I woke up this morning in a really weird mood. Actually, that makes it sound much less bizarre than it was, but I don’t know how else to put it; it was completely unquantifiable.
The first thing of odd note was the fact that I was wide-awake despite it being 5.30am. This never happens to me; even on those never-ending and hideous nights of insomnia, by 5.30am I am feeling drowsy and deflated. Not so today. I was mystified by my awakeness, and utterly failed to either return to slumber or even to relax.
I got up and drank loads of water. I was in a hotel (I’m in Newcastle-upon-Tyne to see the footie), so the water was pretty rank, but I was thirsty so I consumed it anyway. Half an hour later, I started feeling hideously ill. I advised the now-also-awake A that I had drunk so much water that I had, in fact, poisoned myself with it and that my death was imminent (for the record, it is possible to poison oneself with hydrogen oxide, but it isn’t exactly easy).
At that juncture, upon my utterance of the word ‘death’, a thought occurred to me and I was heard to murmur, “but perhaps I’m already dead..?” Thus commenced an hour of my babbling that I was dead, or perhaps that I had never existed in the first place.
When A advised that I was not dead, and that I did exist, I responded by saying that I was a figment of my own imagination. Nevertheless, I then bollocksed on for a bit about what a hateful, despicable whore I am (something of an achievement for someone who doesn’t and has never existed), and ended up under the duvet muttering, trance-like, the word “disgusting” over and over and over again.
I’ve also bruised myself from punching myself in the face quite a number of times. I actually find this amusing, but I don’t suppose that’s an appropriate response.
I was utterly convinced that I was dead/a fictional character inside my own self-contradictory mind, but I got up again, pretty much overdosed on caffeine (which will no doubt fatally poison me also), had breakfast and went out and got a brief breath of fresh air. I then set about analysing my odd beliefs and behaviour.
Rationally, I reckoned that it was unlikely that I was dead/non-existent (after all, I don’t believe in an afterlife, nor do I believe in a beforelife ((there’s a new word for you)), reincarnation, or anything of that ilk), but it still felt so fucking real. My mind ever seeking logic, not that I normally really believe my such explanations, I wondered briefly had I developed Cotard’s Syndrome somehow. But no, apparently it was more likely really that I was actually dead.
For a dead person, I felt (feel) rather sick – the old IBS is up to its old tricks but I’ve also been undergoing strange tingling sensations across my skin, an odd sort of nausea and a sense of depersonalisation that is physical – like I’m leaving my own body. Yuk yuk yuk.
I went to the tablet section of my handbag (yes, I have a compartment specifically devoted to the billion pharmaceutical goods that I perpetually have on my person), simply to seek out anti-IBS medication. Dead people still get diarrhoea, don’t you know. And there, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.
The ‘Saturday’ compartment of my daily pill box was full. An anti-histamine, a contraceptive pill, a multi-vitamin – and 225mg of Venlafaxine, 600mg of Quetiapine.
A and I looked at each other, the penny dropping with a large dose of “for fuck’s sake”. I hadn’t taken any of my nightly tablets.
My apparent reliance on these things is horrifying. I will always maintain that Seroquel has saved my life, but the anti-psychiatry lobby are certainly not mistaken in finding it really rather sinister. If missing one solitary dose of it and Venlafaxine can cause such extreme reactions, then I am well and truly fucked if I ever want to come off them altogether.
Still. Despite being dead (for I still think that I am, despite knowing rationally that I’m not), I’m in a remarkably good mood now. I awoke to some hilarious news (though the circumstances of same mean that I can’t discuss it, sorry), but I don’t think it’s that. A and I just got on the bus into town, only for him to realise he didn’t have his ticket to the match we’re attending today, meaning he had to run back to the hotel. Normally I’d be enraged by this; instead, I walked down the Great North Road openly smiling at random cars and singing The Blaydon Races. Perhaps my differential diagnosis of bipolar II was more accurate than I thought? Perhaps missing Seroquel has, after the initial disaster, induced hypomania? Who knows. Who cares? I’ll try and make the most of it.
Now, just let’s hope that the Toon are going to stuff the Mackems 🙂 (Google the terms if you don’t follow football). If they don’t, I’ll come home and throw all the bloody Seroquel I have down my throat!