Saturday, April 29, 2017

Hello diary dearest

Today has been an ok day. Not great, but not terrible.

It's not down, so it looks like up to me.

I even managed to vacuum my apartment so I guess I'm planning on being here a bit longer.

Friday, April 28, 2017

Yo, diary

In trying to navigate my way through this noisome morass of mental illness I'm put in the aggravating position of not being able to talk about it with most people due to the way they react. Or, more accurately, the way I react to their reactions.

The ones who blankly don't understand or care to understand are the least of the problem. They, on the whole, are the fuckheads I wouldn't want to share details about my emotional state with anyway. I've been slow at realising who those people are unfortunately, especially one in particular. Blinded by fake empathy and, if I'm honest, an extremely pretty face.

The ones who offer endless ideas about how I can get better are irritating and exasperating but I get that they are coming from a place of trying to help. They're usually trying to help fix a problem I don't have though, due to a lack of understanding or imagination. And of course some of them are just fucking idiots, or assume me to be a fellow fucking idiot.

But if I have to put up with one more deluge of 'caring' from another overwrought sympathetic twat I will fucking scream. Jesus H Christ on a fucking skateboard I don't need you to be fawning and gushing with performative compassion. Who is this supposed to benefit? Do you see me melting into a puddle because your unexpected warmth in this cold, hostile world melted my stony reserve? No, you fucking don't. Because this isn't a fucking disease of the week tv movie.

Get the fuck over yourselves and leave off the exaggerated care & pity. I don't need you to feel sorry for me - I feel sorry enough for myself to last a lifetime. Tell me something interesting instead. Talk to me. Engage my brain. If you really want to get at my heart you should know you have to get there via my mind or you don't know me at all.

This post brought to you by the words bile and spleen, and the letter fuck off.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Hey diary

Today I managed to get viciously, bitterly envious of other mental illnesses. Like the bipolar. Everybody loves those assholes, they're sooo much fun. Twats.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Except when they're not fun. Sure. Except when they're hiding in a darkened room because they think they're being watched. Except when they're gibbering in the corner or throwing a brick through your window or sobbing in the bath.

But people will mostly remember how much fun they are.

Depressives though? No-one like a depressive. Not even another depressive. Not even the actual depressive themselves. Which I guess is the whole point, if there is a point which there isn't because this is a meaningless and infinite and cold universe which cares not a jot for your successes or failures or mediocrities or other mediocrities or yet more mediocrities or.. well, you get my (mediocre) point.


Those 'fun' crazies? Fuck 'em.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Dear diary...

Called in sick today because I was unable to sleep last night and couldn't get out of bed this morning. I'm too embarrassed to say I'm depressed and a basket case so just said that I had gastro. Better that people think I'm simultaneously vomiting up my spleen and jetting toxic waste out my arse than there's something wrong with my brain.

I'm pretty slow on the uptake so I'm only just beginning to understand this is what my life is like now and probably for the foreseeable future. I have good days and bad days. On the good days it seems ridiculous that I could let something as transient as 'the way I feel' affect what I do so fundamentally. On the bad days I forget that there's any light or joy in the universe and the thought of human interaction is terrifying.

Sometimes those days can happen in the course of a single day. Several times.

This evening I have to go to the gym then travel across town to go to a friend's gallery opening. The thought of either of those things fills me with stomach-lurching horror. I would literally prefer to carve banshee wails into my own flesh than leave my apartment. I've never been into self-harm but if I thought there was any way that cutting myself would help I'd be up to my elbow in a fucking food processor.

Fuck. I have to go.

Kill me.