I don't like receiving Disability Living Allowance (from here on in called DLA), due to the word which the D represents - Disability.
To those who see me out and about, they probably wouldn't realise I've got the things which mean I qualify for DLA. I hate the fact I have those things, but it is how things are.
My CPN, when doing her bit of the very lengthily form for my new allowance (currently pending, and has been for quite a while), said it was "compensation for how things are". I hate that. The way things are is basically due to my mucked up head, and how it has affected life. Not just my life, but my family's too.
20 years ago, as my parents were on day 11 of having a child of their own, did they really think that they would be still looking after the baby when it was 20? Probably not, it was probably a time full of little sleep, accommodating visiting relatives, and wondering quite how it would all work.
Anyway, the thing is, I'm still living at home. Bar a week at uni in which they visited every day, and the months in hospital (where they visited every day too), I've lived at home always. Some days, they have to wake me up, choose clothes for me as I can't function and make decisions, wake me up again as I've turned over and gone back to sleep, persuade me that out of bed is a better idea for the rest of the day... You get the idea. I'm not just being a stroppy ex-teenager who is difficult to wake up, I don't mean to make life difficult, but my parents hate mornings if I'm having a less-able-to-function day. Is that what DLA is for? Well, yeah, probably. Or persuading me that the outside isn't too scary, and I'll enjoy the thing when they've got me there? That too.
Sooo, my point is, when I have to face up to the fact I am considered disabled, that is bad enough. Add into the mix having to go to a medical that is either trying to catch me out, and make me say "Actually, I'm a very functioning human being", or going to result in proving that some person (with the horribly powerful right to tick a box to say "Yes" or "No" to an application) who met me for a medical thinks I'm disabled, and it will feel rubbish.
I would love to be able to say "I live alone, I function, I can look after myself, and enjoy everything" but I have a horrible feeling I've got too far to go before 2013. By which point, I hope to be doing my Masters (which dear Mr Osborne will probably make the funding of all the more difficult). I'd love to say "Actually I'm a very functioning human being", I really would. People at work probably don't understand what I am, but they see me for short bursts of time. Where the lovely line from Albert Camus "Nobody realises that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal." is vaguely the case [the "normal" needs to be replaced with "acceptably different" or something].
DLA is the bit of money which pays for petrol for me to be able to be taken to work, or orchestra, or something else which is considered "Living". It is in the name, in case you hadn't noticed. So, travelling to somewhere I've never been before to discus how crap I am at living, and how I need help, is horrible. And someone whose first job (according to Wikipedia, I'm not going to look further into it as I have better uses of my time, so this might be some bit of weird rumour) was "to provide data entry services to the National Health Service to record the names of people who had died in London", is right now not very liked by me. (is that non-explicitly negative enough? It is said in a grumpy way, if that helps.)
[And it also means that teaching VAT rates as a means of teaching percentages just got a bit too simple. Dividing by 5 is just, quite frankly, too simple. At least with 17.5% I could introduce the concept that 10% + 5% + 2.5% was quite a sensible way to calculate it, so using dividing by 10, then halving that, then halving that again, then adding them all up. Mr I've-got-lots-of-names-and-a-bit-too-much-power-for-my-own-good will thus be making real life applications different, so he can be also be blamed for the worsening rate of mathematical ability of children if it carries on at 20% for a long time.] (Disclaimer: obviously this isn't quite true. But still, it is slightly true.)
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Medication
It is over a year since I took my anti-psychotic meds. Which means over 10 months ago people found out I had not been taking them. (I just nodded whenever the "And your parents deal with your meds, correct?" question came up in MH settings)
Since late last July, when I had a Care Meeting in which they admitted they couldn't all force me to take medication (I still had been cajoled into take my other meds as they were a different time of day), I haven't had any psych meds. I've had 2 ibuprofen since, and that is all the meds which I have had. Those 2 tablets weren't taken lightly, more suggested strongly as I sat clutching my head - and I gave in, and took them in some vague hope the headache might go.
Life minus medication is better for me. I had got to the point where my thoughts on meds were "I don't know the real me, there have been drugs in my body for too long for me to know the real me." I had been on medication since the age of 13, adding in more and more different types, taking dosages people didn't always agree were right for a child.
Turns out the real me is a more bubbly life. Even with the stuff like I described in my last post, I'm still more bubbly now than I was. I'm several dress sizes smaller, and 4 stone lighter than I was. Not so tired on the whole (even as I feel incredibly tired right now, it is nothing in comparison), not wanting to eat the whole kitchen worth of food (I wanted to eat the contents of those unidentified cans at the back of the cupboards as they might have been the food which would fill me up) and I know this is the un-medicated *real* version of my body.
Side effects are horrible. I put on weight because I was constantly hungry, I was too tired to exercise it off, I was binging because I needed to fill the immense hungriness, then purging (which is a horrible thing to feel you *have* to do, and a horrible thing to do). I was feeling horribly ashamed by this ever expanding body, which meant that the "body image issues" just got worse. The despair at the hideous body meant I didn't want to leave the house, so I did even less exercise... [you see the pattern emerging, I'm sure]
If I had not become so bloody minded and stubborn about it, I'd probably still be taking medication. I'd be even heavier than I was. I'd probably still be feeling rubbish about it all. Instead, I stopped taking them, one by one, without telling anyone. So when I did, I could say "I haven't taken them for X weeks, and you haven't noticed any difference, so I reckon I don't need to take them again."
Since then, I have now got a basic statement in my files along the lines of: "Don't give her medication. We tried most of them [and she point blank refused the lithium/sodium valproate option, which was what we might have gone across to if she accepted] and none worked. So don't bother, and work out what it the current issue before doing the "throw meds at her" option." And I am sooo soo soo so so glad that they have realised that medication isn't for me. Talking is hard, yeah, but giving me meds which don't help and come with the side effects is worse.
I did my college exams being unable to speak due to a swollen tongue, and unable to focus my eyes due to very very slow reactions. I was having a mild allergic reaction to the meds, and they were monitoring it, but not taking me off the medication. (I was in a psych ward) Not exactly the way to get the grades you have worked hard for up until that point.
Anyway, here is to another year med free, a year in which I'll drink more wine, enjoy more music, not fall asleep constantly, lose more of the med-weight, and bounce around. Thus fitting into more of the clothes I left in boxes in my room in the hope I'd fit into them again. And guess what? I am. Pink trousers, bright green tops, more fitted clothes, and less stretchy material! *grins* I've become more of a normal shape, instead of huge in all directions - yep, I'll still have the stretch marks, I'll still have the days in which I wear my "fat clothes", but it is so much easier to live with.
Some people are helped by medication, and I'm happy for them. But I'm aware it is a relatively easy option for MH people to be giving out. I think when you have seen the horrible things it does in the cause of "helping", then you become more sceptical. If there is any place to put you off psych meds, it is a psych ward. Especially a psych ward at medication time.
Which is also something I plan to avoid, just as a matter of fact. Seeing 5 in the space of 13 months was enough. Eating their rubbish foods was enough to send me bonkers - one lunchtime meal choice was available at one place I was at for 10 weeks, so I had that every day when I couldn't persuade them to just not order me a meal/let my parents take me out/let me have some healthy stuff from home.
