Dog days

I seriously thought my brain was going to melt itself yesterday. I've been having a "bad spell" for a bit, pushing away from friends and family, tailspinning. The lone beer in my fridge isn't going to help, but the two bottles of wine just might. I'm losing my fucking mind, caught in an unmedicated bi-polar tailspin that continues to become more severe with each episode. Do I rise to the challenge and dent my skull from the inside out with the a small caliber projectile? I know now that isn't the way to go, but yesterday it seemed logical, natural, easy. That is fucked up.
So now I'm going to have to deal with some serious shit, see a shrink and check into a mental institution of sorts. I'm not sure if the Dr. Feelgood industry is going to be any help, but I'm willing to walk that path in hopes of finding a solution.
I can't stop eating, but I can't taste food. I can't stop crying, but I'm not really sad. I can't find peace, and yet I have absolutely nothing to fucking do right now except job hunt. I used to wish for a month off so I could "do that thing" and build some amazing totem to illustrate how awesome I am. I built a shed.
I'm glad the blackness has passed but I recognize there is a problem. They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result.
I sneak a peek into the backyard and watch my 11 month old dog furiously digging a huge pile with both paws rapid firing dirt out of the growing hole. She is so amped, so singular in purpose and so focused that I don't have it in my to derail her efforts. A few seconds later she sees me, nose and paws dirty with guilt and sticky clay. She slinks down low into the hole hoping I won't notice the gigantic patch of lawn missing, or the dog hunkered down in it. I smile for the first time in a while and it feels good.