I hate winter.
I hate it with the flaming passion of a thousands suns.
It doesn't matter what I do, how hard I try, I cannot seem to shake the shitty feeling for any length of time in the fall or winter.
When my doctor upped my Lamictal back in November, I felt great...for a couple of weeks. Post-Christmas, I was excited about the new year. That lasted for about...three or four days. Now, I hate everyone and everything and haven't done a single, solitary thing on that list of shit I was hoping to get accomplished this year. And the idea of even attempting it exhausts me.
I sleep too much (11 hours last night). I eat too much (let's not even go there). And I don't do nearly enough. I just sit here and seethe in blackness and hatred.
Extra Wellbutrin and extra caffeine helped for a few days, but I think my body's adjusted to it by now, so I've cut back. No sense in wasting the shit if it's not helping anyway. I'll save it for another time, when it might actually do some good.
I hate myself. For what? Everything. What haven't I fucked up in my life? Let's see, I'm 29 years old. I still live in shitty Alabama in a shitty town in a shitty apartment. I flunked out of grad school. I'm in debt up to my eyeballs. I have three friends in the whole world, none of whom even live in the same county. I have one of the most ignoble jobs in the world. I'm fat and physically unhealthy and exhausted. I'm bipolar and apparently have seasonal affective on top of it. I killed everything that even came close to making me happy for me by virtue of being crazy and an idiot. And the worst part of it all is that there's absolutely no prospect of it ever getting any better. The rest of my life will be this way because, even though I try so hard, everything I touch turns to shit, and I have the worst luck on the planet.
Lately, I've been thinking about how unfair it is, that I'm essentially a cripple because I'm crazy. Yes, I know, life's not fair, blah, blah, blah. I wonder what kinds of horrible things I did in my past lives to merit this shit. Of course, in some traditions, they say that our souls choose each incarnation that we're born into. If that's true, I'd love to know what kind of retarded bullshit I was thinking when I picked this. Note to self: Never again.
Intellectually, I know this is caused by a lack of sunlight, and the fact that I'm back to sleeping until it's dark outside is not helping in the least. Emotionally? I wonder if I've died and gone to hell but somehow am not aware of it.
One of the reasons I want to move to the tropics (aside from the ocean, the warmth, and the fact that it's an excellent place to run the hell away from your problems) is that seasonal affective is basically unheard of there. And it makes sense--there's not that much variation in the lengths of the days and nights and, of course, it's always warm.
Changes in latitude, changes in attitude, as Mr. Buffett would say.
So. Tired. Of. Fighting. It.
I'm going to keep doing it because I don't know anything else, but fuck. It'd be nice if it didn't seem like a constant struggle.
Ok, I can't decide which Seneca quote I should use to close out this blog (like some pretentious douchebag), so I'll just go with both of them.
"There is no person so severely punished, as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse."
"Sometimes even to live is an act of courage."
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