I’m ridiculously over sensitive. Which, in turn, makes me completely unreasonable. I feel that every single person should consider my feelings ALL THE TIME. Not only is that totally unrealistic, it’s unbelievably self involved.
Don’t talk to me about your good day. I don’t want to see your scan photo. Why would you invite me somewhere so public? Don’t call me on the phone. Don’t expect me to drive to you. How dare channel 4 air One Born Every Minute?
The following topics are off limits and must not be discussed under any circumstances:
Due to this absurd level of sensitivity, it’s easier for me to just not go out or communicate with people. It only takes one comment, one text, one image, one tweet, just one little thing that pulls in my stomach somewhere, and I completely unravel.
The trigger goes, and there I am. Paranoid, full of hate, feeling excluded, anxious, jealous, angry, worrying, over analysing, reliving…
What I’d ideally like to do when this occurs, is live in a bubble, with no other living being, until I’m ready to emerge. Everything outside this bleak caccoon should just freeze, as it is. No one else can have a life, or be happy, or be friends with each other. There will be no laughter, because I’m miserable and that’s all that matters.
It’s easy to forget someone that isolates themselves. There’s only so many times you can invite them to things and not get replies to your text messages before you give up. No one really knows what to say, there’s not anything they can do to make you snap out of it. And I do get that, when I’ve got the head space to be rational.
It’s hard feeling this way, acknowledging you’re an asshole, when you know that somewhere inside you is the decent person you used to be. Someone that put others first, liked doing favours, embraced all people. But at the moment, I’m this self centred, paranoid, bitter old shrew, offended by everything and analysing all.
I’ve had enough of being mental. I. HAVE. HAD. E. FUCKING. NOUGH. Someone, get me out of here, for fuck sake. I’m laid here, thinking about the 60 years of life that I might have left, literally panicking. I don’t want to live that long like this. I don’t want to have to fight every day, just to stay calm, to get out of bed, to quiet my mind. Kudos to those with bipolar disorder that have the courage to live with the constant threat of relapse, but I can’t.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this intensely ill, for this long. Something really isn’t right. I need help. I’ve needed help for a long time. Someone needs to make me better pretty sharpish, because I’ve had enough of this crazy ass bull shit. Is there some sort of medication that fixes this? Or do I just need some alcohol and heroin?
It’s so exhausting; over thinking every single thing, my mind never quiet, consciously hearing every thought in my head. The emotion I feel most is anger. Absolute burning rage. I want everyone to fuck off out of my life, leave me on my own to just lay still. And if that’s not a viable option, then I want to be dead, to not exist. And then sadness, intense sadness. I’m so sad that my life has become this. And then the guilt. It’s so heavy. Knowing that I’m wasting a life and am such a burden on others. I’ll be told that I’m not, but my husband is miserable, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s obvious that I’m fucking up Moo.
I’ve been planning a suicide, but all options are scuppered, either by my own anxiety not allowing me to leave the house, or lack of means for gaining enough prescription medication to do the job. I’ve felt quite calm about it. I know others won’t see it, perhaps for a few years, but it is the logical thing to do. I can’t live like this any more, the thought of one more day like this makes my anxiety soar. It’s inhumane. If I were an animal, I’d have been euthanised a long time ago.
How do I convey these thoughts to my community psychiatric nurse or psychiatrist? How do I make them see that I’m not making progress, I’m not coming out the other side of a ‘down’ patch, that I’m actually fucking mentally unstable? Or am I not? Am I just over analysing? Really I just need to get the fuck over myself? And it begins again. Fleeting thought, intruding, mulled over, scrutinised, creating anxiety and then, before it’s processed, another surfaces. Endless.
I’m struggling, really struggling. I’m going to roll out the cliches, but I’m in this whirlpool, spiralling down, surrounded by shit. Eventually the plug will be pulled and I’ll drop out the bottom.
Many of the things I’m struggling with are pretty basic. Running a home, looking after a child, working part time. All challenging, but manageable for most.
Then there are the petty things. The pathetic tasks that I’m almost embarrassed to admit I can’t cope with. Remembering to sort prescriptions for my medication. Ordering the food shop online. Going to the post office. Driving. Opening post. Using the phone. My tax return and child tax credits paperwork was a minefield of anxiety. Every day it wasn’t done I was worrying about it, yet I had no energy to do it. I procrastinate my arse off to avoid facing up to the things that need to be done.
The reasons I struggle with all these things? Generalised Anxiety Disorder and Bipolar Affective Disorder Type 2. I cannot live with these things and function day to day.
Something’s got to give. I need to make a list of all the things that stress me out, then decide how I can eliminate some of those worries. The parenting can’t go, obviously. Kinda stuck with that one on my own. Some of the small crap can be better organised.
But work? Claiming benefits? It’d be a whole new world. The media is full of stories of unfair cases, complicated processes. If I can’t go anywhere new on my own or talk on the phone, how do I even make a claim? Then the stigma. Yet another person ‘pretending to be mental to sit on her arse all day’. Daily Mail fodder. And then, that’s another thing added to the whirlpool. I’m drowning.
It’s said (by the mental health team I deal with, anyway) that the longer you leave a period of depression before you seek help, the longer it takes to recover. If that’s the case then I must have been ejected from the womb already crippled with mental health issues.
This bout of depression does not want to shift. I’m suffocating under it. Medication is increased, I have a good couple of weeks, and then I’m right back down to my knees. How a person is supposed to continually meander their way through life, feeling like this indefinitely, is astonishing to me.
The generalised anxiety disorder isn’t very compatible with a depressive episode. When will it end? When will I start to get better? Is that my low mood or just a bad day? Endless over analysing and 1am bedtimes. Exhausting.
Choosing this existence versus opting out is difficult. I fear that one day I’ll snap, and that’ll be it. What’s worse is that this thought isn’t all that frightening. It’s something of a comfort. A back up plan. And yes, I know how fucked up that is.
I’ll just hang around, adjusting my medication, waiting on cognitive behavioural therapy, in the hope that it’ll miraculously save me from myself. All prayers, positive vibes, thoughts etc etc are very much welcomed in the meantime.