I had a bad day. Big surprise, right? (I should warn you, the end of this post gets totally way TMI) When you’re bipolar the little things can set you off. I can’t help it. One of those things that consistently hurts me. It’s actually almost physically painful is the feeling of being blown off. If someone says they’re going to meet me, and they don’t show up, or they show up half an hour or an hour late, I want to cry. If someone says “I’m going to go grab this quick, and then we’ll go to the store,” I expect it not to take 2+ hours. It makes me feel worthless. Like I’m not important. Every single time. I used to have birthday parties and invite all of my “friends,” and only a few of them would show up. Now, I never expected all of my classmates to show up, but my friends? People I thought were ACTUALLY my friends? Yeah. But it didn’t happen. Year after year I’d invite them, and year after year they didn’t show up. So I stopped. And I developed abandonment issues. By blowing me off, it meant you didn’t like me, or care, or want to be near me. Stupid, right?
So one of the great things about me having a bad day is that I already can’t sleep, so my already heavily full mind of festering thoughts fills even more. And it compounds. I tend to listen to one song on repeat all night. Or if it’s during the day, all day. Right now, it’s “Bad Day” by Fuel. One of my favorite bands. The irony is not lost on me.
“She had a bad day again.” I really did. “She said I would not understand.” No, you really can’t. “She left a note and said I’m sorry I, had a bad day again.” No. I’m not going there. Won’t happen. … “And she swears there’s nothing wrong.” I do this every day of every week of every month. Most of the time, when I tell my friends, my family, coworkers, acquaintances that I’m doing well? I’m lying. I’m faking it. Why? Because it makes them feel better. “I hear her playing that same old song.” I do. All day. I don’t know why. It probably makes things worse, but I have always done that.
But enough analyzing that little snippet of the song. Now for the TMI I totally can’t do the sex thing. I could, once. I liked it. Loved it, really. I blame the meds. I blame the depression. I blame me. I feel guilty about it. So guilty. Which, of course, makes my depression worse. I feel like I’m a horrible person. That’s what a girlfriend is supposed to do, right? That’s one of the things you’re supposed to want to do with your boyfriend. I WANT to want to do this. I just don’t. It’s not him. It’s me. I just have zero desire. He doesn’t believe me. And I’m pretty sure he hates me for it. I feel broken. I am broken. I keep trying everything, and I can’t fix it. So I sit here, wrecked, like I am. Bawling, like I do every time I think about how I fail at life, and I feel this overwhelming sense of guilt. That I’m just taking up space. That I’m ruining his life, that he just feels too guilty to kick me out, and knowing he wants to go find someone else to fuck.
Here’s a secret, if you’ve made it this far. When someone’s depressed, and they have no libido, trying to “jumpstart” their libido by pawing at them, or fondling them, doesn’t work. It’s something that might normally get something excited. If they’re depressed and have nothing there? It just makes them feel worse. Because it tops that depression with guilt and adds more depression. That’s where I’m at. Not only do I have that depression, that lack of libido, I have the guilt and self loathing on top of it. The best part? In the back of my mind, I still have, on repeat, those words of every “well meaning” person in my life who’s ever told me, “Learn to love yourself first. No one will ever love you if you can’t love yourself first.” That’s great. I will spend the rest of my life knowing that. No. One. Will. Ever. Love. Me. Because. I. Can’t. Love. Me. That’s awesome.
So yeah… Had a bad day again. You probably wouldn’t understand.