Weekend Batshit Craziness
What a strange few days it has been, mainly due to the fact that I’m a fucking mental crackpot twatfaced prick who can’t behave sensibly for more than a few hours.
It all started on Friday night. A and I had been out for a few quiet drinks and a nice meal. We then came home and watched some DVDs. Nothing abnormal.
I don’t remember why I lost it, but I did. I found myself banging my head with some considerable force off the bench in the kitchen. Totally normal behaviour.
A must have encouraged me to come to bed, because the next thing I remember was being on the stairs. I was lamenting to A that our banister is pretty pathetic in terms of strength and that I therefore wouldn’t be able to hang myself from it. Nevertheless, when he was taking a piss, I thought I’d give it a go. A’s ties were hanging over the aforementioned banister, so I tied one in a knot and formed a noose. I put it round my neck and let it choke me.
A came out of the bathroom, saw what was happening, and pulled my hair in order to reach me with as much speed as possible. He later apologised for this, but I don’t think he had any need to. He was reacting instinctively and trying to protect me.
I think this behaviour is at least partly based on nightmares I had the night before. Thursday night/Friday morning was my first night back on the sleeping pills after the weekly gap that Lovely GP inflicts on me to stop dependency on the things. So I actually slept for once, but that sleep was plagued by vivid, haunting nightmares. In one, I was raped (bizarrely by a bloke who lectured me at university with whom I had absolutely no inappropriate relationship whatsoever!), but in the others, I was – surprise surprise – trying to hang myself.
The dreams, as I say, were incredibly vivid, and evidently their imagery was living on in my mind. It wasn’t even just the images, I suppose; it was the whole experience of the dreams – the physical sensations, the driven, visceral determination to die, the feelings, emotions and thoughts that brought that drive on. These sensations/emotions/whatever were all fairly amorphous, and I know what a lesser writer I am by failing to convey them. But they were strong and all-consuming, and were all permeated around the same simple premise: I MUST DIE. MAKE ME DIE.
Anyway, I am fairly convinced this (in part) led on to the hilariously feeble suicide attempt. I was telling bourach, who comments here a lot, about it the next day on Twitter. She said that the use of a tie (a flimsy object, obviously) suggested to her that the attempt was half-hearted, and I think she was right. It was partly predicated on the dreams, I think, but as I said to A later, it was also just about making whatever mentalism was going through my head stop. Anything to make it stop. That’s what the constant head-banging is about too.
A said that if I tried to do anything of the like again, he would burn the tie. I then felt sorry for the tie which will certainly stop me from using it as a self-murder object in future. Indeed, CVM later commented that why would I waste a good tie, which certainly made me smile. You have to laugh (incidentally, other than A, she and bourach are the only ones that know about this to date, so I haven’t been going around bragging about it or something).
Naturally I spent Saturday morning apologising left, right and centre to A. But the rest of the day was basically fine (I did swing from manic to depressed in terms of mood, but didn’t go totally nuts either); we went for coffee, endured a few brief shops, went home and got ready to go out. It was the birthday party of two of our friends.
I didn’t want to go, because I am so shite socially, and this was a fairly large group. They are nice people, but they’re so typically Irish in terms of their ability to consume booze, so one always ends up wasted. I do recognise excessive alcohol consumption as a trigger in me. The thing is, once before I drank tea and water in their company pretty much all night and was treated essentially as an object of vilification. So that doesn’t feel like an option in their company. I make them sound like cunts, but they’re not. They’re just a bit (non-mental) mad.
Anyway, off we went, and the meal and the subsequent drinks were fine. I always exhibit the more bipolar aspects of my madness on these occasions. Sometimes I’m wearing the mask, sometimes I genuinely am manic. I don’t know which it was on Saturday. Probably both at various points.
To my utter astonishment, when A and I finally left it was getting light outside. I had no idea we’d stayed out so late. Anyway, there was an odd ethereal beauty to the city at this time of the morning. The lighting reflected over the moutain behind our house and there was a lovely fresh morning smell.
But rather than appreciate the beauty of nature, didn’t I just go mental again. Why? I don’t know. But I did. Maybe I just can’t cope with anything that causes me emotions, including natural beauty. I know C thinks that this is the case. I mean, I nearly collapsed in a gibbering mess the weekend A, W and I went to the North Coast.
