Oh the joys of a fucked up brain!

I’m completely pissed off with myself because I can’t deal with the way my brain works.

I’m wide awake, got loads to do and here I am blogging again. It’s nearly 2am and there is no point whatsoever in me going to bed because I will only lay there beating myself up for not getting anything done today, or yesterday for that matter.

Which is exactly what I did till 4am this morning. It’s not that I don’t want to sleep, I do. I just want to have a normal routine. A ‘going to bed to sleep and then getting up 7 or 8 hours later’ kind of routine.

Instead I have a ’spend a week not really sleeping much cause my brain’s to active thinking and planning loads of things in the future followed by another week or two of not really sleeping because I’m so depressed at the thought of being totally useless not being able to get anything done and not getting any sleep.’

Actually, I do sleep. If I’m honest I probably get a lot more sleep than I should. It’s just that the sleep is never of any ‘quality’ and never at the right time, assuming of course there is a right time.

Am I making any sense?

Probably not.

It’s just that when my brain is like this everything goes out the window. I wake up at say 10.30am if I’m sleeping on my own in the little bedroom, which invarably I am because it’s not fair for me to disturb Richard’s 11.30pm – 7.30am sleep routine, and then spend the next couple of hours catching up with myself.

I don’t shower or shave, since I don’t have the time, and generally end up eating some sort of breakfast lunch thing. Richard always does me a smoothie, which I generally eat, but today I didn’t which means tomorrow he’ll eat what I didn’t, which means I won’t get one tomorrow because he won’t need to make any.

Actually, its lucky he does make them, ’cause at times like this my brain says I haven’t got time to eat anyway, so i’d never make myself breakfast, or lunch for that matter.

Stupid, self-perpetuating?

Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know. I keep telling myself. Richard keeps telling me. My psychologist keeps telling me. But does it make any difference?

I am trying. Believe me, I am trying. But my brain doen’t work properly.

If I am down, which I have been for a while now, it takes me a long time for my brain to wake up. Generally it’s not until after lunch, say 1pm or even 2pm before my brain is awake enough to do anything remotely productive.

Today, (being a Tuesday as far as I’m concerned) and yesterday come to think of it, I got through to about 1.30pm not having achieved anything, despite having a variety of things that needed doing, like my Nuffield homework for example, things that I actually want to do, and then (you can tell I’ve lost it – my sentences are getting longer) I get so frustrated because I can’t do anything that I go and lie down on the settee in the living room – can’t go to bed, that would be wrong; though I do if I’m really down – in the hope that I can switch off a bit, recharge and then pray that my pathetic excuse for brain will be able to focus enough a little later. And that’s when I fall asleep for a couple of hours.

You’re getting the picture, right?

Anyway, so there I am a couple of hours later and I’m wide awake and raring to go. And then what really pisses me off is that I manage about an hour of actual focused work, (and by ‘focused work’ I mean writing an email or reading a play or part thereof, or some other seemingly inane task, and certainly not something anybody else would consider as anything other than just an everyday task of which they do dozens of in any one day) before my brain ceases, sorry seizes, and I’m back to a fucked up existance.

I’m not tired, not physically anyway, and I haven’t left the house all day. Some weeks I don’t get to leave the house for three or four days. And in those days, I don’t shower or shave or wash or shit or eat or do anything actually. Oh, but I can sleep. Boy, can I sleep.

So you see. My brains fucked. Ironic, isn’t it; I can write a decent blog post. And I’ll probably do a few other things before I find my way to the little bedroom on the second floor, close the curtains and get into a cold bed.

And tomorrow?

Well, now you see, that’s when I’m really fucked, ’cause tomorrow, I have to be somewhere. Farnham, actually.

I’m going to using some of my talents to earn some money in an interesting and ongoing project. Something that I’m good at (and there are very few things I’m good at) and something I will greatly enjoy.

It’ll be hard, focused work. Proper work. I’ll be there all day, and probably half the night, and somehow or other I’ll do it. I’ll be brilliant, will actually achieve something.

But don’t ask me how. I don’t know how.

It’s like this, I’m just coming up on a wave at present, and I’ll surf (tec – private joke) it so to speak, all the way to the beach where my wave will rapidly disappear and I’ll crash into the pebbles and lie there for a week telling myself how fucking useless I am.

Okay, so I’ve lost the plot. (And contrary to popular belief I didn’t leave in on a train on the way home from Newcastle.) But hey, wtf!

I’m hungry now. Anyone for cheese and biscuits?