I am so sick of feeling like shit. I’ve been snapping an elastic band on my wrist instead of eating/cutting and I’ve left welts which I think defies the purpose.
W has deleted me off Facebook. I’m really upset. I don’t really have a right to be but I’m upset. I’m scared that he was right about me, that I’m shallow and manipulative and ‘going to make some other poor cunt suffer’. He was angry and cruel but he was probably right about a lot of things. It’s terrifying to think that I’ll never be able to love someone properly. I don’t know if it’s because I can’t love myself properly but it’s because I’m fucking ill.
Then I remember that Facebook pics only offer a sanctioned, sanitised view of the relationship. It’s the happy sunny days, of which there were a lot, and no pictures of feeling like shit or arguing.
I can’t do this alone. I’m beginning to rely more on my friends and open up, which has been really good. The more I’ve let people in, the more that they’ve been there for me. That’s one benefit to not being in a relationship – I used to put all my shit on one person and blame them when I wasn’t coping. I need to get some more interests, like I need to start performing poetry again, and get out more. I sit in my flat all alone all day and it’s too much for anyone to deal with. L has invited me to live with her but my family and W all seemed to think it wasn’t a great idea for me. I agree, I dunno if I can really handle it but then I’ve never actually lived with a proper, bona fide friend before. I’ve only lived with people I don’t know or like. I do like my flat but I do get lonely. That being said, I like having my shit where it should be and I love my kitchen. I think maybe I just need to leave the flat more.
I feel so fucked up all the time. I’m bored and frustrated with placement, it’s like work without any of the benefits [wages], and the pub quiz has been fucking rubbish the past couple of weeks. I need something else, some man replacement activities. I was getting loads of interest on a ladies-only dating app and left some the (ridiculously, insanely) gorgeous women with a single reply and disappeared. Fucking chicken. Reverse problem with boys in that they fanny about and get to make all the decisions, none of which benefit you, then they sit there all confused wondering why you’re pissed off. Always the bad guy, never the bride.
I’ve been so fucking angry the past couple of days. I’ve got plans to go to see a buddy of mine on Friday, gonna get shitfaced and go to the beach for his birthday. I love the sea so that’ll be good. Water makes me feel at peace. Floating on my back in a reservoir when I was really depressed in summer let me sink back to the womb for a while. I liked listening to the blood rush in my ears, my own heartbeat lulling me under the water.
I’d like to write the books I’ve got stored in my head but I don’t believe I can. Maybe I should think of them as stories rather than books. I’ve been trying to work them out. The thing is, I’ve always got characters but I don’t know where they’re going. Sometimes I think they just help me make sense of what’s going on in my own head and what I want. They change too and I can’t keep hold of them. It’s also a sign that I’m hypo when I start to get creative which kind of sucks the fun out of it. Then by the time I calm down I’m so miserable that I believe it’s all worthless and pointless.
I fucking miss W. He really did try to be with me and learned so much about bipolar for me. Other times I don’t miss him because it all felt a bit toxic. It was like I couldn’t breathe and what I felt didn’t matter because it was all just the bipolar ebbs and flows. It meant I only loved him sometimes. With my friends I don’t worry about it so much. Even if I don’t want to see them or can’t tolerate them and their conversation for too long I never stress. It’s never that I don’t love them, even if I can’t talk to them or hide myself away, and even when I’m pissed off it’s still ok. They’re still my friends. Intimate relationships are a fucking nightmare though. There’s so much responsibility (or at least there should be) and you need to be honest (but that’s hard). You need to be honest about who you are and what you want (W always was himself and wanted me, though he wouldn’t open up about his feelings). Maybe it’s just difficult in your 20s, maybe it’s just a shitty world that does/doesn’t tell you what to want, maybe there are more important things, maybe everyone just needs to take a breather and get their shit together, maybe it’s all just timing and coincidence, maybe I’m incapable of love, maybe I’m too loving, maybe maybe maybe. It’s all everything, all the time, all at once – you just notice some bits more than others.
