Somewhat is a word I would use to describe how I am feeling right now. For some reason I am neither happy or sad, I am somewhat happy and somewhat sad which is leading to a bizarre confusion in my mind about whether or not I have ever really been happy or sad. Confused? Me too.
Right now I am somewhat questioning why I am writing this blog as, in all honesty, I have no intention of passing on the url for anyone to read nor am I intending for this to really be as therapeutic as I was hoping. The main reason I continue writing, even now as I have said that this will serve no real purpose, is because I have problems and most people have people to talk through problems with, and although I do have people to talk to, these problems are mine and are far too complex to vocalise.
Now, non-reader, I bet you are thinking I am about to spill my guts and say what is bothering me. Sadly for you, and I know you must be gutted about this, I am not. I will however, somewhat self indulgently, talk about myself.
My name is BHD2, catchy?, didn't think so. It makes me laugh that even in my own choice of user name I am still number 2, I didn't even try just BHD, for some reason being number 2 is what I do best, or rather second best. Would that make me number 3? Ah who cares. I digress. I am 22, bi-polar and I am somewhat obsessed with my own suicide.
A couple of years ago I tried to do it. The main reason for it I think was because I was tired. Not sick and tired just tired. I'd had an argument with a friend of mine, gone home and tried to, somewhat unsuccessfully, slit my wrists. Looking back it was a bit of a vein attempt. (see what I did there?) I say this for a few reasons which I will list for you now!
1) I don't like pain. And as tired as I was, the feeling of the razor blade sliding through my flesh was too much for me to handle and I only managed to do one wrist properly.
2) I had a friend in my apartment at the time. As dramatic as I didn't want it to be, she discovered me slowly bleeding out into the bath and with Speedy Gonzales haste had be bandaged and bollocked in no time at all.
3) I wasn't tired enough. As much as I thought I was, the real exhaustion was to follow. Maybe is still to follow, who can possibly say?
Not the only attempt. I may talk about those later.
This lack of self preservation has not always been the case. I am somewhat sure when I was a kid I used to care more about making aeroplanes with my shoes and picking my nose, but as the years have continued to progress I have become more and more dis-assimilated with society which leads to the most bizarre feelings of self imposed segregation. I would say though, if you were to meet me in real life you would never know. As typically found amongst the white middle classes of England I am perfectly bred for putting a smile on my face, chatting and laughing when all I really want to do is be alone.
The thing is though, when I finally get solitude I can't stand it. All I can hear is the in-drownible sound of my own mind. Some people call it their conscience, I call mine a pain in the arse.
Do you ever get that feeling when you are going to sleep, it is like every thought you have ever thought is trying to shoot themselves simultaneously through a single synapse? Your breathing becomes loud in your own head, your vision is as if you are sat in the middle of a a child's merry go round and everything is disjointed and blurred. The sounds of people talking, screaming, crying and laughing merge into one incomprehensible hum. Your chest feels heavier than normal and fear and excitement pulse through every nerve in your body.
This is what happens to me every time I am by myself, I have tried to get used to it which is somewhat impossible. It would be like trying to get used to butterflies in your stomach when you drive over a small bridge or through a sudden dip. Never going to happen.
I think it may be some form of anxiety. I somewhat like it though, I imagine it is my body trying to digest every piece of information I have collected that day or something. Like my mind refuses to process stuff as the day goes along so just stores it all in a tank of useless bollocks in some deserted part of my cranium and waits for a moment when I am not on the uptake to dump everything into my brain at one time. As momentary as they actually are, for me they are timeless, think Salvidor Dali wet dream not black pencil skirt.
What a strange analogy. A quick explanation, I mean timeless in the fucked up lack of time sense, i.e. no minutes, hours, or days, not in the 'unage-able' sense. Yikes, what a horrible sentence.
More tomorrow I think, it is getting late and I am shattered from a long day of trying not to kill myself.
