As I lay in bed tonight, aside a smelly ball and chain partner who threw his leg over, letting his big toe slightly touch my skin on my leg…and me recoil. I realised that if I was not on anti-depressants right now, I would be manic as hell.
On one hand, I am not in crisis. I have a high paying job, I am well respected at work, I have 3 children who are solidly unique and pride inducing, and a roof over my head. When I compare my situation to how I grew up, with a single mum, living week to week, going hungry – my kids have it soft. I can provide both the “stuff” and the “worked through trauma, come out the other side wisdom from therapy” parenting.
On the other hand, I am in crisis. After 15 years of no drinking or drugs, I am requiring significant amounts of whiskey to dull my existential nonsense this past year. Corporate sociopathy, working 12 hour days, and ill health as a result of trying to hard to perform in an environment of corporate bullshit. Nothing like kids, a broken partner, parents, and an in-law with alcohol induced dementia to push the corporate success buttons so I can provide for everyone else.
In the old days, when I wasn’t medicated enough, I would process the mania through writing my stories.
I am thinking now that the only sane response to this world and my mental state is stand up comedy, writing satire, or writing melancholic short stories. I get up out of bed. Poor another whiskey. Write this entry. Put on the TV for white noise, and remember that despite my mental illness (or absolute fucking clarity), I am incredibly privileged. I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, I don’t experience racism, I have an education, I have some choices right now. Depression and mania is my barometer that I am touch with the world and its fucking nonsense. I will try again to sleep.