I wish I’d loved him properly, the way he deserved to be loved. I miss having someone around that I liked so much. I always really, really liked him. He could be a cunt though. I dunno, maybe with lovers you hold them to a higher standard because you make yourself vulnerable. If you give your heart/body to someone they should treat it with respect. I’m scared of being vulnerable but I’m learning. The trouble is that you and the other person have to be playing by the same rules, determined by upbringing and genetics and social shit which determine your values. Did W and I have the same values? He had some good ones – stick up for your mates, all coppers are bastards – but I got tired of the chip on the shoulder and hypocrisy. Even though we agreed about stuff we’d end up fighting. He said this was because I challenged him and he’s used to winning arguments. I find political arguments pretty dull, it’s all total bollocks.
I think I’m more of a sell-out than him. I think I’ve got a surprising social climber side which I was never really aware of. I’m quite ambitious, though I try and bury it, and I’ve ended up middle class. I have my own chip about it. I dunno, I’m kind of a cunt sometimes. I can be pretentious and complacent, smug even. I’m also confident and express myself well – I got tired of pretending not to be clever or interested in shit, it gets so fucking old. Psychiatrists have referred to me as grandiose when I talk about my intellectual ability but the fact is I’m clever. I come from a family of clever people. I’m also hardworking and interested in things, though I’ll only ever do as much as I need to hit the heights. I worry that this is because it’s all I’m capable of but I think some of it is just basic efficiency. My brain doesn’t work in a linear way but explodes into branches.
I still go home at the end of the day knowing it’s all a big joke. We’re all just big bags of meat and fluid and guts and shit and puke and tears and snot which will one day dry up and turn to dust. None of it matters. It’s all just lofty words which we impose onto a wild environment, it’s all still tribal bullshit. I find it very hard to care about a lot of news or politics, even if I keep up to date. I’m a miserable cynic. It has to be immediate and real. It has to be sensory. It has to affect me. I’m a spoilt Englander who has it good enough. I’m just like everyone else. I’m just honest?
I’m aware that I’m rambling. I just have so much stuffed bunged up inside me, it feels good to get it out. I miss my mum and dad, I want to talk to them. I’m aware that I’m tired but there’s still life pouring out of me. I feel better than I have all day, just to be doing and making and spewing words. I worry that it’s innaccurate, it’s like I can never quite capture what I actually think because it’s all just nonsense. I feel like I misrepresent myself, the same as I feel about the stories and characters in my head. I can tell the story out loud but I know that someone will read the words and not get what I mean. What you are and what you’re seen to be can be so different, but then is the way you’re seen the real you? Is that the one that’s more important? Are you more or less real the way others perceive you? Whatever meaning you offer them, they will only ever have an interpretation of what you are.
If we are to love someone, do we love them most at their best or worst? Which is most authentic? I feel like my down is always more real than my up, but then when I’m up I’m utterly convinced that I’m fine and that I’m not bipolar/depressed anymore. Pain always seems more real but in fact it is less temporary than joy. You can relive joy, admittedly usually with less intensity, when you relieve warm memories and feel that glow begin. But then they can quite as easily turn to pain. It is all temporary. Does that mean we cannot trust or believe what happens? I certainly feel like I can’t trust my labile, mercurial emotions. I cannot really believe what I want or who I am and that’s so devastating. Maybe loving him sometimes was the absolute best I could do. Maybe it wasn’t enough. I did sometimes just bubble up with love for him, I felt so warm and kind. Maybe I put too much pressure on myself. I can’t be perfect or feel one way all the time. I don’t have to. What scares me is that I’m not bipolar but that I am such a perfectionist that I cannot fulfill my own ridiculous standards of how I should or shouldn’t feel. It paralyses me and renders me mute. I have to let those emotions flow through me in all their real fakery. What is the rock in the water? Where is the centre? What is the truth?
It hurts my head to think that it’s all true. All at once and also none of it. We’re all just atoms in a cosmic sneeze, bouncing against one another. This constant loop of back and forth and in and out and up and down – where’s the middle? I want to be in the middle. I want to be held and squeezed into that nucleus and be kept safe. But I still want to feel.
