As You.

You don’t eat properly.  Mostly fast food or junk that you get from convenience stores.  You are an excellent cook but you could be fucked to cook for yourself.  Your sleep has never been regular nor sufficient.  You get roughly four to five hours a night and have since your late teens.  You are easily distracted and difficult to entertain.  You bore easily due to swift comprehension and find many social outlets mundane.  You play video games until you are distracted by something you want to read on the internet until you find that boring and begin to watch television shows or movies.  Mindless watching becomes tedious so you read a book, the book becomes predictable and menial so you watch short videos on youtube.  After a few videos you decide to write a little bit and when this runs dry you stare blankly at the vacuous nonsense that people share on facebook.  Eventually you can’t help it… You have to step in as the voice of reason and start quashing the Chicken Little cluckings of the mindless masses on the various scares of the week or month.  You work yourself up into a dysphoric frenzy blasting people with the righteous thunderbolt of logic, throwing diatribes all over friend’s walls like mardi gras beads.

When the dysphoria eventually abates you think about the people on your facebook friends list.  You think about the quaint concept of friends.  You let your mind rest on the fact that very few people ever text you, fewer still ever call.  You know that this is because very few people actually care about you.  Sure, some of this might be the feelings flowing from the crash that you are now having, the depressive state you are sliding into like a junkie into a nod.  Also however it comes coupled with the sting of truth.  You know that at the very least if people ever do think about you they rarely ever do so fondly.  Their memory of you is one of Jack McBastard drunk as fuck and telling their sister to go fuck herself at top volume in the middle of a restaurant.  Explaining calmly as though totally sober that their relationship is a sham convincingly enough as to be believed.  Or just your standard frat boy shenanigans involving people bleeding at three in the morning on the living room carpet waking the children up on a school night.

People know that you are bipolar.  Some of them even know what that means.  Some of them know that it means that you suffer from dysphoria in addition to depression.  That you can in fact experience both at the same time.  The important thing to remember here is that you don’t matter.  You may as well kill yourself because it would probably just make their lives easier, right?  I mean, it isn’t as though they give a fuck.  It isn’t like they are looking in to see if you are okay.  Nobody will ever call, text, write an e-mail or contact you in any other way because you aren’t the one that matters here.  They are.  Your behaviour isn’t indicative of a problem of your own. Nope.  It’s merely a threat to them.  So you know what?  Fuck you.  Die.

This is the way you think.  It isn’t wrong.  It’s like an ouroboros or self loathing and self pity.  You don’t want it to be this way but you can’t help it.  The only way that anyone will actually “help” is to give you shitty off-the-cuff advice like: “Be positive” or “You just have to look at the bright side of things, then you’ll feel better”.  No.  That shows a serious lack of understanding and total callous disregard for the welfare of another person.  In fact, that kind of advice may as well come with a loaded gun and the issuer may as well just shoot you themselves.

So you are totally alone.  Texting is easy, calling is easier and nobody will ever do it.  This is a clear sign that you are truly alone.  You know this with your heart so you embrace this and go out.  You find a bar and you drink.  You look for a woman.  You flirt.  Your hope is to manage at least one night where a single person cares intensely about you, even if it is only your body, for a single night.  You feel alone in a crowded room and every person that you can’t have sex with is a mockery to your sensibilities.  They take up space and waste your energy.  Eventually however you find someone.  You become James Bond.  You are super charming and sophisticated.  You take them home and gratify one another.


3 responses to “As You.

  1. The way you articulated this is entirely perfect. I wish I could like this twice. I can identify with every single bit of minutiae you mentioned. I feel exactly like this. People are so busy on Instagram they can’t even bother to ask me if I’m still alive. I can’t help but feel that they wish I wasn’t.

  2. Hello! I’m a 20 year old woman with bipolar 2 as well. I also have GAD, social phobia, OCD, psychotic features, and derealisation. Your writing is beautiful, keep updating this blog. I love the name of the blog, Dysphorian Gray. You a Oscar Wilde fan too?

    • Hello, thank you for the complement! I have absolutely no intention of stopping the blog anytime soon, for you see this works as a part of my therapy. Some use the visual arts, well it just so happens that my particular artform is literature. The blog serves multiple purposes toward that end, it is cathartic, routine, journalistic and perhaps beneficial to others.
      With regards to the name: In my very first post (way down at the bottom of the page) I cover the reason for my name under the heading -What’s with the name Dysphorian Grey? In short the answer is Oscar Wilde related, but it is still better to read the original answer as it is more complete and sounds much more rounded and reasonable. That can be found here:
      Thanks for your patronage and I look forward to your feedback! Here is to your continued good health.

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