I've been pretty ill for weeks now. Can't get myself to do much, beyond chatting with acquaintances on myspace. Feel very introverted and reclusive. Don't have much to do with my friends when I get like this. They know to stay away when I go into my seclusion. I eventually come around and resurface to say hi.
Been very down about having no money, and practically starving. I've been going hungry a lot, and rue the day I was born. I try to go out on dates sometimes from men I meet on Match.com, for the free dinners. I feel grateful for the delicious food and wine. The service. The "I'm actually communicating in this world" feeling. I so often feel like a stranger in a strange land. An alien from another universe. Just living inside a human skin. Reptilian, ridiculous and anthopomorphic that I am.
I've learned to not mention the fact that I'm looking for a job (yeah, right) or above all, that I'm bipolar. They run a mile when they hear that. I have to pretend that I'm normal. It's hard work. To pretend you're upbeat and happy, and feel like death on the inside. Skull and crossbones seething within. Wondering how long I can keep it up, and if they can see it leaking out my ears, like a vicious black oily smoke. I don't want to poison them with my atmosphere. Harm them with my melancholia. Rot their brains with my disease. So, I pretend I'm interested in what they have to say, chuckle, agree and nod sagely at their ruminations of modern life in the big LA. Lost Angelenos. That's me a Lost Angel. Caught between heaven and hell--leaning towards the later. God, I hate me.
I had a new suicidal thought come to me the other day. Using zip ties to throtle myself. Pulling them tight fast, and know instant oblivion. Like erotic aphyxiation. Though I wouldn't go there--just the death part. Once you pull those tight, you can't get them off unless you cut them off. My scissors would be elsewhere. I imagine that I'd panic and struggle and call out to God a bit, then, it's over. I can see maudlin and morbid Edgar Allen Poe peeping over my shoulder at this. His 200th birthday was a couple of weeks ago. He is one of my bipolar heroes. Deep, dark thoughts. Death creeping in his wake. An old buddy, him.
It's amusing and sad and ironic to me that I have a talent for writing, drawing, dancing and remembering historical facts. I know in my heart that I have something to offer somewhere, somehow, but I'm convinced that I'm useless in so many ways. I beg God to ease my depression and let me get on with life. DO Something with my life. Stop being inert and miserable. I feel guilt that I squander my worth, and I drown in my despair and pray to die in my sleep. My cats keep me from jumping. I have no escape in my dreams, even though I fall into these coma sleeps at a drop of a hat. I have vivid nightmares that make me awaken with pain in my heart, and a sluggard in my movements.
I have taken myself off Cymbalta. It makes me unbearably thirsty at all times. I ever dream I'm pouring gallons of water in down my throat to try and quench the unquenchable. My skin is in pain most time from the dryness, and itches. I slather on lotions and cremes and vasoline even. Nothing seems to help. I feel like a living mummy. Dry and dead for centuries. Shrunken and putrid. And so I sit at my computer and chat. Drink thirstily and endlessly. Bewailing my lot in life. Wondering how I got to this point in time. Blase and bored. Blah, blank, bleah.