Just so you know, some of the recent titles I’ve used come from the Red Meat comic strip. It’s a bit morbid but I enjoy it.
My head has that radiated glow inside of it that comes from sickness but not the physical type. Something bad is coming down the pipe. Is it the holidays? Is it the hangover from suppressed grief? Is it another mounting episode come to claim me and make my luck foul and my living so slightly perverted that no one but myself can tell hence it looks like I’m lying when people ask me how I am and I reply: “Not well.”
I always wanted a safe place I could go to when those kinds of times came. Wandering infected with the germ of misfortune yet having to bear the cheers of others telling me to look at all the fortunate things all the things I should be thankful for in my life. It would make me happy. It would help me through the depression. The truth is it doesn’t. I can’t see them. It’s like tossing someone into the shark pool who can’t see through the salty water and telling them to rescue themselves. You know intellectually that they’re there but you can’t smell, see or hear them. For all intents and purposes they’re not there but you know you’re going to get bitten on the @ss because that well intentioned person wants you to rescue yourself. They’re going to teach you a lesson whether you sink or swim. Damned the torpedoes full speed ahead.
Stop me if you heard this before.
I once had a friend who used to get angry because she couldn’t cheer me up when I became depressed. I started to expend an awful lot of energy pretending I was happy and that the things she did really mattered. I hate writing this. I hid that I was tired and wanted to sink into the oblivion of sleep to reduce my energy output. I know she wanted me to be happy but here’s the kicker: she had unipolar disorder. That meant she was manic most of the time. She claimed to understand Bipolar disorder. She was suppose to, we taught it together to students at different kinds of schools from Elementary to Colleges. In reality she couldn’t relate to me. My hypomania episodes were cause to incite her to think I *could* make myself happier when I was depressed. She told me one time when she had experienced a depression (for about a week or two which was significant to her but to me was incomparable when I’d been depressed for a few years,) that her eyes were opened to how debilitating depression was for me. Of course she couldn’t know.
Sometimes I wish that people could experience one of my most terrible years to really get a glimpse of the lurking terror that is harbored in my brain. Come and see all of the people you unquestioningly trust turned into faintly twisted savages whose only desire is to do nefarious untraceable things to you that will haunt you when you go to bed. When you finally get up in the morning the heavy turbidity of an angry day ahead of you and the headache that comes with sleeping with one eye open oppresses you to crawl through whatever morning rituals you can remember. You might leave the house with your shirt on backwards or inside out, you might find that your pajama pants were never switched with the trousers you’d planned for in the morning if you were so far on the ball last night that you knew you were losing this round this morning.
Oh, think positive. Yeah, that solves it all. I want to shove you in a vat of acid.
David Bowie & Frank Black – Scary Monsters & Super Creeps