Green Tea

One of my best mates, diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder a good few years back. Sleeps with music in the background. It helps drown out the voices.


 

Tea. Green tea.

I don’t even like green tea, but apparently it’s very good for you. I learned this from Information is Beautiful, so don’t necessarily run with me on this. Still. Green tea.

Here’s how most of my days have gone, this week: Gym, walk, museum, walk, park, gym, home. It fills things up, keeps me on my feet. Now in a cafe, in Clapham, drinking green tea. Good ol’ healthy me.

I thought, when I first dragged myself out of the house on, that there was a definite upswing in the air. Possibly a lot of an upswing in the air. Half hoping everything was going to be alright, half worried this was hypo, that it would lead to a crash. And thinking fuck it, fuck it, I deserve this joy. I need this joy. I danced. By the chest press.

Buzzed over to the British Museum, which is always gorgeous and a good choice. A wander around the beautiful Enlightenment gallery. Took in the poor, overlooked, and tiny exhibits on South America and Polynesia. Wasn’t I just having a grand old time?

And yet.

I’d caught the bus in, and sat smiling at the blue, blue sky. Sunny world, pierced in a heartbeat by anger, despair, fuming hatred. Stupid fucking world, idiotic, grease stained life, grubby fucking people with grubby fucking lives, me among them, greasy grubby pointless fucking tiny life and back to blue, sunny smiling world. Having a grand old time.

Neuroticism is a common personality risk factor for depression. Maybe bipolar too, for all I know.

It was a good day. Can’t deny that, can’t deny I’ve enjoyed it a hell of a lot more than most other days these past few months. Same goes for yesterday, today. Out and about busy bee. But the day wears on and I have to admit I wear down. Counting in my head all the ways I despise the world, all the reasons to step out of this chaos and greed and grief. By evenings, I’m tired. Low. World jagged, rough, jaded.

“I think I’m just distracting myself” I tell Nick, in the pub. Sipping a diet coke.

“I mean, I suppose it’s better than lying on the sofa, sleeping, watching Netflix. And I’ve been distracting myself with alcohol for the past few months, so I guess doing it with the gym and museums isn’t so bad”

“Alcohol and Netflix¬†sound like terrible ways of distracting yourself from being depressed”, he points out. I need the obvious pointed out, sometimes, from behind my broken glasses.

“This almost sound like you’re getting better”

I guess he’s right.

But Christ, I do hate green tea.

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