It has been quite some time since I last wrote a Being Bipolar post. I’m currently stuck somewhere between plonking everything onto the internet and hoping some of it sticks, disappearing from media altogether, and writing a 2,000-page rant about my bipolar life.
I’m aware that very few people are desperate to read the ramblings of somebody who has self-destructed, got into trouble and generally made a spectacular mess of large chunks of adulthood, so naturally I’ve decided the next step is launching the Being Bipolar Podcast.
I’m joking.
The world does not need another podcast. In fact, it probably needs fewer voices at even lower volume.
Broke, unemployed and occasionally hovering somewhere near giving up altogether, life feels quite dramatic at the moment. Thankfully Couch to 5K, getting to the gym twice a week and the thought of raising money for Samaritans is keeping me going, but I do feel stuck.
Not stuck in the usual, “Colin has brought this upon himself” kind of way.
More in a, “all the systems are absolutely fucked and even ticking every box doesn’t seem to make a damned bit of difference” kind of way.
Sitting around all day waiting for positive replies to emails is mind-numbing. Hoping for TikTok gifts to help cover basics for the week is not exactly the glamorous content creator lifestyle people imagine either. Yes, I stream Fortnite on TikTok Live and yes, it has genuinely bought me a few pints of milk, but growing an audience feels nearly impossible.
I hate having nothing to do.
Even in normal life, I spend most of my time exhausted and mentally fighting for air just to sustain whatever is going on at the time. The idea that people on Jobseekers are simply “paid to sit around and do nothing” is absolute bollocks.
Nobody wants to do nothing indefinitely.
It is tedium personified.
It’s miserable.
Yes, I am looking for work. No, I am not being fussy. Yes, I am considering hospitality again despite the industry previously making me feel utterly suicidal. Yes, I am putting effort into applications. I’ve worked with the Career Zone to improve my CV and, generally speaking, I interview fairly well.
I’ve still been rejected from every role I’ve applied for so far.
Today, Sunday 14 June, I’ve given myself permission to simply exist for a bit.
I would have loved being a lounge ambassador at one of London’s major cultural venues. I wouldn’t have minded working as a theatre usher either. Even hotel reception work sounded fairly appealing. Naturally, the instinct is still to blame myself instead of acknowledging the hundreds of people applying for exactly the same roles.
That’s where the brain goes.
Trapped. That’s the word I keep coming back to.
I can’t win for trying to get to events, shows and experiences to build my portfolio, and I can’t win for staying in this bloody university halls room doing nothing either.
The portfolio has to grow. My skills need stretching. I need to actually exist somewhere other than this room.
And let’s be honest, university halls are not designed for somebody to build their entire life around. You’re supposed to pass through them, not become emotionally attached to the four walls and a laundry card.
I’ve done a lot of sulking and contemplating since getting back from Great Yarmouth.
I’m losing weight at least, and I’ve quit smoking. One wasn’t entirely by choice and the other probably should have happened years ago, but both seem to be consequences of needing to survive more cheaply. I miss one and feel better for the other, though most of my thoughts are currently occupied by chocolate fudge cake and ice cream.
At least Couch to 5K is going well. I’ve despised some of the more recent runs, but Friday’s had me feeling genuinely epic for the first time in a while.
You can support my fundraiser for Samaritans here:
I know this is short-term misery, but short-term misery is still misery.
Tomorrow, Monday (who’d have thought?), brings another day of job hunting, running and attempting to resemble a functional adult.
Oddly, I quite like the stripped-back life. It feels safe. Predictable. Almost reassuring.
But I don’t want this to be it.
Colin Cushion 
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