I’d like to be more productive. I’d like this mindless rambling to have a focus and a point. The fact is, I have to create my own point. That point may be immediate, long term, temporary or forever. What I really want is to love someone and be loved in equal measure. I need to do that with myself on a more permanent basis. I need to make myself feel secure and ‘work on myself’ as everyone keeps telling me. The thing is, I don’t know what work needs doing or how to do it. I need a quote from a guy, even if he sucks in his cheeks and tells me it’s going to be a long job, so I can get started. I get so fucking tired of being told ‘focus on yourself’ – I think that’s sometimes the opposite of what I need. I need to focus on loving others better, on being kind, of shining a light into the world rather than focusing it on myself and burning under its harshness.
I feel like I can’t stop writing. When I stop writing I think about W and it hurts and it hurts. This is all distraction. It is all random action.
When I write poetry I never feel like I misrepresent myself. Even though it’s far more vague and ambiguous, with double meanings and room for interpretation coded into its structure, I feel clarity. I feel that raw emotion distilled and bottled. It pours from me and it makes sense. When I perform it, it is my voice. I sincerely believe that poetry is meant to be heard. I love the sounds and sibilance and swooshes and sweet honeysuckle tickle of pretty words that run together, like a pack of well-trained wolves. I love to howl my art at the moon.
I feel shame at my own self-importance when I write what I think. I feel the same about stories, like why would anyone care what happens in my head or how I feel about Palestine or any of that shit. This blog has some purpose, to track my experience of bipolar, so I’m ok with it. When I write something funny (I used to write satire but now am limited to bad puns or witty(ish) facebook statuses) or when I write a poem it never bothers me. A joke is never wasted. I don’t think you can argue with something beautiful that does a job well. Poetry is often so wanky and earnest or lengthy or obtuse. When I do it I like POW connection, here’s a feeling. I’m ok with writing what I feel, not what I think. It’s funny, I can’t trust my feelings or my words but I respect them far more than my opinions. Opinions seem so flimsy and changeable, even though my feelings are prey to a semi-chem cycle. You can always know more and learn more, you can always be proved wrong (though some people refuse to be) and so opinions are fleeting. You can never feel more than what you feel which is why I think they’re so powerful. Maybe it’s because mine are so intense. It’s my actions based on those feelings which maybe I shouldn’t trust.
I would just like to feel something real for a long time. I would like to love someone for more than a couple of weeks at a go. I would like to find a sensible point between screaming richness and dull, flat living death. I would like my words to have structure and clarity. I would rather not repeat each argument every fortnight. I need someone to systemise me, to turn my empathy into a workable formula. I read some (admittedly dodgy and deeply gendered, the sociologist in me retches at the thought) research about how autism is the extreme-male brain and psychosis is the extreme-female brain, men (obviously) being good at systematic, linear thinking and women (obviously) being empathic. Psychosis was conceptualised as a manifestation of hyper-empathy. It made me mad, it’s gender bollocks, but it made me think. Women are mad, men are bad. Men are rational and logical, women are illogical. I began drafting a grand thesis on the gendered perception of autism (I still might one day) and became very irritable when forced into any and all conversation – hypomania on a plate.
I’m very tired. I haven’t had good sleep the past few nights. I’m tired of my empty days. I’m tired of being trapped behind perspex. Jesus, it’s days 17 since I last wrote a document detailling a bizarre dribble of thoughts, much like this. Trying to explain how it all feels and how it all fits together. Very soon I’m going to feel very empty and sad. I hope I make it through to Friday with a bit of fun left for the beach. I’m sick of my fortnightly holidays.
Maybe it’s all just really, really bad PMS. Maybe I’m the victim of a cruel joke, played on me by my ovaries. I’m so desperate to reproduce but I completely stand in my own way.
I held my new nephew for the first time on Saturday. I’m so jealous of my brother. He’s got a beautiful house and a beautiful baby and a beautiful life. He’s very hardworking but has always had an edge of luck or confidence at least. He called me a malcontent once and it hurt me very badly. I was having a shit time at uni and he blamed me. I told him recently about my diagnosis and was very sad. I’m glad I told him.
My nana has cancer as well. She’s 84, almost 85, and she has breast cancer. I found out the same day my nephew was born. It’s my dad’s mum. I didn’t know whether to tell W. I hope he might check in with this but I don’t think he will. If he does then now he knows. Hopefully now he knows a lot of things. Maybe he already did. I’ve just got to work it out for myself.
I’m tired. I think it might be time for bed.