My life is condensed in a way that it has never been before. The focus is unprecendented unless you include my intense sexual drive, and since that is a pleasurable pursuit with no other benefits than jouissance, it is not comparable to this: write, care for children, take care of household. Repeat. Sleeping, eating, running, working out..aside..aside… but the yolk is rich and it is only three. Write, care, house. My marriage has been on hold for over a year, as long time readers know. For now, in the last waking month, bipolar has taken a back seat to my actual husband. I admire this like a landscape you know will soon change.
To be two at once: I am more focused and less engaged than ever before. I float slightly outside my own skin, observing my behavior, correcting myself when needed, reaching for my ideals, approaching the mundane with proper respect. I am the mother of a toddler- I touch all day. We kiss and roll and romp and hug and snuggle and nurse. I think of a medium, calling the spirit into the room. I call myself, attempting to attract a complete experience by enticing with chocolate, good food, laughter, great books, fascinating learning, debate, love. Nothing works. Although I do it all as I should- eat well, take the blue pill, exercise, connect, touch the warming stones beneath my feet at the park, notice the sky, bathe, sleep- I cannot bring my full self into play. However long this will go on, I do not know, but it is painful in it's own way.
I must finish my novel. I must finish my novel. I must finish my novel.