I quit my job of a year and four months on December 5, 2012. I have been experiencing another low period ever since. This is my attempt to get my feelings in text.
The quality of my life has steadily declined since I was sixteen years old when I began experiencing very dark and uncontrollable emotions. Every psychiatrist or psychologist I’ve been treated by since then has refused to diagnose me with anything except depression. I am not sure whether this is a blessing or a curse. Sometimes, diagnosing someone with a specific mental illness has a way of convincing that person they have a handicap. In this light, I’m certain they wanted to do me a favor. However, regardless of the lack of an official diagnosis, I am still exhibiting the debilitating, life-altering behaviors of a person with bipolar disorder. Trying to receive help for my condition is a bit difficult, considering I do not have the financial resources for continued treatment, and not officially being diagnosed seems to be preventing me from obtaining the help I need. After all, the welfare system is continually being abused by people who are able to work and simply do not want to. To add me to the list of welfare recipients seems foolish considering I have two arms, two legs, intellectual curiousity, and a strong work ethic. All those things are meaningless, however, when you’re trapped in bed because your mind is constantly searching for a motive to get up. I do have a desire and an ability to contribute. I consider myself somewhat educated, but lacking the necessary resources (ie: connections) to continue my mental development. I also lack discipline and patience. Unless I can muster up the courage to attain those things, I will always find myself writing incoherent pieces on the nature of my emotions which will fail to lead me in the direction I need to go.
My lack of motivation stems from the strong resentment I have about being forced to be a member of the work force. I don’t want to waste my life doing menial tasks to earn money which will allow me to continue wasting my life. It’s a very disturbing cycle. I have been told that a formal education is the way out of this cycle, but it seems more a part of the cycle than a way out of it. The cost of a formal education is high, and frankly, the quality of the final product has diminished in America compared to many other countries around the world. Not only that, but when you have completed the program of your chosing, you are even worse off financially than when you started. You are thrust into the world as some sort of expert in your field, and if that expertise isn’t very marketable, you might still end up at data entry. What could be more menial than data entry?
I very clearly need help, but I can’t seem to earn the help I need to continue my life the way I would want to.
Is it money I’m after? Money keeps the bills paid, which prevents me from hyperventilating when a utility company threatens to terminate their services.
I once had the notion that I wasn’t really sick, but my feelings are perfectly normal ways of trying to cope with modern society. I may still feel this way, but I have an inability to rectify those emotions with any practical alternative lifestyle. So I try to do the best I can within the scope of societal demands, and when it fails, because it will fail, I am left with nothing once more, and I must start over again.
Occasionally, I am able to get a job and hold on to it for as long as I possibly can. Periods of employment for me usually last between nine months and a year. When I have a job, I usually require more than a typical amount of sick days, but when I do attend, I’m told my performance is much higher than others assigned to the same task.
I have been suffering from migraines since I was in elementary school. These days, I have a regular headache three or four days out of the week, and a serious migraine perhaps once a month. I am physically unhealthy. I do not exercise or eat the proper foods, and I smoke cigarettes occasionally, although I haven’t had a cigarette for several days. I do sleep quite a bit, and when I’m not sleeping, I will still stay in bed for hours watching TV shows or playing video games. I neglect my chores for the most part, aside from cooking, washing dishes, and caring for my two cats, and I haven’t even tried to look for another job. My body is sick, admittedly, but for whatever reason, I can’t seem to develop the will to change my situation.
Even as I sit here writing this, a very positive first step, I am tempted to quit and resume watching television. This… thing… I’ve been writing for about three hours now seems more like stream of consciousness than an actual article. I know that if I were to quit and resume watching my shows I would still think about finishing my writing. I watch science fiction only these days, and every time I do, I’m convinced I can write better science fiction than what’s currently available. I have an idea for a novel I’ve been avoiding for many years now, and it’s frustrating when I can’t seem to get that idea on paper. Why can’t I? I’m not even trying. I started a painting and it’s actually not bad. In fact, it has been quite pleasurable to create thus far. I’m waiting for the latest coating of paint to dry so I can continue without messing it up. I feel like I might be on the verge of a new era of creativity and possibly a way to end this constant cycle of gloom I’ve been in for many, many years. One step at a time is the most important thing I can tell myself.
I hope my boyfriend will continue to understand how introspective I’ve been lately. He was upset yesterday that I don’t seem to care about his depression. I want to, but I can’t. I am so deeply involved with myself at the moment that I can’t divert any energy to him. If that means I must let him go, I shall. This whole article sounds terribly selfish, I know, but I must till the dirt before anything can grow. Patience and commitment and discipline. Continue and take one step at a time. Don’t give up too early and stick with it. I feel the need to document the next few years.