I don’t know what to write. I can’t write anything meaningful, but I wanted to write something. Things seemed better for a while last week (apart from Tuesday evening), and I thought I’d mostly gotten over the adjustment to my increased dose of Venlafaxine. Indeed I was back on my normal daily dose of Quetiapine (I had been taking only 300mg for about a week simply because I couldn’t be arsed to collect a new script).
I’ve been fairly lethargic for quite a while now but otherwise, in terms of my mood, I thought things were on the up. Even at times I felt that perhaps I was even a wee teensy bit hypomanic, which would have been a nice bloody change. Bipolar disorder is certainly a hateful fucking illness, but hypomania is the rare upside to the regrettable affliction.
There’s no hypomania today, though. Not even a euthymic or ‘alright’ mood. The weekend was pretty shit too, but not as bad as today, as today has seen me in an utterly wretched and pathetic state of narcissistic, all-consuming depression.
I want to cry but I haven’t got the energy. I want someone to hug and take care of me and love me [FAIL!!!], but I feel nothing but empty loneliness. I want to have some understanding of what it is like to enjoy life, or at least not feel utter ambivalence towards it (because I don’t even have the fire to hate it at the minute). Even at the most abstract conceptual level, though, these things seem alien and unlikely.
I think Quetiapine is (at least partly) to blame for my complete and utter inertia of the last few days, but it isn’t to blame for the Black Dog of the last day or two, because it has always helped me in that respect. It has definitely made my life better since I started taking it in January. Perhaps nothing caused it specifically – I mean, I am an individual with a long history of largely melancholic depression…and even if I wasn’t, we all have our bad days, don’t we?
Yet it is my nature to analyse things, to search for reasons especially when reasons do not present themselves clearly and obviously. So notwithstanding the above, I think that maybe I’m having a bit of a delayed reaction to last Tuesday’s unwanted events, and of course I am still mentally embroiled in a horrified fixation about the impending and enforced end of therapy (and have failed to review the last two sessions of same, which is ridiculous when I consider how important doing so is to me). Surprise surprise!
I keep seeing images of my body flying off some of the high-rise buildings in the relatively near vicinity, or sometimes over the motorway flyover. I go to put my tablets for the week into the little pill box that I carry everywhere, and I want to ingest the entire bloody lot of them. If I can even manage to force myself to make some sorry form of rudimentary meal, I look at the knives involved and I want to stab myself all over with them. In particular I want to stab the parts of my body that nobody likes to talk about (something about which bourach recently courageously wrote, and something that I have never confronted here or anywhere else for that matter…and which I am going to continue to avoid today). So maybe it is about last week’s encounters with Paedo, or ongoing retraumatisation from therapy – who knows?
All I know for certain is that this is a miserable existence, and one way or another I don’t want things to continue like this. Death or some modicum of “recovery” is required. I am still hopeful that it will be the latter, but the journey is a hard and long one, and falling into gaping potholes – some with a seemingly infinite depth – is a sad but apparently frequent inevitability as the road is travelled.
(NB. Please don’t worry, if you are kind enough to worry. I don’t think I’m actually likely to do anything; again, I simply don’t have the motivation or even physical strength).