50 Shades of Grey


I’m sorry American readers but here in little England, we spell it grey and I can’t bring myself to spell it any other way.

Today’s post has nothing to do with the shittily-written, lame ass attempt at word porn; I merely thought the title accurately represents how I feel. Grey.

80% of the time I am a vivid, colourful firecracker of a personality.  My hair changes colour each week – one week hot pink balyage, the next icy blue.  My eyes are always made up in vibrant hues of pinks, blues and purples, my body tattooed with images that tell my story (there are still more to be added – DAMN YOU bank account!)  It is no secret that, like Marmite, I am an acquired taste.  You either love me, or hate me.  It’s generally the latter.  And whether I am loved or despised, I cannot be described as bland.  Honest? Talkative? Inquisitive? Excessive? Intense?  Yes. Bland?  No.

But I find myself in this perpetual state of grey.  The shades vary throughout the day but all within that fucking spectrum of grey.  I am fully aware that this is bipolar disorder being a c**t – I’m a smart enough woman to understand my illness and know that the lack of sunlight and leaving for work in the dark does wonders for stoking the fires of depression. I know all of this, yet does it help to alleviate the gloom? Does it fuck.

I have some general shittiness present in my life right now but hey who doesn’t?  I have no right to feel this way.  It makes me angry.  I know I have bipolar disorder yet I wonder why I am feeling this way.  I have so much to look forward to right now – a life-changing scenario literally lies on the horizon.  An opportunity so immense that it would make the majority of people jump back-flips on the spot whilst whooping it up. But still, grey.

I could literally be dumped in the middle of Disney World right now and still I would have that little black rain cloud looming over my head.  The frustration is immense.

I know that I should clean the house, learn new choreography, get my work laptop out, drive into town to pick up the bits I’ve been meaning to get for weeks.  I know that I should take the 5 minute walk to the post box to mail the letters I wrote on 2nd January.  And yet I don’t. I lay with my eyes wide open and I stare into space; my head full of everything and nothing. And so the cycle continues.

Give me anything but grey.


You just don’t get it…

Sometimes people try to be ‘helpful’ with their comments about mental illness but in fact end up exacerbating my feelings of frustration.  Some days I hate my disorder.  I fucking hate it.  Some days I embrace it.  But I always know it.  I know my condition inside out, back-to-front and up to the moon and back. You don’t live with a chronic mental illness such as this without learning a thing or two about this lifelong companion.

I am in a very dark place.  I am fully aware of that I have felt it coming for some time now.  Before 2017 began, in fact.  I had managed to maintain a sense or normalcy for a while and returned to teaching after the Christmas break.  I love my job.  It is demanding and stressful but my God is it rewarding.  I work with the odd douchebag but in general I enjoy my job and have a good working relationship with my co-workers.

Work stress has fuck-all to do with this episode.  When I think of work, it does not fill me with dread or panic etc.  Well wait, it does but work is not the reason.  At this point in time, day to day living fills me with a sense of panic and dread.

Now, you don’t know me. I could be any bipolar blogger who has been yet again smashed in the face by the black dog.  But I can assure you, I am a positive and fun-loving person.  I am the outgoing introvert.  I am the girl with tattoos and blue hair that generally doesn’t give a fuck what others’ think of.  I have my small close circle that keeps me safe and fuck anyone else.  I am past caring what other people think of me – it is none of my business.

But right now, I am not that person.

The thing with people and their opinions on how I should mamage my illness, is this.  They know ‘well me’ – they are familiar with the woman who can take it on the chin and just keep ploughing away despite the incredible amount of unfortunate events that seem to come my way.

These people do not know the me that has been blind-sided but this fucking c**t of an illness.  I know getting out of bed, showering, washing my hair, putting my face on, getting to work, running my fitness classes, meeting friends for coffee, reading books, going to the cinema, baking, making home-cooked food would help me feel better.  Of course, I fucking know this – I am 35 years of age. I am a professional who has succeeded in life despite a shaky start and being fucked over on more than one occasion by people of significance.  Of course I realise this.  However, that doesn’t mean I’m fucking capable of these things when this gloom envelopes me.

Taking a shower and showing up sounds so fucking easy right?


So yeah, thanks to the colleagues who text “Surely coming into work would be better for you as it will provide a distraction; that’s what I do!”

Well good-for-fucking-you but the major difference is that you don’t have a chronic, at-times-crippling mental illness.

So I’m sure she meant this with the greatest intention but you have based that advise on the person you know.  The professional woman who has it together.  You are not familiar with the fucking wreck that spends days in a catatonic state staring at the ceiling.