#14

J visited earlier this week.
The wide ranging discussion supported the fact that I cannot focus solely on one or two matters. My thoughts spark off one another, causing more sparks to dive into deeper recesses of my conscious and subconscious mind, memories, feelings, episodes etc.
It has been described as being like the ball in a Pinball Machine. It's firing off in all directions with only a small chance to try and control some of the movements. This is what it is like when I'm in a creative writing burst. Dozens of meaningful thoughts, related and unrelated, fire up and through my mind like a series of small rockets being lit at a firework display, but all firing and bursting into a mass of showering sparks and colours, at the same time.
Thoughts, so powerful and pertinent in their own way, to one or many of the other words, ideas, and images surging up and through my mind. They don't come into my mind as such, they are passing through at great speed. Grabbing hold of them and writing them down is a race, to catch them before they're gone forever. They never return. There is so much, that I cannot remember most or any of them, just the feeling of flying and soaring in a sky full of fireworks. Bloody fantastic. It's like throwing yourself into the Sun and burning up in an ecstasy of creative flames.
So, you see, I cannot focus on one or two matters. We discuss 'stuff' and my mind sets off on a pinball trip through my life.
How to cope? Music lifts me. Heavy rock one day, classical cello the next. 'Status Quo' to 'Tous le matins du monde.' 'Rock Anthems,' to 'Boccherini.' Use music as a friend in need.
Don't lose thoughts/ideas, use the voice recorder.
Much more was discussed, but it was hardcore personal pain and my coping mechanisms for bending with the whirlwind. Too vivid and too true of life to be written of in here. Yet.

The morning after the visit was a bad morning. You can't open old, deep, torn, ripped, wounds without getting payback. Counselling is a lift-shaft. The lift has a counter-balance. The rush up has to be balanced with the weight of the pain diving down. I was on the counter-balance, dropping like a stone and already half way down when I woke up. I've read other people's experiences of the 'morning depression.' It's nasty and vile and black and it hurts your mind like you don't want it to, ever again. But it does return, return, return...

Do I want to pay the price for the plummet with the soaring flights of fantasia? Do I want the 'fantastic' to be paid for with the excrement of depression? This is Bipolar!!!! Medication to cut the plummeting 'couterweight,' can castrate the surging 'creative thoughts' of the hyper episodes!

Enough. I've written enough for the moment. I'll stop.