If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll know that I broke my ankle a few weeks ago and I’m rather grumpy about it. It occurred to me the other day that I have not blogged for awhile, which makes absolutely no sense when you figure that I’ve been hanging out on the couch for the last few weeks, and will continue to do so until at least May 3.

But it’s not just my foot that hurts right now.

I’m not sure why, but my heart is just aching lately. I’ve been forgetting things at work, not finishing things on time, feeling generally overwhelmed by things that are not difficult. My job is NOT THAT HARD. And yet I’m struggling. I’m flipping out over Every. Little. Thing. I cried at work the other day because I forgot to do something that ended up being completely inconsequential.

It’s wearing me down.

This seems to have seeped over into the rest of my life and for some reason I find it hard to clean my house. Hard to return phone calls or read emails or even look at the overflowing Google Reader. Hard to even pick up the remote – sometimes I just stare at the ceiling because I don’t even want to bother with the TV.

Now THAT is fucked up, right?

I’m functioning, of course. I AM getting things done. I’m going to work and to school. I am being social and doing things that are fun and enjoying them. But it seems like every day there’s a crash at some point and a tiny part of me dreads it all day, even when I’m doing the things that lift me up a little bit. It’s this undercurrent, this nagging feeling that when I get home, when I’m alone, I’ll just die a little inside.

I hate that E doesn’t understand. He doesn’t really understand depression, much less bipolar disorder and how it fucks with you in up AND down ways all at once. I’ve taken my “as needed” anxiety medicine every day lately because I’m so nervous – about what? – and at the same time I’m so sad. I don’t blame him for not getting it; it’s hard to make anyone understand. But I wish he did. I wish SOMEONE really really did.

Hell. I wish I did.

I don’t want to blame bipolar disorder. I don’t want to blame my broken ankle, even though it’s painful and limiting almost my every move. I don’t want to blame anything. But what explanation is there if not to blame SOMETHING? There’s always a reason, and that reason is usually, in one shape or another, a sort of blame.

So what’s left? Blaming myself for not being stronger? For not knowing better how to handle myself, how to get out of this stupid funk, this miserable slog?

Blame stress, blame finances, blame the government, blame Vladimir Putin and bad parents of Russian adoptees who do more wretched things than I can fathom.

I know, I mean I really DO KNOW that I am not a bad person. I am not incompetent or stupid. Nothing is godawful wrong in my life right now – the people I love are healthy. I have a good job and a home and a lovely boyfriend and great friends.

But I am afraid. Of something.

And I don’t know why, but I am sad, I am anxious, I can’t sleep, I want to cry and I want to scream, and my heart hurts right now.