Whingy Whiny Depression

I’ve been isolating myself from the real world, the thought of having to put on a smiley “I’m Happy” face is too much, not to mention that this would force me to leave my bed, shower and actually wash my greasy excuse for hair. I wagged my psychiatrist appointment, I avoid answering the phone and I haven’t even been writing, no inspiration. Facebook is making me angry it seems that several people in my small community that I thought were decent are actually Islamaphobes. But as I have to live here, starting an online rant about why they are racist, uneducated twats is probably not a smart move. 

The only thing I have actually been enjoying doing lately is losing myself to hashtag games on Twitter and lying in bed with the sheets pulled over my head listening to pod casts for hours on end. I have absolutely NOTHING valid to complain about either, nothing bad has happened, I am surrounded by a loving family and friends who would probably jump to my aid if I was to ask for help.

But how can you ask for help when you don’t know what sort of help you need?

I don’t need someone just to listen as I really have nothing to say, I don’t want someone to just sit with me as that would be awkward. I don’t want to go out and frankly I would just rather be alone in my bed wallowing in self-pity.

The thoughts that circle my brain and constantly remind me of my short comings also remind me that bipolar depression is going to be cycling through my pointless life forever and what the hell is the point of riding a rollercoaster that you can’t ever get off. They remind me how disgusting my body is and then watch me from afar tut – tutting as I binge on boxes of cornflakes for no reason other than to punish myself for still existing. Fat.Lazy.Stupid.CantEvenMakeHerselfVomit. 

I lie in bed after a binge session for hours willing myself to get up and go for a run, but the house is cold and the bed is warm, why can’t I just manage to make myself throw up? The only sure fire way I know to make myself throw up is to overdose on pills, but knowing my luck they will make me too sick and I will have to explain myself and I don’t have access to enough to actually kill me and put me out of my misery once and for all. 

God knows I can’t afford to be back in the psych ward right now. Imagine explaining that one. “Kate, why did you try to kill yourself?” “Oh I didn’t, I was just trying to throw up because I’m a stupid fat piece of shit who can’t seem to stick her fingers down her throat properly”. How embarrassing.

Sorry for the whingy whiny depression rant, I’ll go back to bed now.