Since late last July, when I had a Care Meeting in which they admitted they couldn't all force me to take medication (I still had been cajoled into take my other meds as they were a different time of day), I haven't had any psych meds. I've had 2 ibuprofen since, and that is all the meds which I have had. Those 2 tablets weren't taken lightly, more suggested strongly as I sat clutching my head - and I gave in, and took them in some vague hope the headache might go.
Life minus medication is better for me. I had got to the point where my thoughts on meds were "I don't know the real me, there have been drugs in my body for too long for me to know the real me." I had been on medication since the age of 13, adding in more and more different types, taking dosages people didn't always agree were right for a child.
Turns out the real me is a more bubbly life. Even with the stuff like I described in my last post, I'm still more bubbly now than I was. I'm several dress sizes smaller, and 4 stone lighter than I was. Not so tired on the whole (even as I feel incredibly tired right now, it is nothing in comparison), not wanting to eat the whole kitchen worth of food (I wanted to eat the contents of those unidentified cans at the back of the cupboards as they might have been the food which would fill me up) and I know this is the un-medicated *real* version of my body.
Side effects are horrible. I put on weight because I was constantly hungry, I was too tired to exercise it off, I was binging because I needed to fill the immense hungriness, then purging (which is a horrible thing to feel you *have* to do, and a horrible thing to do). I was feeling horribly ashamed by this ever expanding body, which meant that the "body image issues" just got worse. The despair at the hideous body meant I didn't want to leave the house, so I did even less exercise... [you see the pattern emerging, I'm sure]
If I had not become so bloody minded and stubborn about it, I'd probably still be taking medication. I'd be even heavier than I was. I'd probably still be feeling rubbish about it all. Instead, I stopped taking them, one by one, without telling anyone. So when I did, I could say "I haven't taken them for X weeks, and you haven't noticed any difference, so I reckon I don't need to take them again."
Since then, I have now got a basic statement in my files along the lines of: "Don't give her medication. We tried most of them [and she point blank refused the lithium/sodium valproate option, which was what we might have gone across to if she accepted] and none worked. So don't bother, and work out what it the current issue before doing the "throw meds at her" option." And I am sooo soo soo so so glad that they have realised that medication isn't for me. Talking is hard, yeah, but giving me meds which don't help and come with the side effects is worse.
I did my college exams being unable to speak due to a swollen tongue, and unable to focus my eyes due to very very slow reactions. I was having a mild allergic reaction to the meds, and they were monitoring it, but not taking me off the medication. (I was in a psych ward) Not exactly the way to get the grades you have worked hard for up until that point.
Anyway, here is to another year med free, a year in which I'll drink more wine, enjoy more music, not fall asleep constantly, lose more of the med-weight, and bounce around. Thus fitting into more of the clothes I left in boxes in my room in the hope I'd fit into them again. And guess what? I am. Pink trousers, bright green tops, more fitted clothes, and less stretchy material! *grins* I've become more of a normal shape, instead of huge in all directions - yep, I'll still have the stretch marks, I'll still have the days in which I wear my "fat clothes", but it is so much easier to live with.
Some people are helped by medication, and I'm happy for them. But I'm aware it is a relatively easy option for MH people to be giving out. I think when you have seen the horrible things it does in the cause of "helping", then you become more sceptical. If there is any place to put you off psych meds, it is a psych ward. Especially a psych ward at medication time.
Which is also something I plan to avoid, just as a matter of fact. Seeing 5 in the space of 13 months was enough. Eating their rubbish foods was enough to send me bonkers - one lunchtime meal choice was available at one place I was at for 10 weeks, so I had that every day when I couldn't persuade them to just not order me a meal/let my parents take me out/let me have some healthy stuff from home.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Hannah, me, mental and the cats...
Some days I want to go and stand in the market square wearing a t-shirt and scream "I am Hannah. I am also mental. I am also the local church's organist. And the teacher to quite a few of your kids. I am also the one who wears brightly coloured clothes. I'm the one with the frizzy memorable hair. But I am mental. And that doesn't negate any of my other features."
I don't though.
Feels stupid in some ways. This, in effect, double life I lead. Everyone has things they hide from parts of their lives, but does something that has quite a large impact on everything get hidden? I don't know.
When I am standing in front of a group of musicians, bouncing around, do they realise I'm mental? I don't know.
When I am kneeling next door to a little kid, making myself their height as not to tower over them, whilst we wait for their mother to come and collect them, do they realise I'm mental? Do their parents? I don't know.
When I am standing at the bus stop, stimming like crazy, but chatting happily to my unprofessional, unsupportive support worker, do the people realise I am mental? I don't know. [Side thought, do they think she is mental? More likely...]
When I was standing in the queue at the supermarket buying a range of medication, alcohol and sharp things, did they realise I was mental? I doubt it, I was still served.
Anyway, the quest to not look outwardly mental (whatever that might be) has led me to feel that I don't know the real me. Is the smile real? Is the frown real? Are these (some say, horrifically) bright clothes part of the real me?
Am I actually mental? Or is it just not as clear cut as that?
Am I sane? Or is that a glorified, powerful word which has no clear concept underlying it?
Am I disabled? That is an incredibly powerful word. Which could technically refer to me, as I fall into the categories the system categorises at disabled. And I do have funding for support which only comes because of this "disabled" label. But would someone seeing me on a daily basis outside the home really believe that? I don't know.
In the quest to seem suitably sane (or at least, not unsuitable mental) I've created something. Someone. This thing called "Hannah". I'm confused as to whether this is me, or not.
I'm a few weeks away from leaving my teenage years behind. Aged 13, I wasn't your average teenager. Nor any point after that. I've spent them being mental. And trying to hide that. Failing miserably to hide it at times, when in complete meltdown mode. Succeeding at other times, I am always in a perplexed mode that some people have this wholly positive view of me. It doesn't fit. These people who I let down aged 17 when I landed myself in hospital, who then employed me again aged 19. I didn't ask for my job back, I was asked whether I would do it again, for better money, and more responsibility. How can that view of me still exist? When all this evidence suggests otherwise?
How I perceive the world, and how the world perceives me is a fundamentally weird thing. For everyone. Especially for people who are considered (for better or worse) "mental". Now I'm "recovering" (I hate that word) I'm starting to feel uncomfortable with me. Having challenged my views on everything that was "concerning" to others, how do I know this me is real? I was convinced that I was responsible, I still am, but I've been constantly told I'm not for several years. Maybe I'll get told tomorrow that though this is Hannah, this isn't actually *me*.
When not caught up in my own self destruction, the world is terrifying. And big, and powerful. Full of things which I don't know about. I don't know about me, so how can I know about maths, or music, or this or that? Let alone the whole world. I don't have an average upbringing to compare everything to, I had a wonderful upbringing but I doubt it was average. And I have ended up being classified as mental. Would that have been the case in different circumstances?
