hypomixed allsorts

(scheduled post)

I plundered my mood and pillaged my past…

No sad, pretty boys with guitars for a change. It’s almost 3am, max dose of sleep and anxiety meds haven’t touched sides.

This is gonna fuck my reputation right up.

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
  He chortled in his joy

Fast forward with a squeaky noise to the following day and after a couple of days of high-po-mania, of course there’s the inevitable

to six feet under the runway. Almost said landing strip and then realised the term has been hijacked by insecure women and indoctrinated men. Grumble. Ja no doubt the contrast between this post and the last mood update is of the diurnal/nocturnal variety.

The high wasn’t too high, it slowed before it got chaotic and risky. And I enjoyed it and got a fair bit of stuff done – which as you lot know very well, is good, since some things will screech to an unhappy standstill soon enough. It’s all so fucking symbolic here today. I got the washing machine going while zooming around earlier, now I’m sitting with my head spinning gently and gentle pins and needles in my hands and a dull ache in my guts and a sharp one at the base of my skull and ja here we go, I’m whiny. Fractious as a two year old with a full nappy and an empty stomach. The washing machine halts and by then I’m sitting looking stunned, wondering how to work up enough energy to hang the laundry of listlessness on the dryer of despair. (heheheh)

I’ve become good at routine and distraction – is that a life? If I had at least one goal, I’m sure it would be; as it is, I don’t even have a try. I plod along, following rules and faking it for the locals. I still make people laugh and sometimes I’m glad and other times it all makes me feel like a peevish, damp crow. Good old bipolar eh. The depression is shit and so is the agitation. Happiness becomes untrustworthy and the far reaches of mania are pure, destructive hell. What a bleak fucking disorder. I’m beginning to envy people with MDD and cyclothymia and so on. Ja ja ja, I do realise that is a stupid thing to say. Goddamn pity party at the suffering olympics is what I am today.

Catharsis, blog, you’re supposed to be all cathartic and stuff, not just a reality TV show following the travels and travails of a ping pong ball in a wind tunnel.

I will hang the fecking laundry out and breathe a sigh of relief over the washed dishes and the vacuumed floor – and then I’m going to make like a tortoise for the rest of the day.


By Julie Paschkis

Yup that’s me, leaving the hare to hightail it, while I go and find somewhere safe to hibernate. My bones ache and my heart hurts and I want to hide. I’ve eaten, taken my meds, gone for a walk, done the chores – blah blah fucking blah. Ja well no fine.

“Life goes on, they say. But that is not always true, sometimes life doesn’t go on, sometimes the days just pass by. ” (Pablo Neruda)

{Sidenote: I know I’ve spammed you hard with Pablo Neruda stuff, but there is so very much that he says better than anyone. For a politician, he was an amazing poet; for a poet, he was an amazing politician.}

Updownupdownupdown down down down – mixed episodes are the nastiest, sneakiest little fuckers this side of Gollum. Ughhhhhgnnnnnng! I’m starting to feel incredibly woozy, no idea why. BRB going to glare at the washing machine to hurry it up so I can stick my head under a pillow.

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