Making coffee meditation

This is our percolator—we used a French press for a long time, then switched to this

Each morning I make the coffee—clean the parts of the percolator one by one, reassemble, pour in coffee grinds, and set it on fire!

I have read the news by this point, reflected on how blunt we all are, checked email

I am thinking of what projects to work on today

Drinking water

Ate an apple

Am feeling the effects of my new medicine on my TD—so far so good

Am thinking about disability—I'm so glad it exists. I would be homeless without. Some in my family disapprove but frankly they can suck it. I toy with trying to find a job, get discouraged, remember I am disabled (it is so hard to live physically and mentally for me that working for another seems impossible)—I need to remember I'm disabled, because I feel able in some ways, but no matter what anyone else thinks, this is the way it is. A doctor proactively signed me up for disability because he watched how I move—I need to remember that. That was eight years ago, and at the time that doctor suggested I use a cane. I laughed. I shouldn't have. I have since gotten a cane and I use it when I have to. Just because I'm having a good day doesn't erase all the hard days that have come before. I would like to schluff off the "responsibility"/"work ethic" talk that I have from my dad. I am incredibly productive—a hard worker. I don't need to prove that to anyone. So for today I'm on disability, living meagerly, focusing on (hopefully) what matters most

The coffee is made now—I am drinking mine

I went into the bedroom to wake my sleeping boo

I am typing this mostly sitting up (hunched over with elbows on knees—but sitting rather than lying on the couch)—that is progress for me

I have mastered the art of not sweating my ass off when drinking coffee—ice it. I can't drink hot coffee anymore. I sweat a lot. Always have. Looking forward to the summer but apprehensive about the weather being warmer. I need to buy a pillow I can use to carry from room to room so I don't sweat all over the couch pillows. Something foamy, substantial. I will make it through summer somehow. Summers have always been tough—mentally. I have known for a while that I get wild in summer. My bipolar disorder seems to be mainly under control this last year. Some highs but not too many lows. We'd been drinking less but recently stopped—this will help my moods even further (I know from past experience)

Thinking of how crazy I was seven years ago—or was I? I think a major part of what's helped me is that I moved away from my family, and this last year have not contacted them. Part of how I've gotten saner is by not being around them—by lessening their factor in my mind. If I was still dealing with them, I would be crazier than I am now. My relationship with my GF is a huge part of how well I'm doing—and I am able to be, with her, someone I couldn't be otherwise. I remember watching a doctor speak on bipolar—he said people with bipolar disorder don't respond to conventional therapy. They do respond to family therapy. Or—bipolar disorder is a disease that runs in families, is wrapped up in family behavior. That you can't treat it by treating the individual—you can treat it by treating the family. When I showed this finding to my mom, she rejected it. Because (as experienced as she is with family systems and pastoral counseling) it was too hard for her to consider that we have a disorder—not just me. I understand how hard it is to make that leap. It's too bad my family could not do it—separating from them has become my second best to family counseling—which I will never get in this life

I'm biting the neck of my shirt more on this medicine—that was an early symptom of my TD. I have an irresistible oral urge (!!) that is partially alleviated by biting something (I've thought about getting pacifiers to chew on)—And my arms are moving more. This is part of the symptom profile of this new medicine. It seems to address TD less than the old medicine, but I get fewer core torques on this, so it's easier to stand up and move around (even though I get more clenches on this new med)

I'm happy to have simplified my digital life—I have one domain (triangledirt.com) one email address, almost all my writing is online. My passwords are organized. My cloud space has just what I want there. I have exactly the accounts I need. Exactly the apps I need. I recently deleted TikTok (I hadn't used it in months) which means I am completely out of social media (so disappointed with what it's become)—Read this morning of Trump's "Truth Social" app. Truths instead of Tweets?—give me a fucking break. It's totally 1984—Doublespeak. Anyone who believes in those Truths is a fucking dotard—straight up

Reflecting on my knee-jerk reaction to improv comedy. What surprises me is not how low my opinion of it is—it's the automatic, irresistible quality of my need to speak ill of it when it is presented to me. I'm not going to go into my reasons for hating improv—they're so specific to me and so irrational that I'm almost embarrassed to hold them. My exercise from here is to remain quiet the next time I'm presented with improv comedy

My coffee is finished now. There is one more cup in the percolator (after my GF and I have both had one cup)—I'm debating whether to drink that or offer it to my GF. It's a toss-up who drinks that third cup of coffee—lately we've addressed this situation by percolating another pot. I'm remembering times when we've drank four or more carafes of coffee in one day—lately our limit is two

These have been my thoughts as I drink coffee today. I feel more resolved about a few things having written them down. This has been my experience with writing since I started journaling in the fourth grade. I process things verbally (always have)—from journaling about my first kiss and sexual experiences in order to deal with something new and complicated, to writing books—which allows me to externalize a different class of ideas about my world—verbal processing has always been my strength. I write a lot. I talk a lot. It helps me deal with things—and to travel lightly (as once I write something down, it allows me to let go of it)

I used to feel a press to get my writing read, to accomplish some things before I died. I am now pretty much past that. If I die today, I will have let go of everything I need to—today I'm living right here, right now and am light as the air because of it