The cucumber doesn't live in the cutlery drawer.
I know that.
Somehow the cucumber had ended up in the cutlery drawer.
'Tis like the mayonnaise. That doesn't live in the cupboard with the lentils.
I know that too.
Somehow the mayonnaise had ended up in the cupboard with the lentils.
Or like the colouring pencils in the bathroom cabinet.
I know that doesn't live there.
But there they were, found them when I was searching for the calculator (which was found after some searching in my sock compartment of my wardrobe...)
Or the Chopin nocturne scores I found next to my bed at 8 this morning. Which is 2 flights of stairs away from the piano.
Or the half drunk bottle of wine behind the curtain in the study. Why?
I dread to think what I'd be like without having several other people living in the same house as me...
Life's full of surprises when you find the cucumber in the cutlery drawer, y'know?
I think I may possibly be on autopilot a little. My autopilot seems to have taken a liking to rearranging the contents of the house without much reasoning... which is just a little unhelpful, I must admit.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Two years
Two years today. Two years. That is both ages and so little in the grand scheme of things. Here lyeth a blog post of utter shock that I've got to May 14th 2011 but I'm jolly glad I have.
So *takes deep breathe and starts*
Two years ago, two years ago today, I tried to die. And failed (obviously...). And decided as I was lying in a hospital that night that I couldn't try again. I couldn't because unless I was certain to die, I couldn't cope with not managing it again. Couldn't cope with the failure, the pain of watching those around me adjust to me after yet another attempt.
In the aftermath, on the side of the road as I had people all around and flashing sirens, the first response ambulance guy called me "sweet as a nut". Not sure whether a crazy nut or not... You couldn't make it up, or if you did you'd have to suggest it was preposterous bit of fiction...
In a way, recover is hard. I can't say "no, can't do today" and retreat to under the duvet for entirety of days. I can't just disappear off unnoticed and spend a week (or twelve) on a psych ward before wobbling back into life again. I can't just keep up long periods of little sleep - this week I reached a turning point where I knew that utter exhaustion (and its related dangerousness) was going to happen if I didn't sleep. So I got into bed, didn't set any alarms from the morning and slept. I have to do some things to prevent things from suddenly going back. Which in a way, would be stupendously easy.
Two years ago tomorrow, I got put into a psych ward as there was no guaranteeing I could actually contain myself/not disappear overnight. I HATED it, them, the fact I'd landed myself in a psych ward, and only didn't go into police cells because I'd got blood everywhere and the squeamish police crew called an ambulance (that was before they searched my bag, which resulted in blue lights to hospital as I inelegantly splattered the back of an ambulance in vomit...). Today I'm off to a university tutorial, 8 minutes walk from the psych ward. I went on leave from the psych ward to go to a tutorial when they realised I had actually spent 4 days doing sums, so speaking to others who understood this love was probably a good idea for my (somewhat errant) sanity.
Two years, two years. I've not acted on those thoughts. Once they are an option, I'm not sure they ever fully go away, and the "what ifs" stay put too, but two years? Before that, I was on 6 months since my last attempt (a psych ward based attempt, and then I had another 3 months of stay there...) Before that, about a month. Before that, 3 months... I'm only here due to being an incompetent twit with a stupidly resilient body.
Two years. I can't quite believe it. So so so much has changed. Back then, the thought of walking down the road with someone safe by my side was scary (suicide attempts withstanding. Logic of the non-mathematical kind was never my strong point...) now, I can travel to London on my own.
Two years. Two years I didn't want to have. I didn't want to have two more days, or two more hours. But I did. And somehow, slowly, things have turned. Two years.
If you think I've said two years too many times, then tough. Because you know what? I've laughed more in the last two years than I did in the six years prior to that. I've smiled and meant it. I've sat outside in public places and done so consciously. Not because I made a mistake and couldn't remember how to get home.
I'm not quite mentally stable. I'm not quite mentally normal - I'd still get a diagnosis of Aspergers if I was tested today. I'd possibly get some psychotic label too, due to the way the world views how I view things. I'm not fully functioning, I still have to be reminded to eat/sleep/drink and some days I can't brush my own hair. But two years without trying something to delete me is something I'd never thought would be a possibility. Because I had decided to die, so I was going to. And that was that.
