Ugh. The interwebz

I made a post. I made a post about an hour ago.  I pressed publish.  It is no where to be seen.  This makes Hayley very angry.  Almost as angry as it makes me to see that ‘Hayley’ is supposedly not spelt right in the WordPress spell check system.  Fuck you

I had this whole post outlining how I’ve felt the last few days.  Now I just want to stick it to the man and defy sleep even though I’m flipping exhausted. Go figure

Feel like I’ve evened out a little… touch wood.  Actually, touch log, trunk, forest.  Lets not be too cautious here.  Haven’t had a rotten low the last few days, but have felt productive.  Not necessarily in a good way.  Waking up being pumped about going and looking at stuff for my aquarium, buying new fish plants etc. Wanting to do all these things except uni work.  Wish uni could just close down for a few months while I straighten out my head, so that I can actually focus and get grades I’ll be proud of instead of getting shit ones which fuel the ever present voice of ‘blue Hayley’ in my head.  No seriously WordPress, fuck you.  ‘WordPress’ is a word but Hayley isn’t??

So not in deepest blues. But I am irritable at times.. like right now.  I am about to effing smash this keyboard because I swear I’m pressing the right buttons and it’s coming up with words I didn’t write. Braghrageblah

And I’ve still got all the signs of perky.  Caught up with a friend the other day, and while I was happy to hear how she was going all I wanted to do was be the one talking.  Venting.  Sharing all the shit in my head.  There’s too much for me to say and not enough time to say it in.  

Maybe the drugs are kicking in for tonights dose, could be why I’m so dopey.  Fuck you WordPress. I had this nicely articulated post about an hour ago. You better post this one or so help me… 

 

The quietest silence

It’s not an illness you can wear on your skin.  It’s not the sort of illness where you’ll receive bouquets of flowers and rows of ‘Get Well Soon’ cards to line your mantle piece.  It’s one of the few illnesses you have very little choice in, but can feel completely belittled and ashamed of it none the less.  You can sit with the tears stinging the back of your eyes, and yet feel completely selfish at the mere thought of letting them fall.

You don’t get to stand up in public, even amongst aquaintances and tell them that you’re sick.  Even amongst close friends, the mere stigmas and misunderstandings can lead to rifts, rifts that only deepen the ravine that feels like it’s feeling the space where your brain should be.  Ironically, sometimes those moments where you feel you’re at your deepest, darkest and scariest the guilt of loading someone else with the blackness in your soul seems unfathomable.  You can sit, with friends’ numbers at your fingertips, with peoples faces staring at you online, and be completely debilitated with silence.   You talk yourself into thinking that the burden is yours to bear alone, and slip deeper into isolation.

I abhor the image of the black dog, when in my world the beauty and innocence and companionship that dogs, and in fact any animal shows seems to vastly distinct from the hopeless fogs of my mind. I could make peace with a quiet, lingering black dog; innocent but misunderstood and satisfied with a scratch behind the ears and a deep soulful look.
I feel as if it’s a black cloak, shielding my eyes to the outside world but reflecting my own deepest thoughts back in.  Conflictingly, it’s at these moments where the passion in my heart burns with such intensity as I reflect on the injustices of the world.  At these moments I declare that I don’t want to live in a world where people comment vainly on clothes, on gossip and the artificial human landscape while horrendous acts still occur.  Where we can’t see the forest for the trees, where we are so selfishly resource driven that we forget that the limbs we tear off the Earth are in fact of the Mother who bore us in the first place.  Is it any wonder that in these moments, I lose faith that anything good can come from us as a species, and what little hope I have of making a difference.  Death seems suddenly so pretty, so rational.  And if not the bravery of death, then a mere physical punishing of my own flesh seems to dull the ebbing and flowing aches trapped in what seems like my very soul.

I struggle with the agonising yet deathly beauty of creative that falls from my mind when I hit rock bottom. Words spill out of a spot in my brain that I lose in moments of positivity, of good health.  It all occurs so quickly and then I curse myself when I can’t recall the right words later.  There’s some sort of moronic irony that I hold myself to a perfectionists standard, almost just so I will inevitably fail and the dark cloak will whisper to me to pull it back to it’s rightful place over my head.

