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.

Being in control and fate of the death tree

Glance down 150km p/hr, look up nah… surely that’s not possible. Glance down again, 155… hmmm, doesn’t feel like it, feels more like 80. Flo Rider blasts into my ears through my brand new $250 headphones. The passenger seat is full of the mornings other spontaneous purchases that I can’t actually afford, but its payday and I don’t particularly care. Yet.

My body is tingling, the hairs on my arms prickle and my rose coloured sun glasses are changing the colour of the high yellow grass in the paddocks into an inviting vibrant green. There is nobody around, it’s just me, the music and the open road. I slowly depress my right foot further on to the accelerator. Glance down, 165 now. It’s like nothing, I have complete control. 

175. Time and space no longer exist and I am traveling in a vortex, transfixed on the clear path ahead, trees flash past and I am absorbed by the bitumen as it shimmers in the heat of the day.

180. feels a little faster now, not fast enough though; foot flat. 

195. The tree line is approaching and so is a bend and a large truck on the other side of the road a wave of exhilaration passes through me, singing along to the music I debate trying to push through to 200. Just a little more cant hurt…

The music can read my thoughts: “feeling forty-three million feet up in the sky full of diamonds…” Fuck yeah I am! 198. I am no longer a physical being, just a collection of energy particles combined together to create an illusion. I am simply a hologram, capable of separating and re-forming at will. 

The truck is suddenly closer now. I wonder if I could separate my particles wide enough to pass right through it, after all we are just made of energy. Would we enmesh in gross physical carnage or would we pass straight through the space time continuum and each other continuing along as though we had never met? 

The straight stretch of road runs out and I am forced to slow for the bends, 150. 140. The truck driver shakes his head as he passes and I blow him a kiss. We could have traveled time together, he and I, yet he will never even know. 

I round a familiar bend and notice that the ‘death tree’ is lying down and parts of it have been chopped up; it must have fallen over onto the road in the storm the other night. I am struck by an absurd pang grief for the old gum and the knowledge that I don’t know how I feel about that.

The ‘death tree’ is a very large, broad-trunked eucalypt, positioned in an ideal spot around a sharpish corner to palm off ones’ suicide as an ‘unfortunate accident’ should the need ever arise. I have pointedly aimed my car at it at high speed on more than one occasion but always pulled back at the last minute. Knowing it’s an option has been enough.

Flashes of random irritability, anxiety and suicidality have been haunting the edges of my current hypomanic state and although at that moment I certainly wasn’t wanting to die, or even believing that it was physically possible for me to die, the knowledge that that particular option had been taken away from me forever was rather odd.

Before I know it I am pulling up in my driveway, the journey home has seemed much quicker than usual. I catch my reflection in the windscreen and assess myself for a minute. I’m driving too fast, I’m spending too much, I can see that I am but I am doing it anyway. My mood is escalating.

From a logical perspective I am aware that driving at nearly twice the speed limit is a bad idea, I know intellectually that if I was caught doing that I would get arrested, lose my license, be fined thousands of dollars and generally humiliated. I understand that traveling at those high speeds poses risk to the safety of other drivers.

But I am unable to find the guilt and care that should come with that knowledge. It didn’t FEEL dangerous; I was completely in control, wasn’t I? 

Even when I was counseled by a tweep before buying my new headphones (Thanks Carrie) asking wisely if I needed them? No. Would I regret buying them later? Probably. Can I afford them? No. Was I completely in control when I pulled out the credit card? As much as I hate to admit it, the answer is a resounding no.

My thoughts are racing, they are slowly losing construction and I am drifting in and out of myself. I fear that I’m heading towards a mixed episode rather than an epiphany and it scares the shit out of me. I am losing control. Again.

Hypomania: A day in the life

Only two hours of slumber and yet the light shines brighter today, the colours more vibrant, the world clear as though a fog has lifted and the windows of my soul polished clean, shiny and new. In the background the music plays, the rhythm picks up and my mind dances in time to the beat. 

