For the past few weeks, I've been walking around wondering if I were depressed or if life just sucked lately. I think it may be a little of both, probably at a ratio of 65:35 (is that how ratio is expressed, math geeks out there? am I even wanting a ratio to describe the proportions in this case?)
Anyway, the old familiar friends are back: the irritability, fatigue, anger, perfectionism, frustration, hating myself and nearly everything around me, the feeling of wanting to get away, to get in a car and hit the road, head off into the sunset, to escape my life and create a new one as a complete stranger in some other place, then move on again once I get tired of that - a longing for nomadism, for solitude.
I count up the small disasters - stepping in shit, an asshole customer, a lousy tip, things that happen at home, things people want of me that I am too tired and frustrated to give, the thousand syncronicities of fruitless, frustrating events that seem to be arranged by Malevolence Himself.
I hate my body, I hate who I am. I hate others for who they are and at the same time long to be like them. I forget my allegiance to kindness and decide that being rude and arrogant is the only way to get what you want in this world.
At the same time, everything seems meaningful, everything is a Sign and my creativity is heightened. Instead of the typically reported greying of life, visually my world is more colorful, more intense. A breeze is a respit, the smell of grass like opium.
Mania? Mixed state? What is this?
As I've mentioned, I've been diagnosed with nearly every mental disease there is. Nearly. I am fine with that, except that I have to find a psychiatrist in my town, and how do you walk into an office and explain the whole complexity? How do you walk into a new psychiatrist's office and convince her or him that even though you are currently taking an anti-psychotic, and have been on and off one anti-psychotic or another for the past few years, you are in fact not psychotic, and furthermore you doubt that you suffer from bipolar disorder, only that you from time to time struggle with what you think of as a special kind of hell not yet realized and recognized by the medical community, you could probably guess that your family, your own ancestral history has indeed created a new strain of depression, you're pretty sure of that because they are nearly all nuts and it wouldn't be surprising. You just want to sleep at night and feel a little better.
Maybe reducing the Seroquel has finally caught up with me. I want off the Seroquel. I want the hungry, sugar-lust werewolf that appears forty minutes into the drug to disappear. If I continued on the Seroquel, I feel that, in order to keep from feeding, I would need to lock myself in a room until I fell asleep.