N.B. This post has a swear warning.
I started work on Tuesday and am in a very big office with a cool break room, free hot-chocolate on tap and two monitors per person to work on: with that magical thing where you can drag and drop from one monitor to another. (Wizardry.)
These are all good things. The people are also lovely, patient and love self deprecating humour. Therefore as long as I can bear the tedium of process tasks, everything should be splendidiforous right?
Wrong. I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I got no sympathy from my mother, so I’m officially fishing for it. Send me love because I felt so experientially YOUNG and so hopelessly DELAYED.
I know the secret of happiness in life and with bipolar is to appreciate your achievements as they happen but going around to other desks, or just overhearing people’s conversations and seeing pictures of other people’s kids, partners, travels and sometimes grandchildren; I felt that sulphurous, gunky ache that does sometimes gloop around ominously inside me. I’ve been stuck trying to reclaim the fruits of my early twenties and now overnight I’m nearly thirty and there are no single guys anywhere. WTF?
By taking in the core loves of my colleagues I’ve been “Look at our fabulous life-d” away from the social media I am trying to leave because it is a manifestation of an almighty social hangover called University; that I so want to be DONE WITH because I first became mentally ill there.
And this evil creeper of inadequacy is still here. If it was a person I’d get pretty shouty. “How the fuck dare you try me again?!” for example. Followed by lots of “Don’t even…” and “If you ever, EVER…” And lots of just barefaced, from somewhere deep inside rage and “You don’t get to have any more of my life even if I have to manage you for the rest of it, you shitting little parasite!” This rage won’t be taken seriously as an emotion by anyone (sadly it never is at 4″10.) My mother just expects me to tamp it down and think of marriage as ‘just the next hurdle’ to accomplish.
I’m tired of being a bloody show pony. Where is the happiness?
I’m angry and sad because whenever I try to achieve something that makes up for lost time, I essentially grieve all over again that that time has been lost. I get that you can’t, and shouldn’t have it all at once, but there’s only so much loneliness a soul can bear. It becomes an exponential loss that leaves me always as the person lacking something or other, with which others seem so beautiful whole and happy.
They don’t even know how lucky they are. I tried to cry on the way home to avoid having to type all this out. Didn’t work. It is now though. I hate bipolar. Insert profanity and vulnerability.
~ Pola ~