Tears of a Clown?

I thought I had given up blogging a year or more ago. It was causing issues in a relationship that is now, most likely, at an end. So now I am back, not because I am some avid reader of blogs. Mostly because Livejournal was not working for me. I needed an outlet, a more public space for sharing what goes on inside me, in my head. Why public? I ask myself this and cannot quite answer it. Perhaps if I can send my thoughts out into the airwaves they will no longer be churning inside me tearing at the core of who I am and who I hope to be. Sometimes that hope means little more than a decorative urn and a journey down the Ganges. At least today that is where I am.

Everyone has rough patches. Yea, I get it. I, unfortunately, have a brain whose chemicals have chosen to make my patches less predictable, sometimes triggered, other times random, and dependent on medication in order to have any semblance of "normalcy." I have Bipolar Disorder II and it bites. I also cannot imagine life any other way.

With recent life being what it is I am now low on cash - okay out of it - and cannot afford to refill my anti-depressants for another week. Is that why the tears seem to flow at even low flickering thoughts of absent father-figures, failed relationships, abusive s.o.'s, the dead lover, and the overdose that was thwarted by hard-handed nurses, wrist restraints, and a thick rubber tube. Or is it the holidays? Or the stress of changing one's life in drastic ways within a two month time frame? Or the looming tests that will determine the fate of my career in the one place where I feel that I belong - well, sometimes.

Then again, is it just feelings of desire, friendship, unremitting lust, ever-present longing for someone who I do not, and probably, cannot have. Is that all it is? I want it to go away like a child's bad dream that haunts her night after night with no parent hearing her cries, no comforting arms to chase away the fear. I hear that I am intelligent, capable, clever; yet I cannot outthink, outrun, outwit this loneliness that has become all-enveloping.

This is why there are moments, fleeting, but not harmless, in which I think that peace may reside at the bottom of a lake, in a bottle of pills, over the side of a bridge. Funny, I don't cry when I think of these as possible solutions. I cry when I know that there is no one to wrap arms around me and tell me it is, it will be, okay.