From a Place of Mental Illness.

I haven't posted here in a long time. I've been operating from a place of recovery for almost three years. Even with all that's been going on, my mother says I've been operating from a place of strength.

I think that's over for now. Maybe I'll feel differently when I wake up tomorrow, but that's hard to imagine.

I'm writing this from my son's dark room. He has special needs, and even though he's twelve, he needs us to put him to bed.

I'm writing this from a place of sickness. I've been sick with layers of mono, strep, and a cold for over two months. I still have a fever almost every day. I tire so easily. My body aches, shakes, and sweats.

I am writing from a demolished room of a marriage. The floor has caved in, and I'm perched (still shaking) on two little hardwood boards. I can't see behind me or ahead. This present moment feels like darkness. I can't fix this. I don't even know who's here, but I feel alone.

And I'm writing from a place of mental illness. Days now of depression, agitated depression, and mania. I'm not psychotic, but my inner perceptions are warped or foggy. I worry that other symptoms are near. I haven't identified myself as mentally ill in a long time, but I have to use the term tonight.

I've put up a fight. I've written. I've composed a poem, and that was a lighter moment. I went to a writing workshop that I couldn't enjoy. I've reached out, to Josh, to Bruce, to my mom, to others. I don't feel like vaguebooking or seeking encouragement. I don't know what to request.

I have a lot to do this week, and so does everyone else. I need a rest, but so does Josh. There is no rest to be had.

My bones feel charred. Maybe everything has just caught up to me. It's a lot. I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease in August. It has a high chance of leading to ESRD. I spent the summer separated from my husband. I started teaching again. Mono may not really go away for months. I am tired, and my brain is giving up its fight.

I'm safe, my son is safe, and Josh will be home in an hour or two. I've taken Xanax to mute the intensity. Tonight, or maybe tomorrow, I'll sit up and finish this semester. Then, maybe I'll come back to myself. I may call my meds manager before then, take her up on the offer of a short course of lithium, my old poison. It makes me vomit and sleepwalk and pass out, but it does work.

This is something I have to face, and everything, including my physical health, comes second to my sanity. I'm still shaking, whether from illness or fear, I don't know.

I often despise my body's weakness, but looking at my mind, I have to say, 'This is too much for anyone." I can't always be strong.