So. After the misery of January and the earlier part of this month, I had thought that things were beginning to find more of an even keel. That perhaps the Quetiapine / Venlafaxine ( / psychotherapy?) combination might be starting to yield some results. My motivation is still shockingly low, but my mood is higher than it has been in quite a while. To steal a rating scale from Bippidee , let’s assume that we can grade one’s mood from 0 – 10, where 0 equals “DIE DIE DIE DIE” and 10 does not equal happy, skippy, jumpy but instead nearly functional-ish. I think I’d maybe reached a 4 or 5? Not good by any stretch of the imagination, but any improvements are to be welcomed when one is at one’s utter wit’s end. Even A commented that my mood has seemed markedly superior (not that that’s the right word) recently, so it must have been quite evident.
Alas. These evil bastarding illnesses don’t disappear because one has a few less shit days. I had a very productive session with C on Thursday (blog to follow, mais oui), but it left me thinking about some shit that I don’t really want to think about, mainly about the stupid fucking sex abuse (like that’s the only difficulty I’ve ever faced in my life. Why the hell am I fixating on it?). Moreover, my mother – I am not unconvinced deliberately – made a particularly insulting comment vis a vis same a mere few hours later (details in the forthcoming C post). Consequently, this stuff has been swirling around in my psyche for a few days, though I thought I was handling it quite well, as my mood remained on the less-shit-than-completely-and-utterly-shit level.
Or, more accurately, it did ostensibly. However, beneath the surface the madness bubbles smugly in its little cauldron of neurons and silly levels of dopamine and eventually, when you least expect it, it attacks.
I made the stupid decision to go on a drinking bender yesterday. Well, I say ‘bender’, but by comparison to some piss-ups I’ve frequented, it was actually relatively subdued. Nevertheless, one should not be consuming alcohol when taking anti-psychotics. I’ve always ignored rules on alcohol and medication, and have never encountered any noticeable side-effects, but then all of these tablets are different in how they interact with one’s personal physiology.
Anyway, all was going well up until the point at which A and I met G, our friend about whom I blogged on the DBT philosophy post . Not that there’s anything wrong with G; he doesn’t act as some sort of intellectual trigger or something. No, the reason it went wrong at this point was that it is the last point of which I have any recollection.
I woke up this morning in my own bed, fully clothed. I must confess that I wondered at the time if I’d done anything mad…but I didn’t think it would be quite as bad as it turned out to be.
My party piece had apparently been to pass flat out in the disabled toilet. Classy, SI. A had begun to think I’d slit my wrists in there, and ergo G asked the barwoman if she would check the toilets to see if I remained in this plane of existence. Unfortunately I did, but was lying there, flat-out unconscious.
I have to admit that in retrospect, this seems amusing – albeit in a twisted sort of way. Stupid cow had too much to drink and fell asleep in the pisser, chortle chortle! But it’s really not so funny when I actually think about it. I have never passed out owing to alcohol before – and as I say, some days gone by make yesterday look fairly tame. What’s more, I’ve never experienced such long-term memory loss like some people do as the result of pissing it up. A few details get lost amongst all the murdered brain cells, certainly, but not hours of material. It’s like an entire chapter has been ripped from a book, and the only thing that I really feel I can compare it to is the amnesia from a severe dissociative episode, like some of the fugues that have been my absolute joy to behold.
The story continues. A brought me home, not unreasonably. And there I really, really lost it. He doesn’t recall most of the specifics exactly, but whatever the case I lodged a barrage of completely ridiculous and unfair allegations and insults at him. Subsequent to which I levied them at myself – I’m a fetid, disgusting slutty whore, apparently. Well, at least I got something right during this epic rant of stupidity and vicious pointlessness.
I am reminded somewhat of the behaviour that gave rise to this post , though at least my mind has the common courtesy to allow me to remember what happened in that incident. Last night’s events were not as serious as that, and as far as I know there was no overt psychosis involved, but nionetheless – the stream of abuse that came out of my grotesque little mouth is simply unacceptable. More lines crossed. More boundaries of common fucking decency transgressed.
My current self-view is that I am a evil, utterly vile, indescribably despicable bitch of Satan. Not, as a committed atheist, that I believe in Satan’s existence, but you take my point. Oh yeah, and the fetid whore thing still rings true. A said that my apparently unwavering belief that I am a slut is something that needs to be discussed with C in therapy. Well. Quite.
Perhaps the most bizarre thing about all this is that despite my complete self-disgust and total horror at what I’ve done, I’m actually still in a (relatively) favourable frame of mind. I’ve gone about punching myself as punishment, but I don’t feel that overwhelming need to self-harm that one does when the strength of one’s depression is crippling. I’ve actually managed to have a relatively non-shite day with A despite his revelations about what a complete twat I was.
So anyhow, I apologised to him and then started deriding myself a la the last-but-one paragraph. He accepted my apology and refuted my blather of self-disgust, though I am clueless as to how he can hold me in any positive regard whatsoever. And then…this is the best of it…my appalling behaviour was rewarded with breakfast in fucking bed. I am a lucky girl.
My assessment as to the causation of the blackout is that it must have been attributable mainly to the combination of alcohol and Quetiapine, though I do think I must have been unconsciously harbouring some major stress. Certainly, the outbust thereafter would indicate that – the actual catalyst might have been booze, but the content of the rant strongly speaks to me of underlying and unprocessed psychological bullshit.
However, that simply isn’t an excuse. A may defend me on the grounds that I’m “mental”, but I don’t think that – or anything else – is a valid defence. Being mental does not give one carte blanche to scapegoat the most important people in one’s life for things in which they were and are absolutely uninvolved. No, the only human characteristic that deems that permissible is one that is strongly in evidence in my personality: that of being an abject cunt.