Another One Bites the Dust

Rest in peace, Moira Stewart.

How sad and limp she is, unlike the real Moira Stewart, who neither withers, nor dies.

I kind of forgot you existed until I witnessed one of your leaves snap off and dissolve into dust.  May you find joy in Spider Plant Heaven with Brian May.

Back in his carefree youth. I clearly didn't even care enough about Moira Stewart to take baby photos.

I give up on plants.  You can’t trust them not to die, especially if you don’t water them or, when you do, experiment with feeding them Diet Coke thinking the sugar might be helpful, then remembering Diet Coke doesn’t have sugar and that you’ve probably just given your plant cancer.  Which may have contributed to the death of Brian May, as this was a repeat experiment that I had forgotten I had performed once already.   I am the Mengeles of the Plant World.

Thank you for the responses to my quick-aye-right previous post.  I think I will at least ask for an explanation, partly out of sheer curiousity and partly because this is my life and I don’t feel it’s accurate.  I also think someone had a point when they said if I took something positive out of it, should I really kick it up?  In that sense, I don’t know.  I’ll give it a month and see how I feel then, if I am still curious, or if I am fine enough off medication (I won’t be discharged until September which gives me a few months to see if I flip out.  My recent depression doesn’t count, really) to maybe envisage a time where I don’t have to see a psychiatrist again.  I didn’t ask to be discharged due to this, by the by, it was something I raised a while ago, but my not being on medication or really receiving treatment meant that I thought it was kind of pointless to continue and I’ve been with them for almost four years, which is a really long time.     I don’t need that level of support anymore and they’re understaffed as it is!

So!  I’ll ask at least.

It’s 8.08am right now, and I’m awake and have not been to sleep.  I’m operating a kind of day-on-day-off policy when it comes to sleeping.  Not sleeping very much at all, but my body seems to have adapted.  First of all, I was sleeping far too much and then still feeling so exhausted I went back to bed four or five times a day, then I slept less and less and was so exhausted I couldn’t function and wanted to kill myself and could barely move, and now I’m sleeping lesser still but am not that tired at all and don’t need that much sleep.  I took some Seroquel the other day because I thought that forcing myself to sleep would be a smart idea.  I did sleep but I had some strange sort of shaking fit upon waking.  So, bollocks to Seroquel.  I am physically rather shaky, my insides feel strange, I do feel “strange” in general (and if I didn’t I’d say I did anyway just to overuse the word gratuitously in this post), a little bit…STRANGE!

I feel good, mood-wise, cheerful, bouncy, bigger breasted, which isn’t good, they’re too big as it is, distractingly large.  I’ve been productive-ish in the sense that I’ve been sorting some stuff out but now need to direct my energies to other things, the things I’ve been trying and failing to do for months due to being depressed.  My concentration is still fucked and I’m still having trouble staying on one topic for more than a second (which led to me asking Robert earlier if he’d ever wear nappies- I think we were talking about Korea or something) and am having racing thoughts (or at least, what I was told were racing thoughts in the past- voices, music, babbling incessantly in the background and sometimes a “tch tch tch” rhythm that keeps going and might have made me look like a mental on Upper Street earlier when I was vocalising it quietly),  which is a hinderence but hey-ho.  I’ve read over this a few times and removed stuff, I commented on the Facebook page earlier that I kept having trouble with words: instead of feet I wrote fleet for flippers, slippers, then of for on and off and such. I always tell Robert I want to fuck off somewhere quiet because my brain is so noisy often and I wonder if a quiet place will help, I want to go to a quiet place that’s beautiful so have been looking today for flights to the Isle of Man but I have feck all money and no overdraft, which is wise, really.

It’s difficult to tell if I’m behaving in any odd way or not because Robert is extremely strange and has a very high standard of what odd behaviour is:  this is him on my window sill at 4am:

Starkers

Absolutely naked, and it’s a busy main road in London.  And dancing!

I don’t think I am anyway, and don’t really care either!

I went out on Monday night (someone told me they missed me, it must have been a while since anyone had seen me be sociable and talkative and uninhibited) and discovered that in The Great Haze of 2003 (most of which is utterly, utterly lost on me), I walked around a country house in front of everyone without knickers.  I do not recall this, at all, and I wasn’t drunk.  I plunged my head into my arms keening somewhat.  It wasn’t that it was a particularly OH MY GOD thing to do- really, it’s on the level of most peoples’ drunken weekend antics- it’s just that I do not remember it, at all, and I was surprised balloons and streamers didn’t appear from the sky while a bell ding-dinged and lights danced around his head as a rotund, ear-drumming smashing American voice boomed, “ALEX SARLL! CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE JUST TOLD SEANEEN THE 1 MILLIONTH THING SHE HAS NO RECOLLECTION OF DOING!”  Smile, smile, clutch that rose bunch to your chest as though it were the ashes of your mother.   I had that cold, sickening fear when he said it, because it frightens and upsets me just how much of my own life I don’t remember.  I don’t even have the excuse of alcoholism or drug addiction- it’s just… gone, obliterated by my more extreme states.  It’s no wonder my flat is filled with sentimental crap and almost every birthday card I’ve ever received, I need these little slips of history to finger gratefully, to remember.

ANYWAY!

Since my little mind has now been trained to be ultra-viligant with mood changes (and coming off medication even more so), I’d wonder if I am slightly hypomanic, or maybe I’m just feeling normal.  I don’t know because I’ve forgotten what normal feels like.  I’ve been on medication for four years, and before that, I was completely mental.  Quite a lot of what I think could be hypomania etc could just me, well, me! Who knows? And I expected some instability coming off all medication because… well, you would, wouldn’t you.  I’ve been recording my progress in this blog for three years, but this is the real shit right here, the real challenge.  I decided to come off medication before the psychiatric appointment, but I think he would have withdrawn the prescription anyway as he doesn’t think I need medication.  I gave it a fair go- I gradually dropped a few medications for reasons of side effects (it’s not being OH LORD IT’S TOO MUCH, I do genuinely seem to be unusually sensitive to pills) and kept Seroquel going for years.  It all did help, but I couldn’t deal with the dead feeling anymore.  And because the psychiatrist and social worker don’t think I need medication anyway, I have no-one roaring, “TAKE YOUR MEDICATION!” in my face, which is nice.

Either way, I’m in a good enough mood so it doesn’t matter.  It’s a pleasant change considering that the past few months, bar a week or two, have been exercises in dumb depression.  HOORAY!

Once again, thank you for your advice and kind words.  I will ask, and if I disagree, then challenge it.  I don’t hold out much hope that the diagnosis would be changed, but I’d still like to know why it stands anyway.

I really do have to bugger off for a while now and try to attempt to focus a bit, so take care!

P.S:  I finally updated my blogroll, sorry it takes me forever!

x

EDIT: Apopos of nothing but I just remembered my mum the first time Rob came over a non-funeral related visit and she offered to buy him a TV.  She has mad periods and is massively generous in them and buys a lot of stupid shit which is why she’s in horrendous debt.   But I don’t know how she thought we’d get a TV over to London.