Cowardly, Not Being

I have an appointment to view a flat in an hour.

I don’t want to go, don’t want to put on the “I am ok” face, the hat to hide the state of my hair – I have the landlord’s number, and my body is telling me to ring him to cancel, and go back to hiding in bed.

I don’t want to deal with this, with the fact that I only have about a week to find somewhere to live. Why do we have to be bothered with such things?

Yet I’m going, making myself go under protest, and wishing it didn’t seem like such a huge mountain to climb, or to require such a large amount of pure effort.

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Fear of Drowning

Just in case
I will leave my things packed
So I can run away
I cannot trust these voices

I don’t have a line of prospects
That can give some kind of peace
There is nothing left to cling to
That can bring me sweet release

I have no fear of drowning
It’s the breathing that’s taking all this work

Do you know what I mean when I say, “I don’t want to be alone”?
What I mean when I say, “I don’t want to be alone”

Empty spaces
With shadows hit by streetlights
Warning signs and weight
Of tired conversations

In the absence of a shoulder
In the abscess of a thief
On the brink of this destruction
On the eve of bittersweet

Now all the demons look like prophets
And I’m living out
Every word they speak

Work, Jars of Clay

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, why I’m enduring this, what’s in my head. There are no thoughts there, but something is whizzing round wanting to be released. I feel so guilty for allowing myself to feel this way, for not getting it right this time. I don’t understand why the psychology referral is taking so long, the waiting list was supposed to be 6 months 8 months ago. I want to be better, but I’m scared of enduring more of this, scared I’ll do something I “shouldn’t”. But why shouldn’t I? I have the right to so, and noone has the right to stop me. I don’t want to, at the moment I’m scared I will, but my views are changable, and I think I have to resign myself to the fact I probably will, that historically it’s most likely to happen when I change ADs, but I feel guilty for putting everyone else through the hell… oh dear, I guess I’m a bit confused, I don’t know what to think.

I want to throw things, want to tear my skin off, want to put an end to this but the thoughts won’t make it from my brain to my hands, thus I guess I “don’t really want to”, and they’d be right, I don’t, I don’t know what I’m doing, it’s just that I don’t… oh bugger, I forgot what I was going to type.

I feel so alone, and the world is full of loud foreign *******s that don’t even speak English. How am I meant to know they’re not talking about me if I can’t understand them? Especially when they look at me and continue shouting.

I’m so bloody stressed, I don’t have the enthusiasm for any of this charade, for finding housing, for carrying on, for pretending to want to get better. I feel bad for even saying this, for entertaining the thought and making it real, but it is in the back of my mind that it may not matter if I don’t have anywhere to live in a few weeks.

This is all so pathetic, just a ramble of self pity. I don’t want to be me any more, I got given so much and then fucked it up so badly.

I don’t want to be alone any more.

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Titleless (because I can’t think of one)

Rain, rain on my face,
It hasn’t stopped raining for days.
My world is a flood,
Slowly I become one with the mud.

Flood, Jars of Clay

I feel silly posting here, I’ve got nothing worth saying, the CD keeps skipping (modern metaphors ftw). I feel embarrassed by my cluelessness, by my failure to take care of myself. Can’t remember the last time I took a shower, washed my hair or cooked a meal, it seems like so much effort. I move out of where I’m living now in 2…3…4? weeks, to… don’t know. Not really sure how I’m going to find somewhere when my self confidence has not only dived off a cliff but taken a long swim out to sea afterwards. It feels like all I’m left with is the ability to make glib comments about serious issues.

I don’t think I should be living on my own, it’s making things harder, but I don’t feel safe living with other people, and there’s nowhere I can go – familywise my living options are limited to the tense, noncommunicative parental home, or a large manse shared with somewhere between about 10 and 20 people and some bizarre theologies. I wish so much that I had the “typical” familly background, or that at the very least the lot of them wouldn’t bother about me. I got a note scribbled on a forwarded bank statement from my mother: “Are you keeping in touch with your Grandma?”. I felt like sending one back to the effect of “No I’m ****ing not, mind your own business”, but I never have been much of a one for writing letters.

I’m crying a lot these days: in bed, outside, over the TV, over a song, over anything. It’s like having permanent PMT. I’ve mostly managed to avoid the hiding-in-random-places though, which is good, as where I’m living at the moment doesn’t have a lot. I feel like I’m caught between a rock and a hard place – I get cabin fever stuck in this tiddly little bedroom, but when I go outside I don’t have any motivation to go anywhere. I’d planned to go swimming today, exercise should help me sleep better, but I felt knackered just making it to the local shop/cafe for lunch with a friend, and bailed out in the end.

I’m just rambling now, typing on and on to put off the inevitable bedtime. I feel like a plonker for struggling with what I do, for failing to start the new drug. I’ll have to put my psychiatrist appointment back, as the plan was that I would have been on it for a couple of months when I saw her next, and I’m scared I won’t be able to get another for ages, they’re so hard to get. I see my GP on Thursday, I wish she’d be encouraging, or at least show some interest, but she won’t, she’s very matter of fact about things, and people always seem to get the impression that I’m choosing to (not) do what I do. I suppose I am, I’m “choosing depression”, “stuck in a comfy rut”, and all that ****, but it doesn’t feel like a real choice, it feels like I have to give up on quality of life just to keep the will to live. I’m certainly not going back to trying to do all the “right” things for myself, it just left me so drained and jaded that I was worse off for all my trying. I think I have to accept that the solution is going to be a “chemical” one, at least until I can see this magical psychologist, but life won’t wait for me to find the right chemical, it just carries on going, the clock hands keep circling, while I’m torn apart by my own neurotransmitters, my own thoughts.

I’ve made such a **** up of this, of everything, I’m “supposed” to be able to cope, to be getting a job, and I can’t find any way of screaming out to the world that it just isn’t working, that I’m drowning in this isolation, that I’m not as happy with the situation as I seem to be.

I want someone to ****ing help. No, correction, I want someone to step in, wave a magic wand and put everything right, but there’s noone around who can do either of those things, and even if there were, then going by previous experiences, my attempts to ask for help would just be ignored, or I’d be complimented on how well I was doing. It’s like there’s some code that I haven’t got the hang of, like the radio transmission that gets garbled, like the scene I remember from a children’s book (set in a boarding school) where the message “we need bandages, please send assistance” is rendered by a young Guide as “we need sandwiches, please send two and sixpence”.

I guess I’m just lonely, frustrated, and so so fed up of this waiting game.

But I still have my sense of humour, so everything’s alright?

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