First of all I want to apologize to those you whose blogs I follow. I have been very remiss in keeping up though I’m making an effort to read and catch up. I can honestly say: it’s not you, it’s me. I’m in a weird head space at the moment and it’s making me weird too.
I think I’m rapid-cycling, bipolar-wise but I didn’t really catch it until recently. My husband has noticed that I’m acting oddly as well and he’s often right so I try to pay attention to his observations as well. I’ve been going from depressed or numb to high and then back down or flat again which is usually bipolar rapid-cycling. I’m also still in a state of disconnected grief that keeps surprising me at odd moments by punching me in the stomach or squeezing my throat.
I got up one night after being swamped with feelings of worthlessness and memories of my grandmother and laid down on my bathroom floor crying. I kept having an urge to bake the cookies my grandmother used to make when I was younger so I did. I’ve never felt like baking cookies might kill me until the day I baked these. They’re not chocolate chip cookies or oatmeal cookies but you may have a version of them in your family as well. You make the cookie dough and add nuts (pecans in my family) and you make them into balls and after you bake them, while they’re still warm, you roll them in powdered sugar then you let them cool all the way and roll them in powdered sugar again. My grandmother made those when I was a kid and I loved them.
The urge to make them wouldn’t leave until I did it and it was like baking with a ghost in my kitchen. The ghost was grief wrapped up in the visage of my grandmother and tinged with images of my abusive uncle.
For some reason my uncle is directly connected to my memories of my grandmother now. Her house holds him there and where she is so is he, even though he wasn’t her son but her sister’s son (in case you’ve forgotten, in the area I’m from you call a much older cousin Uncle or Aunt and they are treated as such and my uncle was at least 30 years older than me). Maybe it’s because the one location that I can place him at is my grandmother’s house when he kissed me on my underwear.
Either way, my kitchen has become a sad place. One of them things I loved about my seeing my grandmother when I visited her was her cooking. She would cook all day and into the night to make sure we had hot food to eat when we arrived in town and there was nothing more wonderful than the smell of her kitchen after being forced to live with my mother and stepfather for the rest of the year. She was the one person on this earth that I knew had my back and loved me unconditionally. When I was at her house things were different for a short time until I had to return to my mother.
While I mixed the ingredients to make the dough I could see my grandmother in my head but the memory was painful and full of loss. There was no comfort there. As I rolled the dough into balls, she was there and the grief tightened my stomach and made my throat hurt. when I pulled them out the oven she was there and she was still dead. She was dead when I rolled them in powdered sugar and when I tasted them and they were exactly like hers, the taste was perfect and horrible all at once.
Something is definitely off with me. Sometimes I can be okay and sometimes I can’t feel anything. Sometimes I’m sad and sometimes I’m suddenly energetic and talkative. I’m finding this mixture of rapid-cycling mingled with PTSD and whatever else it is to be difficult to manage. My moods change so quickly that it’s difficult to be around other people, even my husband.
That’s all I have to say for now. I just wanted to say something…anything.