I WOKE UP THIS MORNING WISHING I WAS DEAD. I have been thinking about myself self self constantly. Because I am in a mess I somehow need to climb out of without the use of a noose (for myself) and a flame-thrower (to clean my house). My back is hurting now so I'm even more done-in than before. The more stressed I get the more random my head goes. Which is better than feeling anxious, so I'm not knocking it. What would you prefer? Your head to constantly tune out? Or to tune into something too negative for words? So I'm quite happy to be tuned out. In fact I might actually to tuning into the true reality. I always did have this impression that life was just a dream.
Well I'm FAR TOO SOBER as I write this. I've had my daily tin of corned beef (been eating little else). Too disorganized to get in shopping. Disorganized, disorganized. I'm having a bash at washing clothes. I need clean clothes but don't feel up to washing them (by hand) I rarely do.
This is why I'm so unhappy. I'm drowning in laziness and the only cure I know for it is a gun to the head. I heard they can give selegeline (an MAOI) and possibly other MAOIs. But monoamine oxidase inhibitors (VERY oldfashioned antidepressants) can tend to provoke mania in susceptible individuals. Hey what am I worried about? I could quite do with a bit of mania. I had so much energy it was unreal. In fact most things felt unreal while I was manic, including myself and the world. Best thing about that was NO DESIRE OR NEED FOR ILLICIT DRUGS. I'm fed up of drugs. But the mere thought of going totally off my head again is exhausting. Best cure I know of for laziness is a GUN TO THE HEAD. If only handguns were legal in this country, I'd probably have shot myself long ago. Better still those oldfashioned barbiturates. Or old coal gas ovens. All good ways of dying. No I'm not suicidal. I don't want to kill myself I just WANT TO BE DEAD. Different thing.
AFTERNOON: I'm not in a much better mood. I had some of the lousy heroin. I can barely feel it. My back is killing me when I try and get up/move. Tomorrow I'm going to have to go everywhere by bus. Im not up for walking very far. I hate being ill. That's why when the psychiatrist told me I had a severe mental illness, I thought the matter over and realized there were about 1000 physical illnesses I'd less rather have.
I was going to ask for suicide advice. Anyone who knows a good method can leave me an email email@example.com, title it SUICIDE so I won't miss it. What I really need is what they use in the Dignitas clinic, Switzerland: 10,000 mg neat barbiturates dissolved in orange juice.
Hanging and cutting really gross me out. I'd shoot myself if I could. There's always the option of an express train but I'm scared of it going wrong. The best option I can think of is to do an opiate detox which will bring my tolerance down to zero, then to deliberately overdose on as much of the best heroin I can get my hands on. I went years hoping I would just die in my sleep. How come it's always someone else who gets to die? I've been told I was meant to be alive. Well if I was meant to live I wouldn't have schizoaffective disorder, would I?
I'm not sure I really am schizoaffective. I think I'm just really lazy. Everything I try and do is a huge great deal for me. It all feels too much. Even going down the road for a pint of milk. I hate picking up my methadone. Once I've done that I crowd straight home and barracade myself behind closed doors. Tomorrow I have to do not only that; I must take my festering body down the drugs clinic, which I really don't want to do. I haven't a single clean stitch of clothing to wear and am not up for complicated handwashing. The stuff is in the sink, soaking. I couldn't take it down the launderette if I wanted to: too heavy for my bad back.
I don't know what else to say. I just wish I had the courage to do myself in and properly. I'm lucky in that I can't really brood on my situation the way you might assume I'm doing. If I tried to brood I would think of Newcastle, forks, balls of string, motorbike outriders... my mind is randomized not obsessionalized, so I'm saved from my own illness. "Suicidal ideation" of course, being a symptom.
Somebody asked me why I don't go help another person. I don't know anybody individually who needs help. So I would have to help via a charity. I did put this idea forward when I was being interviewed to find out what support I needed in my daily life. The lady told me it sounded like a really good idea but "not yet". I wasn't even mentally ill back then, just a bit moody.
I wanted to work in a hospice with the dying. Another job I would like to do is work in an intensive care ward. If I could take furry animals into hospitals to delight the patients I'd be well up for that. Or working with Undercover Customs on multimillion pound white heroin hauls. Rubbishy drugs like cocaine, grass etc I'd hand straight back in. But I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't tax a couple of keys Thai White for mysself. You could go several years on two kilos pure white heroin.
I want to detoxify anyhow. Be clean. That was the hospice problem. The patients are off their heads on my favourite sort of drugs. That's why they're all so happy (at least they always look like they're having a ball, singing and dancing, etc on the hospice documentaris I've seen on TV.
I was wondering what job I could possibly do with my constantly circling mental problems. At the end of my manic phase I had bad troubles with memory. Trouble co-ordinating my hands (typing; I typed out a lot of words perfectly BACKWARDS). I have bad troubles with what Deshane my personal help person who I haven't seen in over a month, calls "selfcare". I'm always broke, I literally lose money, even when I'm off drugs. My doctor said this is because I am ill.
