Running my hands over my eyes, and I fell out of bed, hurting my head from things that I said.
I’ve been mostly periscope down the last few weeks. Not just here, mostly as much everywhere that I can be. I’ve been trying to figure out what to write, and how to write for a bit now. Two weeks ago was a complete disaster for me. A friend, who was a regular at one of my old jobs, hung himself. It happens. People die. I’ve said time and time again that depression kills. It’s a terminal disease. Trust me, I know this. I can handle it the same as any other death. To me, it’s not selfish. It’s not one of those things that people do to hurt others. It’s a disease that eventually wins. It’s your brain fucking with you until you don’t know what’s up and down, left and backwards. I think the more difficult part about his death was actually hearing that his ex took off with their daughter, so she didn’t get to go to her father’s funeral.
‘Til I finally died, which started the whole world living.
Funerals are for the living. They bring people closure. They give people a chance to come together and bond and reminisce. They remember the good, they ignore the bad–well, they pretend it didn’t happen. At least in public, and for a time. Most do, anyway. I remember one funeral that a classmate’s little brother had killed himself. I told his mother that he’d been a little shit, but I absolutely adored the kid. It was the truth. He sure knew how to cause trouble when he wanted, but it was always fun.
I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing.
The sadness of the week that was just destructive and devastating for me, though, was the death of a very close friend’s husband. He was old. They were happy. He’d lived a long and wonderful life, with struggles, and successes, and children, and grandchildren. They were a loving couple, and he had hobbies into his 90’s. It was quick, painless, no struggle–at least that’s what I was told. I still haven’t sent a card to his wife, my friend. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good with words.
I started a joke, which started the whole world crying.
I think what was difficult–and still is. Is that, despite my friends, the death of an acquaintance and a friend, I just feel alone. Maybe it’s my meds being less effective. Maybe it’s something else–probably is. I just feel like the world is tumbling down. I know I should be having days where the world feels good. But I haven’t even felt manic in a while. It’s not even there, bubbling beneath the haze of the meds. Not that the meds really haze anything anymore, but it doesn’t exactly let the insanity completely take over. Just mostly. It’s difficult to explain. I have an appointment later in the month to ask my doctor to either change them or add something to make it a little less crazy. Wonder if she’ll prescribe Gorilla Glue. Duct tape?
Oh if I’d only seen, that the joke was on me. Oh no, that the joke was on me.
I’ve been so snappy lately, and down, that it’s angering everyone around me. I just feel… empty. I don’t want to game. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to watch TV. I don’t want to eat. I sleep when I pass out, but the nightmares aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories. My brain is replaying things in exquisite detail that I can’t forget. Emotions, sights, smells, physical feelings. They’re vivid. I mean really vivid. I mean, three-dimensional, sensurround , the hills are alive vivid. I don’t want to do anything. Words are hard.