I slept for at least 10 hours last night. Woke up this morning, read the New York Times. As usual, I had nothing in the refrigerator to eat, and I wanted to get food somewhere, but I felt too hungry to shower and get dressed. I also felt this general weekend depression set it–when I have no structure, I just feel terrible.
I wish I was one of these people who just goes to the gym on a Saturday, but I don’t. Finally, I got in the shower, and then while I was showering, I decided I needed to put on this Kerastase hair mask. So then I got out of the shower, flipped through some cookbooks because I decided that after the conditioner was rinsed out, I would make my way to the supermarket to get food for the week. I would first stop in a coffee shop and get some writing done, drop some old clothes off at the thrift store.
But none of that happened. I felt lonely. I felt aimless. With my wet, slimy hair wrapped in a towel, I curled up in my bed with a chick lit novel. A few minutes later, I was asleep. I slept most of the day. I hate myself for being this way. For being the kind of person who sleeps my way through life.
When I take less medication and start getting manic, I don’t sleep as much. But within a few days, I’m f’ing nuts. Now it’s after 1 a.m., I just got back from the movies and I’m up, analyzing my match.com profile, wondering why no decent men ever seem interested in me instead of doing what I should be doing: sleeping.