Driven to Distraction, Driven to Despair?

ScumFan McF phoned me this morning to advise that he had passed his driving test.  He is 19.

Generally ScumFan and I get along well and always have done.  I was genuinely delighted for him.  But could I just have been pleased for him?  Oh nooooooo.  What would be the fun in that?!

My narcissism has turned his success into an indictment of myself.  Admittedly, he failed his driving test eight times before passing it on his ninth attempt.  I did pass mine on my fifth attempt, as if that were something of which to be proud.  The difference is that he is 19 and I was pathetically 25 when I finally succeeded.  I had been learning on-off since I was 17.

Admittedly when I did pass the thing I hadn’t taken instruction for some time, so in a way it was like coming at it from new, but nevertheless, my failure to achieve such a normal thing at a younger age is clearly demonstrative of my failure at life.

I suck.  It is funny the little things that set you off, isn’t it?  It’s so often the little things, things that mean nothing to others and should mean nothing to you.  There have been a couple of other ‘little’ things that have sent me into moods these last few days, some of which I’ll go into now, some of which I can’t be arsed detailing.

I have been in a weird mood for several days.  I haven’t written anything here on this blog (other than the family trees) as although I have been doing stuff there has not really been much to report, mental-wise.  That is to say that I haven’t gone completely off my head, seen any mental health professionals, sliced at myself etc; it is not to suggest that I have been sane.  In any case, this blog was created for me to monitor and detail my moods, so I suppose I should have written anyway.  It is just hard to get motivated and to concentrate because of my various nefarious ailments.  But I’ll do so in some fashion now.

On Saturday, A, his best friend W and I went up the North Coast of Antrim, specifically to Glenariff, the Torr Road, Ballycastle and Bushmills, with a few stops along the way.  The North Antrim coast is some of the most stunning scenery I’ve ever seen; in fact, I almost obliterated all three of us whilst driving by not paying attention to the road, simply as the surroundings were so beautiful.  Yes, for once my almost-death was not brought about by my own intention, though it was my own fault (fail).

It was an absolutely fabulous day, weather-wise, and there were laughs a-plenty for various weird reasons, as we make a weird trio.  The thing is, I was at points totally overwhelmed by the beauty of nature, this divine nature right on my own doorstep, and as a result I nearly collapsed in a gibbering, weepy mess at times.  It is pathetic beyond measure.  C’s desire to try DBT must actually be quite well observed despite my concerns, as clearly I am completely unable to regulate my emotions in any way, and that is what that therapy seeks to address.  I also felt mild derealisation and depersonalisation, especially the latter, at times.

I make it sound like I did not enjoy the day and now A and W will read this and feel bad, because I don’t think they were aware of my being overwhelmed or fucked in whatever way.  I would like to unequivocally state that I did enjoy the day and they are by order not to feel bad at all.  It was one of the more relaxing and enjoyable days I’ve experienced in quite some time, it actual fact.  I am just in need of sorting out my reactions to nothing.

On Sunday, after a lovely lunch on the river with W, we went to A’s family for a barbecue, which again was relaxing and fun and enjoyed in spectacular weather.  Yet again, though, I had this niggling nothingness penetrating my psyche that inhibited my ability to truly get into the swing of things the way I have done in the past.  Again A will read this and feel bad and he has no reason to feel bad but I feel bad that he will feel bad and I am a fuck-up and I should be sectioned or shot or something because I am a waste of space and I am worrying about stupid fucking shit and should shut up and stop writing in long sentences like this one.

On Monday, after being awake all night, I mostly ignored the weather and fell asleep with the cats on the sofa and then I felt bad and guilty because it was a beautiful sunny day and I had effectively wasted it because I am a useless insomniac twat.  I did go to the park with A that evening, but the sun was going down by that point and the place was full of spides and millies so whilst it was certainly pleasant I should have made more of the earlier part of the day.

So on Tuesday, after braving the supermarket of evil in an effort to continue to fund my Chorizo addiction (which actually is an addiction; I have literally eaten nothing else today at all, but must have thrown half a pound of Chorizo down my fat gob), I went to a lovely park a few miles from where I live and read the book I bought about bints’ relationships with their psychotherapists.  But even then I wasn’t fucking happy because I was hot and I felt vulnerable because I was out in the open by myself and although there were not many people there, there were certainly a few and I was terrified that they would try and talk to me.  I forced myself to stay for a while, walked around for a bit, tried reading a bit more, lost concentration, got annoyed by flies and other assorted insectfucks, got overwhelmed by the heat and went back to my car and drove home.

