Greetings, strangers, and welcome. Please beware that because I’ve been too crap to update this blog properly for ages that this post is frustratingly long.
This is sort of continued from here. I considered splitting this into two posts but since when I write entries called ‘Blah Yakka Meh – Part One’ a ‘Blah Yakka Meh – Part Two’ doesn’t often seem to transpire, I decided against it.
I am indeed still in the land of the living, not that anything about the pursuit of living my life is particularly interesting. Which is partly why I haven’t written anything substantive in forever – though most of it is down to anhedonia. Or laziness. Whatever. I don’t feel especially depressed as of this writing, but the weird thing about depression, as I’ve found it at least, is that you can be in an episode without realising it. In fact, I’m going to (sort of) empirically test that contention…
Sorry to those of you who commented on the last post that I haven’t yet responded to. When I started my ex-blog, I felt compelled to reply to every comment that was left for me, and that continued for a while. When it waned, I vowed that any new blog would not fall fowl to the same affliction – and yet it has. In my defence, my mental health isn’t great at the minute and I’ve always been a terrible correspondent, but I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.
Anyway, for those of you that follow me on Twitter or Facebook – my real life Twitter or Facebook accounts, that is, for I have not been following the ones allied to this blog for several weeks – you’ll know that further to my dilemminating last entry, I did in fact go to Edinburgh with my mother. I emailed the letter I’d composed to my therapy centre and they were gracious enough to accept it, instructing me to simply turn up at the next week’s meeting. As it turned out, I wasn’t the only person to miss the first week, but I’ll come to that.
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.
So many ideas, so little motivation. My drafts folder is overloaded with stuff. I think of an idea, whip out my iPhone and note the idea plus some basic points about it down, then get back home and stare at the closed laptop in contempt, and go and do something else (until yesterday, that was mainly playing Dish0nored, although I’ve completed one ending of it now. Gamer? Go and buy it if you haven’t already done so!). Or, more frequently, nothing else.
I go through periods like this quite frequently, so if you’ve heard nothing from me on Twitter, on your own blogs, via email or in response to comments left here, it’s because I’m hiding from the world. It’s not that I’ve lost interest in any of you – never that. It’s just that my social awkwardness often extends into the online world, particularly when I’m feeling low. I wouldn’t describe myself as depressed as such, but I recognise that the symptoms of an episode are wider ranging that just mood. Not that I would describe said mood as sublime, having said that. Does that ever happen outside a manic episode? I don’t know what I believe about that any more – a subject of one of these billion unwritten posts, indeed. Anyway, sorry. To coin a cliche, it’s not you, lovely people; it’s me. The whole SAD thing doesn’t exactly help matters.