Like a snake
Slicing the air
Two days ago I felt like cutting my wrists but didn’t act on the impulse because unshaved, with no make-up and chipped nail polish, I’d make an ugly corpse. Therefore, the next day I proceeded to paint my nails, and today I removed my fur and also had a haircut. I’m back to being a person rather than an unkempt animal. Now I am perfectly ready to slit my wrists, alas, I don’t feel like it today. As I like to say: I painted my nails. The world is as it should be now.
I suspect I’m bipolar (a fancy term for extreme mood swings). Mental note (literally mental): notify my psychiatrist of my new diagnosis. On this note, I idly googled the number of the diagnosis I have in my psychiatric documentation and discovered that I was labelled with a Mixed Personality Disorder. Even Google is unsure what the heck that means. Besides that I’m a psychopath, of course. Another mental note: don’t google your diagnoses. Ever. It will just scare the shit out of you.
Also, thank yous and acknowledgements: I was genuinely surprised and very happy with the encouraging and witty comments on my previous somewhat depressing suicidal post. You actually cheered me up, guys. Thank you for taking the time and effort to do so, rather than doing something far more interesting.
Please note that this blogging therapy post frivolously discusses suicide, therefore, depending on how you’re wired, you might not want to read it.
In a polite conversation with a stranger today, I was asked the dreaded question, How are you? I realise the only socially acceptable answer is Fine, but I’m not too keen on white lies. After a prolonged silence, during which I was cluelessly groping for a suitable answer, I got it and responded in a non-committal manner, As per usual.
The question always makes me mildly desperate. I’m as could be expected from a depressed person who isn’t too good at dealing with it. I’m used to being high-achieving, not depressed to the point that I spend an hour coaxing myself into the simple task of getting up from bed in the morning.
I did get up, eventually, and on the way to the bathroom, I got a brilliant idea. I thought it would be nice to slit my wrists and fall asleep and not to wake up. I quite like falling asleep. I don’t particularly like waking up. However, before you panic, rest assured I quickly rejected the thought because that would require me to wash my hair, shave and put on some make-up to be a presentable corpse, and I couldn’t be bothered.
I really wish my psychiatrist gave me the good pills. At my next scheduled appointment, I need to tell her that I saw through her trick of prescribing me placebo and that it doesn’t work for me. I don’t particularly trust my psychiatrist because she has fewer academic degrees than I. Kidding (about the non-trust part, not about the degrees, that’s true). It’s a fun fact, I guess.