Sunday, 28 March 2010

All good things are wild and free.

My brain is so fast tonight, that nothing I type is sticking- I am destructive and all I can find right now to destroy are my own typed words. My thoughts are so fast that by the time I get them out, on the screen, they've gone and so whatever I have written isn't true, the words are empty- the thoughts of a character, that I'm trying to pass off as my own. Maybe I should give up; but I can't, I can't move and I can't stop typingtypingtyping until I've decifered myself. I think it's the claustrophobia that's bothering me tonight- I started typing because I was feeling bound by my own likes; things that I'm reliant on, that I can't leave, as much as I wish I could cut my ties and run away. I want to run away, but I don't know what it is I want to escape.

This is insanity, trying to lasso your thoughts in order for you to order them. But really, is that what I'm doing? Am I trying to translate them? Am I separating... Oh, no. I was wrong. True insanity is being so trapped you don't know what it is, that-


Saturday, 27 March 2010

It is early.

It's not even really all that early. Not really. It's almost half 5- that's nearly real morning. This time tomorrow, it'll be half 6, almost. It seems so close to magic, when the clocks change. Ignore that it was a WW2 government thing and it is magic. I'm never sure if 'government' should start with a capital letter. If the next one is a coalition, I shall give it a capital.

I don't like being awake when the clocks change, at the second where they go back or forward. You can't witness magic, just illusion.

My sleep is fucked. Tonight I slept 2 hours. Last night I slept 18 and a half. The night before, barely an hour. I've just put lipstick on, bright red. I want to be a lipstick girl. I have the makings- I don't wear jeans and if I wore a different dress each day, just the one, I'd have over a months worth. I always forget to buy shoes, though. I think that's deliberate, on one level or another, because my feet are claustrophobic.

I, myself, have a phobia of milk. I love fancy arse cheese, though, so my bones are like diamond. I presume. I have never broken a bone or a diamond.

I wish I wasn't the only person in the world with odd sleeping habits. There's nowt on telly.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

Describe your life in one word.

All I write about is my mental health. No wait, those last three words need capitalisation. I dont know why, but they do- MY MENTAL HEALTH. I make no apologies for that, but I'm acknowledging the fact so that you can't use it against me. Tell you what, I'll throw a couple of other things out there. Male koalas have a forked penis and Margaret Thatcher ate a lot of eggs in the early months of 1979.

I hate psychological assessments (I realise that that phrase ought to be capitalised too, but there you go. You don't care and I shall try to get over it). I hate the innane questions- it's actually not just on the telly that psychiatrists and therapists and psych nurses and anybody else who is vaguely interested or linked (the plumber, for example) utter, 'So... Tell me about your childhood.' The most ridiculous thing they always ask, the one that makes me cringe is, 'DESCRIBE YOUR LIFE IN ONE WORD'. My last psych assessment (I have had hundreds, because I get referred to all sorts of services) was only yesterday, and yesterday I was feeling precariously happy- teetering on the knife edge, you know? Anyway, I was feeling generous so I didn't rant about the stupidity of what I was being asked, or else give a stupid answer. Instead, I just answered 'erratic'. For no reason, other than it was my word of the day.

I don't know the correct answer to that question. I don't know how a person sums up all the hours, minutes, seconds; even just to describe a DAY in one word. I couldn't sum up a single thing, besides perhaps what I think of myself, in just one word. It bothers me that I can't answer it, and that I'm always left giving a word that means NOTHING in answer to that. Erratic?

I am obsessing over that question, and the 'correct' answers.

I know exactly what I'm doing now. When I'm having a really hard time (today has been hysterical. And I'm not using that word to mean funny. I mean, I have been hysterical for the vast majority of it. In fact, the last few weeks I have been largely hysterical), I get really obsessive about something else unconnected. Like, for example, when I was in hospital at the beginning of this year, I got really obsessive about a Government healthy eating initiative. Last summer, before I ended up on the psych ward, I discovered everything there is to know about the Hungarian revolution.

I don't care about DESCRIBE YOUR LIFE IN ONE WORD, I don't care about all the ways it could be answered. I don't care about what they think of my answer. I KNOW that I don't give a fuck about any of that. Sometimes though, it's necessary to pick something and to pretend to care about it. I'm scared that I don't really care about enough, especially when I get like this. I definitely don't care about what I should. I don't care how I look, as long as you can't make out my body- the shape of it, the size of it... in fact, as long as you can't make out that I even have a body, I don't care. I wash my hair when I remember that I should, but I never brush or comb it. I don't wear make up. I haven't had sex in months and the last time I did have sex, I didn't know the man and I didn't care either way about the act. I don't know who most celebrities people talk about are. Most people's lives are utterly alien to me, or rather- their experiences, how they interpret those experiences and their problems are.