I venture out of the house into the sunshine awakened with possibilities, after depositing the offspring at the school bus

I find myself flying down the road, sunroof open, music up; tied down only by my bank balance and the vague recollection of responsibilities.

Stopping at the petrol station I buy a large can of Red Bull and pop a couple of Sudafed and some codeine tablets because I am already flying high and I want to fly higher or at least not come down any time soon. Today the world is mine.

Suddenly it occurs to me that I still haven’t gotten my semi colon tattoo. Immediately pulling off to the side of the road I call the tattoo parlour but they have no appointments left today. Damn. I will have to call back. Catching my reflection in the rear view mirror as I place the call I can’t help but wonder what I would look like with black hair instead of blonde, yes jet black with royal blue tips, foils or wedges. A change is as good as a holiday.

Words spill from my mouth, laughter, joyousness as light gleams from my blue eyes. Confidence at an all-time high, the trolley collection man outside the grocery store directly passes me a shopping trolley and in a thick African accent says “You have such a lovely face”, he stumbles his words and grins sheepishly and I thank him, smiling at the compliment without even turning it around in my mind to mean the million negative stories it usually would.

My trolley is now full, over flowing in fact, full of food, of this and of that. Everything in the shop is necessary or could definitely be useful one day and those specials are too good to pass up. 

The shopping centre is next to the airport and as I pack the groceries into my car I debate flying somewhere on a whim. How fun would it be to simply catch the next flight going to anywhere? I decide that I'd better not, the ice cream would melt.

I detour past work on the way home to say hi and accidently spend an hour chatting and $100 on fish and aquarium plants while my frozen goods quietly melt in the boot of my car. I will just slip them into my fish tank, hubby will never notice! 

I drive the 100km back to my little farm house, singing “I’m an Albatraoz” and “Titanium” at the top of my lungs with the windows down getting frustrated that there are cars on the road that want to drive at the speed limit. 100km per hour feels ridiculously slow today.

Arriving home, I dance around the house unpacking the shopping, introducing my fish, scrolling through twitter, googling images of black and blue hair and emailing letters to friends I haven’t spoken to in ages telling them how special they are to me. 

Mum rings and tells me how happy and chatty I sound and how glad she is I stopped taking “that horrible medication” as it made me so dull. Secretly fearing that I probably need to start taking it again I tell her in no uncertain terms that yes, Lithium is indeed evil and then launch into a paranoid spiel about drug side effects and make her promise that if the hospital ever commits me again and tries to give me ECT that she is to hire a lawyer and prevent it at all costs or kidnap me. 

She agrees wholeheartedly. 

I make cupcakes while on the phone and nearly forget to pick up the children from the school bus. I have an in depth conversation with the bus driver about caring for the elderly before he finally says “I really should get these other kids home” and quickly drives away. 

My 7yr old then has a temper tantrum because Mr11 ‘bagsed the front seat’ and she stands there screaming for 15minutes while I piss myself laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, we finally get home and walk into a house that smells like burning cupcakes. Shit the oven!!

Hubby gets home and asks what I did today so I tell him a watered down version he and proceeds to raise an eyebrow suspiciously and check the bank balance when I tell him I went shopping and got a couple of ‘extras’.

Serving up an oh so healthy meal of hot dogs and chips for the family, I make a gluten free tomato and spinach leaf sandwich for myself jumping up from the table every five minutes to check on the new fish who appeared to be fighting thus accidently giving away to hubby that I bought new fish. 

To calm down I try to go for a run, simultaneously singing Bob Dylan songs and checking twitter but my ankle hurts and it’s too hard to sing while puffing, besides pressing buttons on an iPhone screen while running with sweaty hands is impossible so I slow down to a walk and half listen to a podcast/ half daydream for an hour instead.

I go to bed, watch a movie and have the best sex of my life. Still can’t sleep so I spend several hours on my phone engaged in a bad pun war on Facebook and writing rap song lyrics. Eventually I put dance music on in my headphones and actually fall asleep.  

How was your day?