What goes on in my head:

My partner has said that this is the most accurate account of my madness as observed by her. Many of my many other ramblings do not make sense because she cannot see inside my mind. The things I have written here are things that she has been able to observe over time and therefore validate what is written:  Written 5/27/08 during a manic episode, scrawled on the back of an envelope.  My "home" is always cluttered- like my mind. Piles of random items lay strewn about my house- the connection of the items in each pile appear random and unrelated to outsiders- sometimes I even forget their relation. Every desk, table, nightstand, is littered with envelopes, post-its receipts and scraps of paper with lists and random scrawlings- the plans of my mind- my imaginary "to do" list that will never be completed. Some people binge on drugs, alcohol, food- I indulge in the musings of my own mind, losing myself in thought, in preparing for the grandiose dreams that will never be fulfilled. My "sewing room" is scattered with years-old projects that have never been completed, wadded up into grocery bags tied up with a bow. Many will be discarded before being completed- usually at the urging of a frustrated partner or relative who just can’t stand the clutter anymore. I have aspirations of organization and efficiency (I have the notes, lists and sketches to prove it) but these goals are always just out of reach. I waste so much time chasing rainbows. Will I ever reach the pot of gold? No one understands the race I run. Always a carrot, just a few inches in front of my nose- if only my mouth could stretch far enough to get a good chomp of it. Time… it slips away. As the piles get larger- the black butts of clove cigarettes fill my ashtray and I miss important appointments. Will I ever return to adulthood or am I forever trapped in my childish fantasy world? Sometimes I get brave and venture out into "reality" but each time I do, I end up running back to the safety of "home" surrounded by my piles, clutching to my bed as if it were an evacuation raft, the only thing saving me from the sinking ship in the middle of the frigid ocean- my life depends on staying on my raft and just waiting to be rescued. A great analogy of me- the damsel in distress- always waiting to be rescued. Many "white knights" have heard my desperate cries and have risked life and limb to deliver me from my ivory tower, but eventually they give up when they find that they do not possess the mental or physical strength to reach my high perch of captivity. And so I while away the time, scrawling my little notes on envelopes containing life-sustaining business matters which will inevitably be forgotten until the angry phone calls come, informing me of the impending doom that will befall me because of my inaction, but the envelopes with the brilliant ideas and plans will most likely be lost by then- as papers tend to be eaten by my piles just as the clothes dryer tends to eat all of my left socks. It’s because my mind is "eating" me or at least who I used to be. I don’t think I’m "ME" anymore. Afterall, I am a beautiful, intelligent, articulate, brilliant, creative, organized woman- and the "me" that I see now is none of those things. It is obvious that I have succumbed to the tragic fate of alien abduction and all that remains is a facsimile of what I used to be.(This note was written on a manila envelope containing information about domestic violence and referrals to domestic violence counseling. The contents were deemed useless by me as the result of none of the referred therapists returning my phone calls and I just gave up)