Tuesday, August 16, 2011
I can see the sun rise from my bed. I can see the sun set. Other than to walk to the toilet, or feed the cat, I don't want to leave my bed. I don't want to listen to the radio. I don't want to watch TV. I don't want to talk to anyone on the phone, I don't want the sun to rise again.
I don't want anything. I've just stopped caring. There's no joy, no despair, no nothing. Just pain from my new bladder infection. I don't feel anything. I feel like one of Eliot's Hollow men- stuffed with straw, but not alive.
I don't exist. I don't care.
The cat hasn't left my side in several days. Her new thing is to lick my hair, I haven't washed it in three weeks. I haven't bathed in about 10 days. I guess it smells good to her, or she likes the texture. I don't know. I don't like it, but I can't do anything about it. She only leaves my side to bite me to feed her, water her, change her box. I make myself a cup of coffee, I want to eat but I don't care. I do it strictly out of boredom. I'm craving sugar but I don't have anything sweet.
I've had depressions before. I've had depressions where I couldn't move, But never, ever one where I feel like I just don't care about anyone or anything. Never one where I just don't feel anything. I've felt numb before, gotten that way through alcohol or just overwhelmed by everything, I could shut myself off and power down. It's Never like this.
I worked hard to get this blog started, it's always been my baby. When I started it, I promised I would try to explain what it's like to be bipolar- to get inside my head and really try to explain the dirty side of it. I can't write now. I can't do anything, other than sleep. It's like this is an abortion. I don't want it to die, it scares me as less people visit. I don't post every other day. I can't write. I just don't care.
Last month I got an email from someone who found the blog and said I helped them through a bad patch. It made me happy- that I was able to help someone. It gave me a kind of purpose to keep on going. The only way we can get better is to help and be helped.
Today is a good day because I got out of bed and fed the cat. I had a cup of coffee, some toast and a cigarette. The rain we have been getting had stopped and I could see the sun trying to peek out through the clouds.
Then I went back to bed. I feel like crying but my tear ducts are dry. I have nothing to cry about. Clutching my stuffed panda bear to me, I curl up in a fetal position and feel like praying for the world to end.
Only I'm an atheist. I stopped believing in G-d when I saw things in a mental hospital. Humans don't do this to other humans. During WW II my father, 18 years old at the time was a medic assigned to help civilians at a concentration camp, after VE day. Somehow seeing that inhumanity made my father's faith stronger. Is it wrong to me to say I am jealous of my father? Or is it because not only did I *see* the dark side, I was a victim at the same time, unlike my father? He has nightmares about what he saw in the war- I have nightmares of ECT treatments and psychiatric drugs that destroyed my body, and my soul.
There's the rub. His soul stayed intact, mine was devoured. If you don't have a soul, you cannot believe in G-d. I don't believe in the kindness of strangers. I don't believe in goodness or kindness-or the other side evil. None of it exists. I don't exist. All there is here is the cat, and me, lying in bed, unable to move, watching sunrise and sunset. When my life is over it won't be measured by coffee spoons like Prufrock, it will be measured by scoops of cat shit.