I find myself with a lack of subjects to write on lately. Those who know my verbose personality are in awe, I assure you. It’s just that nothing feels as passionate as it did even a few weeks ago. I could write until the cows come home about housework and children, but even those things seem uneventful since I’ve stabilized.
On one hand, I am utterly grateful for the stability. It’s never fun to be out of control and it’s really no fun being mentally ill. On the other hand though, I miss the stimulation each day used to provide. I don’t feel anything clearly anymore – it’s as if I’m caught behind a two foot wall of insulation. Between me and the world there is a barrier of fluff that stunts any biting sensory input. This leads me to live in a fuzzy, imprecise haze. I don’t know if the stable me is any more me than the shell of the mentally ill version.
My relationships (the ones that are left intact) are improving, and that’s something to be happy about. I didn’t make an entire transformation this time…I still love dogs and would prefer to work with them than with people. There are shreds of who I used to be left in my personality anyway.
I remember when I was sick – all I wanted was to be well. Now that I am well, I wax nostalgic about being sick. It makes me wonder…what on Earth would make me happy?