This post is a pity-party of misery. You probably don’t want to read it, particularly if you’re feeling low yourself.
As of 8.15pm yesterday evening, I have existed on this planet for 10,593 days.
It means I’m now 29.
I remember once as a child, a friend and I talking about blokes we fancied. I genuinely don’t remember who I referenced in the conversation, but it was someone over 30 (I’ve always been attracted to older men. Indeed, The Man is 10 years older than me.) My friend posited that “30 [was] really old,” was I mad?! (Quite probably, but for entirely different reasons.)
I didn’t see being 30 as “old.” Much as still do as an adult, I’d sit there and imagine myself at the age I now find myself as someone successful, happy, witty, everything going for her.
Not as an overweight Venlafaxine addict with no career struggling with bills and state benefits and bi-fucking-polar disorder.
Entering my 30th year could have been a good thing, but since my 20s have been a complete write-off, the opposite has become true.
What a waste of a life. What a waste of a brain, of potential. Of a once-upon-a-time personality. Oh look, I have an education. Big deal. Oh look, I can allegedly write things well (not that anything on this blog would attest to do that.) So what? What has any of it got me?
I had my last (individual) session with my therapist the other day, and he told me that I have more value than just that of a career. I beg to differ. Of course any human being wants a contented private life, and in the sense that The Man and I are in a long-term, happy relationship, I’ve achieved that. But that was only one part of what I wanted. Okay, you can’t always get what you want and that’s fine, so let me rephrase; that was only one part of what should have been. Am I narcissistic to think I should have done better for myself? Probably, but my current existence is so diametrically opposed to what I ever expected it to be that I don’t really care.
Anyway, even if my therapist is right to assume that I put too much emphasis on vocation – and I assumed I would have a vocation, not just a job – what is the value I supposedly bring to others? That he says he’ll miss working with me, so I must be “a good person?” Ha. Let me see just how much value I bring to others. I take tax-payer’s money to keep me breathing. I moan and complain on a blog I can’t be arsed to frequently write. The Man or my mother or whoever have to support me financially, even with my soon-to-be-non-existent-if-Gideon-and-IDS-have-their-way benefit claims. I sit on a sofa or lie on a bed all day staring at walls or iPhones or laptops, without doing anything remotely useful to or on any of them.
People defend me on the grounds of my having a severe and enduring mental illness, and I accept that to be true. Whilst failing to imagine my life without it, I nonetheless resent greatly all that it’s stolen from me. But regardless of whether we lay the blame at bipolar’s door, the facts remain indisputable; I am nothing, ultimately. Just another one of seven billion people on an insignificant little planet orbiting an insignificant little star in an insignificant little corner of an insignificant little galaxy (and, should we subscribe to the likes of M theory, quite arguably in an insignificant little universe.) Insignificant even in an insignificant little city in an insignificant little country of said insignificant little planet. At least others go out everyday saving lives, or protecting others, or changing history, politics or science for the human race – insignificant in astronomical terms, but making a difference here.
But I’m just a woman who hasn’t done very much with her life and the matter between her ears.
It’s enough for some people, but narcissistic or not, it’s not enough for me. Is this to be all there is to look forward to for potentially another 50-ish years of a natural lifespan? What is the point of that? It’s elementary, my dear reader; there is none.
PS. Don’t worry, I’m not going to off myself, so don’t ring the peelers. Cheers.
PPS. Don’t be surprised if this post randomly disappears. I don’t like writing complaining rubbish like this but I had to get it off my chest.
Picture credit: who knows? We asked some random in the pub to take a shot of the entire group, though it was me that paid for the thing to be developed. To be developed. That in itself is a sign of my age!!!