Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Archive for October 2011

Doubt is creeping in to everything I do. I’m starting to feel like shit.

I’m isolating as much as I can. Calling off plans with no real reason, turning down invitations. I was supposed to go out tonight, my friend asked me to text her with plans, but I haven’t been bothered, and she hasn’t contacted me, so that must mean she doesn’t really want to spend time with me anyway. It’s not like I have anything to say.

Wake up, go to work, speak as little as possible, go home, hide in my room, lie down and stare at walls. I just feel tired – and it’s not really the heavy-boned lethargy of anaemia, which I think is improving a lot lately, it’s just that my brain is empty. I don’t have any thoughts or ideas or anything worth doing.

I’ve become so meek and pathetic, always asking “are you sure?” whenever anyone wants to spend time with me.

Everything’s so pointless. I’m sort of rich. Not because I’m well-paid, but because my outgoings are practically zero. Last time I went to the bank, the woman there said, “do you want us to set up a savings account, to put some of that money in?” – but what’s the point? All that’d mean is I’d have slightly more money with which to do nothing.

What am I even doing with my life? I have nothing that matters. I just feel like crying and hiding my head under pillows and pretending I don’t exist. I’d like to be a better person but I don’t have the energy.

I’m okay. My mood is slightly volatile, but manageable. I’m at that stage where I’m cold and unsympathetic, impatient and abruptly honest, suffering no fools and laughing, constantly, at pretty much everything (everyone at work says they love my laugh, they always hear it from half way across a room and it makes them smile).

My mum’s in a lot of pain. I know I should feel sorry for her. I don’t know if it’s my mood or just a lifetime of being around her (it’s probably a mixture of both), but I’m struggling to find compassion.

She’s been saying some really hurtful things, to all of us. Saying mean, spiteful, malicious things, and on top of it all, accusing us of being mean, spiteful and malicious. I think it’s the hypocrisy that angers me most.

I feel like she’s poison. I feel like she’s everything I don’t want to be. I want to stand in front of her and list her short-comings. I want to scream “NO, YOU’RE WRONG” at every insult and accusation. I want to tell her that her pain is no excuse for hurting others. I want to run away from her – but I know it’s too late. I could be on the other side of the world and it’d still be her voice I hear in my head, telling me what an awful person I am.

She thinks her illness makes her untouchable. She’s wrong, she’s wrong, she’s wrong. However much you hurt, you’re still responsible for your actions. Pain is no excuse for cruelty. She hides behind it, like it makes everything okay, but it doesn’t. Nothing is okay when she’s like this – and she’s like this so much.

I want to be a good person. I want to be kind. But I don’t even have any sympathy for my own mother.

Today, my mum attacked my dad. I was sort of in the way.

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Posted on: October 15, 2011

I’m supposed to be going out tonight.

There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. Okay, so the anaemia’s got me feeling a bit like I might pass out most of the time, but I haven’t passed out, so that’s not an issue. And I’ve been happy and cheerful and energetic.

But I’m having quite bad anxiety about it. I don’t even really know why. I’m quite good at thinking up scenarios that make me panic –

  • I turn up and nobody’s there
  • I turn up and get drunk and embarass myself
  • I’ve only been invited so people can laugh at me
  • I wasn’t really invited at all, and have just accidentally leapt on the bandwagon
  • I feel awkward and out-of-place all night and nobody talks to me
  • I look fat and ugly and hideous
  • My increasingly combative attitude gets worse and I end up fighting with someone
  • I get emotional and cry
  • My twitchy, animated energy gets worse and people stop finding me funny

– but none of that is really the issue. I’m just scared, for no real reason. It’s not really new to me. I get this a lot, before nights out, and I don’t really know why – most of the time, I go and enjoy myself, and it turns out that acting like a weirdo and dancing like a moron aren’t reasons for all of your friends to disown you.

So I’m going to go. I have to overcome my fear of ordinary human interaction.

I don’t know why.  I know my mood fluctuates all the time, all year round, but October always seems to be a bit more…well, mad, I suppose. It’s probably just a coincidence. It might even just be in my mind. But this is the time of year when I’m most likely to be a little bit out of control.

I can feel it building up inside me. I’ve been socialising more. I’ve been louder. I’ve been making terrible jokes and getting impatient with everyone.

I can feel it like my heart is swelling, like my brain is twitching, like everything is simultaneously too much and not enough. I didn’t sleep last night, just paced my room, ecstatic, elated for no reason, holding imaginary conversations in my head, dancing.

There is a part of me that’s afraid. Either I’m genuinely happy or this is like all the other times, and sooner or later I’ll crash into a cold, endless winter.

Lately, I’ve been feeling like, eventually, I’ve learnt to take care of myself. At least a little bit. I’ve been shouldering my own burdens, and mostly staying upright, not collapsing under the weight of them. There have been some hairy moments, but I’ve been feeling like my strength, such as it is, is just about enough to keep me functioning.

There are two people at work who’ve been (or claim to be) developing mental health problems. And they’re doing what all vulnerable people seem to do: latching on to me.

Everywhere I go, it happens. I don’t know why. Perhaps they sense a kindred spirit, or perhaps they believe the heartless bitch persona and they think I can cope with anything.

But I can’t. I can listen, sometimes. I can give advice, occasionally. But I can’t cope with the endless crying and sharing and revelations.

Because any supportive relationship I have is one way. It’s mostly my fault – I can’t confide in people, I can’t trust them, I can’t rely on them, and in my experience a problem shared is a problem multiplied by about ten. So other people unload their problems on to me, and I try to deal with my own problems too, and I bend and warp under the pressure of it.

I know I seem uncompassionate and unfeeling, but I’ve been here before. I’ve tried to help people who refused to be helped. I’ve tried to offer advice to people who refused to listen. I’ve been an endless listener, companion and protector of people who sought that from me. And it fucks me up.

The only thing that keeps me functioning is to be hard, to be unfeeling, to squash any and all bad feelings, to only allow them to come to the surface when I can afford it. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is determination. I only cope by pretending, aggressively, that there’s nothing to cope with. And it’s probably not something a doctor or therapist would advise, this forceful repression, but so much more than anything that’s ever been advised to me, it allows me to carry on with my life. Perhaps not as happy or as successful as I once dreamed of being, but as someone who’s steady and reliable and doesn’t waste every day.

But it takes so much energy, and I have so little to spare for trying to improve the complicated lives of other people.

It irritates me. It makes me angry. It feels unprofessional, like every day is Bring Your Shit to Work Day. For fuck’s sake, I’ve had panic attacks at work, and vaguely tried to hang myself in the toilets once (not seriously, just absent-mindedly, testing it out). I’ve heard whispered insults on the phone, and been paranoid to the point of snapping at my colleagues because I was so scared they were talking about me. I’ve been so insanely hyperactive that I’ve been too loud and too fast and said weird things and made people laugh at me, not always in a good way.

But I’ve never stopped being able to do my job. I’ve never – not once – hindered someone in doing their job by telling them my life story or describing my feelings in intricate detail. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve been occasionally quiet, and occasionally a bit weird, but I’ve never asked for anything. I’ve never once let anybody in my workplace think I needed help, or needed looking after. I’ve never laid my burdens on anyone else.

And I know that everyone experiences things differently. I know that other people have more problems than I do. But if I – weak and stupid and selfish as I am – can push through the shit and not make other people feel like they’re responsible for my well-being. If I can go to work and work, not cry all day and do nothing, then why can’t other people? And if they can’t, why do I have to be the one who has to not only do my work, and their work, but also hold their hands and try to make everything better?

I don’t have the strength to keep it up.


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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