The Identity of This Blog

I have decided the identity of this blog. It is the blog of a supposedly mentally ill girl. Man, that looks much worse written down. As if an extreme phobia and post-traumatic stress disorder weren't enough, it becomes somewhat apparent that I could be bipolar. Whoop-de-doo.

It is the eighth of June (yay, me and my beloved's seven-month anniversary - boy, what a girl am I!) at ten past ten at night and in the past twenty-six hours, I've felt two big extremes - going to bed hyper and full of life, waking up drained and wanting nothing more than to die.

Sounds dark. Sorry. This is called my reality.

I've been told I'm at the age where symptoms would be becoming more noticeable. And yet, I still think, deep down, it's a little too early for me to be diagnosed. Most people don't get diagnosed as bipolar until they're at least twenty five years of age. I could be just hormonal, or it could be something I'm eating. Either way, today was the first day when I felt the reality of the possibility of being mentally ill really sunk in. I mean, it was strange before - like I wasn't taking it seriously - carrying around the bipolar label almost like a badge of honour, taping the diagnosis onto myself before it was even confirmed. Only today I've realised how arrogant and cocky I've been.

I arrived at a Costa's today to meet with said beloved. I was fifteen minutes late and I spotted him immediately. Holding a door open for two voluptuous women clutching various items of luxury, I slipped inside - a black-clothed, greasy-haired bundle of jangled nerves.

Lawrence said: "So you're on another downer."

My best friend, my darling boyfriend - blunt, straight to the point and sees right into my soul at light speed. Awkwardly, I nodded, clamping my hands together and not meeting eye. A wonderful defence, of course.

"So last night you were on a high, and now..."

"I've crashed," I completed for him in a weak voice.

He brought his forehead to mine. I brought my eye level to his. His eyes sparked with recognition. Manic-depression runs in his family. His experience with the illness has brought his knowledge thus far.

The bill came up to around £120. It started with a CD and a T-shirt. Then it was dresses, corsets, hair extensions, more T-shirts, things I didn't even need but I bought anyway. Dancing on tables never felt more exhilarating, I felt like a junior Amanda Palmer on the piano, only ten times sexier and disgusting and loving it far more than anyone else in the world. I drew on my face because it seemed like a fun idea and kissed the ceiling while trying to gulp down as much alcohol as I could because I believed alcohol could help slow my brain down while giggling hysterically at the fact that I've never actually noticed the colour of the living room carpet while calling Lawrence on my mobile while trying to make a prank call on the house phone because that also seemed like a fun idea.

The typical high - lots of dancing, singing, shouting, running, jumping, screaming, laughing, juggling ideas and projects a million times at once and talking, talking, TALKING like a leprachaun on E.

The world is so beautiful all of a sudden when you're as happy and excited as this. I wanted to catch all of the bright orange lights that blurred past the car when my mother took me for a drive in an attempt to calm me down. If it weren't for the diazepam being chugged down into my system, I probably wouldn't have slept at all last night.

I've never gone on a shopping spree like that before. And, comically enough, I tried very hard to justify it. "It was an online shopping spree, so it doesn't count", "It's not like I was just randomly buying stuff - there was at least some logic in purchasing all that internet crap", "It was a one-off, I've never spent as much as that before in one go" and "It wasn't a real manic episode! A manic episode lasts for four days at least!"

"There are no set rules for a thing like this, Abi," Lawrence confirmed. "The human mind is a very complex thing. It is no respecter of rules and regulations. Whatever your brain has thrown at you is now written all over your grandiose ideas, drinking binges and shopping sprees. You had a manic episode."

It was then I snapped.

"Don't call it that," I said, my voice dangerously low. "I've had enough of that."

In my mind, I was crying. At least call it hypomania - hypomania isn't as bad as full-on mania. It's not like I believe I'm Jesus, for crying out loud! I'm just a moody person - depressed one day and hyperactive the next. I felt like sobbing, moaning and pleading for some sort of sanctuary where I could hide and sleep for a very, very long time. For the first time, I was firmly in denial that I could be bipolar. Suddenly, there was a new, scared and alarmed voice in my head screaming: "You can't be bipolar! You're already a mental fuckup - no more! No more!"

In an attempt to look at things rationally, I've been conducting a mood diary since earlier this year. I will let you, the glorious public, attempt to make sense out of my cynical ramblings that I've crudely scrawled in my little red book known as my mood diary.
I would resort to mostly anything now to make this whole mental illness thing easier to swallow.

Let's just hope Gabriel sees this shit and passes it right on to God. SOS, Lord, S-O-fucking-S.