But to be human, it's essential to care about something. Even something this insignificant.

I don't feel very human. I'm curious as to whether I actually AM human, and so I am testing myself. I am testing what this body can do. In fact, that seems to be all my life is- it's a test. Maybe that's the right answer, how to sum my life up in a word. Purgatory, that's another word. I'm waiting for this stuff (I don't know what this 'stuff' is, really. They tell me I'm insightful about my problems, but I think that just means that they are even more clueless than I am) to melt away and for my life to begin. But you can only live if you are human and I have a feeling that soon I'll know either way.

Sunday, 14 March 2010

I am an island.

I'm not doing very well, I haven't been doing well for weeks but it's catching up on me, it's getting more intense. But I don't think I'm depressed. I'm verging on manic, but not in the normal way- normal mania is fun. Say what you want, but I swear it's a party- it's a buzz in the way that New York is a buzz. Mania is the feeling of being 6 and finally ripping a Barbie doll from the box, after for-ev-errrr of trying to get through the awkward metal twisty things. Of yes- New York. Well, that's what mania usually is. Now, mania is the title for the feeling of laying awake because you're scared of the house setting on fire and being buried alive and being kidnapped and not getting a new bike for Christmas and your parents being killed and your mum finding out that you broke that plate and getting fewer than 17 out of 20 right on your spelling test. It's the breathless worry, the sped up thoughts, the burning pain in the pit of your stomach. It's not depression, that's an entirely different beast- this is fastfastfast and depression is like wading through treacle. I feel explosive, but with none of the fierce excitement and thirst for the beauty of the world that I usually get. I... destruction, destruction is intrinsic in this, I think. I'm not wording any of this well, I'm finding it hard. I can't express myself at all right now, I hoped that writing would help.

But it's not, it's not, it's not.

I don't recognise myself right now. I don't even recognise how I sound and how I act. I'm shrill, and my sentences make no sense. I don't answer the questions you ask- conversation is impossible a task to attempt, with me. I have this really horrible laugh, different from my usual (horrible, granted) explosive laugh. My laugh now is like nails on a chalkboard, it's so fake and forced and so cold that it physically makes me shudder. I just don't care about anything anybody has to say, and if I smile it's because I am imagining horrible things. Happening to you, to me... Or just abstract horrible things. I am not going to act on them, that's not what this is about. But I'm usually, so... I am nice, it's true. I am loud, I am arrogant but I am nice- that is who I am. But I can't be right now, I just don't care. I am turning down things that I know, logically, I'd have loved to have done weeks or months ago. Because I can't imagine the point in doing that crap, in subjecting myself to you, and you to me. I am an island.

A large island, that's the other thing. I am so swollen that I am actually disfigured, everywhere. I am above my 'scary weight', meaning I am fatter than I have been in a very, very long time. Years.

I don't know this face or this body or this mind.

Friday, 12 March 2010

I am anti-psychotic.

I'm back on the Quetiapine, because I am HIGHLY STRUNG. No word of a lie, if you look at my list of psychiatric diagnoses (or, actually, my psych notes in general) they pretty much say REBECCA CONDRON IS HIGHLY STRUNG. In fact, they're probably a, whatshisbob, um... you know where the first letter of every word spells out a word or phrase? Oh, a (wait a sec, whilst I consult Google)- MNEUMONIC. I've forgotten now where I was going with this. Oh, the anti-psychotics. My psychiatrist (I enjoy the word 'psychiatrist', I relish it. Syyyyyyy-KY-a-triiiiiiiist! I also lovelovelove starting sentences with 'my psychiatrist says...' Hahahaha) has whacked me back on them, but with a slight difference. Seroquel XR is the 'prolonged release' version of the boggy Seroquel that I was on last year, which I HATED because what it did was it totally knocked me out for a few hours, then when I de-zombified I was deaddead manic until I took it again, 12 hours later. My logic tends to be a leeeeeeeettle (hahaha), hmm. Unlogical, as a rule. But I'm pretty sure that it's 100% rational and logical and sane and undisordered (AKA, ordered) to presume that the 'prolonged release' version of those bad boiiiis would spread the effects, making them less intense. Right?

