I Can’t Think of a Title That Could Even Begin to Make This Post Sound Interesting
Posted Dec 07 2010 1:34pm
Apologies for the low post rate recently. Not that anyone with any sense would, in all probability, care. I’ve been in a bad way these last few weeks and life pretty much sucks. The voices are back, periodically at least. They haven’t been trying to get myself to do myself in as yet, but surely it’s only a matter of time. For now general shouting and insults is their modus operandi. I miss Tom . I know he wasn’t real and he was only one voice in a battle against a thousand others, but he made me feel less isolated as I try to stand up to their persecution.
Today I was sitting here and out of my peripheral vision, I kept seeing black figures standing at the windows. I completely freaked out, especially when I turned around and found no one there. An actual person would have scared me, certainly, but at least there would have been a tangible being there rather than some nefarious externalised construct-bullshit of my inner demons. I closed the blinds and sat down with this laptop, intending to complete another post, and I just stared and stared and stared at it, being utterly unsuccessful in my endeavour to achieve anything. The figures left with the closing of the blinds, but ‘They’ started up on and off and there’s still sort of hovering about. (Mega thanks to Bip for her support earlier. I know probably some others tried to contact me too but I haven’t been on Twitter at all recently to check. Even though I love it, for some reason it’s just too overwhelming at the moment. Sorry).
Although I haven’t started hallucinating Paedo again or anything (not yet, anyway), ‘They’ are not alone; for the first time, Aurora has appeared outside of therapy. She’s not saying much, other than voicing her pathetic attempts to attempt to garner my sympathy (no chance, love) but I feel that weird fuzzy-headedness that comes with the dissociative symptoms I’ve now identified as ‘her’. Pandora’s overwhelming depression and lethargy seems to be in conflict with Aurora’s utter non-descriptness. I wish I had better words for this, but all these sensations at once is almost an unquantifiable way to be, so there’s no point in even wasting my time trying to adequately quantify them.
I’m really depressed. I’m lethargic and my already-dubious sleep pattern is up the left (why is it not “up the right”? Leftist discrimination is teh sux0rz). As I said in the last post, I’m no more suicidal than normal – yet – but only because I simply can’t be arsed. But I can’t be arsed with anything. Getting from bed to the sofa is presently an achievement of epic boundaries. Writing this feels like reinventing the theory of rela-fucking-tivity and proving the specifics of evolution beyond doubt.
Actually, I had a lot written about Paul that I’ve been writing in dribs and drabs in isolated moments of vague tolerance of existence, and I would hope to publish one of these this evening, but who fucking knows. I don’t even know if I won’t just quietly wither and die tonight.
I’ve also been a bit of a physical mess too; I’ve burnt myself four times in less than a week (one was a secondary burn, I think, and is hurting like hell combined with sulphuric acid and petrol. Note the bandage on the left. The wound that it hides is only just covered by it, and is a few skin layers deep. Ouchiness I keep dropping stuff too; of course my initial reaction to this was that I have MS (as V did) or some sort of motorneuron disease. In reality, I think it’s probably a Venlafaxine side-effect.
I didn’t get going to London, wherein I was meant to be attending another Mad Up. When I last blogged, I was wondering how I would be able to face my fellow lovely mentalists, but towards the end of the week my mood rallied slightly, and I began to look forward. But guess what? The weather then intervened. This happens in Canada and Russia and other such places every fucking year. They function not only adequately, but completely normally. Yet this cesspit of a country grinds to a fucking standstill, and everyone gawks at these white examples of desultory precipitation in unparalleled perturbation. If it wasn’t so frustrating it would be hilarious. (Note that I am criticising the government and general British infrastructure, not ordinary people who are having difficulty commuting or going outside or whatever).
Oh, and on the weather – because the local governments are far too fuckwitted to cope with it, the pavements and the roads are both cunted, meaning that when poor A was walking home tonight, he fell badly and had to ring me to come and get him. He should sue the fucking council. He’s in significant and real pain, and all because those stupid, lazy fuckers couldn’t be bothered to work out contingency plans for when this inevitably happened.
And things are completely awful in terms of football. I know that sounds idiotic in the extreme, but you genuinely start to care about what happens to a team when you begin to follow it, and some fat fuck making it a laughing stock gives one yet another reason to want to hide from an already-listless existence.
Still, it could all be worse. Praise God/Allah/Buddha/Vishnua/Loa/Dawkins/Zuckerberg/etc/blah/yadda that November has fucked off for another eleven months. Not that I like December much better, but at least people’s random Shitmas-related fuckery dies down after the relevant 24 Hours’ Hate to celebrate the birth of the saviour of mankind.
Sigh. Would you wish to save mankind? I know I’m known as a misanthrope, but even trying to be objective about the issue – surely we’d be best left to rot in a cosmic gutter, leaving space-time to superior races and/or the (hopefully returning sometime soon) Great Old Ones? I was going to note that humans are not particularly known for the their humanity, except in notably uncommon cases, but I accept the contradiction in terms of such a comment. Perhaps, indeed, it is because humanity as a (general) state of existence is such a flawed, fallible way to be that we are such pieces of shit.
Anyway. I do not write this blog to negotiate the finer points of my beliefs in philosophical existentialism. I write it to talk about being a mental. To that end I will try and finish a couple of posts about sessions with Paul, and not be such a whiny, unforgivable misanthrope.
It just sucks being in this position. Depressed, traumatised (?), re-traumatised, isolated, scared, alone – yet persecuted, insulted, reminded. I’m feeling sorry for myself and I shouldn’t. I should ignore them, and embrace others – but I cannot do it. But I shouldn’t take it out on the innocent rest of you.