  Suckitty suckitty SUCK....... MOOD:.... sui-/homicidal/miserable/grumpy/VERYfukkinfuckedoffINDEED M.A.D Level:.... 9 (see above) MUSIC:....eeevylDED people shouting at me inside my hed FELOID:.... FUCKING expensive . Life suxass, don't it? Evie moved - before we could get together. I pissed Sarah off by being a hopeless flake. Totally broke and found bill I thought I'd paid and hadn't. Council threatening to sue me. House situation worsens. Looks like no trip to London. Heff's PC still in bits. House a tip. People being boringly annoying and childish. Rent still in Limbo and STC getting antsy. The Cat being....well.....The Cat, I guess....some things NEVER change.... I am getting really bored with waiting for 'things to be sorted out' , so we can start 'getting back to normality' and 'settling down' and 'getting on with stuff' .
It's like climbing a freezing mountain coz there's sunshine, warmth and sheter on the other side but, every time you look up, having climbed for hours and fucking hours , the top doesn't seem to have got any closer at all... Brane&I not coping V. well at the moment. Spent most of last week in bed - asleep. Unusually. Yes, not even knitting or watching telly. Actually crashed out. It's THAT bad.... OKay, so it's a blip. And I know it's mostly coz of the therapy stuff stirring the murky shit up from the bottom of the bottle that I've been studiously allowing to settle for the last 20 years. I kinda expected that . But it means that I'm a whole lot less able to cope with other cuntstacks and numbnuts fucking with my hed. And, just at the moment, they seem to be queuing up. I mean, fuck, do I have the big, pink, flashing, neon 'Kick Me' sign stuck to the top of my hed again, or what? I dunno: but I'm in hermit mode again....partly coz I just don't wanna be around people when I'm, like, this feeble, zoned-out, useless and pathetic; partly coz being asleep in bed all the time does tend to limit the time one has to spare for social interaction; but, at the moment, mostly coz this sudden back-swing means I'm right back to where I was a few months ago in terms of leaving the house - to wit.
currently I am not able to most of the time. I'm now at the stage where it takes thought, care and deep breathing even to leave my fucking bedroom, sometimes; and even the rest of the house feels like an unfamiliar, threatening, unsafe landscape. It's pissing me off. Quite a fucking lot, actually. Apart from the technical and logistical hassles of not, for example, being able even to walk the 100 fucking yards round the bleeding corner to the fucking postbox to post a sodding letter. I realised the other night (while I was asleep - go figure) that, since Christmas, I have only been out in daylight three times - when I wan't going to some kind of medical appt.
or other. (And even that's always with Heff; and half of the time I still have to spend hours psyching myself up to it, or trying not to think about it and dashing around at the last minute, so it's happened before I have a chance to hyperventilate and throw up, or totally bottle out) I fucking hate this. Can you spell 'p-a-t-h-e-t-i-c'? Mostly, I don't fucking understand how it works - WHY can I go out at night, or in a car, with relatively little problem; but try walking round the corner for a loaf of bread and I black out?
WHY can't I even travel as far as my parents' house, or to see Gran, without becoming majorly anxious and panicky - when I'm in a CAR the whole way, for fuck's sake? Why am I now finding it difficult to go anywhere there's people AT ALL - worse thatn I've ever been; but yet, in other ways, I'm so much better that it's almost unrecognisable? It makes no logical sense. There's no real pattern I can grasp; no cycle I can really see clearly enough to break; and no improvement or change I can rely on to last for very long, or not to come back worse than before. I HAVE been getting better; and a lot of those gains are still there: overall I'm less geniunely mad than I was.
But some of the most annoying and debilitating, and breathtakingly cruel, of the individual 'events' or 'difficulties', associated with when I've been at my very worst, seem suddenly to have popped up again on their own. As in, "fuck, didn't I deal with you already? I thought you'd gone when I stopped lapsing into catatonia/trying to kill people/ breaking everything in the house / wanting to jump into the dock in the middle of the night? " Ha. Like anything's EVER that simple....I must have unconsciously lapsed into some kind of weird twilight-zone state of optimism, hopefullness or contentedness there, for a second. Silly me! Having thus moaned and whined and wallowed (I'm allowed: it's MY blog. If I'm making you reach for the scalpel-blades, or the bumper-family-fun-sized-pack of ultra-strong paracetamol and the quart of scotch, fuck off and read something bingley-jingly-sparkly and "happi" (*bounce*) instead) I feel a bit better today.
This is coz the Group finally started, so it's not the big black at the back of my hed any more, and they seem pretty unthreatening - as small herds of lunatics go; and coz I went out and walked about in the sun; and I got on a bus on my own; and coz I got to spend some time out of the house with people I lurve - including the person I most adore (wizened chunklets notwithstanding) having some fun. Tho it suddenly occurred to me on the bus: I've just let myself in for FOUR HOURS of therapy a week!!!
