It's like when you think everything you do is shit. This heavy feeling, this beyond overwhelmed load of crap. And the only thing that can bring you out of it is music. The only thing that makes sense. And even then it doesn't. It sort of numbs the pain a tiny bit. A fraction of a bit.
It's a screwed up brain. Bi-polar? Why'd I get saddled with this? They used to call it manic-depression, which was sort of more descriptive. The manic part was sort of fun, at first. All those song ideas, all those ideas that were fantastic and bright and glittering, but all seemed possible. Marrying Ashley. And it felt good at first, it felt good to have so much energy, so much confidence, to know that nothing really mattered because tomorrow would never come. But in a positive way, a seize the day way. Taking Joey's credit card and spending all that money, it would be okay. I was beyond certain of it. It felt good before it got scary. Before it got out of control. Trashing the hotel room, that was scary. I couldn't stop myself.
This is the other side. This is the depression. I know I'm just shit. I can't move. I don't want to do anything. Just stay in bed all day, staring at the wall. Joey says, 'Craig, I told you this would happen if you didn't take your medication,' I wanted to tell him to shut up but I didn't have the energy. I just laid there.
Ashley came over. 'Leave me alone,' I thought at her. Thought it but didn't say it. She's so concerned. I kind of felt like when my dad died, and I said to her, 'I'm sick of everyone just being concerned!'
Joey came up with the medicine, one pill in his hand and a glass of water in the other. 'Take it, Craig,' he said, holding it in front of my face. That fucking pill. 'Take it or I'll have to bring you to the hospital,' So I take it. I sit up and it hurts to move, I just have no energy to move. I can feel the pill catching in my throat.
Everything is shit. There's no point to anything. Music doesn't help, it can barely touch this. 'You have to eat,' Joey says, bringing me food. A sandwich. A glass of juice. I can't eat it. Poor Joey, trying to take care of me. He should just give it up. 'No,' I say, 'no,' pushing the plate of food away. So he brings some Instant Breakfast shit. 'Just drink it, please,' he says. I don't want to eat, I don't want to drink anything. But Joey looks so concerned, that word again. If I drink it he'll leave me alone, so I do. 'Good,' he says.
I know I shouldn't have stopped taking the pills, but I felt better, and they remind me of being damaged goods. That's what Ashley thinks. I know what she thinks. 'Poor Craig, bipolar mentally ill freak,' I know. I know. I'm so sick of myself and everything I've screwed up and feeling like this. I don't like feeling like this. Dark clouds. Weeds in the sidewalk cracks. That time in school after lunch when you're so tired and nothing any teacher says makes sense. Things just dragging on and on. On and on. These stupid pills for the rest of my life, and they're gonna screw up my kidneys. They're gonna screw up everything.
Joey comes back with another pill. I just take it. Don't say anything. I don't have a choice. This black feeling. There's this dullness to everything, like watching a drive-in movie through a dirty windshield.
Lying in bed, hugging the pillow, the hours going by so slow, scraping by. Uh, I feel so fucking bad. Bad! Like, like I don't matter and nothing matters and the colors have gone out of everything.
The guitar is propped up in the corner getting dust on it. I can't play it.