Then A phoned to ask if I would be in the house at 4.30pm, which was indeed to be the case.  The reason was that a plumber was coming to fix the fucking piping in the bathroom that hasn’t worked since I was virtually a fucking foetus.  So then I panicked about some random stranger bloke coming to the house and talking to me, and then the bloke was late so I panicked that he was dead and I had somehow psychically caused his demise through my malevolence and nervousness, and then the bloke finally arrived and he was friendly and courteous and I felt guilty for pre-judging him and worrying about him speaking to me.

Later, I misplaced my ring so I went into a mad frenzy and panic and paced up and down the room in a fashion most commonly observed in secure institutions.  The ring cost me $20 in Las Vegas at Christmas, and was a replacement for another ring that I had cuntily lost there, a ring that A had bought me several years ago.  The one lost in Vegas was virtually worthless but had such great sentimental value that it fair ruined one of my days in the most fabulous city on Earth.  So I was not prepared to lose its replacement, or at least I was not prepared to do so with any semblance of sanity.  A asked could I have taken it off in the kitchen, and indeed wasn’t the fucking thing was sitting right there.  So I had let myself panic over fuck all, without even taking the fucking time to consider all the obvious possibilities.  It was a vicious circle because once I panic, I can’t think straight, so I can’t see those obvious possibilities, so then I panic even more.

Today is weird.  I feel depersonalised again, though only to a mild to moderate degree.  The above makes the last few days sound really shit, but that is not the case at all.  They were grand – indeed, in places, very good for a fucking change – they just had a few bad moments, which represent yet more issues with which I need to learn to deal.  Overall, my current mood – and indeed my mood for the last day or two – is one of contemplation and pensiveness.  There is no real clear reason for it, it just is.  The next issue of fuckuppery is that I feel so guilty about this because then the good weather will go away and I will feel sorry for it and for nature because I did not embrace them in the way in which I should have done and then I won’t have the chance to do so again for about 73 years.

Fuck up fuck up fuck up.  As if the weather and nature give a flying arse about me and my foibles.

Tomorrow too will be strange.  I have C first thing (and thus will have to review the DBT stuff this evening), then when I get back to my ma’s apparently the McFuckwits are coming, or at least some of them are.  Apparently MMcF has gone into an enigmatic foul mood and is refusing to see people.  The rest of them claim that they are unsure as to why this is the case, but I don’t care – nay, readers, I am glad – as it means I don’t have to talk to or see her.  But S, MrsRMcF, SL and MW will be coming, so I will have to see little MW again and then worry some more about what action if any I should take as regards his welfare in relation to his great-grandfather.  This makes me despair as on the one hand I cannot be responsible for ruining an entire family, but on the other I cannot be partly to blame for the ruining of a child’s entire life.  Not that it’s about me; it’s about MW.  I do not want him to be harmed.  However, it’s not just about him,is it?  All my fears in this regard are probably completely unfounded and are just paranoia, and I don’t want my delusional personality to ruin the lives of dozens of people, as even though most of them are fuckwitted in many ways, they are essentially not terrible people, not for the most part.

Finally, tomorrow is the date of the European Elections and since I believe it is an abdication of adult responsibility to not vote, I will have to do so.  The problem is, of course, that the majority of the candidates are cunts.  I was raised in a Unionist background, but have long since despised all Northern Irish tribal politics myself.  I would vote for the Alliance Party, but I don’t believe they have a realistic chance of success.  The main contenders are likely to be Sinn Fein or the DUP, both of whom I despise (ironically, coming from a Unionist background, I despise the DUP more than Sinn Fein), so I cannot bear to place them highly regardless of their probable success.  So I think my first two votes will go to the SDLP and the UUP respectively (SDLP higher as my ma used to work with the candidate and said he was a genuinely nice bloke), though this pisses me off too as they are both surrogates of the two main political parties in the mainland UK and they are even bigger twats than many of the parties here.  So naturally I’m turning this into a dilemma, which is, in logical terms, ludicrous, because the fact that they’re politicans at all means that they’re tossers and it makes no difference what fuckwit is in Europe cos they’re all bloody shite.

I am not sure what the point of this post is.  As usual it can only really be for my own self-analysis.  Parts of it are probably rambling, racing and incoherent, but if that is indeed the case, then at least it is a reflection of my perpetually disordered mind.

But really, I am OK.  Things are just a bit weird and iffy. That’s at least better that than being in a suicidal mania.  I think..?

Thursday Morning C Show tomorrow!  I can already feel your aching anticipation of my weekly post-mortem!

Or maybe not 😉

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