Mixed Episodes are going to kill me...

I swear, between the rapid cycling (sometimes 10+ swings per day) and the long mixed episodes in between crashes, I'm either going to break every fucking dish in my house, or end up killing myself (possibly by accident) just out of sheer frustration. I don't want to be like this. I didn't bring this on myself, but somehow I always feel that those closest to me blame me for "letting" it get this bad. It's not my fault that I (in my doctor's words) "have the worst mental illness there is." It is not my fault that I struggle each day just to get through the day. It is not my fault that medications have not worked to relieve the symptoms or slow down the progression of it from "quirky" but still functioning to lucky to complete one task. Who would purposely go out of their way to live like this? I am completely dependant on my partner and family to keep me out of the hospital, where I would surely die, and to care for me when I am ill because there is not adequate psychiatric care where I live, and the closest place to get adequate care is a 6-hour drive away. I have always been an independant woman, perfectly capable of caring for myself...maintaining a good job... supporting myself and my family... but now... now I'm nothing more than a burden to everyone who comes into my life. People come, people go. Some stay longer than others, but they all eventually leave, no longer able to see me for me, just the symptoms of the illness. I sometimes wonder if there's anything left of "ME" inside. My uber-religious cousin just sent me an 8-page sermon in the mail about how my illness is nothing more than demonic possession as the result of poor life choices... it certainly seems that way sometimes, but it just doesn't explain all of the other uber-religious people who also have bipolar and who couldn't possibly be demon-possessed if the cure is a strong devotion to God and the Christian faith (which many BP people have). I'm still convinced that it's a case of "Invasion of the Body-snatchers". Aliens. An old phobia/fixation that has re-entered my mind as the result of a very realistic dream that I had last night. I woke up in a panic, needing to use the restroom, petrified to leave my bed. I clung to my partner, just so happy that she was still alive. Klonopin took the edge off of the anxiety, but my OCD just couldn't let go of the thought, and I remained paranoid all day, startled and jumpy at every little sound or motion. I'm rambling, but writing all of this has had it's desired effect... something to keep me occupied long enough for the Klonopin to take effect and settle my raging nerves. Something to keep me from breaking anything else that is special to me. Just prior to writing this I threw a cauldron-shaped mug that my partner bought for me last year... it was already chipped, but still special to me. The rage just happened to take over as I was taking it from my bedroom to the kitchen. Now it's in a hundred pieces in the garbage can. Just one more thing to make me hate myself.