Help I’ve Fallen and These Fuckers Keep Trying to Bury Me

I haven’t written in a very long while. I’m telling you this, as though you haven’t noticed because I can’t think of a more creative way to say

“Yo, I ain’t done shit with this blog in like forevah.”

And as usually is the case with Bipolar Irresponsible Bloggers, this is because my mind is traveling down a long dark tunnel and just can’t remember which way is out. The world has thrown maps and compasses in my direction, but seriously….if you don’t know where you are, how do you find out which way to go to get out??? If I don’t know which direction I need to run in, how does knowing which way is North help at all?

The hallucinations…Oh the lovely hallucinations which seem to bleed ever more regularly into the waking hours. 

What? You’re telling me you didn’t just see that person standing over us with a knife? Gee…in some ways that’s comforting. In other ways HOLY FUCK LOOK OUT!!! Oh…nothings there? Really? Well that can’t be healthy. 

And even when I’m not actively imagining people, spiders, voices, snakes, and this one instance where needles just suddenly rained forth from the ceiling, I’m having such vivid nightmares that I wake up and am honestly confused as to why people are no longer dead and I still have all of my toes. 

In the last two weeks I’ve woken up entirely convinced I was divorced.

That my mother was dead.

That my husband had cheated and impregnated a close friend. Seriously, entire months had passed.

That my lizard was dead.

That my other lizard was dead because the original lizard ate him. 

That I not only was pregnant, but had miscarried in a horrible current of blood and agony of which I hope to never have to fully describe.

And that I was going bald. 

Honestly, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this disconnected from the world. And by disconnected, I of course mean batshit insane. 

In some ways I feel like I’m coping pretty well. 

Sure, I think about suicide approximately three times a day. But I haven’t done anything. So, I maybe keep waking my husband up by screaming bloody murder before hysterically weeping, wrapped in precisely all the blankets, in the middle of the bedroom floor. And I’ve had the occasional one-too-many drinks, but I’m still functioning.

I’m all full of work stuff, and house projects, and cooking. Every now and then I actually convince myself that I’m not actually depressed because depressed people don’t have the motivation to dig up the yard and do landscaping. Depressed people don’t have their shit together enough to make entire cohesive meals for their hubs. Depressed people just don’t do artsy shit with old picture frames and bits of ancient newspapers. 

Except that, apparently, they do. Because the second I stop doing all those things I crumple into a heap of angry despondent bitchiness the likes of which my poor husband has never seen. Except that he has, about three nights this week. 

I’m lost in a tunnel. I’m sleeping my life away. I’m so many overused phrases to describe depression because really no one knows how to describe fucking depression,  and all the while  I’m actively falling down this hole, so deep, and people keep shoveling dirt on top of me like I’m not down here telling them to get me a fucking ladder. Every now and then they stop and shine a light down into my pissed off face and go…”you need a ladder? But…you seem fine”

Oh well….at least I’m a productive crazy person. 

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. psychofab
    Aug 01, 2013 @ 17:00:32

    Reblogged this on PsychoFab and commented:

    If this post looks familiar its because it is. I feel this way on the regular.
    And p.s. I’m still waiting on that fucking ladder.

    Reply

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