fuckapalooza, loser

This whole bipolar story is fucking me right up today. I think I’m still mixing episodes; it’s either that or I’m just manic. I keep thinking back to advice I’ve been given about not self diagnosing. I get the point, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do instead? Halp.

Know what I hate about the up up upness of whatever the fuck shape I’m in right now? It’s completely untrustworthy. Thirty thousand silver pieces of me lay jagged and scattered on the floor this morning, while I tried to wake up. I’d said I’d go into town with a friend to help her with some stuff – two trips there in the space of three days is already my idea of teeth grinding hell. I’m always early for everything (“five minutes early is punctual”) and I was late, rushing, gathering slivers of myself. My self. The friend’s stuff all fucked out, one of the two things I’d decided to do did too. The roadworks going both ways were interminable, the light was bright and the tar was hot.

I’ve already cocked up the order of events… It doesn’t matter. Today was proof that shit happens, and shit kept happening. Nothing major, no train smashes – just niggly, irritating, unnecessary little things that could easily have been no trouble at all. Of course they’d have been far less trouble if I hadn’t been feeling like a snot nosed and fractious asshole. So yeah, the sun was bright and I was bright and brittle. Maybe those silver slivers were a broken window, a broken mirror, or just a splintered me. Doesn’t matter, mosaics are fashionable again. My friend was freaked out by the obstacles in her path, i was on about seven different planets of my own at the time. The things weren’t the thing though, the slivers were the thing. They always are, it’s just that sometimes they group themselves into oh so very pretty patterns.

There’s the happy up, because the sun was warm and pretty and colours in general were looking good. My sense of humour felt almost functional and my brain was sharp. Of course my brain was sharp, it was at least one of the slivers that littered the day. The happy went no further than the warmth of the sun on my skin; bright was too bright and sharp can shed blood. There’s the energy up, because there were things to do. But the slivers and shards were getting in the way and puncturing wheels and jamming cogs; the energy was jumping erratically and accomplishing sweet fuck all. There’s the up you rev yourself up to when you want to make everything alright for everyone and you don’t give a damn what it’s like for you. There’s the up that you ride, that feels like riding the wind. It’s an ill wind. And the sentence ends there.

Eventually all the ups feel like fuckups, because you can’t trust any of them not to trip you up and fling you face down to bleed all over your own fragments. You can’t trust the ups not to go too up and keep going up until you’re too far up to do anything but fall. Face down. Shattered bones. Shiny, silver slivers of your own bones.

If you’re following any of this, you’re likely as fucked and fragmented as I am right now. And this is me on the max dose of tranqs that I can have. No, don’t call the mounties; once upon a not so long ago, I’d have been trying to think my way through and out of this pressured thought and speech bollocks. These days it’s easier and lazier. It’s just bipolar. Just take the pills. Just distract yourself from one half of your life and sleep through the other. Do not ask what life is for, or even what it’s about.

Blather

Wince

Defeat.

Up until the word thirty, in the second paragraph of this post, I thought I was going to write coherently.

I can actually be coherent now. I wrote out the jangling babble in my mind, I’m still clashing badly with myself and everything around me. I haven’t coped well all day and I’m doing no better now. Everything I think and say and do at the moment, is off. Sometimes writing like this gets me to some kind of new conclusion, sometimes it gets me back to being myself – and sometimes it just distracts me for a while, from the fact that (actually no, fuck all of this, I’m not finishing that fucking goddamn sodding sentence).

FUCK.

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