I am a shit. I’m a shit person. I’m terrible at being in touch, I’m terrible at replying to stuff. Now that I’m freelancing (read, working at home on the couch with the laptop, a cup of tea, cigarette, in my pyjamas) I’m even worse. I can’t multi-task. My brain is a sieve. I write lists and lists and lists of lists.
Still, I have people in my life willing to put up with me, for whom I am eternally grateful. And tonight, I might be celebrating with them or crying on their shoulder or whatever but I’m not.
I’m feeling massively fucking sorry for myself, sitting on the couch, wearing I heart NY pyjamas and drinking cheap fizzy wine. I had a couple of massive wins today. I should be jubilant. Instead, I feel like stabbing myself in the neck.
I’ve always been good with my own company. I like being alone. But in the last year or so I’ve felt more alone than I have ever done in my entire life (maybe apart from my angsty teens, but hey, we’ve all had that, right?)
My GP upped my meds to 200mg a few weeks ago, when I asked her if I could change what I was on for something else. Now I don’t know if I’m basically a massive loser, prone to feeling sad, with little drive or ambition, who constantly puts important things in my life in jeopardy because I can’t face them or I should be on some other fucking medication and I’ll come out the other side, smiling like it’s the weekend.
The worst thing about being cracked in the head is the doubt. “Is this me? or is this my brain-weirdness?” “Is this a legitimate emotion? Or am I mental”
It’s easy to hide all this shit from other people. I’m a pro, I’ve been doing it for years. And I know mostly this blog is ranty and amusing and has cute pictures of animals and shit and as much as I hate myself for it, sometimes I need to just tap the fuck out how I’m feeling and send it off into the universe.
I don’t expect sympathy or responses. Fuck, I don’t even want them. If I did, I’d be writing this crap on Facebook. So, please, no messages, no matter how well-intentioned. Sometime the shit and bile and uselessness and crap and hate and rubbish and self-deprecating bullshit has to get out somewhere and for me, it’s here.
It’s shouting into a darkened room with no expectation of response but feeling better for the shouting.
I’d like to go to one of those places in Japan where you pay and get a stack of plates and you can throw them and smash them and scream and let it all out. You don’t need to articulate your frustrations, your anger, your anything. Because despite all my words and wanking on I have never reached the sharp end, never come to understand why I’m built the way I am. Why my head hurts me so much. Sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it? But if you’d thought about ending your life as many times as I have, you’d understand. I want it to stop. Or at least let me be for a while. That’s why I love getting drunk and sleeping – two states where it doesn’t seem to matter any more.
I shut down. But I’m resilient. I still make money, pay my mortgage and get the fuck on with it. But I haven’t known a period of sustained at least contentment or ‘meh’ for such a long time. It’s a fucking stupid bloody rollercoaster that spends more time plunging down and making me feel sick than it goes up.
I spoke to someone tonight who has decades of experience in mental health. She said if my GP keeps upping the medication, then I need to be on something else. Appaz what I’m on is an older drug and there are better ones out there. I said “but what if this is what I’m actually like? That I’m a sad, avoiding, non-ambitious person who thinks too much and flies by the seat of their pants and puts on a good show but wants to die a lot and can’t understand why they can’t get it right and hates themself and resents and regrets and can’t will themself to do things properly and feels guilty like a hanged man and hates this life and her inability to just live it and be a normal fucking person?” She didn’t have an answer, apart from change the medication. So back to my earlier question – how much is the person and how much is the mental illness?
Fuck knows. Relax, anyone who isn’t just here for the cute animals and rants about feminism, I’m not departing this world yet. But hell, I imagine it a lot of the time.