My mind is blocked as well as my nose and ears. I couldn't do a simple task, and I can't decide whether it's because I'm ill or because I just can't be arsed. It amounts to the same thing - the task doesn't get done and I feel a failure. Depression mimics not coping - but it's millions of miles away from that. Depressives cope fantastically on a day to day, hour to hour basis - we cope with constant rotten thoughts, often with voices and always with dignity. We stay alive, don't we? So I'm not "not coping" at all - I'm coping well with the terrible ravages of the illness. Even being suicidal is trying to cope. Self harming is coping. I just carry on coping and have to realise that this evening's tasks are beyond me for today. It's a bit like mindfulness - noticing and letting go. I'm crap at that when it comes to thoughts and voices, but I try not to beat myself up about tasks. Having said that, I've got to have a shower and get dressed later, in order to go out to the garage - and that's a task I'm dreading. It's safe in my pyjamas.
My hands are itchy again, so it's back to the cream and the pills. And I've got restless legs - how I am supposed to sleep is a mystery. What happened to my 10 hours a night? They were guaranteed by quetiapine, a mere 100mg of it - 350mg and 2 nitrazepam and all I get are the side effects, not the result I crave. Perhaps I should fill in my contact form on the front page of this blog and send myself a note - "GO TO SLEEP".
I'm feeling low again - it descends like a cloud on me. What a cliche - but it's true. It wraps its tendrils around me and devours my soul. I am left colourless; black and white as everything seeps away. All my previous bravado about coping disappears. I'm alone in my head.
I spent 16 years in the RAF defending the Free World , then got bunged out unceremoniously for being bipolar. I and was subsequently diagnosed with PTSD. Funny old world, isn't it?