‘Bent out of shape by society’s pliers’ a line from “It’s Alright ma, I’m only Bleeding” by Bob Dylan, an artist who has got me through many a good and bad time since I was young. It encapsulates how I feel.
I have been tweeting prolifically from my bed this morning;
I shud blog this twitter is too short.
My depression is made worse by a society that won’t give me space to think in such a bleak way, it turns destructive when denied #mentalhealth
#antidepressants just seem to numb me I feel nothing, a void which is worse than the ups & downs at least with them I feel alive
after A few days of a reduced dose (by accident) I feel my mind coming back! But dr says I’m not stable enough to reduce
1of those days where I simultaneously feel invincible & want to do a 1000 things yet unable to get out of bed#wtfmoodswings
I now have the urge to write a full post, a strong urge. All the feelings that have been subdued for so long by my medication have come flowing back, my life, my soul,the fire in my belly or whatever you wish to call it. I know I am medicated as this being often wishes destruction and despair on me, yet I am never sure if the intense numbing (which no one ever seems to take seriously as a side effect) is worth it.
I feel the dark moods are more a problem for a society that won’t give me the space I need to deal with them, that pathologises what I feel as only human, that denies me the time and space to just feel as utterly despairing and miserable as I need to. If society was more open, if I did not feel like a freak every time I mentioned I felt depressed or suicidal or that I think of these sorts of things in an abstract way a lot of the time and explore things intellectually, if I voice thoughts like it doesn’t really matter if I die because if I am dead it won’t matter; thoughts I don’t often mean as intentions but are just things I think about, that I can’t help but think about. That what I feel and think makes society uncomfortable, perhaps it leads to questioning too many things, so I am told I should not feel this, or I should strive to make it go away as soon as possible, to deny it, to never let it take the time and exploration it needs.
I do not enjoy feeling suicidal at all, I do worry I will go beyond the thought stage one day, after all I do self harm and have taken small non lethal overdoses for the hell of it, having no intention to die but just some sort of curiosity or strong urge to do it. Yet it is precisely because I feel like that that I resent having these feelings and thoughts metaphorically beaten out of me, told they are wrong, that I must not feel them to be ‘healthy’. Yet these thoughts and feelings are as valid as any, they never truly disappear when they are pushed down, out of sight, perhaps that’s why they have become so violent and viscous; I have been told my whole life to not say certain things. That it isn’t ‘normal’ to say stuff like ‘well everyone dies’ even if it is true. That you should not think about the dark side of life, yet it’s there whether we like it or not. That ‘positive thinking’ is good and I should try it whenever I feel down. That I should not read Sylvia Plath, or Camus or listen to depressing music even though I feel a wallow in angst helps me far more than ‘cheering myself up’ by painting on a false smile and engaging in shallow psychological short cuts. I have always been a bit gloomy, an Eeyore, I have had these things said to me since I was a small child. Don’t say this, “ohh don’t be so depressing’ the insinuation something is wrong with me because I think about things people find uncomfortable to hear. Is it any wonder I end up so fucked up? That all that curiosity and thought ended up being so destructive as it was denied any time or space to just be, perhaps the irony is if society let me be miserable I wouldn’t be so fucking miserable half the time. If it’s perfectly socially acceptable for people to inflict their happiness and good moods on others why shouldn’t bad moods be given equally open status?
Yet at the same time I feel so hideous I also have the capability to feel amazing. That sense of mild euphoria you get from just ‘being’ and realising it, feeling like god or the world or something is letting you in on a secret by showing you how wonderful the world is whilst others rush past and ignore the marks left by climbing plants in paint that stun in their intricacy, or the feel of the breeze on your skin, or the smell of damp tarmac mixed with blossoms in spring. The beauty of language, how words can just dance through my mind, often in rhyme or poetic flow, how I need to write things down because if I don’t my head will explode as it contains so much. The ideas, the thoughts, the intellectual capacity I get in rushes to describe my views on the world, to form coherent dialectics on this that and the other, to feel that fire again that I am alive and that I feel, I think, I am and that I matter.
After having accidentally reduced my dose due to a bank holiday prescription miscalculation (that would make an excellent pretentious indie band name) these feelings are all flooding back. It is not until I feel them again that I realise how utterly deadened I have become on anti-depressants that whilst I may be ‘doing well’ according to outside eyes it is at a price, a price which my psychiatrist seems reluctant to even acknowledge. The more time passes the more I feel I am not sure I am willing to sacrifice those moments of wonder for bland stability. It’s not as if I don’t get depressed on antidepressants, I do it just seems to be a duller, nagging ache of depression as opposed to a sharp, acute all encompassing surge. Yet I never feel truly happy on anti depressants, not even for a moment. I just don’t really feel anything and I think that’s a big problem, it’s very hard to try and sort out your life or to try and do anything worthwhile without feeling anything. I have no motivation whatever I do I feel the same sort of ready meal uniformity, I have no impetus to do anything that involves effort as I feel nothing as reward.
Above all I suppose I feel some sort of arrogant desire to not to be ‘normal’, to revel in my unconventional mind. I don;t want to give in and become a beige, pebble dashed box going along with the systems I despise and fitting in and not causing trouble. I want to stir shit. To make a noise.