Going through periods of rapid cycling, indulgent behavior and self gratification.

Here we go 'round the Mulberry bush.

Went to see Dr. C. yesterday. I told him the Lamictal is not making the impact that I thought it would. As a matter of fact, I said, it has gotten increasingly hard to function, my swings are getting substantially worse and I can't sleep anymore.

Up we went. 150 mgs now and a side order of Trazodone to make me sleep.

Note I said "make me" as opposed to "help me".

Help me would imply, say, Ambien or Restoril, both which do NOTHING for me. Trazodone not only says, "get the fuck up and get into bed, Bitch", but it locks you into your room, ties you down in bed, gags and binds you, licks your clit til you pass out and you don't see daylight again until the following afternoon.

I've had sexual experiences just like that which caused me to sleep just as deeply. The only thing is, I didn't feel like shit the next morning. I was invigorated and energized from the DNA fest the night before.

Forgive the graphics, but hey, this is my personal space. If I let you in, then you have to understand that my mind is filled with metaphors. That just happened to be one of them.

Besides, unless you aren't human, great sex will always make you sleep deeper.

I don't know that I need that kind of assistance right now. Maybe half a pill.

I don't feel very well right now.

I just want to lie down, have my back rubbed, my hair stroked...be oh poor babied to death. I don't want that from my husband though. He already does enough for me. More than enough. He puts up with these extreme highs and lows. He takes care of everything around here. He does more than his share. I just want someone, I don't care who, to comfort me. In no way do I mean sexually. Plain, old fashioned comfort. The kind that if you had a normal mother, you could expect from her. I haven't spoken to my mother since we left from her house for Christmas. That relationship is over. At times, I miss the dysfunction. At times, I am grateful that I put that demon back in hell.

Last night, I cried at the movie, Dodgeball. Yes, Dodgeball. And I wasn't crying from laughter. No. Crying because the underdogs won the game! Now, if you have ever seen Dodgeball, you know it is a goofy assed comedy. The whole thing is spoof, bad jokes and sarcasm.

And I cried at it.

That to me, is the equivalent of laughing hysterically at a funeral.

Completely inappropriate behavior.

I ate ice cream last night. I abhor ice cream. Can't stand it. Every once inawhile, I get this really serious craving for it. Right now, I am eating oatmeal. Apple cinnamon. Supposedly a comfort food...if you LIKE that crap. I can't stand it, yet I am sitting her at 3:30 pm (cause that's when Master Trazodone finally allowed me to rise from his submission) eating oatmeal. My tits are aching me. So sore and swollen. It's not from overuse that's for sure. And it's not due to pre-period bloat, cause I have my period right now.

I think I am the only woman alive who loves getting her period. Don't misunderstand. I hate the having to dash to the bathroom every hour to make sure my cup hath not runneth over. That part I hate. I love the bleeding though. There is something so liberating about it. Like, pieces of me that don't belong are getting washes away. I have always likened it to demons leaving my body. I love blood. I love the scent of it. I love the look of it. Not just mine, but any fresh blood. When someone opens a cut, I love the way it glistens. I think this is why I thrive as a surgical nurse. I am absolutely enthralled by it. It screams life. It screams death. Black vs. white with shades of crimson down the middle.

Red ribbons.

I don't think I am getting better at all.