Dead Before 40

I don’t know how to describe what I feel. I’ve been told that I write well, but when it comes to writing what I feel and how I react to certain situations I’m not sure how they come across to other people. I’m bipolar. My manic episodes aren’t what you think of as manic. I don’t go on these huge spending sprees or let loose and go crazy. I’m kind of simplistic manic. I’m calm and collected. It’s “hypomania.” I’m not full on manic at all. My sister is full on manic. My dad was full on manic. I don’t get those symptoms. I just feel a little better than usual. My mood is elevated more than normal. I’m not sure how to describe it.

I’m up for doing adventurous things, but nothing too risky. If someone says “Hey, want to climb a mountain today?” Fuck yeah! Let’s do that! I can carry on with my daily life when the hypomania comes along. It’s when the depression comes along that I don’t feel like myself. The depression is what gets to me. I’m just now coming out of a depressive episode which has lasted for about two months now.

I explained my moods to my psychiatrist. I go from feeling normal, which is like getting to the top of the rollercoaster, but then it plummets tremendously and I don’t know what to do with myself. I relate it back to my dog, Denver. Denver was my best friend. I had him for 14 years. He was a puppy when I first got him. I’d take him for walks every single day, twice a day. I enjoyed my walks with him. However long he wanted to walk, that’s how long we walked. I’d let him sniff whatever he wanted and just let him go about his merry way. That was me when I was feeling normal. When my depression crept in I knew things were different. I’d try to pull him back toward the house. I’d get impatient. I wanted him to do his business and let’s get back so I could just go back to bed.

Now that Denver is dead I don’t feel the need to get up for anything anymore. I sleep all day. I look at my phone and see messages from friends and I just have no desire to reply to them. There’s nothing I have to say and nothing they can say that can make things any better. I want life to just stop. I want a pause. I want an end. I want an out. I truly don’t know how to describe what I feel. I think the best way to put it is that I don’t want to feel anything at all. I don’t want to hurt. I don’t want to feel like shit about shit that I can’t control.

I think about things from my past that have been said and done and I ruminate over them and obsess over them, wishing I could take shit back. Do people that I hurt remember that I hurt them? I’ve said some stupid shit in my 32 years on this planet to people. Do people think back on stupid shit I said to them and have a good laugh about it? We all like to think that we don’t care what others think about us, but deep down I think we really do. I know I do and I have no reason to give a shit. Why should I give a fuck what I said to some asshole in kindergarten? I do, though. I give a fuck and I wonder if they think back on what I said and have a good laugh about it.

I like to think there’s an unspoken rule that things that happen or things that are said when we’re drunk don’t get mentioned when we’re all sober the next day. I know that’s not true, though. Friends of mine subtly bring up shit that I said or did years ago when I was hammered and I quickly change the subject. I don’t want to be reminded of what happened back then. It just brings up bad memories that I’d much rather forget.

I think I’ve gone off topic as I tend to do. I just know that I beat myself up when it comes to what I’ve said and done in the past and I wish there was some way I could fix that, but I don’t think that I can. I think that’s why I try so many drugs – legal and otherwise – to try to fix myself. I don’t want to remember a lot of what I’ve said and done in the past. The only solace I find is in the fact that I’m going to be dead before I reach the age of 40 and none of this is going to matter in the slightest.

The Third Day of a Seven-Day Binge

I used to binge drink every day. I’d give myself a day to recover if I overdid it, but as soon as the alcohol left my body I was dumping more back into it. I never let anyone know. Well, that’s not true. I let people know I was drunk because I get chatty (and sometimes mouthy) when I drink. I know some worried, others I kept in the dark such as family. Others seemed to encourage my drinking because let’s face it — some of us really are more fun when we’re drunk. I’m not really fun when I’m stoned, and I’m not aiming to be.

When I’m stoned I’m aiming to be calm and relax. I don’t care to socialize with others when I’m stoned. When I’m drinking it means that I’m required to talk to other people and that just can’t happen unless I imbibe. The fun nights were the nights when I was drinking, popping narcotics, and smoking weed at the same time. I’d do this on webcam with friends from a now-defunct blogging site. We had the best ideas then, but we’d forget those ideas the next day because we were bombed out of our minds the night before.

I can’t say I’ve given up drinking because I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I may very well go to the liquor store and get a bottle of my old friend Jim Beam. I may decide to have a sit down with Jack Daniels since he and I haven’t shot the shit in some time. I’m medicated now so I shouldn’t feel the need to self-medicate, should I? I’m just not wanting to feel anything right now. Memories got brought up earlier and I don’t know how others handle those. I try to get them out of my head in any way that I can.

I guess I can ask my psychiatrist when I see her. I see her in a couple of weeks. I just want memories and certain thoughts to go away. I’ve been doing so well, too. It’s just par for the course, I suppose. You see something that reminds you of something or someone and all those bitter emotions come back. You become distraught all over again. What others see as no big deal I take to heart and over-analyze and interpret every way to Sunday. What could I have done differently? Why didn’t what I do work out? I think I do the right thing and strive to do the right thing, but sometimes the right thing just kicks you in the dick. What do you do when that happens?

It’s also a bitch when you’re left with no answers. You know those scenes you see in the movies where the person is seen standing there alone while the train or car or the other person leaves them stranded and alone? I think that’s the best image I can come up with for what’s going on with me right now. It’s not a specific person or thing. Everything feels like it’s slipping. I’ve also become more and more afraid of things the more I think about them. Why am I rambling? Who gives a shit?

I Think I’m Dumb or Maybe Just Happy

I can’t believe I just quoted Nirvana for a post of mine. I hate Nirvana. They have a handful of decent songs, but I hate how they – especially Cobain – are put on a pedestal. They’re not as great of a band as people make them out to be. I thought the quote fit for what I’m about to discuss, though.

I posted about my Bipolar 2 disorder here if you’d care to freshen up. With that being said, I’ve been feeling better mentally. I haven’t had a suicidal thought in two months, maybe. It may be longer, but who’s counting? The point is that I haven’t felt like killing myself in a couple of months and for many years before this, not a day went by where I didn’t think of some way or another about ending my life. I believe this is an improvement.

The problem is that I think the medications I’m taking are making my brain kind of turn to mush. I feel myself becoming confused. I don’t remember what I’m doing a lot of the time. I’m having trouble forming sentences. I find myself trying to find the right words when before I had an extensive vocabulary, albeit sometimes that would get sprinkled with my fair amount of profanities.

I’m happy, but I feel that my brain has been kind of jostled around. I’ve retreated inside myself more and don’t hold conversations with people very well anymore. I’ve always been an introvert, but I find myself unable to communicate with people when I want to these days. I drift off into my own thoughts, focus on things besides the topic at hand. I just get bored and fade mentally speaking. I had a conversation with my mom about it, and she recommended telling my psychiatrist about it. She asked if it concerned me. I thought about it, and it did at first thought. The more I thought about it, the less it bothered me, though.

When I really think about it, dig deep and really think, I’ve decided that I’d rather be dumb and happy than smart and depressed. I’ve been depressed for so long. I think it’s time to give happiness a try even if that means risking some brain cells.

“I’ll take a nice idiot over a smart asshole any day of the week.” -Jim Jeffries