Dissociation

(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Six)

I feel like I’m floating through time. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I’m partly just heavily dissociating. Everything is blurry in some way, out of my grasp, and I sit to write and don’t remember the day that I’ve just had. Concentration is difficult. I don’t want to leave the house very much, but also can’t bring myself to care when I leave – my partner makes me leave, we have a number of things organised, and I do what I have to. I don’t have much impetus to argue.

Still no word or developments mental health wise. Group tomorrow morning.

I don’t know any more, I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Out of Hope

(At Home – Day Forty-Nine)

I feel utterly hopeless, deflated and intermittently suicidal. I don’t see that this will ever improve. I don’t feel like I’m ever likely to get anywhere sensible. I have no trust left in anybody in the mental health system, and I have mental health problems that will never go away. This is it, for me, and if it wasn’t for my partner I would have thrown the towel in quite a long time ago.

Sorry. Not much joy over here.

Mental Illness Being Petty

(Or: At Home (almost, I’m on a train…) – Day Forty-Four)

I cannot always explain why certain things upset me in the way that they do. It does not always appear logical, or fair. In fact, sometimes they’re downright bizarre, but they’re also seriously valid because I’m currently in tears on a train because my partner has recently decided that going backwards on trains for longer than ten minutes at a time when there’s an R in the month and the moon is bright means she gets nauseous, which is total bollocks, because I’ve known her for nearly eight years and this appeared about three months ago. She prefers travelling forwards, great, that’s absolutely fine – but right now, this has managed to cause something of a breakdown on my part. I hate not having lines of sight from all possible angles. When I’m in the corner of anything – room, train, bus, fucking anything – I have lines of sight from anything that could be coming at me. I also don’t like to be boxed in, and I really hate people reading over my shoulder, so sitting with her next to me inadvertently invading my personal space is also not an option.

For various reasons, this configuration – which would have been fine, had I been allowed to do so – was scuppered by partner’s abrupt decision to play silly buggers. I’m really upset now and feel very uncomfortable, and no, I don’t entirely know why. I don’t know why it matter, but it does, and the level of upset I feel is making me livid at myself and even more upset so I’m winding myself into a frenzy.

Mental illness is not glamorous. This is mental illness. Petty and ridiculous. In tears on the train, in public, because I’m throwing a six-year-old’s tantrum about sitting in the wrong seat. I just can’t begin to describe the clawing paranoia, extreme anger, resentment, humiliation, anxiety and thrumming discomfort. I want to vomit.

And I certainly cannot have that conversation because active nausea trumps a feeling I can’t articulate properly so here I am, with no lines of sight and boxed in and genuinely feeling like everybody in the world is staring at me and judging me.

This is ridiculous.

Learning to Live (ish)

(Or: At Home – Day Thirty-Three)

Well, I’m not the only one struggling with a change of circumstances: my partner had a meltdown of her own because she forgot that humans require food to live and so almost passed out after eating half a bowl of coco pops for lunch. It’s been a weird day.

My partner and I are learning to adjust to current reality, and while you might think that stopping work and having a perpetual holiday would be awesome, when you’re dealing with a crazy person and a human being who has foibles of her own, you wind up with a whole bunch of complex crazy and everybody’s a bit confused.

I have had an eating disorder for thirteen years. I have thrown up more times than you could begin to imagine (no really, I did the maths once, and nearly fainted with sheer horror). I don’t get food. It is a strange and foreign and often hostile concept. Currently, I really need somebody to take over and take the stress away from it, because god knows I don’t have a sane or healthy approach to any of it right now. That’s tomorrow’s plan.

Trying to work out how to live is surprisingly hard, in short.

Being An Inconvenience

(Or: At Home – Day Twenty-Seven)

I’m currently trapped in a strange twilight zone and cannot escape. Send help. If you can actually get to me. Which is debatable.

Today involved perfect examples of highs and lows. Highs: dinner with my partner’s family, which I loved (esp her brother-in-law, whom I get on with extremely well and feel like I might have something in common with). Lows: I freaked out while going shopping and wound up with lorazepam and a very tense bus ride while I tried to work out living with the volume turned up.

Legitimately, that’s how it feels, when I get overwhelmed. Somebody has turned up the volume on everything. Sight, smell, touch. I am blinded, deafened, olfactorily assaulted all in one very unpleasant go. And I don’t get any warning, nor any explanation. Joy of fucking joys.

