Depression level: 10, 8, 9, 5, 10 again
I slept from about 8pm last night until 1pm this afternoon. I simply wanted to go back to sleep. At least when I'm sleeping the dog isn't attacking as fiercely.
Then again, it does attack me in my dreams so I don't honestly get a break at all from his fangs. The weather is not helping at all.
I woke up today still a failure, still stressed, depressed, heartbroken, isolated, alone.
I know I have friends, people that care about me, but it seems when I need someone to do something with, to talk with, to get some relief from this evil fucking dog that has its fangs penetrating my corotid arteries, I'm alone.
They are either depressed themselves which I don't want to add to, they don't have the time for me which is often, or I simply exhaust them - which is what I unfortunately do to my most trusted, relied on and the strongest part of my safety net.
The phone never rings and I get far too excited to see an e-mail or facebook notification - "xxx has commented on your note" or "xxx has commented on your blog." You think I'm being hyperbolic when I say this, but I'm typing the straight truth.
I don't make friends easily, and anyone who knows my past can easily understand why. When you've been betrayed by most people who you stupidly allow in your life one is less likely to let other people in.
I've been told before I don't give people a chance. That's bullshit. I stand at the perimeter and watch people. I get a feel for who they really are. People show their true selves when they believe nobody is watching, or when they think they are around like minded people.
Anyone who is going to be stupid enough to blast me because of my clothes, tats or piercings has proven themselves to be far to shallow to be allowed anywhere near my outer walls without being shot down in a rain of flaming arrows and trebuchet stones.
People who feel it necessary to complain about or make fun of people with mental health issues like Aspergers, Autism or Bipolar can honestly light themselves on fire and add gasoline to their faces.
So no, I don't have many friends and live basically an isolated existence... however:
Isolation is bad for bipolars or just people with depression. It does nothing but make our situation worse. I've been crying for days because I cannot get a break from this demon dog. There is such a thing as too much "me time."
When we're alone, especially in depressed states - we think. I'm especially bad about it. I think all sorts of things. I think of how isolated I am. How I'd love to just stop this struggle of a life and die. How I have no hope of getting into graduate school because I'll never get my gpa up to a 3.5. I'll never have a 4.0 semester because I always end up having at least one mental breakdown. This one was bad enough to send me to the asylum. Sometimes I think of how I just want out of my own life and into someone elses.
In my isolated existence I know that I am a failure. I know that I will never get a job, let alone hold one unless I graduate college and find something to do that keeps me hidden far, far away from human beings, like an archivist. I know that I can't do much with a mere B.A. in English-literature. I can't do much with one in History either, but it's a better shot.
I know that I'll never get anywhere near where I want to be without my unattainable grad degrees... which would probably be riddled with breakdowns just as my BA's have. I know that I have such a slim chance of making it as a writer that I may as well give up on that dream too.
I know that I once had independence, but because of the severity of my disease I've fucked it all up. I had a job. I had an apartment. I was a normal fucking human being. I pissed it all away. I'll never be able to find employment, let alone keep it. I'll never be able to live a normal life. I'll always have to rely on someone, be it Dad, which depresses me more, or the government, which has its own horrible stigma. Either way I'm worthless and useless.
I know that I'll never be loved. I know no man will ever want to rip my clothes off and ravish my grotesque body. I know no man will ever want to truly make love to me in a bed full of rose petals. No man will draw a hot bubble bath for two. The only hand I'll hold will forever be my own.
I know that no matter what I'll always be the little sister, the good friend... the friend. Always the friend.
I know I'll always be isolated, inadequate and mediocre to everyone and in everything.