The Spiky Sea Urchin has been trying to claim me.
“The old brag of my heart- I am, I am, I am”.
Okay. After a good ten days of my activities mostly consisting of thinking of inventive ways in which I can hang myself (“Do you have a plan?” Oh yes.), chainsmoking, wanting to throw myself out of a window because of guilt and grief and crying, it’s time to regroup.
I haven’t been answering any correspondence and am seriously behind in…everything. Many thanks for people who’ve written to me but coherant thought has not been forthcoming. I have been really ill for a while, waaaaaaaaay more than I have let on, and it’s coming to a head. The abortion, which was a decision I had to make because of this stupid fucking illness that I didn’t ask for, kicked me over the edge. I’m off to be gently chastised by my CPN (and strongly suspect that it shall be suggested that I’ve been suffering from dysphoric mania, because I have) later in the first appointment in a month that I’ve not ingeniously dodged.
It’s funny, that the more I rebel against my illness and my treatment, the worse my illness gets, thus entrenching me even further in the role of Seriously Mentally Ill Woman, a role I have been desperate to shake off, hoping that if I did, then it would all disappear, and I wouldn’t disintegrate with the despair of another 12, 20, 40 years having to live with this horrendous life-ruining, beauty-destroying “bipolar disorder, y’know, the artist’s one, the one it’s cool to have, the one that’s killed people, and is killing me and that means nobody trusts a word I say and some are afraid of me or disgusted by me or just gets plain hurt by me. That one”. I have been trying desperately to escape it.
I’ll write about it all later. I need to come back to life. That’s what all the changes have been for, but christ, it’s so difficult when life has been hurling shit at me endlessly, and I lost the will to live and the ability to. I am going to live, I am going to make my life better and not make anyone else’s worse anymore. I will not let this illness destroy something beautiful and break my heart ever again because I’m going to fucking deal with it, proper. First stop: oh ye gads, I’m asking for therapy. Me and therapy weren’t friends, but let’s try again.
I’m not thinking really straight at the moment. I’m going on gut instincts, which may mislead me, but I am trying, very hard.
BUT! I have been keeping myself busy, social and also a bit drunk, so have not slid into despair. And I am very aware of how fortunate I am, have been, to be loved.
Oh, and my benefits still aren’t sorted. I was preparing myself to go and sit in the housing benefit office for an hour today, then I coughed so violently I vomited over myself. Maybe I should turn up like this, and point to my greening top and say, “You make me sick”. Har.
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder