‘Some people won’t be happy until they have pushed you to the ground. What you have to do is have the courage to stand your ground and not give them the time of day. Hold on to your power and never give it away….’ – Donna Schoenrock.
I have to be honest.
I don’t have it in me to write at the moment.
I am wading through mud.
Every. Single. Second.
I am lacking in the vitality, shall we say, required to even make eye contact with society.
I just want to sleep.
And sleep and sleep and sleep, and maybe moan a bit, and then maybe sleep some more.
(When I say ‘moan,’ I mean like ‘moan,’ like complain, not moan like ‘orgasm’- just to be clear here. Lord knows I don’t have the energy for that right now. Well, I may do, if I didn’t have to make the necessary conversation afterwards… Why is Ann summers so damn expensive??)
Anyway, my depression has never manifested like this before.
Usually, when I am experiencing an episode (as I have taken to calling it) my illness propels me, like a woman out of a comedy circus rocket. I speed in to the universe with my hair and my all in one silver shiny clad arse, bulging, wobbling and shaking about from the G-force, behind me, like a lardy superwoman on crack cocaine.
I don’t even have a cape to hide my rump. They don’t make them in my size.
Honestly, I can be found in my darkest of moments, zipping around the place like a shocked monkey that has been inadvertently strapped to a Formula 1 car on a humid day.
Sweating and with massively uncontrollable hair.
‘Lexy are you ok?’ People will gasp as I jog past them in a flash of twenty-two inch heels, carrying 9 files, an oven and my car, a massive grin plastered on my face.
I don’t hear them of course, as quite clearly, by the time they get to the bit with the question mark, I am already in Azerbaijan, offering to do somebody’s washing up.
That’s how fast I normally am when I’m depressed.
The Mo dance is actually an M for Mammywoo.
But, the last few months have been weird and different and unsettling, the last few months I have fought to stay awake.
I have fought to wake up, to operate.
I have fought not to drive from my bed to the bathroom, and cursed that my hallway isn’t big enough to squeeze a VW polo in to it.
My illness has grown, my illness seems to have evolved, it is smart.
It is 3 o’clock on any normal day, and in Northern Crazy town where I currently live (I used to live in Central West crazy town but was forced to move when the Jackson family emigrated here) a major shit storm has been circling for a few weeks showing absolutely no signs of letting up.
The shit storm is what is making me tired.
The shit storm is what is making me want to lie down.
The shit storm has a name.
For the purposes of today I shall name the Shit Storm… ummmm…. Slag Wagon.
Yes. Slag Wagon.
Like I said, I live in Crazy town.
We have crazy names for shit out here.
You should come visit, ill let you know when I’ve got rid of Slag Wagon and we can share an apple.
Because Slag wagon is ferocious, she can paralyze you with a simple flick of her thin hair.
Because Slag Wagon is unrelenting, she can point out your darkest corners and illuminate your weaknesses to those who shouldn’t see them, with a raise of her over plucked eyebrow.
Because Slag Wagon is ignorant, but manipulative, she ensures you believe her ignorance is because you aren’t worth it.
And I wouldn’t want you to have to meet her.
Slag Wagon is sneaky.
She can be loud and purposeful in her tirade.
She can also be silent and manipulative, turning you inside out, without even speaking.
Slag wagon? She is a Troll Whore.
A Troll Whore in ugly clothes, smiling, a precious smile.
Today is 3 o’clock in Crazy town.
And Slag Wagon is doing what she does best.
Wiping me of all my confidence and sucking the life out of me through my eyeballs.
Making me think everybody hates me, that I am useless and that the world may end any second and I will never see my son again.
Does Slag Wagon sound familiar to you?
I am distracted as my phone rings and I am shaken by Slag Wagon like a dildo in a plate of jelly when I realise who is calling.
‘Hello?’ I answer my phone, avoiding Slag Wagon’s gaze and immediately, and without really noticing myself until afterwards, shifting from the curled form of a battered kitten, bruised, tired of the fight and yet still struggling to breathe in to a majestic and powerful lioness sensing the impending danger of something attacking her terrain.
Slag Wagon hasn’t noticed.
She has moved on to her next victim.
Damn it I wish she would notice I am capable maybe then she would leave me alone.
I watch her retreating flabby arse with relief and feel my confidence seep back in to the space between my bones.
Just breathe, everything will be ok.
‘Hi Lexy, it’s Gary, where are you?’
Gary is my next-door neighbor (the one Doodle released his colon and his anal glands all over last summer. It was a messy affair. That sounds like a film title but it isn’t. God imagine a film about that. Anyway… )
WHY IS GARY ON THE PHONE?
Immediately my brain is on high alert and my hair starts to swell, my face taking on a monkey expression.
Slag Wagon, of course, jumps on for the ride of her life.
Why is Gary calling me?
What could he want?
Maybe he wants a cigarette?
But I’m not in.
He knows I’m not in.
Surely he doesn’t expect me to drive home from work and give him a cigarette?
No that can’t be it.
Oh. My. God.
Something terrible must have happened.
Has the chemical plant blown up?
No it couldn’t have.
He would be dead and he wouldn’t be able to call me.
UNLESS HE HAS TURNED IN TO A ZOMBIE!
Oh my god I have a zombie on the phone!
He doesn’t sound like a zombie though.
Has someone been run over?
But why would he call me?
Maybe he thinks I ran them over and scarpered.
But I would never do that!
Oh. My. God.
Is my house burning down?
Why is he calling me and not 999?
For the love of god man, call 999!!!!
Oh my god Doodle will go up like a cotton ball on a bonfire!
He is highly flammable!
OH. MY. GOD.
WHY THE HELL HAS THIS BURNING ZOMBIE CALLED ME?
Or did I just leave the washer on?
Does he just want a cigarette?
‘Gary?’ I respond, my octave so high, dogs in the nearby offices (yes dogs in offices, this is CRAZY town) start howling. ’ Is everything ok? Oh my god. I’m at work? Is the house burning down? ARE YOU A ZOMBIE?’
‘No no its ok… wait, what?’
‘Okkkk, Well I thought I’d call as I am sat in the garden. Where is the Irish one?’
‘Oh my god is THE IRISH ONE on fire?’
Pictures of the Irish one running round the garden shouting Irish obscenities like BEEEJEEZZUS! With his bearded chin alight and smoking, filter quickly through my mind.
‘No, no I was just…. wait, what?’
‘Gary I don’t know. I think he is in bed? I don’t know! Gary what is going on?’
My lioness is slowly joining the frenzied orangutan, Slag Wagon and Michael Schumacher.
‘I think Doodle has got out. He’s ok but he is out in the garden on his own. No drama. ‘
I finish the phone call, start another immediately, ball the Irish one a little bit for not being on fire but asleep in such a Doodle related emergency and then I breathe.
And as I take a deep breath.
I am not a battered kitten, so why am I behaving like one?
Why am I giving Slag Wagon this power?
I know what she is.
She is an illness.
She does not own my mind.
I am a 32 year old woman with a good heart.
I am capable, and loving and totally sane.
Why do I give her my power so freely?
Why do I crumble in to a million pieces at the thoughts she places in my head?
Worst case scenario thoughts, that if they happened, I would be able to deal with.
One way or another, but probably won’t happen!
Why do I curl up in protection and take on board her opinions of me even when I know they are wrong?
Why do I let this illness attack me so ferociously with her manipulative, ignorant bullshit?
She tells me I am weak and evil and selfish with the flick of her hair.
She tells me Addison will die and places will blow up.
She tells me everyone hates me.
She tells me I am worthless.
When actually it is her.
Will I ever get the strength to fight her?
Ignore the intimidating takeover of my senses?
Slag wagon is a full on Slag Wagon.
Am I strong enough to fight back?
I don’t even know where to start.
I feel the panic coming on and I immediately think I am going to die.
My breath is raspy and panicked.
I need control.
I need to breathe.
Maybe this is a starting point.
Labelling Slag Wagon and recognising her as weaker than my resolve?
I don’t know.
I need to label my fight back maybe?
Outsmart the cowbag?
I think for the purposes of Crazy Town I shall label this fight – Start to take deep breaths and remember you are in control, and aren’t alone and also get out of bed.
Back off bitch, or you will regret it, if i wanted to be I could totally be a ZOMBIE!
Me, my support and my Meds are coming to get you.
Slag Wagon, is of course, normally called – Anxiety*.
*But Slag Wagon is a medically recognized term originating from a Wagon full of Slags that were always worried. It happened years ago. In the Stone Age maybe, or at some point anyway.