saturday with sisyphus

Ugh. Today I love my dog and hate myself.


Four ay em again … I got too wired and overtired to sleep at all. I can hear the rain falling on my tin roof and trickling into my rainwater tank. My sweet dog has her head tucked into my hip and is snoring gently beside me. There is always some beauty somewhere, even when you can’t even see the stars through the clouds.

I need to sort the anger issues out and I don’t want to, my usual strategy is to sleep on it – ha. Actually I haven’t been thinking about the conflict much; I always flee it if possible. I loathe confrontations and despise carefrontations. I’ll tackle them when I’ve had time to unwind my jangling nerves. One thing enraged me, the other irritated me. I’ve known one of the people I’d like to smack with a fish, since 2006, the other since 2001 or 2. Neither of them have the link to this blog, but I’m still loath to explain the details.



Two and a half hours sleep before my dog woke me. I’m glad she does her morning thing, it makes early mornings very much a part of that routine my shrink always asks about. It isn’t raining anymore, grey skies and wet grass out there.

I’ve just scanned my tired mind to see if I’m any further re addressing the shit that angered me last night, but I’m not yet. And I am so done with reacting emotionally; when I can avoid that, I will.

If this fucking bipolar depression lasts another few months it’ll be two freaking years old. And I work hard at doing the right things to tackle it. Right now, there’s not much I can do beyond ‘maintain an even strain’ and see what my shrink has to say. And my lovely dog will continue to ensure that suicidal impulses don’t become intentions. I’ve never been so sodding sensible for so long in my life.


That’s just bs about Dylan.


Today is in the kind of pieces that are utterly impossible to piece together. My dog doesn’t always lie so close to me during the day; she’s got her head nestled into my side. I could sit here forever with her. It’ll be a sensible day, however, no matter how strong the urge to shove my head under a duvet. I’ve walked, had a natter with my neighbour over the fence. That’s all so far. My stomach is letting me know it’d quite like some food sometime soon. I still can’t focus on reading.
My guava tree is beginning to piss the poison pygmy off, by flourishing too close to the fence line for her liking. There’s a milkwood beside it that’ll join in soon. I’m going to grow things to block the house to my right too. Stage one is a bottlebrush that is already a decent size.

I think perhaps I have learned the difference between situational depression and the melancholic bipolar flavour. When it’s situational, I’m still able to wish, dream, and think of things that’d cheer me up. When it’s the bipolar raincloud, I don’t enjoy a thing and cannot think of anything that I would enjoy. And there are no dreams and the only wish is for oblivion.

Ohhh blah blah fucking blah. I had a thought I jotted down at the end of this earlier.


Does anyone know whether Kay Redfield Jamison took the title for her book Touched with Fire from the following quote?

Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. (Oliver Wendell Holmes Jnr)

I’m just free associating: touched with fire, to Prometheus the fire thief chained to a rock, to Sisyphus rolling his rock uphill. The rock, of course, in this little mind wander, symbolises grief and ill health and so forth.


Sisyphus Syndrome
A term referring to the mindset typical of a stress-driven ‘type A’ person (e.g., doctors) who obtains little to no self-recognition or gratification from accomplishing the difficult goals he/she places upon himself/herself.
Segen’s Medical Dictionary. © 2012 Farlex, Inc. All rights reserved.


Sisyphus was eventually rescued by Hercules; as far as I know, Prometheus is still chained to that rock, having his liver pecked out daily.

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