I’m back at work.
Well, I’m back working. A few months. Blessed income, blessed progress, blessed not sitting at home bored or – worse – sinking into myself. And it’s a job I’ve done before, in a place I’ve worked before, and it’s a nice place and nice people and it’s no stress, no stress at all. Collect papers, sit. Punch numbers into database. File papers. Repeat.
This last episode was horrible.
I mean they all are, obviously. I wonder if they’re getting worse or I just forget, each time, how brutal and cold they are.
I thought I’d share a memory from it.
It’s not a happy memory, which you could probably have assumed given I was suicidally depressed at the time. But it’s a memory which plays on me still, and it’s typical experience that anyone who has been through severe depression will probably relate to.
I thought I’d share it. As catharsis, maybe? For education? Because misery loves company?
It haunts me, this memory. This memory is grey, and cruel. It makes me feel cold, shameful, angry.
Just like depression.
There is a pernicious thought I have.
Credit card statement lands – I’m nearly maxed out. Maybe time I stop putting things on credit, but I’ve no income.
I think about the debt I’m in – been plunged into in the space of six months. Fucking bipolar. Fucking illness. Fucking me. Continue reading
I’m re-discovering food.
Most people with serious depression stop eating when they’re ill, but I have the fattening version. I turn into a fun mashup stereotype of ‘gay man eating his feelings with ice cream’ and ‘batchelor surrounded by pizza’. Neither of these are stereotypes I aspire to but here we are.
Ran into St Pancras, hit the barriers out of breath. Asked the staff if I was too late, ‘just missed it’, they’d said. 30 seconds. Bastards.
So I’m going to be a writer.
This is something decided for me, because I’m both lazy and ill, unwilling to think of anything original and unable to get a proper job. Apparently I’m good at writing, or at least so I’m told by people who follow me on twitter and friends once they’re a few drinks in, and who am I to argue?
I’m rushing and it’s beautiful.
Beautiful like fire and lashing rain and thunder and howling howling wind, I’m rushing and it’s beautiful and it’s taking my breath away.
Thank Christ at last I’m rushing and it’s beautiful, rather than hell.
Ideas whip into my head and hardly settle before being picked up spun around, turned about; impatient with myself and the world, plans that come to half a page of scribbled lines. And it feels good it feels good, you have no idea.
I want to just stay dancing in this whirlwind and laugh, and enjoy the storm.