Dear reader,

Me again. Sorry about that.

I joke because I’m on the cusp of tears, and the precipice looks like a very appealing springboard. Were it not for a wonderful comment from a lecturer on a particularly candid LinkedIn post I’d written, I’m not so sure how this evening would have ended up.

I’m working tomorrow. Thankfully, it’s a set-up shift, and I don’t have to put on a fake smile because I really don’t have that in me at the moment. Having said that, I always turn up when I’m feeling rotten. Partly because of the money, but mostly because I know I always leave feeling so much better for being around the most wonderful group of people.

Class today was fine. I spent much of it on my phone (I know, I know, slap the wrist), opening and closing TodayTix as though it were going out of business and I might never see a show again.

The thought of sitting still after recent events terrifies me.

Every moment feels like a lost opportunity. I’m brutally aware of my mortality, the fact that I’m still at rock fucking bottom (even if it does look a lot better than on previous visits), and the fact that the only thing my support network seems able to contribute is the helpful advice to “get a job”.

A network in which a good 60.9% of the people wouldn’t know where to begin when it comes to writing a CV, let alone uploading one.

I’ve sifted through at least another 40 job listings today, applying for two more opportunities along the way. I know for a fact I won’t be hearing from Waitrose, though. They had one of those awful assessments where you have to reassure them that you’re not going to run crying to a manager at every twist and turn, while somehow choosing between several supposedly positive multiple-choice answers, all of which are wrong, just to varying degrees.

Every second spent doing anything other than watching theatre, films, or sending emails about journalism projects I want to pursue feels like it’s setting me back 300 steps. And I’m already coming last in a one-man race against myself.

This means there’s very little time left to look after myself, and my bipolar brain absolutely loves that.

Week after week written off with, “Ah well, I can hit reset next week and it’ll be perfect.” Binges justified, bad habits allowed to linger for a few more days, and the promise of a fresh start that never quite arrives.

How do you even begin to explain to someone who doesn’t live with a stupid mental illness that there’s not enough time in your own life for yourself?