Loopy, Lonely and Lost

I suppose I’m not particularly happy.

Posted on: April 4, 2011

My mum’s friend’s husband might be dying, and it is my fault.

The reasoning that led her to that conclusion is so convoluted that the tiny slice of my brain  that still operates in reality (the bit that does maths and solves problems and knows when people are talking bollocks) is laughing. It’s that fucking stupid. But that tiny slice…it’s nothing. The rest of me is consumed with panic and guilt and an overwhelming urge to self-destruct.

I cannot live under the weight of all this shame. Not just for this, but for every thing, large or small, that ever goes wrong. It all comes back to me. If you think no other person could be as cruel as the voice inside your head, that’s because you’ve never met my mother. She manages to find guilt it’d never even occurred to me to feel.

I want to jump off bridges and drown in ponds. I want to tear my flesh apart. I want to burn and crush and obliterate. I want to walk as fast as my legs will carry me to the train station, get on the first train and just stay there, watching the world fly past, just keep moving until the restless agitation stops.

I want to get drunk, so paralytic I can’t feel my legs. I want to pass out and forget.

There’s a part of me that’s been considering asking my friend if I can stay with her for a few days. She lives in a different city, and I could get time off work, and she knows, at least a little. But we haven’t spoken in months, and I’ve managed to crush the urge for self-preservation so thoroughly that I simply can’t think of a way to ask her that doesn’t make me want to lie down on the motorway. Besides, it’s not even really her that I want. What I really want is a small room, empty and quiet, where I can lie down and curl up and pretend not to exist. I can’t interrupt someone else’s life (with her house and her job and her boyfriend, all shiny and happy), just so I can do that.

It’s probably not a good idea anyway. Work is still helpful. I feel vaguely normal there. I laugh with my colleagues and my manager praises me, and there’s enough of a challenge to keep me going, but very little pressure (I can’t handle pressure anymore. Not at all. Place responsibility on my shoulders and I crumple like a house of cards).

I’ve become exactly the kind of person I hate, which doesn’t help. I’ve pretty much completed my life’s work: becoming a person that doesn’t ever express emotions. I suppose it helps that I’ve been practising for as long as I can remember. I’m practically robotic, now. And I don’t have any sympathy. I don’t want to hurt people, but when they’re hurting nonetheless, I get impatient. Have to keep biting back “pull yourself together”s, and I feel like shit for it. But I don’t let me cry or complain or express discontent in anyway, so why should I encourage other people to do so? I find myself vaguely resenting people, as if it’s them stopping me from one day just sitting down and saying “you know what? I feel like shit.”

But it’s me who places the restrictions on myself. I don’t even really know why anymore, it’s just that emotion is weakness and I can’t allow that. I can’t allow anyone to know me. It’s always been the way, but it’s more evident now. Sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out on something, but defence is what’s important.

I worry that, when I die, people will be confused. That they’ll say, but she was always cheerful. I mean, that’s what they say to me now. Always asking how I stay so happy. How do I even begin to answer that?

What is there that’s worth living for, now? Everything has turned to ashes.


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My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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April 2011
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