(There are lots of new people reading. It’s a bit weird for me so excuse my strange tone).
I had my housewarming yesterday, which would have been more fun if I hadn’t thought a few drinks wouldn’t hurt, y’know, it is my housewarming, after all, and I was nervous nobody would show up. I ended up getting completely drunk and then downed tequila, which, like absinthe, is one of those drinks that makes me go mad. I woke up this morning and wasn’t at all surprised to see a series of cuts on my left arm. It’s been over a year since I self harmed. Only one of them is deep but I still feel horribly disappointed in myself. That’s my general consensus right now. I feel like I’ve stopped making progress and that I’m peddling backwards. I keep missing my appointments and I wouldn’t be surprised if I was discharged from the community mental health team because of it. An entire hour of sitting talking about it feels difficult. I stare at the clock and can’t wait to get out of there. There’s never anything new to say.
Edit: I should clarify here. I’m a LOT better than I was- it’s just that things have happened recently that have sent me into a mental tailspin, hence my boozing, cutting, etc- stuff I didn’t do until lately. I will get over it, it just annoys me that I’ve reacted this way.
I’ll consider my housewarming my last hurrah in terms of that and try very hard not to get bogged down in my little drunken pit of self loathing, wondering what embarrassing things I said and did and just how much people hate me for it. I don’t really know why I do this to myself when I know how badly alcohol affects me. Especially given the medication I take, which means I become drunk and lose awareness really quickly. I guess I haven’t been coping with recent events that well. But you knew that.
I’m still stressed out, although my skin is returning to its normal, less terrifyingly zombie-esque colour. Islington council are still underpaying my housing benefit, despite me giving them all the documentation they need. I. I’m going to end up ambling down there with a bag of clothes and chucking everything I own at them. I’m not sure dirty pants are good as payment but it’s worth a go.
In short, the summer is so far shaping up to be like all the other summers. I need to keep an eye on myself, I think. And stop messing around with pills and my CPN. Sorry for the boring post! Minor miracle I’m awake enough to write it; if I miss doses of Seroquel, as soon as I start taking it again it’s like how it was when I first started taking it. Fifteen hours sleep a day and struggling to lift my head in my waking hours. I’m trying to summon the motivation to get out of the house and cycle and do other active things but bloody hell, it’s tricky.
If I lower my doses of Seroquel, even by 100mg, in order to be awake and aware, I become hypomanic, in the extremely twitchy, panicked, paranoid way (see: last week). But on my ordinary dose, sometimes I can barely get myself out of bed, and I strongly suspect that my medication may be making depression worse, because sleeping too much will do that to you. I set four different alarms every morning, and they don’t often work. When I do wake up, for an hour or two I’m really happy. I’m so dozey and drugged that the world around me feels like cotton wool. If I navigate myself to my appointments like that, I almost get knocked over and killed about five times but I sit in my little blue chair giggling and rambling.
We have adjusted the doses countless times, and there doesn’t seem to be much of a happy medium. Bugger.
I have Stuff to Do, so need to be functioning. I have to go out and find a pair of stepladders to fix my bathroom light. At the moment, there’s only one very dim bulb burning above the toilet. Every time I go to the bathroom, I feel like I’ve stumbled into a film noir. “Bonjour, est-ce que tu m’aime?” he says. Smoke curls around his mouth. “Ah, oui, oui,” says she, raising one gloved hand to her beret. “Mon amour est pour toujours…”
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder