Firstly, I went to the Take Back Parliament protest in London today. This is what Nick Clegg had to say to us:
That aside, ah bollocks to the Lib Dems losing seats rather than gaining them. But they support electoral reform and right now have the power to put it on the agenda if they don’t back down. If you want electoral reform, sign this petition.
63% (sorry Robert) of people in this country voted against the Conservatives. Let’s get proportional representation so that we no longer have to vote tactically instead of voting for who we want to lead our country. C’mon! Yes! Exclamations! Woo!
Should have clarified in my previous post; I don’t really think that’s what any diagnosis was based upon because it is hideously unprofessional; I was more amused that it was the answer to my question, said in a kind of sheepish manner!
In mood news, I am still feeling fairly low but trying to focus on getting out of the house and stuff. I am spooked by election results. I haven’t slept properly in weeks and it’s taking its toll. Damn waking up a million times a night and damn my horrendous mattress that I can’t afford to replace and which means I wake up feeling as though the shit has been kicked out of me. Or maybe someone is just kicking the shit out of me in my sleep. Maybe it’s my pocket psychiatrist. I met my social worker and introduced her to Robert- she offered him TEA. I have never been offered a drink, not once, not in four years. He was our hallowed guest. She thinks I am depressed, though for why, she knows not. Either a natural mood swing because I was a bit ALRIGHT HIYA before then, a reaction to the BPD stuff (since Robert somewhat overstated it, saying I’d been obsessed with reading about it, but that was only the night before my appointment and the day after the psychiatric one), or…well, the whole, “Fuck knows” springs to mind. They might give me some Zopiclone or, please god yes, Valium to help me sleep. I am sleeping, without resting, it’s kind of killing me. I am very tired and all my effort goes into doing the Keeping Alive thing, eating, trying to get up, and that. It’s so stupidly draining and makes me feel ashamed. But I’ve been more active in the past few days, so that’s something.
Robert has now been inducted into my world and is duly charged with the mantle of reporting back to her if I start to go weird (mania or suicidality, or a mixture of both). And her advice is to try and get into a routine, eat properly and get out of the house, which I know I need to do. My tiredness and low mood means I have been completely unproductive, dangerously so, which in turn makes me depressed…etc. It’s shameful and shaming how much I’ve been ducking my responsibilities, and they’re ones I charged myself with to help me recover. Next week I shall be forcefully, er, forced to do things I cannot, in any sense, duck out of. I pretended I lost my charger for a few days last week because I couldn’t face answering the phone. My friend is staying with me and I am meeting someone for lunch and have the mentalist radio thing. They’re my little event things I thread through weeks so that I actually cannot just hide, even when I want to.
I care so little about my appearance right now that I’m eating properly, in defiance of not eating enough for quite a while (I piled on a fuckload of weight after getting the implant and had to compensate by lowering my food intake a lot). So, hooray for the Sads making me care less. Depression can be oddly liberating in that sense, where I simply pull my unwashed hair into elastic bands and don’t fucking care. It’s difficult to worry about your huge nose when you smell like week old sweat and don’t feel like leaving the house anyway. And in a sense I’m lucky that I dress like a bag lady anyway. Coming off medication also means I’ve lost a bit of weight. Nothing significant. But it ushers in a new age of Eating Toast Again. I for one welcome my new grainy overlords.
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder