Shame, my flat’s a bit of a mess right now. Maybe I should find some more pills for the sequel and get it cleaned again.
It’s been a very strange year indeed. Changeable, surprising, painful, joyful, somewhat unproductive and downright fecking weird! When I don’t feel so delicate, I’ll go into detail.
In 2009 I seem to have mastered the art of forcing myself to carry on living with a glimmer of confidence it might actually be worth it. I went mental from April-July and didn’t realise how mental (manic, mostly) I’d been until I was chewing my fist off in August and howling, “OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?!” Swings and WOO-HOO! roundabouts, though. I went through the heartbreaking end of a relationship with someone hugely important to me that I probably wouldn’t be here without and who I love(d) very much that was complicated with-and partly caused by- madness, which made me (and makes me, and scares me because I don’t want the same thing to happen again, to take people for granted, to make the same mistakes) sad and angry, but survived and coped with it like a “normal” person, i.e crying an awful lot. And began a new relationship with someone who taught me what love was when I was fourteen, which, to be honest, is sometimes very surreal.
I haven’t escaped a year without a fairly severe wobble since my mid-teens, so if I make it to 2010 lesser-scarred (and hopefully not mentally scarring those close to me, like I did this time last year), it’ll be a bit of an achievement. Self fulfilling prophesies may not be us after all. I do have nightmares sometimes about the events last year. It was fairly traumatic, but hey ho. More traumatic for everybody else who saw my boobs that day though.
If I’d expired in my own vomit last year my Radio 4 play would have ended on a bit of a downer. And I’d never have met Michael Palin. Did I tell you I met Michael Palin? LOOK I MET MICHAEL PALIN!
That’s him considering the marriage proposal I’d scribbled in the inside of the book. It was accompanied by a line drawing of my breasts.
Point is, it’s a year on and I don’t feel that way anymore, which I couldn’t imagine back then.
Anyway, hooray for me not being dead! Cut yourself a slice of cake, but do hide the knife.
Edit: Robert sneaked out in secret and bought me a lovely coffee walnut cake with three candles. It was bloody delicious and the other half has gone into hiding lest I scoff it down immediately. All a bit silly, but there’s nothing wrong with taking one day a year to go pat yourself on the back with some cake. Or to let someone else do it for you.
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder