What I want to do at the moment: pound the walls until my fists are bloody stumps, scream until my throat is coarse, take a knife and slice ‘fuck you’ into my arm; yank chunks of hair from my head, beat myself to death with a freezer door.
What I will be doing in ten moments time: all that I was doing ten moments ago plus, listening to the radio, editing images in Photoscape, fantasizing naughty things, re-tweeting messages, dancing, loving being alive.
Ladies and Gentlemen, today is a bad day! Cue rant…
When did I stop writing about how I was feeling in the present moment? Post after post finds me regurgitating painful memories of the past and the occasional moments of bliss to keep me believing. Photos are posted that remind me of happier times and from time to time random advice slips onto the page designed to inspire and bring hope. Each time cherry-picking details of my current life so as not to provoke worry or appear I’m sympathy seeking. Forever guided by the fear I will push people away should I speak my mind or dare talk about my current mental state.
I’m a mess. I’m lost. I’m confused. I’m so many bloody things right now I don’t even know how I’ll be feeling ten moments from now. Yesterday I wrote seventeen blog posts, none of which will likely see the light of day, before creating three random artworks, writing four short stories and going for a six kilometer walk at 2 in the morning to phone Lifeline. Even though I wasn’t anything other than lonely and just wanted someone to talk to, a voice to hear to make me think life is worth going on.
The effect isolation can have on someone is not easy to understand. The thought of spending even a day without human contact is difficult for people to comprehend. Most would die at the thought of three and a half years. It hasn’t just fucked me up for the rest of time (I can’t tweet, can’t DM, can’t email, can’t trust, share or interact) it has destroyed someone I used to know so well, Someone I loved. Me.
It’s World Suicide Prevention Day’s fault. I was fine on Sunday, glowing from my somewhat random, kinky, twisted dream I watched my favourite episode of Doctor Who in years before writing a short story and relishing being alive. I toyed with my blog, improving (or at least I thought so) the main page and concocted a dozen ideas for the future. I cooked a beautiful coconut chicken stir-fry and openly wept to the Frasier finale; happy tears, I’ve always loved that episode.
But the moment Stephanie and Rachel burst into my mind with all the suicide talk on Monday I’ve been locked into a rollercoaster I can’t escape from. Twisting and turning in mood, productivity and desire until I’m so exhausted I want to pass out, so nauseous I want to vomit, but unable to do either. I’ve been awake for two nights now, coming on three days since I had any sleep.
I won’t give it a name because I just don’t know what it is. Bipolar; hypomania; rapid cycling; labels that do nothing for me other than remind me endlessly that I’m not like everyone else. A fact that in one moment fills me with pride for being different, unique, compassionate and creative whilst in the next moment I despise my illness to the point I want to carve it from my soul with a wooden spoon.
Energy bills are suffocating me. My hair is driving me insane. Centrelink are threatening to cancel my benefits. My clothes are grotty and annoying. Mental health services do nothing. My body repulses me. Homelessness is drawing closer and I don’t think I can fight it off again. My need for a hug sickens me.
I’m fucking tired of my illness, my rapid moods, my uncontrollable urges to inflict pain on myself. I’m fucking over hating my body, my hair, my teeth, my heart, my life. I’m fucking sick of being so alone, so empty, so worthless. I’m fucking exhausted with my everything that I don’t know what to do anymore.
Don’t worry, I screamed into a pillow so as not to upset the neighbors. Can’t be going around upsetting people with how I feel. That’s just not right at all. Nope, nope, nope. Fucking hell, why am I even still alive?
What I was doing ten moments ago: writing ‘When did I stop writing about how I was feeling in the present moment?’ whilst suppressing the urge to stick my hand over a lit gas burner.
What I want to do at the moment: love myself, love someone else, snuggle, to not be alone.
What I will be doing in ten moments time: Writing another twenty blog posts? Craving to cut? Dancing to dodgy 90s pop music? God only knows. This rollercoaster ain’t gonna stop anytime soon!
Written as a Stream of Conciousness in the middle of a bad day. Apologies for the depressing post. Not good today.