My full-on bipolar weekend

I had a bipolar weekend. It was horrible, terrible, angry, sad, mad, awesome, fantastic, party all night, laugh till it hurts, cry till there are no more tears, scream until I have no voice, and everything in between kind of weekend. Actually, it was exactly that weekend.

I ran the full gamut of emotions this weekend. I have been so frustrated for so long about so many things by so many people. And putting voice to those frustrations was getting me nowhere. Nobody was listening or paying attention. I had asked of them, over and over, and still… crickets.

I reached my breaking point. My boiling point. My I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-the-consequences-I-just-want-to-be-heard point. And so I spewed forth all the frustration and anger and exasperation I have been feeling for weeks now.

And once you let that genie out of the bottle? That bitch don’t know when to quit and get back in the damn bottle.

I was so tired, and frustrated and angry, and feeling unheard, and unimportant, and overwhelmed, and stress, and… and…. Yeah.

Then, after spending an entire day blowing up time after time, I dressed up and went to a party. I got the hell out of dodge, out of my house, away from the anger, the frustration, the fear, the stress, the edge, and I partied. (Thank you company I work for but will not name here, because I do have some small degree of a life that is not spewed all over the internet. But if you live in/around/close to/have driven though St. Louis it’s a name you’d recognize).

I laughed, and ate, and drank, and laughed, and danced, and drank, and laughed, and partied.

All. Night.

And it was fun. I had a blast. And it felt good.

To blow off steam. To leave all the ugly at home, far behind me, for a night, and just hang out with friends. All the ugly would be there when I got home, I could pick it up and carry the stress and the weight and the drama around later. For one night, I was going to let loose, and have fun.

And I did.

The next morning. When I woke up? The drama of the day before was there but the anger wasn’t. The I’m sorry was.

I just needed to blow out the pipes. I needed to left off some steam.  I needed to at least put a voice to all that I had been feeling and all that I was sure was going unheard. The yelling, crying, talking, begging, screaming, stomping day, followed by the drinking, dancing, laughing, partying, having a great time night was just like resetting my emotions, so that I could start over from a fresh place.