FOUR fucking hours!! For at least the next two months. What the...? If the hospital people get back to me within the next eight weeks, I'm going to have no time for anything that isn't pretending to be treatment. (You know - all the deathlessly exciting and stimulating activities with which my hectic, madcap lifestyle is currently stuffed. ) Okay.....I'm currently rooting around under the desk for my 'escape from earth' kit: I feel in DESPERATE need of my fuck-proof hed and my portable hole, all of a sudden.
Still, Dave and I had a bit of a mutual support session this afternoon. That made me feel lots better. I think we agree that true friends are few and far between; and that people, generally, are selfish, unreliable, likely to drag you into their troubles if they can, neurotic, illogical, disappointing and pretty-much best avoided at all cost.
He was telling me about the latest round of crapfullness and social futility he's going through - why do people always like to work off their own misery on innocent bystanders if they can? Anyway, he's feeling a bit low today - coz of the gasman trapping him in the flat for two-anna-half hours - and, as usual, feels there is really no-one he can kinda rely on in his immediate environment. This is because he knows it will end up either being used against him or seen as some kinda permission to tell him how he should be running his life. And, like he said: that's just the people who are even remotely bothering to pretend to be vaguely interested and/or there for him. Trouble with his job is the endless hangers-on. I gather he's having that unpleasant Gestalt moment of nasty revelation - the one where he realises that people he considered real friends are, in fact, really only in it for themselves and what they can get from him; and then only when it suits them or they can be bothered.
Simple solution: he's decided he's just quietly opting out - not going to allow himself to be dragged into the giant shitfest he thinks - knows - is approaching. Sounds like a plan to me. Plus, it means he's likely to be round a bit more as a result. (Does that last remark count as schadenfreude?? I hope not - it wasn't really meant to be selfish gloating...!? ) But I do so love Dave. He's totally the Man, yanno?
Down-to-earth, breath-of-fresh-air and all that; but he's just cool to hang out with: realaxing, fun, stimulating and all that stuff. You can say anything to him coz he's not judgemental. He cares; but he's forgiving and accepting of stuff - just goes his own way. I love that he's such a pragmatist: I love his total lack of bullshit, manipulation and refreshing ability to see past the end of his own nose; and to accept responsibility for things without it being a whole, big, waily 'mea culpa' deal. He can talk about all the shit that's happening to him in a calm, rational and constructive way.
He's not into the whole 'poor me' thing: he's got a strong sense of self-respect that means we can talk, share, and neither is expecting the other to somehow DO anything. Just, well, listen, is all. Make observations, empathise. Offer support. Occasionally take the piss. That kinda thing. No pressure. Overall, Dave's doing a pretty fine job of being positive, under the circumstances. He's neither wallowing and expecting gratuitous, pointless, sympathy (I think he'd throttle anyone who tried it); nor is he trying, unrealistically, to brush his feelings under the rug and pretend nothing's happening, everything's fine, business in Daveland as usual. It's a pity that, when people see how strong, pragmatic, in control and unsentimental he is, they seem, often, to mistake it for a lack of feeling.
As a result, I think lots of people think he doesn't need people to be there for him, sometimes, when he's taking shite. It's just that while he might need someone, he doesn't want any- and everyone involved in his life - crashing around like a herd of wild pigs, trampling on and picking over all his soft and wobbly bits and peering into dark, slime-infested corners with a bloody-great torch. Of course, I have to keep reminding myself that this is not necessarily miraculous singularity: just that he's an adult. I almost forgot what one looks like. And I'm not talking how many years you happen to have been on the planet, either: clearly, this is no predicator of maturity. Whatever - he's such a great bloke and I feel really priviledged to have him as a mate. *thinks* So it's not all bad, then. Still got a couple of people out there who seem to give a shit, and be willing to accept with grace that I am a useless cunt through no choice of mine, and are not so utterly narcissistic that they take it personally. (NB. Sarah doesn't count in the above: she's taken endless shite from me and I'm not surprised she's pissed off.
I would be, too. ) Crap is a good sorter: you find out who your real friends are. It's often surprising - in a positive way: they tend not to be who you think they will be. As well as the, sadly predictable, disappointment of having to let go of people you really care about because they can't - or won't. God, I'm waffling bollox. Like I say, brainfuk. I'm off to pray to the "Recently-Deceased-Obscenely-Rich-Distant-Relatives-You-Didn't-Know-You-Had-But-Who-Have-Now-Died-And-Left-Their-Entire-Fortune-To-You" fairy.
This is because Fate turned up with the dump-truck again this week: the cat cost us £75 at the vet, we have a hugely overdue phone bill, are about to become telly-less and washing-machine-less, we have absolutely NO money whatsoever, and we STILL can't get the fucking digi-cam to work so we can raise capital by flogging everything we own on eBay. I wasn't meant to be poor: I'm just no good at it, yanno?? Elderly-Cat Pie, anyone?
Bit stringy; but, pound-for-pound, at least three times the price of half-decent Beluga.... *sigh* . 