This is my problem: I'd have to perform a miracle to be together enough even to be considered for voluntary work. This is why I'm so depressed. My head is in a mess just as my life is. If this gets any worse I'm going in the hospital I cannot go on like this; I feel ill. The best I'm ever going to get is "sane" but totally run down, unmotivated, dull, drab and lazy.That's a psychiatrist's idea of a good outcome from psychosis. Some people of course do make a full recovery and turn back into a normal functioning person. But that's people who suddenly became ill, who hadn't had years of trouble functioning in life before they became floridly ill. I had mini-episodes going back years. I was depressed for 20 years (arguably since childhood. My family say it wasn't as bad as I say it was. What I do remember was obsessing over the idea that I had cancer, feeling like I was sick and WANTING to die. Then developing an OCD-type situation where I indulged in excessive handwashing because I felt contaminated. That went on, on and off, for two years or more.
When I went to university aged 19 I rapidly went downhill. On the one hadn I wanted to experiment with cannabis and LSD. Contrary to rumour, I barely took any acid, but the effect it had on me was so terrifying to watch it put certain people off ever experimenting with anything stronger than hash. It was hash ironically that caused the deepest damage of all. I haven't scored cannabis since 1993 or 1994. So long ago that the vogue was still for hash, not grass.
I got given a psychiatrist's appointment because I was very down and not sleeping well at all. I'd barely touched drugs incidentally, when I first saw this man. He said "I understand you've been suffering from low mood". Every single appointment he seemed to ask me whether I heard voices. I didn't hear voices back then. When I did start hearing them years later nobody seemed to want to know!
Anyway I went to see this doctor, he did very little for me. I was at university, supposedly having the time of my life, but all the time I was profoundly miserable. My grades were low. One time I wrote an expletive across an exam paper and just walked out. In the second year I did no work at all. My GP gave me a medical certificate signing meoff for the entire term. Eventually I was faced with the prospect of a year in Berlin, which I would have loved. But I wasn't up for it. So I had to drop out of the course.
I worked for about two years until I got struck down with something that made me feel weird and tired and dizzy. This was diagnosed as chronic fatigue syndrome. It mutated into depression. I went on heroin. It appeared to cure my troubles.
Maybe I had two years without anything too bad happening. A mad woman I'd met on the street let me move in with her when I got chucked out of my house. But she stalked me and wouldn't let me alone. Eventually I moved out and went to live in an empty building. Here I started having visions in the night. I heard voices calling my name over and over. One evening on the bus everyone had mystical symbols in their eyes. I went to see my mad friend, the one who had taken me in off the street. She looked like an ancient Egyptian princess. I remember looking in the mirror one night, seeing myself transforming into a dragon. I didn't have money for crack at this point. Heroin was very much my drug of choice.
After some short stays in the mental hospital, which had more to do with avoiding this Stalker-Friend than anything else, I eventually found my way into Emergency Accommodation. My mental health wasn't eerrible at this time. You have to bear in mind the weird things I've just told you took place intermittently over months and months. I wasn't seeing visions every minute of every day. But it carried on and in this new house I got introduced to regular crack smokers. The DSS gave me a year's money in one go and I had a binge on gear and crack. This within a week I was hearing the Devil's voice threatening me from the corner of the room. A prostitute and her crackhead boyfriend moved into the room next door and insulted me through the walls. It took me months to realize that although we genuinely didn't get on, the walls were actually far thicker than they appeared to be and what I'd actually heard had been "voices".
So I knew crack was bad for me. Over the months I cut down my usage to once a week. Then strictly once a week on Mondays only. Then I gave up heroin and went mad. Then that doctor said I had schizoaffective disorder. It wasn't a new thing. So I'm stuck with residual symptoms of this disorder and I know what they are now. Before, I didn't realize what was going on, but I looked this disorder up. You have active and residual phases, mood swings going up and down (mostly down). There is psychosis as well but it doesn't necessarily phase in with the mood problems (otherwise it would be called bipolar disorder with psychotic features). So this is why I feel so depressed. Because of this. I can't shake it. And being "ill" isn't always the worst part of it. It's not how it makes me feel as such, more what it does to me. It's turned me into a wreck of a person, who doesn't like engaging with anything much. When I push myself I get weird symptoms back. When I don't push myself I feel miserable. I feel miserable anyway. I looked up various forums. There's no advice, except "keep taking the pills" which I can't do. They're the wrong pills. Apart from taking medication you're seemingly supposed to just be mentally ill, do nothing and not have a life. I can't do that. So here we go again. This is why I'm stuck.
I don't think like this in the day. I think about the Tonkie Ears mouse, who is an avatar of Little Trotter Donkey. And I think randomness. I don't always feel like me. I don't feel real. They say merrily merrily down the stream; life is but a dream. I just wish the dream could be happier.
If I shouldn't post this then I shouldn't tell the truth. I cannot think through the ins and outs and could bes and should bes. I'm too tired, my back hurts. The TV is babbling at me. I have to go.
Getting personal - I'm leading Zac's tonight. We've been studying the gospel of Luke and tonight we arrive at the Last Supper. I grew up attending an Anglican church - I was ...
3 hours ago