This Manic Sack of Flesh

Yesterday was another curious day of mania, but there was no positivity to be found. I managed to have some work that day, enough for an entire shift, and I took to it with an abandon. The signs of prior mania were there: incredible drive, large amounts of energy, restlessness, shaking, heavy breathing, crazed thoughts…but again, no joy in what I was doing as most bouts of mania give me. Instead there was the ever present self-loathing I feel almost at all times. The result was a crazed man who angrily fought through his work, berating himself mentally and verbally, to the point of concern if neighboring work places were going to start inquiring what the hell was happening.

I suppose I should have been glad because I was putting in more work than I normally do, but happiness is not something that comes logically, and to hell with anyone who says your mood is a choice, especially with depression in the equation. What I was feeling was wretched. Autopilot was in full effect, with my internal boss constantly looking over my shoulder and judging everything about me. Not only was my brain filled with fuck to the point of randomly crying out, but I couldn’t listen to any of the podcasts I had prepared. I understood there was talking, which I very much wanted to pay attention to because of the entertainment, news, and balance it gave me, but in the state I was in…it was just sound. The only thing I could handle was the music I happened to bring, and given that’s an emotional stimulus on top of an already extreme emotional state…well, it was something.

And then…I suddenly found myself incapable of doing anything. I immediately recognized the signs of intense anxiety, and knew I was fucked for the next several hours, no matter how much I didn’t want to be. At least that’s what my rational mind would think given my experiences, but some part of me battles that maybe I could have just put in a little more effort, and the work could be finished as I was doing not too long ago. That’s really the kicker and true turmoil of these bouts of anxiety: understanding you could potentially complete these very specific and simple tasks, yet utterly helpless to how you feel regardless. Throw in the fact I was still having the same feeling of bitterness, and the meaning of having your soul crushed is understood.

I tried to fight through it, even if I knew it to be hopeless. There was still plenty of time to finish the day’s work, even if I took a little nap in order to collect myself. I was doing so good, and I could be just as good if I just “flipped a switch” just as I had to come to that depressive moment. Reasoning is slow torture. I was soon startled by the air compressor turning on for its scheduled repressurization, making me jump into an angry outburst. It lasted a few seconds, after which I walked five feet and sat on the ground, just as helpless as I was before. Soon the rumbling of the compressor was normal to me, the eventual silence would become welcome, and I would use it to become collected for the rest of the night. The calm never came.

So I left. I had intended to go into work and finish the remainder of what was left, even stay extra hours to make it happen, but left because I knew I was going to move at a crawl from that point forward. Had I stayed, I was going to be abusive to myself throughout that entire time, and quitting was better than the torture of such a thing. This knowledge doesn’t make me any happier with my choice, because this is income I desperately need. It’s not just those extra hours of pay I missed, but potentially the employ as a whole, because no one wants to hire someone who can’t work. But I can’t help that, because I don’t have control of how I feel.

This despair I go through is slowly killing me in every level of my life. I haven’t worked enough these last few months to keep up with billings, and the fear of under employment looms heavy with more incoming bills. I’ve kept myself away from social functions because I can’t trust myself to be around people that already feel like complete strangers to me, and the act of even looking at a stranger is more stress than it’s worth to me. The 101 things I need to complete continue to sit idle, forcing me to keep away from new ventures, once again putting me in the dark about what’s happening in the world.

There are consequences to this behavior I’m having. Employers can’t trust someone who is unstable, let alone someone who can’t even work. Friends and colleagues will get irritable and stop seeking me out, and I’ve already noted annoyance when I state my continuing inability to being “unable to handle” certain situations. And of course, the desire to surrender and run away is ever present, making me look for that excuse to begin the deconstruction of my life and disappear (even though I’m a ghost to begin with). Knowing all this, yet I can’t comprehend how to fix it or even how to act if I do.

Just another hopeless circumstance I needed to get off my chest. Nothing to see here. Now appreciate the moment of happy below.


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One thought on “This Manic Sack of Flesh

  1. […] depression tends to muddle the mind, but the only real contact I’ve had with another since my last breakdown was two visits with a friend who asked for help cleaning up their apartment. Real contact, as in […]

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