Goddamn it all. This was what I wrote yesterday: "Another one of those days, sitting on a cliff, writing not because I've got anything to say but because I've got nothing else to do. Exiled from the family home, where apparently the mere fact of my existence is upsetting everyone, measuring wasted time in cigarettes and scribbled lines. The sun has brought the humans out again. They're everywhere, milling about, “having fun”, futile as fungi, pointless as plankton. I wasn't going to bother doing anymore writing – doing any more anything really – the meaningless nature of all endeavour has kind of broadsided me and left me stranded on a rubbish-strewn reef of ennui. I spent most of yesterday home alone – the family had decided I wasn't allowed to accompany them on a day out – listening to two songs over and over again, one by Warren Zevon, one by Vic Chessnut. I don't have any time any more for anything by anyone still alive. They've got nothing to tell me anymore. Suicide has seemed like a more and more attractive prospect over the last few days. I no longer believe I'm bipolar or that my medication is doing anything other than sedating me and adding to this sensation of detachment – turning me into, to use a brilliant expression I stumbled across on the Icarus Project website, “a muttering turnip.” I don't believe I have anything that can be treated. I'm just scum. I don't FIT IN anywhere, never will. Medication won't change that – jumping off a cliff will.” So, I wrote that then I nodded off in the sunlight with the sea beneath me, woke up, trudged home. I could feel myself closing down. I had no motivation whatsoever, everything did indeed seem just as pointless as plankton (not to denigrate the little chaps and their vital role at the bottom of the food chain – it just seems that they're not the most motivated of God's creatures, don't really exhibit a great deal of ambition, just sort of mill around being eaten). Thoughts of suicide washed over me in cold, heavy waves. Any anger or sense of injustice I may have had earlier in the day had gone – I just felt like unconditional surrender. I'd given up. I was without will or hope - nothing mattered. It was a complete emotional flatline. I sat around til about 10pm, growing ever more despairing. I posted a message on the Rethink forums that said "Just wondering if anyone else has found themselves in a similar situation... started Quetiapine a month ago - was in a VERY mixed state, so much so that it didn't really feel like depression, just felt like I was crazy. Although filled with self-loathing and misery I was very creative, full of energy, not needing to eat or sleep - all the usual. Now, after a month of meds I just feel DEPRESSED. REALLY depressed. Could it be that the Quetiapine has just removed the hypo aspect of a mixed state episode and just left me with pure, unadultered unipolar depression - or could it be that I feel so down as a RESULT of the medication? Am I bipolar with the enjoyable top sliced off or is this some kind of iatrogenic thang? Seeing the shrink tomorrow and she's suggested that if the depression's not lifted then she'll give me some Effexor (which sounds like a whole 'nother load of fun and games)but I don't get it... has the Quetiapine done ANYTHING? Has it just reduced a tolerable if disruptive mixed state to hideous depression or has it actually MADE me more depressed?" An hour later I posted another message saying I was going to stop my meds. Then I sat alone and cried for an hour and went to bed, calm and relieved that I'd made a decision, I would kill myself the next day. And then I woke up in the morning feeling fine. And today was a good day.
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