I AM IN A **** MOOD. I am beating myself up about whether or not to eat Morrisons industrial Chinese chicken curry with egg fry rice or to buy a tin of corned beef from the corner shop for £1.79 (cheaper than Morrisons who charge £2.49 for a big tin). When I've already eaten two and a half chicken thighs and a Pot Noodle today and am not actually hungry. I'm on a diet, remember. And I take in excess calories through my alcohol consumption. I only want to do comfort eating. "I hate myself and I want to die" as Anna Grace says. I don't want to be a waste of oxygen. Or a waste of food. I've had no heroin today or yesterday which might be why I feel so crap. Not that it's withdrawal as I have ample methadone. But because, as the nutnut nurse phrased it, it's my "underlying mood". I was only using gear to aleviate depression. I hate relying on heroin for a barely passable sense of happiness. I hate not being on it because I'm so miserable.
And yes I do realize how funny that paragraph sounds.
I keep asking myself why I bang on so much about wanting to be manic again. Wanting to be manic is wanting to be severely mentally ill. Just shows how desperate I felt when I wrote those words. On the other hand "severely mentally ill" is merely the medical profession's view and they're probably jealous of people who have a fantastically elevated mood with thoughts exploding like starbursts, beautiful hyperacusis and poetic hallucinations and all the world shimmering like a firework display. That was the good part of being manic.
I was very offended when my dr used the term "manic depression" (not to mention schizophrenia) with regards to me. Why do manic and depressed have to go together? Why does everything in life that seems so good have to be SHIT.
I stand by what I thought and probably posted at the time. You only truly see reality when you're at the very top and bottom extremes of mood. At the top you see neverending beauty and wonder. At the bottom, all is worthlessness and pain. Doctors never give painkillers for mental pain. Which is why it's up to sufferers to score for themselves on the streets.
Anna Grace is probably pissed off with me because she wrote a post about her suicide fantasy and I laughed at the bit when she said her dog might start tucking into her rotting corpse. My sick sense of humour overcame good taste and I told her. There's no point deleting the comment as I know it will have gone direct to her Blackberry. Sorry Anna I am one sick fuck. You just have to accept me for who I am.
On the way back from Morrisons I had a persistent, vivid fantasy about finding an eighth of top-notch brown heroin wrapped up in black binliner. It played over and over in my head. In my dream I ripped open the bag to be engulfed by the overpowering aroma of Fresh Afghan Gear.
Getting off the bus I took a deliberate shortcut through a back alley. I've found gear in alleyways twice before, so this was my best bet for locating this tantaliing eighth. In the alley was a discarded firedoor. Guess what? Poking out from the door was a bit of black plastic! I grabbed it and found an unopened quarter bottle of vodka. Not exactly heroin, but I'm about to start drinking right now.
I actually hate vodka and I know it will only make me want the corned beef even more, so I'll have 2 more things to hate myself for. I know it sounds petty hating myself for eating, but I got down to one single tin of corned beef per day (plus 2 cans of cider and 2 small tropical fruit juices). So I'm hardly in anorexia mode, but it feels like a triumph to be eating so much less than before.
I know everything I've written in God knows how long probably sounds desperately fucked up. I'm not going to lie, am I? If I was going to do one of those "aren't I witty and cool" blogs, I'd have taken up that pose from day one. There's nothing cool about me. Cool people only like me because I don't pretend to be cool. And don't I sound like a 13 year old talking like this.
I could say I wish I'd never got into heroin, but heroin gave me a feeling I'd never had before. A kind of contentment and a false happiness. Before that I had nothing stronger than cups of tea, the occasional Silk Cut cigarette scabbed from the secretary downstairs and packets of Maryland hazelnut choc-chip cookies and videos to indulge in when I was down. I had a gaping hole inside me, nothing but heroin ever filled it.
So now I have to live the rest of my life either empty or stoked up to the eyes on psychiatric drugs, when my real problem is hypochondria and laziness. I don't really believe depression is an illness and when I was manic I didn't feel like I existed at all. I was out of this world. Now this world is all too real and crushing me down. I so wish someone would murder me. That would be the best of all worlds. A dangerous criminal would get taken off the streets and I would die. This is the stuff that goes through my head. I couldn't actually provoke someone into killing me: that would be moral cowardice of the most abysmal kind. I just wish I didn't have to live in this world. It's not that I want some pain to end, like people like Trisha Goddard insist is the root of suicidality. I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN THIS WORLD, I HATE IT. I hate everything about it. The longer I live, the more I will sin and the worse a person I will become. We're all in darkness. The world is dying, our societies are crumbling. I don't want to live to see it.
I need a drink.
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