Today, I sat with my cat sleeping on the sofa next door to me. Our neighbour's cats were in our garden. I watched them slink along to the bare tree and one climbed up. The other was flapping about trying to catch a fly. Teetering at the top of the tree, one was watching the garden on the other side of us. Not knowing, or at least not remembering, a dog lived there. About a minute of weaving in and out of the branch stumps of this tree, the cat came back down. Probably still unaware of the dog.
I feel like my cat, asleep on the sofa. Occasional twitching, but sound asleep. Oblivious.
I feel like the cat on the ground, engrossed in the fly, getting itself in a frenzy at a fly. Pointless in some respects.
I feel like the cat in the tree, teetering on unsteady branches, peeking at what lies ahead, and deciding that looking at it is enough for today. That I'm quite safe enough slightly outside my comfort zone, thank you very much.
I digress, with some rather strange analogy which took place today. Sorry.
Identity is a weird thing. I've most likely over-thought it all. I'm mental. I'm Hannah. I'm me. Just I'm not so sure on those things...
I don't though.
Feels stupid in some ways. This, in effect, double life I lead. Everyone has things they hide from parts of their lives, but does something that has quite a large impact on everything get hidden? I don't know.
When I am standing in front of a group of musicians, bouncing around, do they realise I'm mental? I don't know.
When I am kneeling next door to a little kid, making myself their height as not to tower over them, whilst we wait for their mother to come and collect them, do they realise I'm mental? Do their parents? I don't know.
When I am standing at the bus stop, stimming like crazy, but chatting happily to my unprofessional, unsupportive support worker, do the people realise I am mental? I don't know. [Side thought, do they think she is mental? More likely...]
When I was standing in the queue at the supermarket buying a range of medication, alcohol and sharp things, did they realise I was mental? I doubt it, I was still served.
Anyway, the quest to not look outwardly mental (whatever that might be) has led me to feel that I don't know the real me. Is the smile real? Is the frown real? Are these (some say, horrifically) bright clothes part of the real me?
Am I actually mental? Or is it just not as clear cut as that?
Am I sane? Or is that a glorified, powerful word which has no clear concept underlying it?
Am I disabled? That is an incredibly powerful word. Which could technically refer to me, as I fall into the categories the system categorises at disabled. And I do have funding for support which only comes because of this "disabled" label. But would someone seeing me on a daily basis outside the home really believe that? I don't know.
In the quest to seem suitably sane (or at least, not unsuitable mental) I've created something. Someone. This thing called "Hannah". I'm confused as to whether this is me, or not.
I'm a few weeks away from leaving my teenage years behind. Aged 13, I wasn't your average teenager. Nor any point after that. I've spent them being mental. And trying to hide that. Failing miserably to hide it at times, when in complete meltdown mode. Succeeding at other times, I am always in a perplexed mode that some people have this wholly positive view of me. It doesn't fit. These people who I let down aged 17 when I landed myself in hospital, who then employed me again aged 19. I didn't ask for my job back, I was asked whether I would do it again, for better money, and more responsibility. How can that view of me still exist? When all this evidence suggests otherwise?
How I perceive the world, and how the world perceives me is a fundamentally weird thing. For everyone. Especially for people who are considered (for better or worse) "mental". Now I'm "recovering" (I hate that word) I'm starting to feel uncomfortable with me. Having challenged my views on everything that was "concerning" to others, how do I know this me is real? I was convinced that I was responsible, I still am, but I've been constantly told I'm not for several years. Maybe I'll get told tomorrow that though this is Hannah, this isn't actually *me*.
When not caught up in my own self destruction, the world is terrifying. And big, and powerful. Full of things which I don't know about. I don't know about me, so how can I know about maths, or music, or this or that? Let alone the whole world. I don't have an average upbringing to compare everything to, I had a wonderful upbringing but I doubt it was average. And I have ended up being classified as mental. Would that have been the case in different circumstances?
Today, I sat with my cat sleeping on the sofa next door to me. Our neighbour's cats were in our garden. I watched them slink along to the bare tree and one climbed up. The other was flapping about trying to catch a fly. Teetering at the top of the tree, one was watching the garden on the other side of us. Not knowing, or at least not remembering, a dog lived there. About a minute of weaving in and out of the branch stumps of this tree, the cat came back down. Probably still unaware of the dog.
I feel like my cat, asleep on the sofa. Occasional twitching, but sound asleep. Oblivious.
I feel like the cat on the ground, engrossed in the fly, getting itself in a frenzy at a fly. Pointless in some respects.
I feel like the cat in the tree, teetering on unsteady branches, peeking at what lies ahead, and deciding that looking at it is enough for today. That I'm quite safe enough slightly outside my comfort zone, thank you very much.
I digress, with some rather strange analogy which took place today. Sorry.
Identity is a weird thing. I've most likely over-thought it all. I'm mental. I'm Hannah. I'm me. Just I'm not so sure on those things...
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Pounding the streets
Pounding the streets.
Under 6 weeks until the longest day now. Half past nine in the evening isn't dark any more, though the street lights are on. Makes the world a funny colour scheme - purple flowers glow almost as if ultraviolet, the trees are all brown (rather than the greens of the day time) and the sky is an off-blue. It still feels lonely though.
Maybe lonely isn't a bad thing though? How it is meant to be.
Maybe a funny colour scheme isn't normal? Just how I perceive it.
We all know I "think differently" according to them, so maybe I see differently too? Maybe others don't see the same things? Maybe?
Under 6 weeks until the longest day. Quarter to ten in the evening is quite dark, though the street lights are on. Makes the world black and sepia. It still feels lonely though.
Maybe lonely isn't a bad thing? Still got the neighbourhood cats popping up unexpectedly. Or the friendly birds pecking at the moss on the side of the road. They happily go on their lives, sensing the opportunity of me walking past for a conversation or chance to circle around the walking person's legs for the sake of it.
Nature feels more real this year. More here and with me. Only went out one time in spring last year, ended up in hospital, didn't really feel like spring. Year before I spent head down, walking around in a daze. This year, I'm noticing it. Pounding the streets, up hills, down hills. Under the street lights, to the bits of the road not close to street lights and thus dark, under the street lights again. Music in the head. Music in the fingers, playing imaginary piano in the air. Music in the feet, pounding the streets. Pounding the streets, normal. Lonely, lonely existence. Just how it is meant to be?
Pounding the streets. Clomp clomp clomp clomp. Trying not to fall over. Trying to take it in, absorb the world. Though the world isn't going anywhere and I am not planning of going anywhere, I have a residual thinking process left over that tells me this is my last spring. Or at least, that this might be my last spring. I need to always remember that it might be just residual mentalness, or it might be just my innate thinking systems, but I don't have to make this my last spring. Like that day wasn't my last day, and all these days after it haven't been my last either. That month wasn't my last, that spring wasn't my last, that year wasn't my last. But it could have been. I could, tomorrow, do something. I won't, but I could.
I have the problem I am aware of what I could do. It is just how it is, I'm aware of how physically ill/non-alive I could be. Can I go back to being innocent again? Not sure when innocent me became me though. A long time ago, before I realised I was different. Or at least, I was treated differently.
