In sickness and in health; five words which seem obvious until they’re put to the test. This isn’t what either of us signed up for, except it kind of is. Who knew what would face us? That bipolar disorder was waiting in the wings, desperately trying to turn my mind into a battlefield neither of us is equipped to deal with.
Victory – PJ Harvey
The Way We Lie – Derek Flynn
Don’t Go Home Without Me – Lights
Questioning things is good, even when it means questioning yourself, especially when it involves questioning yourself.
Sexuality can be fluid. Yours changing doesn’t mean you were ever lying, to others or to yourself. You were you. You were the you of those moments. You are you.
Your queerness is not dependent on the gender of the person you are sleeping with. You are you.
Continue reading Notes on 33
I’m in a funk, have been for a while. It’s annoying, but it’ll pass. Here’s the thing about living with a mental illness though, it makes being in a funk stressful. The second guessing, the over-thinking, the ever watchful eye checking to see if my mood has turned into something other than a run of the mill funk. When is a funk no longer a funk? At what point do I really get concerned that this is an episode of depression or the beginning of a hypomanic phase? I often lack motivation before I’m suddenly full of the stuff, in the worst possible way. It has taken work, but I’m pretty in tube with my mental health and this doesn’t feel like anything than a funk. Yet, the thought is still there. This is why having a mental illness is exhausting, even when you are well you’re on the lookout for signs that you might not be. This is just a funk, I know that, but I wish it would bugger off.
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“Write hard and clear about what hurts” – I’ve had this Hemingway quote stuck in my head for months. There’s this thing I’ve been struggling to write. No, that’s not quite true. There’s this thing I’m writing that I’ve been struggling to make sense of. This week I realised that it’s actually multiple things and I’ve been trying to push words together, even when they don’t fit. Last Friday I took myself out for lunch, trusty notebook in hand, and I wrote and I wrote. It felt good not to stare at a screen for a while. It felt good to remember what it’s like to write by hand. It feels good to finally make sense of things that haven’t made sense in a while. It feels good to have my faith in my ability to write restored.