Saw my care co-ordinator, who I suspect is a little busy and distracted. I still think she’s god’s gift to healthcare, but it didn’t have the usual calming effect I’m accustomed to. Perhaps I’m just a little too highly-strung today. I’m getting very used to being A Problem, somebody’s Problem, so I suppose today being A Problem for her was too much. I’m A Problem who changes hands from time to time, maybe she’s hoping the Complex Needs Team will take me off her hands a bit. Or a psychiatrist. Or anybody, really, it doesn’t matter so long as The Problem gets handed off safely to somebody else.

As you may be able to sense, I’m getting fucking fed up of being bounced from person to person to organisation to person and back again. Last time I checked, I did in fact have a personality and some sense of autonomy, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me right now. I’m like a cat. Lots of people are very fond, but the responsibility lies with whoever is the owner, and if the owner is busy then somebody else looks after said cat. I’m a fucking cat. I have the same autonomy as a very pissed off cat, who can piss on things and be grumpy but basically is beholden to their home and their owner and has very few places to go without being hit by a car.

Extended metaphors notwithstanding, I’m not having a great day.

For example: partner is a working actor. Currently not working, and so is able to care for me. However, this remains true basically so long as she doesn’t have a job, in which case I am no longer convenient, and get passed along to the next person. Same with my parents, who are looking after me, unless they’re on holiday (as they are now) in which case I’m an inconvenience, and get passed along. Like a pass-the-parcel with no layers, an ungrateful crazy bitch and no present at the centre.

I should say that I am hugely grateful to the people taking time and energy out of their lives to look after me, especially my partner – but I know I’m a temporary inconvenience. And honestly, I just want to go away somewhere where I can stop being an inconvenience to everything and everybody around me. You never know, maybe I’ll even develop an independent personality of my own. We can but hope.

I’m Running Out Of Willpower…

(Or: At Home – Day Twenty-Two)

Because I have bpd as well as bipolar, my mood more or less does its own thing and runs around in circles while I try very hard to coax it out of the rain and maybe, you know, sit quietly for a bit and do crosswords.

Today’s fun: manic energy, plus a lot of really depressing shit happening. So I’m really energetically depressed. I’ve had to wave goodbye to the last semblances of my career, watch my partner continue hers, and generally admit to the world that hello, yes, I’ve lost my marbles and I can’t piss on my own without supervision at the moment so please give me money for failing to be competent at human-ing.

I hate this. I hate myself most acutely, of course, and that’s a hatred that’s reaching dizzying proportions in a very short space of time. I want to run away. Legitimately, just get on the first bus, train, tube and go where nobody can find me and nobody is watching me. I can’t tell you how hard it is to keep myself tethered to this life when there’s very little to recommend it. What I have now is not, in any sense, living. I am existing. I try to be more than that for my partner, who I love and who loves me, but the force of one person is not enough to keep you securely locked into a world you can’t abide. There’s no let-up and there’s no alternative. I have this for an indefinite period of time, so I have to learn to cope with it, somehow. Not run away – physically or metaphorically – but stay.

I don’t know how long I can do that any more. I’m running out of willpower. I’m slowly losing my ability to care about the consequences.

Manic-Me Takes the Wheel!

(Or: At Home – Day Twenty-One)

To claim ESA, I have to supply quite a lot of documentation. This ranges from stuff from university about course hours and things like that (which I don’t have), and also proper balance sheets and income/expenses sheets in full detail from the last financial year.

Me, being a usual human who was hoping to not think about things like that until next January, when the deadline falls, suddenly found myself needing to go through all of my self-employment documentation and basically re-do most of it. It has been a very, very long day.

All power to manic-brain though: in a concentrated six hour burst, I did the lot. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Sane me would have taken the better part of a week. Depressed me would have taken a month. Given that I need all the details and sent to the DWP (Department of Work and Pensions, for the non-Brits among you) by the end of the month, it’s rather fortunate that manic-me took the wheel. I also redid most of my filing, put it all in chronological order, and distributed it amongst some new folders so I can actually find everything I need when I next need to give random extended bits of information to the government to check over…

Altogether, marvellously successful today with a hell of a lot done. I’m also still bouncy enough to not feel knackered yet; whenever my mood crashes, I am going to be categorically exhausted, but that’s a problem for another day. For now, I’m going to enjoy the feeling of basic delirium and productivity, and continue to write the extended fiction piece I’m working on, which I’ve done seven pages of already.

And people wonder why people with bipolar go off their meds. I’d sell my soul to feel like this forever.