A Compendium of Stupidity

Hiya, I can’t sleep. Living without god means I have no one to talk to in the night, so I’m writing to you instead. Aren’t you lucky?

I think I’m going senile. Recently, I have:

• Stashed my mobile phone in the fridge, when I don’t even remember being near the fridge. I had to ring it to find it. A distant, muffled rendition of “Animal Nitrate” (which is my ringtone) squeaked out, and I followed it like a blood hound. It was cold, and I had a text from 02 telling me to top up, now, you poor idiot.
• Chucked my housekeys in the bin. Again. I did this before, except I threw them in a black binliner along with £20 and disposed of it outside. Then I realised I couldn’t get back into my flat, so sieved through dried up teabags, old magazines and rotten potato peels to find my keys.
• Tried to flush “American Psycho” down the toilet. Not because it’s a terrible book, you understand, but because I had it in my hands at the time.
• Stood in the middle of the sitting room for fifteen minutes trying to remember how to switch on the television.
• Forgotten my name when I have attempted to introduce myself.
• Pulled a pair of tights over my arms instead of my legs.
• Poured the contents of a boiling kettle into a plastic bottle (which I use for water) rather than the sodding cup.

And many more…

I have been decidedly foggy since I started to take medication. My mental clarity is about half that it was in those distant, long-gone lands of the days before medication. Yes, I regret this, and I notice this. The stories of “zombiefication” are true. However, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane, medicating the living hell out of my moods. They still exist, but with less, life-ruining intensity. If I continued drinking like I was, they’d be worse than they are. But it means I can’t remember anything and only hypomania slices through the grey mesh of confusion. My memory has always been awful. It’s a lot worse now. You might notice that I tell you about “highlights” of stuff- big things in manic and depressive episodes. It makes it seem like those episodes were fleeting. By and large, in the years before early 2007 (I did not have rapid cycling until quite recently), those episodes were long, epic, months of dysphoric and euphoric mania and depression. But I don’t remember most of it. I don’t remember most of my life, for better or worse. That makes me very sad. I can’t remember, for example, the first time someone told me they loved me, nor can I remember the first time I told someone I loved them.

(I forget faces too, which also saddens me. I take a lot of photos- or at least, I did before my camera broke (I say “broke” like it spontaneously collapsed in a heap on the floor, wheezing, “And now, time to die”. It “broke”, like it spontaneously was thrown against a wall) so I refresh my memory. I have a few of my dad, on my wall, a few of my grandad, and Brendan, and I look at them, and don’t want to forget.)

I can’t recall conversations I had an hour ago, if you asked me what I was doing this time last week I couldn’t tell you, I have to be shown how to do everything about three times and, you may have noticed, I consistently forget to respond to comments and e-mails. People prompt me with, “Remember when I told you…” and I won’t. But I’ll nod. And I will forget your name.  Part of the reason that I’m a very consistent blogger is because I have an absolutely tossy memory.

I am generally absent minded. I walk out in front of cars, forget clothes, leave the phone off the hook, etc etc etc.

I have no concentration span. It might seem like I’m not listening, but I am. I just have about thirty things whizzing through my brain at the same time.

Because I forget things a lot, I write notes in my phone telling me to do stuff, then set it so it’s on the screen all the time. This is all good until I realise I’ve mislaid my phone.

I also have next to no spatial awareness.

In the hours after I wake up, I stumble around in an antipsychotic haze. Every bloody morning I trip and fall as I waddle out of bed. On the freefall to the kitchen or bathroom, I will smash my shoulder against something at least twice. I’m extremely clumsy anyway. As I am tiny, you’d mistakenly believe that I am dainty, a little Thumbelina tiptoeing through life. Sadly, although there only size fours, I have elephant feet. I clump, and clamour, and topple and tumble. I am constantly covered in bruises and bumps from the side of tables, door frames and handles. My shortness means that I can’t reach my own cupboards so I try and fail to balance on stools and invariably wobble precariously until I am lying on a cold floor nursing neck ache. I “miss” things- as in, it can take me a few tries to pick something up. I feel like I’m a ghost with vaporous hands. They just seem to go through objects.

I also once tripped over a kerb on my way to the GP surgery. Fine, except I was clutching a vial of my own wee, which spilled across the road.

I have no sense of direction which is one of the myriad reasons I rarely meet people far from home. I get lost, very easily, and I become stressed when I’m lost. For example:

*ring ring*

Me: Hello, I’m meeting you outside Centrepoint (abso-fucking-lutely HUGE building in London which has CENTREPOINT emblazoned across it), where is that? I’m lost!

I’m clutching the phone to my ear worriedly glancing around and where am I standing?

Yeah.

I can’t read maps and I frequently misdirect drivers who ask for directions. Sometimes deliberately for a laugh.

When I first moved into this flat I got lost on the way to the bathroom.

I didn’t know the difference between left and right and north, south, east and west until I was nineteen. My friend very patiently helped me out there. To be honest, I still don’t really understand. Never Eat Shredded Wheat, and I think that “Wheat” is my left hand, but I’m not sure.

Apparently, bipolar disorder is linked to having a shite memory and poor cognitive skills. It tends to be worse in early onset types with frequent episodes, like me! (There is a study, I did not bookmark it, I shall find it). It’s especially linked to having a shite verbal memory. So I can blame it on that, maybe, and try not to just bang my head with my fist, my tongue lolling out the side of my mouth spitting, “DURRRRRRRR”.

So yes, I blame bipolar disorder.