He fails. Oh he fails so hard.
During my first depressive episode of last year, in amongst all the drinking, overeating and other assorted self-harming, I managed to squeeze in a break up. Negative Me is incredibly productive when it comes to finding new ways to mess up Positive Me’s life.
That’s besides the point. My bedroom appears normal from the outside, but once you open the door there’s a short flight of stairs you have to go up to get into the room proper. Obviously you have to go down them to get out of it. Well, that or one of the windows. Besides the point again. Shh. Erm. Where was I?
Oh yeah. On the wall above my personal staircase, was a framed poster of me and my ex at Harry Potter Studios or whatever it calls itself. Unsurprisingly, I wanted to take it down after we broke up. I didn’t want to lose the frame and suddenly have a patch of empty wall. Walls are gross, you guys. Ew.
So once Negative Me had fucked off, Positive Me had the grand idea of replacing the poster with a list of stuff that’s good and bad for Me when I’m depressed. Ha. Here it is:
On the face of it, this seems like a reasonably smart thing to do. A poster that I can’t help but see every time I leave my bedroom. It encourages me to do things that keep me in a healthy frame of mind and reminds me not to do the things that will definitely make things worse. Ha. It’s not. Turns out Negative Me couldn’t give a fuck what Positive Me thinks is a good or bad idea. These are all things that help Positive Me feel better when he’s feeling lethargic or tired. Not depressed. I am no longer sure which tense I am writing in.
I’ve written before that I’m almost certain I don’t care about anyone other than myself. But when I’m depressed, I don’t care about me either. I don’t care that ignoring everyone for weeks on end will damage my dwindling relationships with other people. I don’t care that over-over-overeating will make me literally feel fatter and consequently want to hide in my room forever. I don’t care that drinking will interfere with my medication and prolong my depression. I cut myself because I relish the thought of having to awkwardly explain to someone why my arm is covered in scars, because fuck Positive Me. Probably like, forty-eight times. Fuck Positive Me forty-eight times.
It’s all well and good having a plan for when depression strikes. But when I’m depressed, I’m actively trying to make myself more depressed. Hey. Well. It’s good to be good at something, right?