Today is one of those days.
Lately, I've been happily existing on about six hours or so of sleep a day, all in the afternoon, which is the nastiest part of the day weather-wise anyway, so why the fuck would I want to be awake and active then anyway, right?
Then I made the mistake of sleeping in my own bed, and yesterday, my sleep was such shit that I slept almost 20 hours. This isn't a crash from the slight hypomania I was riding, because after I napped a few hours on the couch, I felt so much better than I had after longer-than-healthy 'rest' in my bed.
I'm going to be trapped on the couch forever.
But, as usual, my wife got tired overnight, because she is a normal person with normal circadian rhythms. So I'm alone right now.
We were folding laundry a little bit ago, and she was boggling that she's now a size eight.
I am a size twenty-four.
I was fine with it coming up, because I'm super happy for her and proud of her that she lost all that weight- she was a sixteen this time last year. But, she made the mistake of acting guilty and trying to assure me that she loved me despite my size, and how she wishes I could be that little, too.
I wish she'd just left that alone. Because now all I can hear is my doctor's disapproving voice, telling me to stop drinking soda, stop eating dairy (to be fair, I suppose, I'm mildly lactose intolerant), start eating healthy, I need to start exercising, this weight isn't good for me.
Well no fucking shit.
The last time I lost weight, it was because I'd simply stopped taking in any calories that weren't a few sodas a day. That's all I existed on. My depression had manifested over those two months as a lack of desire for food, and a lack of energy to cook on the rare occasion that I was hungry.
Then I saw that I'd lost about thirty pounds in a month and was super happy, so I decided to continue that the healthy way. I started eating health, as much as I could on our budget, which made me miserable because I hate healthy food and I always feel hungry after a 'normal' meal of it. I exercised for a minimum of an hour every day, first thing in the morning. I thought that'd make me more alert, lose more weight, make me happier. After all, that's all the things that good diet and exercise are supposed to do, right?
Whoever tells you that exercise wakes you up, that it's fun, that it helps you lose weight, that good food is like medicine? They're fucking liars.
I gained every pound I'd lost back and then some. I felt more miserable because exercise actually brings my mood down. I was tired more often.
So now I'm worked up because my choices are apparently A) be doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing, but miserable because I'm gaining weight and hate what I'm eating, or B) stop eating entirely and lose weight and still feel hungry, but at least it's not because food is making me miserable.
Then my wife informs me that she's tired and wants to go to bed.
I slept twenty hours. I am not tired. I will not be going to bed any time soon.
So now I'm alone, with nothing to do that doesn't just make me more depressed. I can't work up the energy to write, I don't like the book I'm reading, I don't have access to my art program on this laptop, and I cant go to the desktop to work on something there, because my desktop's power source is dying. The fan is whining in pain. I risk setting my computer on fire if I go on it. And this laptop is so ancient and slow and dying, that I am writing about three lines ahead of what shows on my screen, because it's lagging, and that's in all browsers, so don't anyone fucking tell me to switch to Chrome. My Firefox works no worse than Chrome on this piece of shit, and Firefox has all my logins and my extensions that I need to switch between roleplay accounts easily.
And that's another thing.
The only thing my brain is willing to hide behind is roleplay, because it's both creative and interactive, but lately, I have had to beg, fight, and cry for every minute of it I've gotten, and I'm starting to think that nobody fucking cares about me anymore. People don't talk to me, nobody's missed me on Facebook, where I haven't been in a few days. I don't think anyone's even noticed I'm not interacting there.
I'm alone, bored, and miserable. And fat.
I should just go take my medicine and an Ambien and sleep for the next twenty-four hours again.
But I can't do that, because I have therapy at two today, and there's stuff to do around the house, since we found out at the last damn minute that my wife's surgeons scheduled her surgery for next fucking Thursday. When we were expecting not until four to six weeks. I have my next psychiatric appointment... next fucking Thursday. And I can't get out of that, because I will run out of my medicines if I do, and my psychiatrist's office won't do refills without an appointment.
Which means I have to get up early to take my wife to the hospital, wait around for a few hours until they get off their asses and actually take her into the OR, sit around for several more hours, hoping and praying that she doesn't die on the table while they remove half her chest, then wait with her in recovery, then make sure she's sleeping well enough that I can skip off to my pdoc's appointment, all while dealing with my mother-in-law (who has been a right pain in the ass and doing nothing but hurting my wife), my heart-father, and a few days later, my heart-sister-in-law crashing on my couches.
Which is the only place I can go with my laptop, and again, desktop is dying, so now I won't have anywhere to go at all.
I can't help but think I would be better off just committing myself and asking to stay a month until all this goes away. It's either that, or I may be tempted to drive my car off a goddamn bridge.
This is the way my brain works. This is what depression looks like. This is what anxiety looks like. This is what mental illness looks like.
My advice? Avoid it if you can.