I am now in the six-o'clock-a.m. hour of staying up all night watching half a season of House, M.D., and it occurs to me that I hate everything.
I am absolutely bent on destroying myself. That is why I have stayed up until six a.m. tonight, and why I have eaten pumpkin bread today. Why I have not exercised this year, why I have starved myself for sleep, why I have dropped or withdrawn from or simply allowed myself to fail classes, why I have bought small pieces of junk I haven't really needed or wanted.
It's why I haven't yet put together my resume and applied for the job openings I've found, why I haven't finished researching options as to what to do about my car, why I make sure that I sleep away as much of the day as possible, why I won't open my altar or talk to the Goddess, or even God.
I hate myself. And I don't mean it the way I did when I was a junior-high-school student, lethargically and in despair. I mean I am pissed. I am just so phenomenally, monstrously angry with myself that I want to destroy something in a very serious, property-damage sort of way, and I don't want to do it to the walls or the furniture because they belong to my parents. I want to put holes in things.
I'm pissed at myself because I have a body, and it's always making demands. I hate having a body. Ninety per cent of my life is taken up by this body. I can't read, I can't study, I can't write without having to interrupt it all every few hours. It needs to be fed, it needs to be slept, it needs to be exercised, it needs to be bathed, it needs its limbs and junctions shaved, it needs a haircut, it needs its nails trimmed, it needs to go to the doctor.
And if I slip up, even a little, in one area, the rest of it all goes to shit. If I don't take allergy medication in time, I get depressed. If I don't take my antidepressants or thyroid medication on time, or if I'm not taking a high-enough dose of the latter, I get depressed. If I don't eat, if I don't sleep, if I don't exercise, if I don't bathe, if I let my hair get all scraggly and gross, if I don't meditate, if I don't pray, I get depressed.
And the more I ignore its squawking, the louder it gets, until finally it owns me and I have no mind left with which to think any more.
And I should perhaps say, "I start suffering the signs and symptoms of partially remissive major depressive disorder," not, "I get depressed." My body hurts. My brain literally begins to shut down. I see black at the edges of my vision. Words fail me. My thoughts seem thick and slow and stupid, like they're trying to swim through gelatin or molasses. I fall asleep involuntarily. (Last night it was sitting up, in which position I stayed for about seven hours; a few years ago it was at the wheel of a car. Actually, it's at the wheel of a car fairly frequently still.)
I cry. I hate. I can't think or feel empathy or listen to other people when they're talking or indeed noises of any kind. The left side of my face screws up into a sort of sneering flinch. I get angry. I think that nothing is worth doing.
The Authorities tell you, when you have depression, that having depression is not your fault. What they don't tell you is whom you should blame.
Because whose fault is it, really, if not mine? It's my brain that's failed, and isn't my brain mine? It's my body that's forever going on about how it needs things, giving me no time to think or accomplish anything. Isn't my body mine?
No. No, it is not. My body is its ownself, regardless of what I want from it, and it suffers me to sit up top in it if I will give it the things it wants. It's like a landlord who has control of the breaker box for your apartment. You don't pay the rent, the lights go out.
And my brain . . . Who knows what's up with that thing.
I can see why H.P. Lovecraft writes so extensively on what one of his critics calls "the malignant universe." How can you not feel like a tiny pawn in a world of monsters having wars much bigger than you can comprehend, when that's your relationship with your own body parts? I can't even control my fingers when I'm sleepy; forget about accounting for the existence of centipedes.
And this is probably the best my body is ever going to work. I'm 29, just old enough completely to have finished puberty, but not so old that my cells are operating in anything other than absolutely peak condition. Eventually, this body, which is none too fond of me already, will fail me completely, and chances are excellent that the failure will be protracted and unpleasant.
And my brain . . . again, who knows. I could degenerate into suicidality or I could write a novella, and those are just my options for this month.
So, shit, of course I want to destroy myself. I'm pissed, and why shouldn't I be pissed? I could get so much more done if I didn't have this stupid body hanging around, this stupid brain. If I could only ignore them a little longer. No wonder self-asphyxiation and television are such popular highs.