The problem of living with a Bipolar II Diagnoses, is that you can never be sure if you are physically or mentally sick. For example, two days ago I started thinking that cutting myself would be something that I should do. I didn't, partly because I was stabbed by the sharp claws of my bete noire chat, Henrietta. I bled, it hurt and the impulse was gone. In the meantime, I'm in serious "crash" mode. It's probably P.M.S., which doesn't make it any easier.

I haven't worked the past couple of days because I just couldn't do it. Right now, I never want to go to work again. Ever. Trust me when I say that this is NOT a slacker point of view. I take pride in my work. But I feel so overwhelmed, that the idea of going anywhere is causing me to literally quake. The thought of talking to anyone besides my best friend Cricket fills me with horror. I have a great friend of mine from High School, who is couch-surfing here whilst he looks for apartments. I'm avoiding him like the plague. He was supposed to leave yesterday, but he's still here.

So I'm hiding in my room, because I don't want him to know that I'm here and struggling. He'd probably try and apply stuff from his own problematic mental health issues. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear him. I don't want anything from anyone. I just want to never feel this fragile, low, dreadful and fucked up again.