"Yes, very salutary," said Arthur, after Slartibartfast had related the salient points of this story to him, "but I don't understand what all this has got to do with the Earth and mice and things."
"That is but the first half of the story, Earthman," said the old man. "If you would care to discover what happened seven and a half million years later, on the great day of the Answer, allow me to invite you to my study where you can experience the events yourself on our Sens-O-Tape records. That is, unless you would care to take a quick stroll on the surface of the New Earth. It's only half completed, I'm afraid--we haven't even finished burying the artificial dinosaur skeletons in the crust yet, then we have the Tertiary and Quaternary Periods of the Cenozoic Era to lay down, and . . ."
"No, thank you," said Arthur, "it wouldn't be quite the same."
"No," said Slartibartfast, "it won't be," and he turned the aircar round and headed back toward the mind-numbing wall.
Arthur is still trying to get his bearings in this new Universe where the Earth has been blown into oblivion and white mice were conducting experiments on the human race instead of vice versa. That's a lot to take in in a short period of time. Yet, he seems to be doing alright with his new reality. I, on the other hand, would not be. I'd probably be catatonic.
This evening, I find myself again in a state of exhaustion. It's funny. I got over six hours of sleep last night, which is a LOT for me. Work in the medical office wasn't all that taxing today. Yet, at the moment, I am barely able to keep my eyes open. It feels as if I could go to sleep immediately and not wake up until after Labor Day.
I have to say that I wasn't sure about sharing that personal information in last night's post. Generally, I don't write about other people's struggles in my blog, unless given express permission. However, my wife has never avoided the subject of her mental illness and addiction. In fact, if you meet my wife at a party, I'd bet that within ten minutes she'd be telling you about her sleepless nights, racing thoughts, and careless spending. (She talked me into buying a brand new minivan once, which we traded in for something more within our budget a few months later.)
I don't want to be pitied. My wife doesn't want pity, either. There's already too much shame and stigma that surrounds mental illness. This is our reality. For a long time, my wife's bipolar has been fairly well-controlled with her medications. For some reason, they are not doing the same job anymore. They need to be adjusted.
The biggest impediment to Beth getting better happens to be Beth herself. She needs to make phone calls, schedule doctors' appointments, and commit herself to getting better. Until that happens, she's going to be under that power of her illness instead of vice versa. Bipolar comes with a lot of stubborn thinking--feelings of euphoria and grandiosity. Beth doesn't seem willing to give up this "high" feeling at the moment. And that is my dilemma, among other things.
Tonight, I'm hoping that my wife gets another good night's sleep. She went to bed last night around 11 p.m., and she didn't get out of bed until morning. That's over eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. If she can get back on a normal sleep schedule, I think she will start to feel a whole lot more in control of her life.
In the mean time, I am trying to practice a little self-care. I'm not going to be of use to anyone if I'm out-of-my-mind tired and obsessed every minute of the day. So, I try to pray every day. Try to meditate every day (that means writing in my journal). Try to release my fears and worries, give them over to my higher power.
The problem is that Saint Marty has a habit of taking those fears and worries back.
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