So I thought.
I was wrong about that. And I think I'll be wrong for a few more years yet. Apologies to my enemies'n'all...
Two years. *passes out celebratory brownies/cake/wine/water and plays jolly tunes*
So *takes deep breathe and starts*
Two years ago, two years ago today, I tried to die. And failed (obviously...). And decided as I was lying in a hospital that night that I couldn't try again. I couldn't because unless I was certain to die, I couldn't cope with not managing it again. Couldn't cope with the failure, the pain of watching those around me adjust to me after yet another attempt.
In the aftermath, on the side of the road as I had people all around and flashing sirens, the first response ambulance guy called me "sweet as a nut". Not sure whether a crazy nut or not... You couldn't make it up, or if you did you'd have to suggest it was preposterous bit of fiction...
In a way, recover is hard. I can't say "no, can't do today" and retreat to under the duvet for entirety of days. I can't just disappear off unnoticed and spend a week (or twelve) on a psych ward before wobbling back into life again. I can't just keep up long periods of little sleep - this week I reached a turning point where I knew that utter exhaustion (and its related dangerousness) was going to happen if I didn't sleep. So I got into bed, didn't set any alarms from the morning and slept. I have to do some things to prevent things from suddenly going back. Which in a way, would be stupendously easy.
Two years ago tomorrow, I got put into a psych ward as there was no guaranteeing I could actually contain myself/not disappear overnight. I HATED it, them, the fact I'd landed myself in a psych ward, and only didn't go into police cells because I'd got blood everywhere and the squeamish police crew called an ambulance (that was before they searched my bag, which resulted in blue lights to hospital as I inelegantly splattered the back of an ambulance in vomit...). Today I'm off to a university tutorial, 8 minutes walk from the psych ward. I went on leave from the psych ward to go to a tutorial when they realised I had actually spent 4 days doing sums, so speaking to others who understood this love was probably a good idea for my (somewhat errant) sanity.
Two years, two years. I've not acted on those thoughts. Once they are an option, I'm not sure they ever fully go away, and the "what ifs" stay put too, but two years? Before that, I was on 6 months since my last attempt (a psych ward based attempt, and then I had another 3 months of stay there...) Before that, about a month. Before that, 3 months... I'm only here due to being an incompetent twit with a stupidly resilient body.
Two years. I can't quite believe it. So so so much has changed. Back then, the thought of walking down the road with someone safe by my side was scary (suicide attempts withstanding. Logic of the non-mathematical kind was never my strong point...) now, I can travel to London on my own.
Two years. Two years I didn't want to have. I didn't want to have two more days, or two more hours. But I did. And somehow, slowly, things have turned. Two years.
If you think I've said two years too many times, then tough. Because you know what? I've laughed more in the last two years than I did in the six years prior to that. I've smiled and meant it. I've sat outside in public places and done so consciously. Not because I made a mistake and couldn't remember how to get home.
I'm not quite mentally stable. I'm not quite mentally normal - I'd still get a diagnosis of Aspergers if I was tested today. I'd possibly get some psychotic label too, due to the way the world views how I view things. I'm not fully functioning, I still have to be reminded to eat/sleep/drink and some days I can't brush my own hair. But two years without trying something to delete me is something I'd never thought would be a possibility. Because I had decided to die, so I was going to. And that was that.
So I thought.
I was wrong about that. And I think I'll be wrong for a few more years yet. Apologies to my enemies'n'all...
Two years. *passes out celebratory brownies/cake/wine/water and plays jolly tunes*
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
It is gone
Remnants, a blog from last August
I've done it. I've done it. It is gone. No longer exists. As of yesterday, it is part of my past. Not a painful reminder in the physical (well, as much as a email folder can be physical) but only a mental reminder.
Was speaking with UniMentor yesterday morning. She said "remember when we first met 2 years ago? You would have laughed if I told you that you would walk down to church on your own. Now look at you!" That's the thing, the life I now lead was a laughable farce then (is that a tautology? Well, anyway, I digress...)
Yesterday was the first day that everyone was out for weeks and weeks - school holidays, work holidays, lack of external activities meant I've not been alone for ages. Yesterday I had the space to think, the quietness which I've craved for the 2 weeks.