I started the head-banging in the wee passage way opposite our house. I don’t remember whether I was banging my head on a wall, a fence or a tree, but anyway, A went to stop me, and he accientally knocked me over (again, this was not his fault; his pulling me away resulted in my losing my balance). This resulted in injury to my back, both legs, head and shoulders, because I fell with some force and in a weird angle. I wasn’t seriously hurt, of course, but enough that I am still in pain in all these places now.
In falling, I broke one of two glasses I’d nicked from the restaurant that were in my handbag. That serves me right for nicking them, of course, but as soon as we got back to the house I took one of the shards to, firstly, my arm, then to my abdomen. The cuts aren’t especially deep but they’re yet more physical damage to myself that if I wasn’t mental I wouldn’t have.
I’ve been thinking for some time about carving the word ‘hate’ into my stomach, and that’s what I was trying to do on Sunday morning. But I failed to accurately carve the ‘h’, so I ended up just randomly slashing in frustration at my inability to even fucking write properly.
I spent the rest of yesterday exhausted, in pain and depressed. I looked at my face in the mirror and it was cut from falling, the permanent dark circles under my eyes were just about as bad as they have ever been, and I was completely covered in red blotches that no doubt were related to over-drinking. The mess of my face, the pain across my body – they were both good physical analogies for my mental grief.
I was horrified about how I had behaved – not because I give a toss about myself, because I deserve it all, but because A has to bear witness to all this. He does not deserve it yet he always deals with it in a relative stride. It affects him, certainly, but he hasn’t let it break him.
I keep telling him that I should move out or not see him until such times as my psychotherapy is actually yielding results, but he says that would only fuck up his life more, which is sweet and kind and loving.
I really hate myself. My life really isn’t that bad, ostensibly. Worse things have happened to other people yet I let some pathetic, measly, water-off-a-duck’s-back tiny negative events turn me into this, a hideous, angry, bubbling mess that seeks to destroy those she loves as well as herself.
On another note, I spoke to my best friend D after some time yesterday evening. I had emailed D, as well as A, the bullshit from my Aunt of Evil, GA, that is detailed here. Unfortunately, I’d sent the email to his home address as it wasn’t really safe for work – however, he really only ever uses his work email address and thus only got the email yesterday.
The long and the short of the conversation is that D disagrees with the consensus that I should demonstrate my annoyance with GA and her cunts by not being present at any point during their imminent visit to Norn Iron. He thinks that will make me look bitter, twisted and unco-operative.
His view is that I should meet GA and cunts, but in my usual Machievellian way, I ought to engineer an argument, making it look like their fault. As it happens, starting an argument is probably unnecessary, as one way or another GA will fuck me off. She will either patronise me about being mental, proselytise at me or defend her cunt son’s behaviour over V’s will (which doesn’t have a defence; the fact that he got so worked up over what to do about the money shows he actually thought about it and still decided to fuck me over).
D suggests that as soon as she starts behaving in a wankerish fashion, I can then with apparent justification tell her that I have no time for her, do not want to see her again, and want her to desist from either contacting me or talking about me to anyone ever again. At that point I can leave.
He said that had her visit to here not been imminent, it would have been reasonable to email this information, which would be a lot easier to do. But he says I will come across as the bigger person if I do make the effort to see her, and that the aforementioned reaction will be justified.
GA won’t see it that way, and frankly given her defence of GA, I am not sure my mother would either. Additionally, I am wondering can I react in this way. I’ll either avoid any confrontation out of fear and nervousness, or I’ll go completely fucking mad and start screaming at her, which will surely give her ammunition.
I see D’s point, but I also see that of the others (A, W, AC etc). I will have to consider my options in detail over the next week or so.
This entry was posted on Monday, 6 July, 2009 at 5:28 pm and is filed under Everyday Life, Moods, Triggers with tags anxiety, bipolar 2, bipolar 2 disorder, bipolar disorder, bipolar II, bipolar II disorder, borderline personality disorder, bpd, clinical depression, cutting, depression, insanity, insomnia, madness, major depressive disorder, mania, manic depression, mental health, mentalhealth, panic, panic attack, psychiatry, psychology, Psychotherapy, self harm, social anxiety, suicidal thoughts, suicide, suicide ideation, therapy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.