Bin Juice, Gotta Love Some Bin Juice

This is a blog about depression. If you are easily offended or take offence to my very sarcastic humour, please do not read any further. Mental illness is not a joke; it is not something to point fun at and I fully understand that. BUT…when the going gets tough, sarcasm and humour is my defence and so I will be parading it around all over this blog.

 

If you need help, please get it. Whilst I hope this has a happy ending, I don’t know yet and given I’ve not been able to fix myself, I really don’t want others using this as a ‘How To Be Happy for Beginners v2.0’

 

 

It’s the start of yet another week where I won’t be at work. Another week where I have to fight my own mind. Last week was another week survived.

 

Today was never going to start off well given the extreme lack of sleep. It would appear as well as being a walking zombie, I’ve left my humour at home too. Unsurprisingly, I slept through all 5 alarms. I wake up at 0800, 15 mins after I should have left the house. I’m pissed off but there is only one thing for it. The taxi trips have returned. This will have to come out of my monthly budget and I’m so cross as I’ve been managing public transport so well recently. The other thing I’ve left at home is self-compassion, it must be spooning my sarcasm in my empty bed!

 

Today was meticulously planned. It’s not going to happen the way I hoped though. Not now. Anyone who has experienced prolonged nights with little sleep will get it when I say lack of sleep doesn’t only hurt the mind, it hurts the body too. I’m aching and think I have a headache starting. I’m not looking forward to the next hour with Therapist L. I’ve not seen her in weeks and I really don’t think she’s that ‘invested’ (yes, that’s a therapy term but I can’t think of a better word at the moment – blame the lack of sleep!) in my recovery. It doesn’t help that, like Dr E, I’ve not been telling her the whole story. I wish I could say I’m walking in with an open mind but I’m not. I’m walking in with a very closed mind. Self-compassion, whilst spooning my sarcasm, hid the key to my open mind box. Pesky emotions!

 

Well, if I think this is going to be a waste of my time, I’ve got nothing to lose. So I start talking. I tell her the truth. Kind of. I don’t tell her I think I bore her, no, I’m not at that level of honesty yet, but I do tell her I was withholding information, that I wanted to be the perfect patient that never caused any problems. The patient that worked hard, say thank you very much and left. I tell her I’ve barely slept too so I’m not drunk, merely slurring my words out of fatigue. Although that’s an idea, therapy whilst drunk. Now that would be a sure-fire way to get me to say what I am thinking. I’m an awful drunk! I tell the world everything. In fact, it’s the only time I can properly communicate. Anyway, less about my drinking habits and more about my therapy. I’ve come prepared today. I’ve written down what is on my mind. I did it in hospital and it gave me the confidence to speak so here is hoping it works in 1:1’s too. We make a plan. We are going to work on my intense feelings of shame first. I tell her I am worried about good days and everyone walking away from supporting me and she assures me, both her and Dr E will give plenty of warning before my sessions come to an end. The session ends with me in tears, I tell her I feel it’s really unfair that Colleague is already starting the ‘back-to-work’ process when they were 4 weeks behind me. I cry because I want to know, at some point, I’ll be able to like myself. I’m getting better, I don’t doubt that but jeez, I still don’t like me. Overall, the session has gone a lot better than I thought it would. In fact, I feel hopeful I can work with her now.

 

After the session, I catch the bus home. I tell myself, given the lack of sleep, I don’t need to sort the gate locks. I do though, minor achievements and all that. Given the rushed departure this morning, I’ve not had breakfast so I sit and have it now. I’m back in pjs, it would appear I am not leaving the flat again today. I sit on the sofa knowing full well I’ll fall asleep. Girl cat comes to keep me company whilst I snooze for a couple of hours. I make a late lunch and when I say make, I actually mean it this time. It’s not been nuked in the microwave. I’ve turned the oven on, cooked some salmon and sweet potato fries (I’m such a millennial) and added steamed veg to the mix.

 

I am planning an early night but I can’t go to sleep with the flat in a mess. By mess, I mean a few things left out on the side. This ‘mess’ includes taking my bin out. Sadly, the day ends kind of how it started, by falling apart. The bin bag has split and I now have bin juice on the floor. Ah bin juice! The joys of having to clear you up. I double bag it and then antibac the floor, on my hands and knees. This is not fun. Finally, it’s time to do my favourite daily task, sort the recycling. But wait! Oh man, I gave recycling bags to the new tenants so now don’t have any so can’t sort out my recycling. This has the genuine possibility of keeping me up tonight! Do you think it’s rude to go down and ask if they have any left?! It’s only 2210.

 

I decide against going to ask for my recycling bags back and instead decide I need to learn to live with the recycling on the kitchen counter. This is easier said than done. I do spend quite a few minutes worrying about this whilst in bed. Man, I really need to get a life!

 

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