Reflecting on Being a Psychotic Bitch

I am sure that one does not require the IQ of Einstein or his counterparts to work out, from the last post, that bleakness, futility and utter self-disgust presently permeate my existence. There were precipitating factors, but I am not prepared to discuss them in any detail here.  I do keep this blog primarily for my own reference, but I do not need to document this incident as I will never forget the evil of which I am capable. Never.  Even as I bounce my (very metaphorical) grandchildren about on my knee (if my ‘life’ ever gets that far), my psychotic break on Friday night will never be far from the forefront of my mind.

Rationally, I can tell myself that it wasn’t me behaving in the fashion that I did.  Rationally, I can sit here and say, “well, you’re mentally ill”.  Rationally, I can (and do) accept that I was not in control.

It doesn’t matter.  It isn’t an excuse.  I wouldn’t care if it were just about me, for fuck’s sake I’d gladly do myself in if it were just about me.  But I am ruining other lives as I continue on the destructive path on which my mind seems intent on following.

I rail against the idea of being committed, and to that end have been known to be careful in what I have said to C, LGP and VCB, so as to avoid them instigating a process that would end in that result for me.  Being sectioned, or even voluntary hospitalisation, would be about the most horrendous thing I can imagine – group therapy, disillusioned and overworked (and probably incompetent) staff, being in a ward with other fucking people.  I cannot bear the idea.  It makes me feel physically ill when I even contemplate it.

But I have enough insight, shockingly, to know that this isn’t just about me.  For the sake of my friends and family, it really may be the best option if throwing me in the asylum is exactly what the three of them (or whomsoever) choose to do.

I don’t think I’m being irrational in writing this.  Granted, you (the reader) don’t know the context under which this miserable spiel of crap has been created (with one or two exceptions), but I believe my self-condemnation is wholly appropriate.

I don’t want to have this out with C tomorrow, but I’m going to have to find some way to overcome my cowardice and discuss it all with him, because I have gone too far this time and I can’t guarantee that I’ll have the level of self-control required not to go too far again. Some proponent of the newer types of therapy such as behavioural techniques might wank on about my own responsibility, and yeah, I might be abdicating from my sense of it – I don’t know.  I just know I didn’t at any point choose the behaviour that has disturbed me so profoundly.  It was almost like what I imagine stage hypnosis is; you have some level of awareness, but you are not controlling your mind or body.

This week has been fucking awful.  I would use the phrase ‘downward spiral’, but that would be bollocks, as I’m thoroughly at the bottom of the spiral.

The little social contact I’ve had – on Twitter, in the main – might represent my status this week as relatively mentally intact, but nothing could be further from the truth.  I am still a consummate actress. Thinking about it, I’m narcissistic enough (though not thin enough, admittedly) to have a very successful Hollywood career.  Though that would send me even more insane, if that’s possible.

I’m sorry for turning the comments off in the last post. I figured some well-meaning people might say, “no, you’re not fetid/disgusting/depraved/whatever,” and whilst, indubitably, I appreciate the sentiment behind such words, they are in my present-thinking false words.  I need to reflect on what I have done, even though it causes horrible pain.

I really, really am a vile human being. Well, perhaps I’m not – that’s up for debate – but this mental persona, and whatever nefarious afflictions control it, most assuredly are.