Right now, my deepest struggle is knowing that I desperately need help.  If not for the blessing of a compassionate and passionate boyfriend, I might have been spending the night in the local hospital.  The thoughts in my head scare the depths of hell out of me, while it seems that some of the drugs that are designed to soothe and help me adjust are creating obstacles of their own.  I’m mentally and physically exhausted, feeling bubbly and cocky and confident (with flashing moments of paranoia and irritability) and only hours later living with a heart pounding a start contrast of that.  But which friend I dare load this onto?  Who does one call, when they realise that they have spent their whole lives trying desperately to be friends with everyone and best friends with less than few?  How can you fairly pour years of turmoil into conversation as immediately as you feel you need to without ignoring the pleasantries that fail to come naturally in this state?

I acknowledge I’m in a dangerous spot, teetering on a ledge with a smothering deep cold body waiting to absorb me on one side, and hot coals lining the other side.  I suppose there is comfort to be found that at the very least I can recognise this.  But I cannot lie; as selfish and as horrible as it may be to admit, I would so so happily trade the place of anyone as I am now if not for the guilt of giving them this.  I would do anything to be able to genuinely feel that there may be hope and change in sight.

This is me today.

But answer me this, omnipotent silence. Why does it get harder to ask for help the more you need it.

Why is it that I sit on FB just to feel like I’m around people, but have never felt so alone.

Losing motivation to post.  I’m going through a rapid cycling of highs and lows.  On Monday I was bubbly and happy as I’ve ever been.  Tuesday I was lower than I remember feeling for months and months. Today I got the bloody best of both worlds; bubbly talking too much one moment, feeling as crap as ever the next.

Maybe I am really sick. 

Dealing with depression for me is half about focusing on things that make me passionate, about feeling like I can play a part by raising awareness of the shit that goes on in the world.  But of course speaking out leads to one of two things; the first thing isn’t nearly as bad, because you kind of expect people to think differently to you in the world.  It’s sad, it’s frustrating but it’s life and we can only live true to what we feel is truth.
But the second is soul crushing.  Only one other thing has upset me as much in the past few days, but being told that your passion, that speaking out is a bad thing? That someone is made uncomfortable by the way you chose to live your life when they don’t even know you… that makes my heart ache.  It makes me so angry.  But interestingly, it gave me a brief moment of self pride.  I AM proud that I am outspoken, that it puts people out but maybe makes people think even if just for a split second.  And I am content enough in myself of that, while it hurts to have someone say they dislike a factor that you feel is at the very core of you, you just want to throw that back in their faces and say ‘well fuck you then, I didn’t ask you to be present or a judge in my life!’.  I’m ok with being a passionate person.  I know it’s super easy to be passionate but hypocritical at the same time, and I know I’m guilty of that.  But I also know in myself that by being passionate, I also challenge myself to live to a better standard and to think about the implications of my actions.  I do try and live my life with love even towards those I disagree with, but this has got me so worked up that I can’t manage anything less than a plain old ‘fuck you’.

And then there’s the soul crusher.  The feeling that someone who you so want to have a wonderful close and loving friendship with suddenly hates you.  The feeling where part of you hates yourself for not wording yourself better, but that niggling itch where you HATE that they could have done more too.  Even the thought of that situation is making me burst into tears.  And all the while I’m getting little bursts of optimism and passion and bubbliness… and then that deep dark low again.

I can’t help but load myself up on drugs right now.  Valdoxan, but popping a Valium once a day, a glass of wine and even a cigarette the other day… all because I’m so over this rollercoaster, over being completely out of control and feeling more and more like I’d prefer not to be feeling anything at all.  I worry that I’m slipping into the bipolar tendencies that I feared I had many moons ago.

And tell me.  How does one actually ask for help, when help costs hundreds of dollars, and those around you who don’t ask for payment still just seem to not quite get it.

I feel so, so alone even with friends around. 

