The skies are grey and it’s not so warm, but the daffodils are out and you can tell by the light; winter skies hold more shadow.
I don’t want spring to be coming. I want to stay in hibernation. I want cold rain and dark mornings and skeleton trees. Not ready yet to leave cold earth, I don’t want spring.
Usually I’m happy for the seasons to turn, and usually spring gives me a familiar joy. Last spring, before I was even diagnosed bipolar, I’d already started what would be the jagged and bloody climb of a devastating mixed state and in those early months I felt fantastic. Although already, my friends were commenting on my drinking.
May came and the cherry blossom burst out and the pink and blue sang in fresh sunlight. I remember wrapping the world around me and grinning, grinning like a fool. On my way to the lab and thinking I was happier than I thought I’d ever been. You see falling feels like flying until you hit the ground.
A year. A fucking year. I’d been charting my breakdown since July, but that was just the crash. March swings around again and I realise that I was a tottering spinning top long before then. March swings around again and I remember how excited I was about the coming months. March comes and I see once again how effectively my screwball mind has fucked up my plans and my hopes, and you know I’m gonna end up nowhere even if I make it out alive. There’s only so much of a life you can stand when you keep fucking up and the chances for making things better get fewer, and fewer. All the spring sunlight does is pick out the cracks.
I woke from a nap yesterday and lay under the blanket, exhausted from so much sleep. I got up eventually, remembering how I’d refused to let depression get the better of me before, refused to let it fuck things up. It’d so nearly fucked up my second degree attempt yet I managed to put my fucking foot down, no, not this time. And I got that BSc and I was damn proud because it had been a fight, a fight with my own despair and my own hatred and my own snivelling self and I’d won. I’d shown it doesn’t take everything. I wouldn’t let it.
I got upstairs and I turned on the computer and I sat staring, afraid to begin again anything. I got upstairs and I stared at the screen and I sank, and sank, and did nothing. And I’m here again, sat at the computer and afraid again to begin again. Because I’m going to fail anyway, because it’s going to be shit anyway, because there’s no point and no purpose and I’m a waste of time and life, and really wouldn’t the world have been better off without me?
It’s hard, to study and to work when you’re convinced it’ll be crap and you’re suspicious you won’t be around very long anyway, when the world doesn’t seem all that an appealing place and hasn’t for such a long time. But I guess I owe him, the guy who got through all that shit and who felt so proud to graduate and was so excited to go on to an MSc. I guess I owe it to him to pretend again for a little while that depression doesn’t take everything.