A Beautiful Blaze of Blatant Disregard

August 16. 4am.

It’s been a strange week. My moods have been more up and down than usual and I have found myself switching from energetic ecstasy to withdrawn and weak depression. It is 4am. I just paid my rent and still have a few hundred quid left behind; so naturally I decided to blow a little playing online roulette. I’m terrible at having money. I have barely spent anything this week -save for a little on food whiskey and smokes-. It is 4am, I am listening to music, drinking scotch, and have to be up for work in about ten hours. I so desperately want to self destruct. I can feel it deep down. The desire to go off of the rails. Buy some coke, hit the casino, fuck someone without a rubber and blow the whole deal. I have to fight so hard against my impulses to stay on the straight and narrow. Whenever people talk about Bi-Polar disorder they tend to focus on the swinging moods, but for me one of the hardest symptoms is the lack of impulse control. My mind says hey, do drugs, so I do drugs. It says hey get a loan in the middle of the night and go on a 2 grand three day bender... so I do. It tells me to fuck that girl and forget the rubbers, it tells me to drink and drink until I can barely tell you my name and I say hey, what a great idea.

My impulses tell me that the girl I just met is the one and I should put every bit of emotion I have into falling in love with her for three days. It says hey, move to Spain. Quit your job, buy a cheap car and drive it uninsured to Scotland. We should definitely try heroin. Take some Valium with that half a bottle we just drank and see how wild a dream we can really have. Buy a horse and become a cowboy. Put three hundred quid on Red. Get a face tattoo. Fuck the system, quit your job and become a professional bank robber. Get a fucking face tattoo; I thought we talked about this? Take the bins out naked and see if anyone notices. Call your ex, I bet she misses you. Tell that girl at work you love her. Set fire to everything you own in an attempt to summon the devil to sell your soul for fifty quid and a pair of red leather jeans and a Cuban cigar. What are you waiting for? Shave your head, shave your whole body, sell everything you own and move to Australia; just do something- fucking anything! Just do it! I’m bored. I’m restless. I’m horny but I’m miserable. I’m tired but I’m awake. I’m half asleep but coke would fix that... Take another drink, we can get another liver on the black market with all that bank robbery money we accumulate whilst riding high on our stolen horse in red leather jeans with no hair, a face tattoo and that girl from work, who will definitely be the Bonnie to our Clyde. Please, I beg myself. Please. Shut up. But alas, the thoughts are relentless. It’s my job to ignore them. The meds help a little but if I’m honest, it takes every little bit of strength I have to stay straight. To keep the impulses as just terrible ideas and not horrific realities. It’s exhausting. When you add all that to the fact that I have absolutely no autonomy over my moods, it’s a wonder I can even function. I don’t decide when I get to be happy or sad or angry or anxious. Outside stimuli do not dictate my mood. Whereas a normal person is happy when good things happen and sad when the bad comes true, I’m just happy sad worried and pissed off whenever my unbalanced brain decides it’s time for a change. And it’s physical too. I can be utterly miserable and weak as a dying dog one moment, then the next I’m running around like Robin Williams on the 80’s dust. I am exhausted, and people still try to hold me to the standards to which they hold everyone else. But I’m not like everyone else. I’m a fucking mess. I’m a mess, and I’m tired. It is 4am and I just lost half a weeks worth of wages playing online roulette. I’ve had several glasses of scotch, a Valium and some codeine, and I have to be up for work in about ten hours. But really, I just want to rest. To sleep. ‘To sleep perchance to dream. But ay, there’s the rub.’

So there it is. To be or not to be? To live by the rules of others or to give into the impulses and die in a beautiful blaze of blatant disregard. People seem to forget, especially recently, that it is a hundred times harder for me to get through a ‘normal day’ than it is for other people. To get up, shower, eat breakfast get dressed leave the house and do a days work. All these things that come naturally to other people are an extreme existential battle for me myself and my impulses. Yet still, I’m held to their standards. And it is exhausting.

I just want to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream.

Ay, there’s the rub.

Walter Laurence- On Impulse control and face tattoos