Nature is here, and it is here to stay. And I have reasons to be here, and to be here to stay for some while yet. For one thing, I'm going to get my contract made permanent. Being alive is a bit of requirement for that, surprisingly enough. Another is all the music I still want to experience. Another is all the maths I want to understand. The want not to be a bloody statistic or a shitty stereotype, but instead me. ME. Me. Not someone with X, Y or Z. Not someone who can't do the things she has dreamed of since the age of 5 (side though: was I innocent then? Not sure). I'm just doing them in a different way. But hey, I'm not conventional. I hate fitting into boxes and labels and the normal way of doing things, and so I am doing this the unconventional way. By being me. And shock horror, you poor souls and the cats and the birds and the trees and the streets have got to put up with me a bit longer. Right now, for a lot lot longer. I'm going to grow older, I'm going to wear purple (so just like now). I'm also going to try my hardest to get to my dreams, they might not be possible, but I can't not try. Not now, not here, not with the streets beneath my feet and the cat meowing un-tunefully to the piano sonata currently playing in my head. (well, the world isn't always on your side, is it?!)
Under 6 weeks until the longest day now. Half past nine in the evening isn't dark any more, though the street lights are on. Makes the world a funny colour scheme - purple flowers glow almost as if ultraviolet, the trees are all brown (rather than the greens of the day time) and the sky is an off-blue. It still feels lonely though.
Maybe lonely isn't a bad thing though? How it is meant to be.
Maybe a funny colour scheme isn't normal? Just how I perceive it.
We all know I "think differently" according to them, so maybe I see differently too? Maybe others don't see the same things? Maybe?
Under 6 weeks until the longest day. Quarter to ten in the evening is quite dark, though the street lights are on. Makes the world black and sepia. It still feels lonely though.
Maybe lonely isn't a bad thing? Still got the neighbourhood cats popping up unexpectedly. Or the friendly birds pecking at the moss on the side of the road. They happily go on their lives, sensing the opportunity of me walking past for a conversation or chance to circle around the walking person's legs for the sake of it.
Nature feels more real this year. More here and with me. Only went out one time in spring last year, ended up in hospital, didn't really feel like spring. Year before I spent head down, walking around in a daze. This year, I'm noticing it. Pounding the streets, up hills, down hills. Under the street lights, to the bits of the road not close to street lights and thus dark, under the street lights again. Music in the head. Music in the fingers, playing imaginary piano in the air. Music in the feet, pounding the streets. Pounding the streets, normal. Lonely, lonely existence. Just how it is meant to be?
Pounding the streets. Clomp clomp clomp clomp. Trying not to fall over. Trying to take it in, absorb the world. Though the world isn't going anywhere and I am not planning of going anywhere, I have a residual thinking process left over that tells me this is my last spring. Or at least, that this might be my last spring. I need to always remember that it might be just residual mentalness, or it might be just my innate thinking systems, but I don't have to make this my last spring. Like that day wasn't my last day, and all these days after it haven't been my last either. That month wasn't my last, that spring wasn't my last, that year wasn't my last. But it could have been. I could, tomorrow, do something. I won't, but I could.
I have the problem I am aware of what I could do. It is just how it is, I'm aware of how physically ill/non-alive I could be. Can I go back to being innocent again? Not sure when innocent me became me though. A long time ago, before I realised I was different. Or at least, I was treated differently.
Nature is here, and it is here to stay. And I have reasons to be here, and to be here to stay for some while yet. For one thing, I'm going to get my contract made permanent. Being alive is a bit of requirement for that, surprisingly enough. Another is all the music I still want to experience. Another is all the maths I want to understand. The want not to be a bloody statistic or a shitty stereotype, but instead me. ME. Me. Not someone with X, Y or Z. Not someone who can't do the things she has dreamed of since the age of 5 (side though: was I innocent then? Not sure). I'm just doing them in a different way. But hey, I'm not conventional. I hate fitting into boxes and labels and the normal way of doing things, and so I am doing this the unconventional way. By being me. And shock horror, you poor souls and the cats and the birds and the trees and the streets have got to put up with me a bit longer. Right now, for a lot lot longer. I'm going to grow older, I'm going to wear purple (so just like now). I'm also going to try my hardest to get to my dreams, they might not be possible, but I can't not try. Not now, not here, not with the streets beneath my feet and the cat meowing un-tunefully to the piano sonata currently playing in my head. (well, the world isn't always on your side, is it?!)
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Life minus the therapy?
Therapy minus the therapist. AKA "life".
Turns out life can be made quite busy with various things. Last saw psychologist 12 days ago, and don't see her again until July - for one final "checkup". Then that is it. Nothing from her.
She admitted that at times, she didn't believe I would ever get to my goals, that maybe "feeling content, but not ridiculously happy" (what I said I wanted in my first ever meeting with her) was never going to be attainable. I probably infuriated her, I infuriate myself. I don't know if "content" will ever happen, but it feels slightly more attainable than it did. And the complete despair that once was the constant companion isn't so enthusiastic as it was.
Anyway, I'm busy. Busybusybusy. My "weekend" is Monday and Tuesday, as I am busy on the conventional Saturday and Sunday weekend. Mondays are always rubbish, I get more and more worked up, and panic about the week ahead, and muse at how badly things went the previous week. I end up with the physical mentalness, I have spent the day getting more and more tense, jumpy, and generally yucky. Tuesdays are when I start thinking "right, another week, just get to the end of it". Surprisingly enough, I do get to the end of the week. And then Monday rears its ugly head. And then Tuesday happens.
Tuesday is the day it currently is. I've got my CPN coming in 90 minutes, so probably should find some food, brush my hair, take yesterday night's wine glass from the coffee table and put it in the dishwasher, locate the empty bottle from where ever it ended up and put it in the recycling, and try to make self coherent and acceptable.
She judges my mood on what I am playing on the piano when she comes to the door. Last time she came, I was playing the end of the Warsaw Concerto. She took this to mean I was quite jolly, and maybe a bit less tired as it is fast and a big flourish at the end. In fact, I'm just trying to make the piece sound better. Nothing to do with my mood. Just me learning a piece of music. Anyway, CPN isn't the most understanding person, thinks she should tell me I don't look like the stereotypical "ill" person (I am NOT ill, I have never been ill, I will hit her around the head with her boring black diary one day if she carries on saying I am ill) because that will help. In what way exactly does she think telling me I don't look like a mental will help?! /CPNrant
[Break to go and have some lentil soup for lunch]
Hmm, yes, so life almost-post therapy is looking slightly busy. Next days currently free are next Monday and Tuesday - though may have an appointment on Monday, which may be a good thing as it gets me out of the house, or may be a bad thing if it goes wrong or she annoys me so I come home slightly angry with the world.
I need to remember to breathe. And smile. To remember that though everything in life isn't permanent (playing for funerals confirms this) there are still lots of good things. Even though the tree that I look at out of my window has grown leaves in the last week so I cannot see the squirrels bouncing along, the view out of my window is now green. And the most amazing shade of red/maroon from another tree. Spring is here, and I am here too. And that feels utterly terrifying, yet quite positive. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are the squirrels, they still bounce along the garden to take any goodies they find back home. I'm here, and so is everything. Right now, it is all here. The trees are alive, the blossom is everywhere, and each Monday will be followed by a Tuesday, and each Tuesday will be followed by a Wednesday.
And now it is only 35 minutes until le CPN arrives. So I need to go and do those necessary tasks which seem to be the decision between me being a "coping" mental in her eyes, and a completely "non-functioning" mental. *bangs head on desk, thus breaking the glasses which for some reason are on top of my head and not on my nose* *puts glasses back on face and goes to check for spolling errurs*
Turns out life can be made quite busy with various things. Last saw psychologist 12 days ago, and don't see her again until July - for one final "checkup". Then that is it. Nothing from her.
She admitted that at times, she didn't believe I would ever get to my goals, that maybe "feeling content, but not ridiculously happy" (what I said I wanted in my first ever meeting with her) was never going to be attainable. I probably infuriated her, I infuriate myself. I don't know if "content" will ever happen, but it feels slightly more attainable than it did. And the complete despair that once was the constant companion isn't so enthusiastic as it was.
Anyway, I'm busy. Busybusybusy. My "weekend" is Monday and Tuesday, as I am busy on the conventional Saturday and Sunday weekend. Mondays are always rubbish, I get more and more worked up, and panic about the week ahead, and muse at how badly things went the previous week. I end up with the physical mentalness, I have spent the day getting more and more tense, jumpy, and generally yucky. Tuesdays are when I start thinking "right, another week, just get to the end of it". Surprisingly enough, I do get to the end of the week. And then Monday rears its ugly head. And then Tuesday happens.
Tuesday is the day it currently is. I've got my CPN coming in 90 minutes, so probably should find some food, brush my hair, take yesterday night's wine glass from the coffee table and put it in the dishwasher, locate the empty bottle from where ever it ended up and put it in the recycling, and try to make self coherent and acceptable.
She judges my mood on what I am playing on the piano when she comes to the door. Last time she came, I was playing the end of the Warsaw Concerto. She took this to mean I was quite jolly, and maybe a bit less tired as it is fast and a big flourish at the end. In fact, I'm just trying to make the piece sound better. Nothing to do with my mood. Just me learning a piece of music. Anyway, CPN isn't the most understanding person, thinks she should tell me I don't look like the stereotypical "ill" person (I am NOT ill, I have never been ill, I will hit her around the head with her boring black diary one day if she carries on saying I am ill) because that will help. In what way exactly does she think telling me I don't look like a mental will help?! /CPNrant
[Break to go and have some lentil soup for lunch]
Hmm, yes, so life almost-post therapy is looking slightly busy. Next days currently free are next Monday and Tuesday - though may have an appointment on Monday, which may be a good thing as it gets me out of the house, or may be a bad thing if it goes wrong or she annoys me so I come home slightly angry with the world.
I need to remember to breathe. And smile. To remember that though everything in life isn't permanent (playing for funerals confirms this) there are still lots of good things. Even though the tree that I look at out of my window has grown leaves in the last week so I cannot see the squirrels bouncing along, the view out of my window is now green. And the most amazing shade of red/maroon from another tree. Spring is here, and I am here too. And that feels utterly terrifying, yet quite positive. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are the squirrels, they still bounce along the garden to take any goodies they find back home. I'm here, and so is everything. Right now, it is all here. The trees are alive, the blossom is everywhere, and each Monday will be followed by a Tuesday, and each Tuesday will be followed by a Wednesday.
And now it is only 35 minutes until le CPN arrives. So I need to go and do those necessary tasks which seem to be the decision between me being a "coping" mental in her eyes, and a completely "non-functioning" mental. *bangs head on desk, thus breaking the glasses which for some reason are on top of my head and not on my nose* *puts glasses back on face and goes to check for spolling errurs*
Saturday, 17 April 2010
A week...
A week seems short in the grand scheme of things. Living it though, as you get to the end of it, it seems very long.
A week ago, I had just got back from a concert. Russian a cappella music, just 4 men singing and standing a few metres away from me. I was feeling un-positive before I went, in fact, I wanted to hide. Quite literally, hide under my duvet in my bedroom.
Saturday saw me attend a tutorial. Seems ages ago that I did that. But it was only Saturday. Tutorials generally either are positive or negative. No middle ground (story of my life, I'm too much of a "black and white thinker"). This was positive. I got lots from it, mostly about how to set out my solutions, and I think my tutor is starting to see past the labels.
[I have the problem that I am introduced to people by this intimidating list of my diagnoses, my special education needs, a list of the help I am currently receiving to study... Which means that I have to try extra hard to get people to see *me* rather than *my labels*, which don't always have the same goals.]
Sunday, people were very complimentary towards me. Saying I was cheerful, that my music was wonderful, that I was looking fantastic and happy and slim. Which compounds the negativity in my head at times. Because for one thing, I am not slim. My body just isn't slim. In terms of numbers, I am less fat, but I am still fat. In fact, I'm huge. Effing huge. Where I have lost the weight, I have ended up with horrible wibbly wobbly scarred stretch-marked ickyness. Hideous. Yucky yuckity yuck.
*ahem*
Monday, I posted the blog post before this one. Wasn't a great day. Really horrible actually. I felt bad.
Tuesday, I did a lot of stuff for the first time. I went to London on my own. Bought some food, on my own, without buying unsafe stuff (never done that before, I have been restricted for years by my headcrap). Spent over 8 hours without knowing anyone. Sat outside for over an hour - I haven't done that just in my own garden before, due to "paranoia" levels. Went to a concert on my own. Ran - I never run, I'm unfit (see fat paragraph) and have rubbish stamina for such things - for a train. Basically was independent. I'm able to care for others, if needs be - the physical support stuff, but I need them to be with me. I'll talk them through scary things, hold their hand, but wouldn't be able to do it alone. I'm able to stand in front of hundreds and perform. But put me in an unknown place and I will go into meltdown. Nearest wall will have me bashing my head against it, hands over ears and generally being non-functional. I hate the different parts of "me" as people can't equate the sides of it as the same being. But yes, I am me, and that includes the non-functioning and the high functioning parts.
Wednesday, I walked into a hedge. Then apologised to the hedge. Backed myself out of the hedge, took the snapped twigs out from my bag/stuff, and walked on hoping no-one saw me. I played for a string sectional, in which my playing seemed to impress the violins - who had never really appreciated what we are playing over their melodies in some pieces.
Thursday, yesterday, I saw my CPN. Not hugely pleasant, she likes to repeat phrases such as "Just look at how far you have come in the last year. How wonderful it is. You should be proud"... it drives me more bonkers at times. Took my sister out for lunch. Did my weekly choir rehearsal, was being picky. Trying to get my small choir to sing well is sometimes impossible, but hopefully my constant pickyness (alongside the pleasant side of me!) will result in a better sound in the long run.
Friday, today, I saw my university mentor. She actually cheered when she asked about Tuesday, literally let out a "woop" and clapped her hands. Slightly over-enthusiastic! Saw my STR worker, did more bus work. She drives me more bonkers too. Hmmm... Anyway, got back in one piece! This evening I went to do a good organ practice at work/church. In the dark, bar the small lights pointing at the pedal board and the music stand bit of the instrument. With the church doors locked. Hopefully didn't freak out any passing strangers, who wouldn't know that the friendly church organist was just practising her repertoire!
Alongside all this, I have had a week of ups and downs, panics and relative calmness. Fake smiles and real smiles. No tears, which has been quite nice - falling asleep on a damp pillow from crying at a picture/piece of music was starting to become horrible. Frowns, as always, have happened. Expressionless-face days have happened too - but I don't mind those, they take less effort.
I have made some not insubstantial progress on my current piano pieces - in fact, I'm starting to consider whether the orchestra I play 'cello with would cope with some piano + orchestra stuff. I wouldn't do a full 3 movement concerto, that wouldn't be accepted as a viable option (and might be too much of an undertaking for me as a first go at something other than chamber music) but I'm on the look out for a piece (about 10 minutes long, I suppose) which would be achievable.
Life feels rubbish at times. I take that as an automatic "Ah shit, I'm going to end up back in hospital with daily checks of me and my belongings" sign. I do jump to the wrong conclusions at times, because I'm not going to end up there any time soon. Stuff might slip, in fact, I'm probably going to have to realise I might get moved back to the CMHT after my specialist team time is up, or be referred to them in the future, but it won't slip now. Not immediately. Though months of work can be undone in seconds, this change in mindset will hopefully refuse to be undone fully.
Though I am still full of the negativity, I am able to function. I am never going to be a optimist, they annoy me, and feel unreal. But I am feeling 'OK enough'. OK enough is a weird concept, as I thought I would need to be simply 'OK' which is maybe unattainable, certainly it is now. So 'OK enough' it is. OK enough. Is that good enough, is that too low an expectation to have, is that OK enough? It will be. It will be. I'm going to make it be. Just watch, just watch me. All those who thought I would be dead, I'm not. I'm alive. All those who thought I would be nearing the end of my second year at uni, I'm not. But I am studying, studying that subject still, and I am going to attempt my goal, though by very different routes to what was planned. All those who say (admittedly mostly those in my busy head) I'm not going to succeed - well, you said I could succeed at killing myself, and I didn't, so I hope you are wrong about my future too.
Feck off voices, feck off whatever is termed 'mental health' or lack thereof, feck off. Let me live. Let me live. Please? Thanks muchly, ta. Speak again soon, take care, see you later crocodile, in a while alligator. TTFN. Bye.
A week ago, I had just got back from a concert. Russian a cappella music, just 4 men singing and standing a few metres away from me. I was feeling un-positive before I went, in fact, I wanted to hide. Quite literally, hide under my duvet in my bedroom.
Saturday saw me attend a tutorial. Seems ages ago that I did that. But it was only Saturday. Tutorials generally either are positive or negative. No middle ground (story of my life, I'm too much of a "black and white thinker"). This was positive. I got lots from it, mostly about how to set out my solutions, and I think my tutor is starting to see past the labels.
[I have the problem that I am introduced to people by this intimidating list of my diagnoses, my special education needs, a list of the help I am currently receiving to study... Which means that I have to try extra hard to get people to see *me* rather than *my labels*, which don't always have the same goals.]
Sunday, people were very complimentary towards me. Saying I was cheerful, that my music was wonderful, that I was looking fantastic and happy and slim. Which compounds the negativity in my head at times. Because for one thing, I am not slim. My body just isn't slim. In terms of numbers, I am less fat, but I am still fat. In fact, I'm huge. Effing huge. Where I have lost the weight, I have ended up with horrible wibbly wobbly scarred stretch-marked ickyness. Hideous. Yucky yuckity yuck.
*ahem*
Monday, I posted the blog post before this one. Wasn't a great day. Really horrible actually. I felt bad.
Tuesday, I did a lot of stuff for the first time. I went to London on my own. Bought some food, on my own, without buying unsafe stuff (never done that before, I have been restricted for years by my headcrap). Spent over 8 hours without knowing anyone. Sat outside for over an hour - I haven't done that just in my own garden before, due to "paranoia" levels. Went to a concert on my own. Ran - I never run, I'm unfit (see fat paragraph) and have rubbish stamina for such things - for a train. Basically was independent. I'm able to care for others, if needs be - the physical support stuff, but I need them to be with me. I'll talk them through scary things, hold their hand, but wouldn't be able to do it alone. I'm able to stand in front of hundreds and perform. But put me in an unknown place and I will go into meltdown. Nearest wall will have me bashing my head against it, hands over ears and generally being non-functional. I hate the different parts of "me" as people can't equate the sides of it as the same being. But yes, I am me, and that includes the non-functioning and the high functioning parts.
Wednesday, I walked into a hedge. Then apologised to the hedge. Backed myself out of the hedge, took the snapped twigs out from my bag/stuff, and walked on hoping no-one saw me. I played for a string sectional, in which my playing seemed to impress the violins - who had never really appreciated what we are playing over their melodies in some pieces.
Thursday, yesterday, I saw my CPN. Not hugely pleasant, she likes to repeat phrases such as "Just look at how far you have come in the last year. How wonderful it is. You should be proud"... it drives me more bonkers at times. Took my sister out for lunch. Did my weekly choir rehearsal, was being picky. Trying to get my small choir to sing well is sometimes impossible, but hopefully my constant pickyness (alongside the pleasant side of me!) will result in a better sound in the long run.
Friday, today, I saw my university mentor. She actually cheered when she asked about Tuesday, literally let out a "woop" and clapped her hands. Slightly over-enthusiastic! Saw my STR worker, did more bus work. She drives me more bonkers too. Hmmm... Anyway, got back in one piece! This evening I went to do a good organ practice at work/church. In the dark, bar the small lights pointing at the pedal board and the music stand bit of the instrument. With the church doors locked. Hopefully didn't freak out any passing strangers, who wouldn't know that the friendly church organist was just practising her repertoire!
Alongside all this, I have had a week of ups and downs, panics and relative calmness. Fake smiles and real smiles. No tears, which has been quite nice - falling asleep on a damp pillow from crying at a picture/piece of music was starting to become horrible. Frowns, as always, have happened. Expressionless-face days have happened too - but I don't mind those, they take less effort.
I have made some not insubstantial progress on my current piano pieces - in fact, I'm starting to consider whether the orchestra I play 'cello with would cope with some piano + orchestra stuff. I wouldn't do a full 3 movement concerto, that wouldn't be accepted as a viable option (and might be too much of an undertaking for me as a first go at something other than chamber music) but I'm on the look out for a piece (about 10 minutes long, I suppose) which would be achievable.
Life feels rubbish at times. I take that as an automatic "Ah shit, I'm going to end up back in hospital with daily checks of me and my belongings" sign. I do jump to the wrong conclusions at times, because I'm not going to end up there any time soon. Stuff might slip, in fact, I'm probably going to have to realise I might get moved back to the CMHT after my specialist team time is up, or be referred to them in the future, but it won't slip now. Not immediately. Though months of work can be undone in seconds, this change in mindset will hopefully refuse to be undone fully.
Though I am still full of the negativity, I am able to function. I am never going to be a optimist, they annoy me, and feel unreal. But I am feeling 'OK enough'. OK enough is a weird concept, as I thought I would need to be simply 'OK' which is maybe unattainable, certainly it is now. So 'OK enough' it is. OK enough. Is that good enough, is that too low an expectation to have, is that OK enough? It will be. It will be. I'm going to make it be. Just watch, just watch me. All those who thought I would be dead, I'm not. I'm alive. All those who thought I would be nearing the end of my second year at uni, I'm not. But I am studying, studying that subject still, and I am going to attempt my goal, though by very different routes to what was planned. All those who say (admittedly mostly those in my busy head) I'm not going to succeed - well, you said I could succeed at killing myself, and I didn't, so I hope you are wrong about my future too.
Feck off voices, feck off whatever is termed 'mental health' or lack thereof, feck off. Let me live. Let me live. Please? Thanks muchly, ta. Speak again soon, take care, see you later crocodile, in a while alligator. TTFN. Bye.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Hmmm, maybe things aren't OK?
Futile. Life seems futile.
I'm not sad. I'm not happy either, though everyone thinks I am.
I'm not angry. I'm not at peace either.
I'm not scared. I'm certainly not calm though.
I've got that "urgh" feeling in my chest/throat. Like someone trying to strangle you, willing you to stop breathing. It feels horrible. Really horrible. Has only come on in the last 8 or so hours, but hasn't left.
I am not going to do anything, but sitting with these feelings hurts. I am coming up to a year out of hospital, a year without purging, a year without crisis team intervention. My 6 month trial period at work has only 6 weeks left, it is bound to made permanent. Spoke to someone this morning about arrangements for a week-long residential course I am doing in the summer - I need to have extra support basically.
It is April. April was when I was first admitted to hospital, it was horrible. Complete disrespect of the poor children on the same unit - being given medications which turned them into dozy bodies (not even dozy people), not reacting to stimuli. Then being forced to stay awake during the day by someone literally poking them and pulling their hair. Horrible.
I was different as I was the oldest, just a few months before I officially turned into an adult. I was studying for my A levels, and had a conditional place to do a 4 year course resulting in a Masters, and big exams only weeks away. Most people in there hadn't had any formal education for years, if ever. One boy just needed someone to accept him, listen to him talk about his chosen subject - mostly a cartoon about cars. He was lovely when I took an interest in that. Turned into an angry 11 year old when he felt ignored, which happened often, as he was ignored. The psychiatrist that admitted me was horrible, and my care team who took me there made a formal complaint about his unprofessional manner. I was shown a horrible existence in there, one which I never want another child to ever go through.
I'm feeling shit today. Walked across town to get a Railcard for my new found freedom on trains to cost less. Applied for student ID, so my new found freedom for solo concert trips costs less.
New found freedom scares me. Freedom means I could go backwards very quickly. I could end up being found at a station looking at the rails. Or in a pharmacy. Or on the busy dual-carriageway. Or walking down the street with vomit down my front. In the back of an ambulance. On 24 hour watch...
Maybe this is what finishing psychological therapy is about? Been nearly a month since I saw my psychologist, seeing her next week, then an even longer stretch between appointments. At other points in the past, feeling this bad would result in my care team being involved, maybe crisis team if care team couldn't cope with it. But today, not even my Mum knows I'm feeling shit. I've got to the stage where inside I'm feeling like a bit of rusty barbed wire, but outside I'm smiling. People are so happy for me to be happy. For me to be getting back to a normal shape (medication changed that, but I have lost nearly 4 stone since July last year when I took myself off them all). For me to be "flourishing" or "giddily happy" or "just smiling" means others feel my life is back on track.
"If I make others happy, I feel bit better about myself" was always a motto. So I did just that, I tried to make others happy. Now it seems I have succeeded in making others happy, but I'm feeling worse about me. Seems futile.
Life is chaotic. People come and go. I work hard to make a difference, and people are indifferent about it. Not realising what a difference the lack of this work would have. Everyone seems to have become complacent. Somehow I have become part of the furniture. Just an accepted being in the scheme of things.
When I was on the edge - flitting from crisis team to general hospital to psych ward to a few weeks at home, to crisis point again - people seemed grateful of me just *being*. They could see I was hurting, they could see I was vacant, but if I turned up to something, people seemed glad to see me. See me trying to be in normal society.
Now, I'm just here. Not on the edge, not actively running at the metaphorical cliff trying to jump off, everyone has just gone "yeah, great, you are so happy, I am so happy to see you blossom into a person" and they think I am suddenly not affected like I was.
Doesn't feel so bad, but people having hope and faith in me sends me into complete panic. I'm going to let them down. At some point. Whether it be another hospital stay. Or even just moving away to start a new stage in this life of mayhem - they'll think I have abandoned them. I'm going to let them down. They will see how horrible my head is, and be disappointed in themselves for ever believing I was good.
My chest and throat hurt. My mouth feels like I have been purging daily for weeks. My stomach feels like I have taken several overdoses. My feet feel like I have hurt them too. I have bits of unexplained raw skin, unexplained bruises, mouth ulcers. Sometimes my head causes the rest of me to fall to pieces. Today that has made me feel rubbish.
Smiling on the outside. I'm not smiling on the inside. I'm not crying either. Devoid of emotions, devoid of meaning. Existing. Lacking anything, apart from too many memories and a few too many ounces of insight. This is shit. Horrible.
I'm not sad. I'm not happy either, though everyone thinks I am.
I'm not angry. I'm not at peace either.
I'm not scared. I'm certainly not calm though.
I've got that "urgh" feeling in my chest/throat. Like someone trying to strangle you, willing you to stop breathing. It feels horrible. Really horrible. Has only come on in the last 8 or so hours, but hasn't left.
I am not going to do anything, but sitting with these feelings hurts. I am coming up to a year out of hospital, a year without purging, a year without crisis team intervention. My 6 month trial period at work has only 6 weeks left, it is bound to made permanent. Spoke to someone this morning about arrangements for a week-long residential course I am doing in the summer - I need to have extra support basically.
It is April. April was when I was first admitted to hospital, it was horrible. Complete disrespect of the poor children on the same unit - being given medications which turned them into dozy bodies (not even dozy people), not reacting to stimuli. Then being forced to stay awake during the day by someone literally poking them and pulling their hair. Horrible.
I was different as I was the oldest, just a few months before I officially turned into an adult. I was studying for my A levels, and had a conditional place to do a 4 year course resulting in a Masters, and big exams only weeks away. Most people in there hadn't had any formal education for years, if ever. One boy just needed someone to accept him, listen to him talk about his chosen subject - mostly a cartoon about cars. He was lovely when I took an interest in that. Turned into an angry 11 year old when he felt ignored, which happened often, as he was ignored. The psychiatrist that admitted me was horrible, and my care team who took me there made a formal complaint about his unprofessional manner. I was shown a horrible existence in there, one which I never want another child to ever go through.
I'm feeling shit today. Walked across town to get a Railcard for my new found freedom on trains to cost less. Applied for student ID, so my new found freedom for solo concert trips costs less.
New found freedom scares me. Freedom means I could go backwards very quickly. I could end up being found at a station looking at the rails. Or in a pharmacy. Or on the busy dual-carriageway. Or walking down the street with vomit down my front. In the back of an ambulance. On 24 hour watch...
Maybe this is what finishing psychological therapy is about? Been nearly a month since I saw my psychologist, seeing her next week, then an even longer stretch between appointments. At other points in the past, feeling this bad would result in my care team being involved, maybe crisis team if care team couldn't cope with it. But today, not even my Mum knows I'm feeling shit. I've got to the stage where inside I'm feeling like a bit of rusty barbed wire, but outside I'm smiling. People are so happy for me to be happy. For me to be getting back to a normal shape (medication changed that, but I have lost nearly 4 stone since July last year when I took myself off them all). For me to be "flourishing" or "giddily happy" or "just smiling" means others feel my life is back on track.
"If I make others happy, I feel bit better about myself" was always a motto. So I did just that, I tried to make others happy. Now it seems I have succeeded in making others happy, but I'm feeling worse about me. Seems futile.
Life is chaotic. People come and go. I work hard to make a difference, and people are indifferent about it. Not realising what a difference the lack of this work would have. Everyone seems to have become complacent. Somehow I have become part of the furniture. Just an accepted being in the scheme of things.
When I was on the edge - flitting from crisis team to general hospital to psych ward to a few weeks at home, to crisis point again - people seemed grateful of me just *being*. They could see I was hurting, they could see I was vacant, but if I turned up to something, people seemed glad to see me. See me trying to be in normal society.
Now, I'm just here. Not on the edge, not actively running at the metaphorical cliff trying to jump off, everyone has just gone "yeah, great, you are so happy, I am so happy to see you blossom into a person" and they think I am suddenly not affected like I was.
Doesn't feel so bad, but people having hope and faith in me sends me into complete panic. I'm going to let them down. At some point. Whether it be another hospital stay. Or even just moving away to start a new stage in this life of mayhem - they'll think I have abandoned them. I'm going to let them down. They will see how horrible my head is, and be disappointed in themselves for ever believing I was good.
My chest and throat hurt. My mouth feels like I have been purging daily for weeks. My stomach feels like I have taken several overdoses. My feet feel like I have hurt them too. I have bits of unexplained raw skin, unexplained bruises, mouth ulcers. Sometimes my head causes the rest of me to fall to pieces. Today that has made me feel rubbish.
Smiling on the outside. I'm not smiling on the inside. I'm not crying either. Devoid of emotions, devoid of meaning. Existing. Lacking anything, apart from too many memories and a few too many ounces of insight. This is shit. Horrible.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Christian and mental?
Maundy Thursday. This week feels heart-wrenchingly sad. Like someone has been pushing on your chest, waiting for your ribs to cave in and you to fall to pieces.
Stupidly, I worry about tonight. I presume from a different point of view to most. I am terrified of silence. Silence is scary. External silence, and the fact I don't have any music from the moment I play the last verse of the post-communion hymn as they strip the church before 9pm, until I get home at gone midnight (in an ideal situation). That generally would send me into meltdown mode. Complete meltdown mode. The voices can run riot. The planning can get worse. I come home feeling like the most rubbish person ever. Because my silent prayer to God has been plagued by this stupid stuff up here. *points to head*
Sometimes I can cope with being a bit mental and being a Christian. The church feels like home, I am employed by them as a musician. I first went into that church when I was 2 days old. Mum took me. I was baptised there. Confirmed there. Went through the horrible weeks of dealing with my grandmother's unexpected death - her funeral was there. If I want time away from the world, I go to the church. I once locked myself in the church and sobbed for hours. Couldn't deal with the head stuff, couldn't deal with the unsafe world, so I went and took mental refuge in there. Churches are not all being a Christian is, in fact, the building shouldn't have much importance - however the church that has been the stable factor of my life. "I'm just popping down to church" is a key phrase for me.
Today though, I can't cope with being a bit mental and being Christian. I feel utterly to blame for the years of trauma I have put those around me under. Utterly to blame for letting the mental stuff get to me. For not making me follow God quite how I intended. I'm sure it was how he intended, but it feels a bit of a cop-out. The cross around my neck feels futile, when my head shouts "Kill". Because people in Jerusalem shouted "Crucify him", and I feel like the voices are shouting "Kill him/her/it/me". Feels wrong. I feel so guilty for the mentalness.
I can't even have my feet washed because my feet are scarred messes, which I am horrifically ashamed by.
So yes, today hurts. Tomorrow hurts. Like someone is challenging me too much, crushing me. And I do come out stronger every year. But this horrible crushing feeling, when I am separated from the events by time and space, feels awful. God be in my heart, and in my speaking, my thinking, and filling my head. The mentalness shall pass, silence shall not seem such a frightening prospect, and I shall follow the path set for me. Jesus Christ died for us, and I am forever grateful. Praise him, praise him when it feels so wrong, praise him when it feels so right, praise in morning, noon, and night.
Stupidly, I worry about tonight. I presume from a different point of view to most. I am terrified of silence. Silence is scary. External silence, and the fact I don't have any music from the moment I play the last verse of the post-communion hymn as they strip the church before 9pm, until I get home at gone midnight (in an ideal situation). That generally would send me into meltdown mode. Complete meltdown mode. The voices can run riot. The planning can get worse. I come home feeling like the most rubbish person ever. Because my silent prayer to God has been plagued by this stupid stuff up here. *points to head*
Sometimes I can cope with being a bit mental and being a Christian. The church feels like home, I am employed by them as a musician. I first went into that church when I was 2 days old. Mum took me. I was baptised there. Confirmed there. Went through the horrible weeks of dealing with my grandmother's unexpected death - her funeral was there. If I want time away from the world, I go to the church. I once locked myself in the church and sobbed for hours. Couldn't deal with the head stuff, couldn't deal with the unsafe world, so I went and took mental refuge in there. Churches are not all being a Christian is, in fact, the building shouldn't have much importance - however the church that has been the stable factor of my life. "I'm just popping down to church" is a key phrase for me.
Today though, I can't cope with being a bit mental and being Christian. I feel utterly to blame for the years of trauma I have put those around me under. Utterly to blame for letting the mental stuff get to me. For not making me follow God quite how I intended. I'm sure it was how he intended, but it feels a bit of a cop-out. The cross around my neck feels futile, when my head shouts "Kill". Because people in Jerusalem shouted "Crucify him", and I feel like the voices are shouting "Kill him/her/it/me". Feels wrong. I feel so guilty for the mentalness.
I can't even have my feet washed because my feet are scarred messes, which I am horrifically ashamed by.
So yes, today hurts. Tomorrow hurts. Like someone is challenging me too much, crushing me. And I do come out stronger every year. But this horrible crushing feeling, when I am separated from the events by time and space, feels awful. God be in my heart, and in my speaking, my thinking, and filling my head. The mentalness shall pass, silence shall not seem such a frightening prospect, and I shall follow the path set for me. Jesus Christ died for us, and I am forever grateful. Praise him, praise him when it feels so wrong, praise him when it feels so right, praise in morning, noon, and night.
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