It infuriates me that the people who suffer most in life are usually those treated most harshly by society. Which includes everyone from the man at the bus stop to the psychiatrist to the family. What is it? Is it spite, or is it the idea that if someone has suffered then they must be weak so pile it right now? Make them weaker so they can’t fight back anymore? And then what?
I might need a break from the madosphere as reading blogs about people who have gone through horrendous things and are being treated like crap makes me want to fire up my Google-fu, find addresses and dust off my hurley bat. I feel impotent. I rarely comment on blogs and that’s the main reason why; some I read are written by people going through hell, and what could I say?
I wish there was a natural equilibrium, in which people who have suffered a lot had life be kinder to them in other ways, something, anything to redress the balance. Like every day a favourite thing of theirs is delivered to them, a note from the world at large that they deserve nice things, to be loved, to be thought of. To paraphrase every single four year old in the universe: it’s not fair. (Or a four year old me, it’s not fucking fair. Thanks, mum).
I’m not talking about myself here, by the way. I don’t consider myself to be someone who has suffered a lot. I have some traumatic things in my past but who doesn’t? My parents were ill. My mum is…well, she’s mad, proper mad. Mentalism unspecified, though she’s been in a mental hospital. She is a pathological liar so I don’t know what she was diagnosed with, she lies about it! She is manic depressive, to my knowledge, and has a bit of kind of sociopathy to her. My dad was an alcoholic with depression, who is dead, now. They hurt themselves, and each other, they struggled but they never wanted to hurt us. We got caught in the crossfire of their sadness, their madnesses, but it was never directed at us. I don’t know who I would be or what I would do if my family had hurt me, on purpose. In terms of my family, the traumatic things bought us together. Our experiences gave us compassion and balls. They’ve been incredibly supportive of me and I hope I am with them, too. My big sister once drew a zebra crossing on my arm because that’s what my scars reminded her of- in permanent fucking marker, in July. That’s love. And she- and my other big sister-used to call me, “Denny” after the sausage rolls. If you think about it, you’ll understand.
A few of you reading are probably wondering if I’m talking about you and I most likely am. The madosphere puts a lot into perspective, and I wish it wasn’t so.
Grr. I throw my love and wishes out there to you all, for as little good as it will do.
In other news, my zopiclone prescription hasn’t been filed, and my social worker is off for the next week, so not sure how I shall sleep. It sometimes takes my GP surgery a while to get prescriptions or my GP might not have approved it. My normal person sleep is bollocks and broken and left me exhausted and depressed for weeks on end. I’ve been trying to get through it for over a month, but I’m failing somewhat so my social worker suggested Zopiclone to get me through the nights where I really need a big sleep. It was going to be difficult coming off Seroquel as it helped me sleep. In one way, I don’t want any medication and I didn’t accept the offer of Zopiclone for a little while. I’d like to have some around, though, for times of desperation (and not just my own, the desperation I seem to instil in other people when I don’t sleep.)
I smoked weed for the first time in ages on Thursday because I wasn’t tired but wanted to alter my state a little bit further and also in the hope it would make me sleepy. I’m jumpy as all fuck right now too, but that’s because I found a tiny tragic dead mouse under my sofa (even more tragic is that it got stuck in the hoover and we didn’t realise until two days later, when debris started snowing out onto the floor) and I’m waiting for the pallbearers to arrive.
I want to be healthy, so, er, drugs, yes, they’re an excellent idea. Although weed is the drug I probably respond best to. Not that I have a chequered history- I’m quite unversed in the ways of the dragon. Alcohol is the drug I respond least well to, but it’s the one cheapest and most freely available. I don’t drink much anyway, which is good. The only drink I can stand anymore is red wine. Everything else tastes like a cocktail of piss and meths.
I’m realising that sleep is quite possibly the key for me. I haven’t slept but so far today I’ve fixed a few things and cleaned the sitting room and rearranged some stuff and taken some photos. I want to do everything- paint my flat, go to the farm, fix lots of computers and get a loan for a houseboat- except write! Unusual for me, really.
When it comes to deleting or privating entries here, by the way, I reserve the right to do so. This is my blog! Sometimes I am not comfortable with what I’ve written, sometimes I realise I don’t want to get into a discussion about it, or upset someone, sometime it’s irrelevant and I’ll write it elsewhere, or sometimes I just write utter bollocks that should remain private. A good chunk of this blog is private, I write a fair few things only I can read because I still use this space as a mood journal, which was its original intention. So! Don’t point out that I shouldn’t delete things. I sometimes worry about what I write here because it’s public and it’s my life. I once found an internet cafe when I was out with friends because I was desperate to delete a blog entry that in retrospect I thought was too personal. I do worry, especially with entries concerning other people, because nobody in my life has asked to be written about, and I’m not anonymous. It’s a bit like blurting out something embarrassing about your sex life down the pub- you just want to push the words back into your mouth. But in blogland-
Anyway, speaking of photos, how frightening does Girl Cat look when she’s having a bath?
I’m yanking out the umbilical cord to the world for the weekend as I have things I need to do and the internet is not conducive to my distractable self. The lure of houseboat shopping and easily accessible loans…
Have a good one, chaps!
EDIT! Oh, wait! I know I change tone wildly in some blog entries, especially ones where I’m trying to fit stuff in, but here is another weekend thing- I love weird animals, and this bird not only has the best name in the world, it also has the best mating display. This bird is called the Superb Bird of Paradise.
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder