Cinderela no país das Maravilhas

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Something was happening. Something not bad. But she knew that that layer was going on in the background .
It was difficult to quantify . Down to an invisible level . Would have to get used to that other level that hated her days .
As a film of slight concern and an anguish that clung to her skin.
The need to share these liitle nothings was big.
The endless minutes to click on the refresh button of the e-mail to check if anyone would want to communicate with her .
What can be said when nothing happens that can describe colors and textures ?
No idea .
Sometimes these impulses came to her – to communicate with others – but soon failed it in the fear of bothering them with the evilness that overwhelmmed her the majority of her days .
This second level of life that happened inside out and not from the outside in , was full of mixed feelings , had a past and looking up unfamiliar emotions in music there.
While music gave her a minimally pleasurable present,the past, until then ignored and even forgotten , filled her with stories of lives that were also hers .

Algo ía acontecendo. Sabia que sim mas esse registo dava-se em segundo plano. Era difícil quantificar. Descia a um nível invisível. Ter-se-ía de habituar a esse outro nível que odiava os seus dias. Como uma película de preocupação e ligeira angustia que se lhe colava à pele.
A necessidade de partilhar esses seus nadas era grande. Ficava minutos infindos a clicar no refresh dos mail para ver se alguém quereria comunicar com ela. Do que se fala quando nada se passa que se possa descrever com cores e texturas?
Não fazia ideia. Por vezes vinham-lhe esses impulsos de comunicar com os de que gosta mas travava-se no receio de os incomodar por os seus males fazerem parte esmagadora maioria dos seus dias.
Esse segundo nível de vida, que acontecia de dentro para fora e não de fora para dentro, estava cheio de sentimentos variados, tinha um passado e procurava emoções em musica até aí desconhecida.
Enquanto a musica lhe dava um presente minimamente prazenteiro, o passado, até então ignorado e até esquecido, enchia-a de estórias de vidas que também eram suas.

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Wrong

This is wrong – sings the guy on youtube.
Wrong is how mostly everything feels when you are depressed.

I try to brag myself about the fact that I still can function. I can leave bed (many times for long periods of time, in the past, I couldn’t)and sometimes shower and dress.
I can eat at least twice a day. I am not demanding with the quality of the meals, since it is eatable.
Not everyday but now every 2/3 days I manage to slide out the apartment and go to the mal and to a café just to feel more “normal”.

I can listen to music. I even found some new bands.
But I can’t move things and really clean for more than a month. I look at things and it’s like they look back at me saying: “back off! You have mo idea where to put us or organize us. Like your life”.

I see other people’s lifes evolve and I seem to be stuck at a very very little rewarding existance.
I do think about suicide everyday. But when things are better I forget about it.

It might look and does feel like very little but the big big thing I have achieved in depressions is to have downsized the Guilt – that agony that afects you even physically, like a knife being steered in your chest.

Just read a few articles from a professional blogger dealing with bipolar II.
The general feeling that arises after reading there articles/posts is like: “wow! Someone else feels like this” – “other people do act like this…” – put themselves to sleep to devert the pain; wake up to face a feeling of hopeless and want to rush until is time to sleep.
Usually I am a night person and apreciate doing intelectual and creative stuff until pretty late in the night. A owl.
For this last past month I am going to bed at 8pm.

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