Bad night’s sleep.
They all are, at the moment. I’m sleeping too much, going to bed too early, forcing me down. In a strange hinterland between hypomania and depression, occasional bursts of brilliance, usually in mornings or afternoon, but a low tone of anhedonia rising in the evenings. Jittery but bored.
The skin around my eyes is tight, I couldn’t be bothered to moisturise last night even as I was scratching at my eyes and watching flakes peel off. Fucking lamotrigine, I think. I’m glad I have the drug and it’s hardly S-J, but I’m fairly certain this sudden rush of psoriasis is because of the lamotrigine, fiddling about mysteriously with my immune system. Last night I found it was spreading, too. Doesn’t help that I reckon I need an increase.
This all sounds grim. I’m not grim. Just in a hinterland.
Meditated yesterday morning, the first time in a good while. Straightened out myself for the day, the daytime at least. The sunrise this morning – I was just in time for the final show – was rich and rose and gold; birdsong welcoming it, the same birdsong I grew up with.
Every now and then my world wubbles like rubber, a side effect of me dropping the citalopram. I missed a few the other day – just couldn’t be bothered, and you can do that with citalopram – and the hypomania really started bursting through. So I thought there’s a trick, that’s something good to know. But you can’t pull the same trick twice, at least not when you’re watching. I dropped a few doses to try to get the buzz back again but all I got was a rubber world. So today my lamotrigine was washed down with citalopram once more.
I know you shouldn’t pull tricks like that but honestly I’m bored and I’m skint and I long for some sliver of control. Dropping lamotrigine would just be plain dumb, dangerously S-J dumb, so I don’t do that. This psoriasis is pissing me off, tho.
This all sounds grim. It’s not.
I’m back at the gym – 6 days a week, yesterday up to 4 x 3 pull ups and got a pump in my biceps big enough to restrict my ROM – and this dieting is coming along like a fucking charm, losing weight easily while putting on muscle. Putting on muscle I used to have anyway, I know, which is easy, but still. It feels fucking good. It feels fucking good to look at myself in the mirror and think hell yeah, I’m a muscly guy with a bit too much fat, not thinking shit, I got fat. A few more months of this and I’ll be stripped down and shredded. That feels fucking good.
No stress. No rent to pay, no bills to pay, no worries about food. All good. But no stress is stressful, the boredom, the lurking thoughts at the back of my head, what the fuck am I going to do, what am I doing with my life?
I’m alive. So that’s good. I guess.
It feels extra awful to be suicidal so shortly after the death of a good friend. It feels grotesque to be contemplating throwing away what was so cruelly taken from another. Still. Here I am, still contemplating it, occasionally. Life seems a hell of a lot of effort with so little reward and really, really I’m not sure I can be bothered.
And I think like that and it’s a release from stress, because what’s the point worrying over the future when really, really it’s unlikely I have one.
And I meditate and the world snaps back and I realise that even that’s a form of worrying about the future. Just deal with today. Maybe tomorrow won’t come and maybe that’ll be my own decision and maybe it won’t. But until tomorrow, just deal with today. Today I woke from a shitty nights sleep, my face and eyes caked with dry skin, and the sunrise was rose, and gold.
See? I told you. Not that grim at all.