As you can see by the above photograph, I’ve been indulging in the childlike past time of French knitting. Metres of it. What started as a way to occupy a brain that wasn’t quite working at full capacity, has grown into a snaking strand of shimmery softness that looks like seeing no end.
I asked the person closest to me what I should do with it, to which came the comedy reply “I don’t know. Make a noose?”
Under normal circumstances, this kind of comment would make me laugh, or spark some dark humour relating to who could make use of this noose. But circumstances are far from normal right now. The idea was less of a joke, more of a possibility. The person making use of said noose wouldn’t be the “ghost of Michael Hutchence” or “someone pulling a Carradine”, but me …if I carry on with the same line of No, really, I’m fine bullshit that I’ve been pulling for the last eight months.
I have a thing. Something not quite right with the moods if you will. Had it so long that I almost can’t remember a time when I didn’t have it. When there are highs, they’re very high. But not always in a fun way. Sometimes more in a worrying, what the hell is she doing? way. When the mind races and won’t be stopped. When it works on twenty different things at once. When it makes you rip up carpets and tear off wallpaper, or decide to paint an entire room fluorescent yellow, or black, for no concrete reason. When it makes you cut up all your clothing, scrub your skin till it bleeds, shave your head or forget to eat for three days. Things that only a small handful of people in your life ever see.
Then there are lows. Not the kind where you feel a bit blue because something bad has happened, or someone has upset you, but the kind where it takes you two to three hours each morning to decide that really, 32 paracetamol and a bottle of vodka is not a wise move. Where you spend a good thirty percent of the day crying…in the shower, in the toilet, anywhere no one will see you. Using up all of your energy on appearing normal, happy and cheery and trying not to crack publicly due to the whole been there, done that, wore the bloody t-shirt past. Convincing yourself that everyone you care about would be better served by a life unburdened by you. Being reduced to a wreck by chancing upon a child’s discarded or lost toy…spending the rest of the evening imagining a life for said toy, its hurt feelings, and its eventual demise. Thinking on a daily basis of walking into the sea. Yes. That’ll be the last eight months.
This goes a long way to explaining the lack of regular blog updates, on here, or the film-related blogs I post to. And the Happiness Project going out the window. And the regular refusing to leave the house.
There is no reason for any of this. It just ‘is’. It just happens. I’m so used to the regular ups and downs that an extended period of Low (unfortunately, NOT the album by the great Lord Bowie) kind of hits me for six when it takes hold. I can’t read, I find it hard to watch films, I can’t write, I struggle with not only college work but also with making breakfast. My attention span all but disappears, my brain turns to jelly, and I spend a lot of the day just staring at specks of dirt on windows. It’s not related to anything. There is no real cause. I just despise everything about myself.
More than I usually do (ba-boom-boom-chi!)
The obsessive idea that I can just make these highs and lows go away with herbal teas, dietary changes and aromatherapy should really have been launched into the sun a wee while back, but as always, I think I know my own mental health better than I actually do. I’m old enough and stupid enough to know better. There’s a reason it’s called “brain chemistry”. Chemicals. There’s the clue. Sometimes no amount of talking cures and bananas will lift this shit.
So do I still consider myself a failure for having to go back under medical supervision? Yesterday, I would’ve said yes. But today? No. The majority of people I know don’t have any inkling there’s anything ‘different’ about me of late, nor do they know that there’s ever been anything wrong. Maintaining an outwardly normal appearance is hardly a failure, is it? In addition, I’ve had nearly four years without chemical friends. I had, however, convinced myself that needing help still after all these years would just be a sign of weakness. Delusional fool. One day I will learn that it is best to nip things in the bud as soon as possible. Better late than never, though. Even though I am the only person aware of the situation who is saying this.
I’m feeling very, very sick. The old familiar feeling that’ll take a few weeks to settle. You medicinal swines…tiny bastards. Bleurgh. But nausea is preferable to sticking your head in a gas oven.
Anyway. Back to that noose. Well, I needed some distraction so tried a test run.
As you can see, it failed…
Ah well. Can’t kill myself today anyway – I have tickets for the Foodies festival this weekend. They have a Hendricks Gin stall. And Yorkshire Tea urn. And CAKES.
Fuck death, bring me the buttercream.
*If any of this is coherent, does that count as ‘writing’? 