Losing motivati…

Rollercoaster

I tried to think of a post subject right now, and ‘Rollercoaster’ came to my head. But being a child of the ’90s, I automatically have this playing on shuffle in my mind at the mention of the word…

 

Which is about as conflicting to my current state as ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ was to Clockwork-Orange…
Well. Not quite.

Up and perky today. Brain fuzz and zaps this evening. Thrown in with a little personal drama that while I would love nothing more than to whinge and bitch about, I just don’t feel is appropriate here.

The thing that is scaring myself more than anything, is that all the bubbly positivity I felt today was nothing more than a side effect of coming off crappy drugs. What if the highs in my life right now are as much a product of illness as the lows?

Can I/Will I ever be able to separate myself from my depression? Or is Sria right, is this just a part of my soul?

A will-less post

The last thing I feel like doing is writing this post.  Right now I hate that I have this blog.  I hate that I am where I am.  Hate hate hate HATE.

I’ve been so foggy headed the last week, to the point where I stupidly have to use it  as an excuse for missing an assignment deadline.  Yeah right Hayley you stupid lazy turd.  You should be able to handle yourself better than this.  You’ve been dealing with this so called disease for years now, you should know better.

I don’t want to talk about how I’m feeling right now.  I don’t want to whinge and moan about poor old me, riding this stupid emotional rollercoaster.  So what.  Why should any one else have to give a toss about me when there are literally millions of people who deal with this daily, or even worse crises.  What right do I have to put this on anyone elses’ shoulders.  Suck it up you stupid bitch.

I don’t want to talk about all this matter-of-factly.  I don’t want to talk about how I was all foggy brained self depricating humour up until an hour or so ago.  I don’t want to admit that suddenly an hour ago I started tearing up watching a stupid reality TV show, followed by projecting all my own lifes dramas to a stupid crappy drama show.  I hate that I feel welled up with tears for just about no reason and that I feel irritable beyond belief.  A stupid braindead fuck of a friend got a kitten today, and I’m sure it wasn’t from a rescue group and I’m sure they’re going to let it out during the day and night not even thinking about the implications for wildlife.  Because they’re particularly ignorant worthless humans.  And I just want to kick the living shit out of them for standing for so much that is fucked about the world.

And then I think about that.  And I think about all the other shit that is wrong with the world.  And it’s all so big and bad and absolutely positively unstoppable, and there is crap all I can do to stop it.  So what good is hating and dreaming of punching the stupid out of sprawling pestilent humanity.  Thoughts of taking the agony of life from myself creep in.  But please don’t worry about me.  I am far, far too much of a coward to act on those feelings, and I don’t think that those I love deserve the grief that my death would cause.  And as sick as it is, there’s a corner of me that sadistically relishes in knowing I feel so low.  Because the fact that I am as worthless and hopeless to fixing the shit in the world that goes on means that these sweeping, soul crushing lows are as effective a punishment as cutting.

This is a crap blog for anyone to read.  And I’m so sorry if that upsets or concerns any of you.  Like my last post stated, this blog is a thousand times more about self serving egotism and trying to get some of this bile and plaque from my mind than it is about entertainment.  I am NOT a good writer. I just manage to spew thoughts faster than I can think them through.

I don’t want to blame any of this on drugs. I don’t want to let myself off that easy.  It is just so much easier to put this down to being genuinely fucked in the head.  I don’t deserve any special consideration for this, because this is just one of the deepest facets of who I am.

I am Hayley Smith, and there’s a good chunk of me that is one of the most pessimistic, useless and self-obsessed people on the planet.

…I don’t want to post this. All of a minute later and I feel like I’ve had another massive moodswing.  I don’t know what has happened in my brain the last few hours, but it’s not pretty.  And I feel so, so self-righteous and arrogant suggesting that my crappy behaviour is indicative of any other sufferer of depression.  What would I know.  But at the same time, I committed to posting this journey, even if it is just for myself and maybe my psychiatrist to read.  So I’m sorry. Have a piece of chocolate if you forced your eyes to read this.  Hug a puppy.  I need this here, but what I hate more than anything is the idea that this mental bullshit I spout would upset anyone else.  The world is fucked, but I don’t want to be the vinegar that spoils someones ability to see the good in it.