I tweeted yesterday: "I can't explain it in words. I can't explain it in music. I can't explain it in actions. Basically, I'm stuck with it. Raargh. #cryptictweet" Things are feeling a bit stuck because usually I can find some means to explain it and then that's a bit better. There's something twisting inside me and I can't work out how to explain it to settle it.
I needed to DO something, something positive to try and alleviate the "rarrrgh". So I started up the computer, let it load the folder (took a good minute or so - the computer is on its last legs but includes my work emails) and deleted it. And deleted the back up. And the back up of the back up. Then I shut down the computer and carried on with my day.
In a way, I'm elated it is gone. Petrified it is gone, because it signifies so much the feelings which so nearly killed me. I can't look at the news websites today - stuff is still lingering now ("Explanation") and after what led me to start collecting news stories it is best I don't see what has happened today in the world. I've taken a big step, a big step out of what I know just by deleting it, so I'm now precariously wobbling as I settle my feet in this new place.
Life's big and exciting and petrifying and fun and scary and sad-in-places and happy-in-other-places and colourful and dark and... I'm growing into being "me", after so many years of fighting it. Which means I have to leave things behind - the folder, the big grey coat which I wore all of every day for a year, the past. Being mental took me in, kept hold of me, and though I'm not exactly "mentally normal" (I don't think that will ever be the case and I wouldn't be me if it wasn't for the quirks) I'm getting there. I'm getting there. Even though I can't explain the current "stuff" in my head in any format, I'm coping OKish.
The folder is gone. I can't change the last 8 years but I can put some of it far away.
In a way it is massive relief, in other way it feels like the most foolish move I have made in a while. Now is the time to let the dust settle and carry on.
*takes a deep breath and goes to prepare for this afternoon's rehearsal*
I've done it. I've done it. It is gone. No longer exists. As of yesterday, it is part of my past. Not a painful reminder in the physical (well, as much as a email folder can be physical) but only a mental reminder.
Was speaking with UniMentor yesterday morning. She said "remember when we first met 2 years ago? You would have laughed if I told you that you would walk down to church on your own. Now look at you!" That's the thing, the life I now lead was a laughable farce then (is that a tautology? Well, anyway, I digress...)
Yesterday was the first day that everyone was out for weeks and weeks - school holidays, work holidays, lack of external activities meant I've not been alone for ages. Yesterday I had the space to think, the quietness which I've craved for the 2 weeks.
I tweeted yesterday: "I can't explain it in words. I can't explain it in music. I can't explain it in actions. Basically, I'm stuck with it. Raargh. #cryptictweet" Things are feeling a bit stuck because usually I can find some means to explain it and then that's a bit better. There's something twisting inside me and I can't work out how to explain it to settle it.
I needed to DO something, something positive to try and alleviate the "rarrrgh". So I started up the computer, let it load the folder (took a good minute or so - the computer is on its last legs but includes my work emails) and deleted it. And deleted the back up. And the back up of the back up. Then I shut down the computer and carried on with my day.
In a way, I'm elated it is gone. Petrified it is gone, because it signifies so much the feelings which so nearly killed me. I can't look at the news websites today - stuff is still lingering now ("Explanation") and after what led me to start collecting news stories it is best I don't see what has happened today in the world. I've taken a big step, a big step out of what I know just by deleting it, so I'm now precariously wobbling as I settle my feet in this new place.
Life's big and exciting and petrifying and fun and scary and sad-in-places and happy-in-other-places and colourful and dark and... I'm growing into being "me", after so many years of fighting it. Which means I have to leave things behind - the folder, the big grey coat which I wore all of every day for a year, the past. Being mental took me in, kept hold of me, and though I'm not exactly "mentally normal" (I don't think that will ever be the case and I wouldn't be me if it wasn't for the quirks) I'm getting there. I'm getting there. Even though I can't explain the current "stuff" in my head in any format, I'm coping OKish.
The folder is gone. I can't change the last 8 years but I can put some of it far away.
In a way it is massive relief, in other way it feels like the most foolish move I have made in a while. Now is the time to let the dust settle and carry on.
*takes a deep breath and goes to prepare for this afternoon's rehearsal*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)