mermaids singing, and daily struggle not to hear their sweet siren song so I will not drown. 







1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Perfect description:
"None of my friends know this. When I go out with them I am an actress. It might take me all day to look good, get the makeup right and all, but I pull it off.


I have been pulling it off my entire life. Smile when you feel like dying.

I wish my parents understood. I wish someone understood."

I've been soooo good at pulling it off that most of the time the pdocs simply do not believe me when I try to tell them what my life is like.

Thanks.

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