At the time of starting this post, it's 3:48am, insert sharp inhale and slow exhale here. Basically, this morning is another night in the series of "nights that Sam hasn't slept" and more than anything, it's frustrating. A little scary, perhaps, but mostly frustrating. My pills wear off around this time and I start to get lost and alone, trapped inside the swirl of despair that is my mind. I don't like here, I don't like the sadness and the worries and the panic and the negativity, but I can't do anything about them. It dawns on me, that I'm reliant on pills and when on pills, I can bring optimism to others, but not to myself.
I wonder sometimes, what I've done to deserve this, to have had these series of events play out, one after another in the fashion of a sick joke. I still don't accept my "mental illness" even though everyone could guess, or would tell you that I was "a bit strange". I don't know what it is, or why, but I almost expect people to know what is going on in my head. If something comes out strangely or excitedly or worriedly, it might not mean that at all; it might just mean that I've been thinking about other things.
Now, I'm sitting on my bed, legs crossed with my iPad propped up in front of me. I'm tapping this out as though I was using a laptop, and sometimes my fingers will wander off on their own or not do what I tell them. It's a strange feeling, knowing where something is, telling you finger to press it and your finger doing something else. Is it my mind playing against me, is it "nerve damage" or am I subconsciously making my life deliberately more difficult for myself? I wish I knew.
I have no great story of rising to power, falling and trying to pick myself up again. It's simply: I was born this way, no-one listened, I accepted it, then several years later I was told I was right. Sadly, I was told I was right much too late and midway through a sudden decline that I couldn't handle; in fact, I still can't. People say to me "what are you taking, I want some!" but it's not that simple, you need to have the piece of paper and the label that go with the pills; that's the hard part. I have a shopping list of pills, literally £100+ a month without my prepay card (and now, free, thanks to benefits), so how would I narrow it down anyway?
Anyway, what was I talking about? I knew I wanted to write something here, but I have forgotten. Couldn't have been important. Then, I'll get back to the thoughts of someone who is mentally and physically ill. In a perpetual cycle of genetic issues that, like ouroboros, eat away at themselves with no loss or gain; I find my thoughts to be the same. What affects do I have on peoples' lives, what does it matter? Out of six point whatever billion people, there is bound to be another someone who's like me, maybe ten, maybe a whole colony of Sams. Who knows. So if I disappeared today or tomorrow, I could be easily replaced, especially thanks to the theory of the six ways of separation, or whatever it's called.
No, I'm not writing my own obituary or a suicide note here, I'm just ranting and raving about nothing because I can't sleep. I can't do other basic things anymore, either, but it's only sleep that bugs me. It's now 4:21am and I feel as though I have gotten nowhere, which is true, I guess, although I have shuffled about a bit as my ankles like to pop out if I sit on them too long. My chest still hurts from being battered about on the train when I went to UCL on Thursday, it felt like I was being winded repeatedly and now I ache.
I worry, that when I won't be sleeping alone, I'll still have these periods of increasing fuzziness and melancholic apathy. And if I do, what would that person think if she found out, or woke up while I was in one of these states? I don't know. I don't even know how I'd react, really, if someone else appeared while I felt like this. The PS3 has just turned on and checked for downloads, so it must be 4:30 or there abouts. Do I bother sleeping, only to get up in about 4 maybe 5 hours time, or do I push through and make myself thoroughly ill, worse than how I felt earlier tonight?
Anyway, this is turning stranger and stranger by the minute and might turn into a tunnel that bores into the centre of Tim Burton's psyche, or some other place equally as fucked up, like Narnia. I'll leave this here for people to absorb, dissect, compare, contrast and criticise, because I'm sure I'll get one or two "concerned" talks about it, at least I hope so, so I can see what people think of what my mind is like when addled by the lack of important chemicals.
So in closing: A cat is fine, too.
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