Apparently not. I had a lovely Valium-esque hour, where I just sort of floated and then, BOOM. Zombie. I slept about 18 hours, with little (emphasis on little. You're looking at about a minute and a half from when I tried to get up to where I was asleep on the floor. Mmmm, necrophilic times. No, shit, wait. Not necrophilic. NARCOLEPTIC. Same thing, same thing.) breaks, where I went all hyper-Bulimic and woke up to try to binge. Hahahaha, verrrry funny because I kept waking up in ridiculous places.

I can't decide when to take them now. It's a toss up. Cake or sedation, cake or sedation. Hahahahaha, I've really learnt now that you just can't eat when you're a zombie. Oh, hang on, maybe I need to try HUMAN FLESH. Shut up, brain. Being highly strung chucks some right hard questions at you. I'm really tackling the issues here. Cake/sedation/sedation/cake. HUMAN FLESH? Hmm.

Tuesday, 9 March 2010

'It's a very.... fascinating lifestyle!'

I enjoy the things that people say, when they're uncomfortable. I go through phases where I basically LIVE to make people uncomfortable- where I put them on the spot and see what saying certain things will do. Be tolerant of me, with my 'fascinating' life I have to get my kicks where I can, hahaha. I'm not really in one of those phases right now, I'm far too fukmalyf to mess with people's heads. HAI MIZZ DEPRESSO. But hey, sometimes the opportunity just presents itself, and who'm I to fight opportunity? (I feel I should stick in some inspirational quote or other, about wasting opportunities. Well, not wasting them. You know what I mean. But I sodding hate inspirational quotes, I like good quotes about LIFE and that. Well, I like quotes from shit on the Disney Channel, anyway.) I couldn't work out whether it would be a little too confrontational to thrust more knowledge about my LIFESTYLE on my dentist today. I mean, he knows what you can put on paper. That is to say, what you can put on official papers- diagnoses, basic facts and a few of the psychological bits, taken purely out of context. Liiiiiiiiike so, an example of that is how 'Well, I know I'm not FAT-FAT. I mean, right, I know I'm not overweight, because overweight is a techincal point, it's a precise weight and I know that no matter how I look, I don't actually weigh the amount that would make me overweight. But then... is fat overweight? No, I don't think it is. It's not even connected- you're not necessarily fat, just because you're overweight, but I AM fat, and I'm not overweight, and...' becomes on paper, 'Rebecca obsesses over her weight and is convinced she is fat'. I'm like a poor misunderstood politician ;)

Sometimes, though. Oh, sometimes I want to be like- YES, it's fascinating. It's so INTERESTING to live everyday the exact same and to have no idea how to break out of the whole Groundhog Day jobby. I don't work, I'm so LAZY, I'm LUCKY, I have it so EASY. Today has been so FASCINATING.

Alarm goes off at half 8, but I stay in bed for as long as it takes for Momma Ginge to have left for work. I haven't the energy to see her- never in the morning and today is no different. No day is ever different. I feel disgusting and I'm not capable of human interaction because I am NOT human- I'm a (large, granted) mass of cells, mostly contaminated with dodgy disorder-y parts. Get up. Shouldn't eat. Well no, I have to eat, I'm never going to get better if I don't eat but TODAY I shouldn't eat, not until after I've been to the dentist because GOD FORBID he should see any indication that I eat, in my mouth. If he knows I eat, then... DUNDUNDUN. I obviously don't EVER eat, check out my bod-ay. Hahahahaha. Oh, but noooo- SHIT, my head is down the toilet. Oh HOW INTERESTING, I just ate, I must have done. Nomnomnom, what is IN that sick? What the shit have I just eaten? I don't remember... OH WOW, head back down the toilet. Balls, half an hour to get rid of any evidence in my mouth. Thrilling morning GONE.

Done at the dentist, walking home with James. And I itch. I itch everywhere and I have nervous energy and... oh! I'm starting to get the pre-panic attack feeling and I just can't really be arsed, so it's a bloody good job James walks so quickly- I can match his pace and just get home as quickly as. Now the REALLY exciting part- trying to find money, to buy food. There has got to be SOME bloody money, somewhere. Oh now this IS fascinating- it's like a wildlife documentary (I never got what was so fascinating about them, but let's go with it), all the scrambling about and the feralness of the concept- full on hunter/gatherer, that's what I am. £1.80. With that I can buy 4 packets of super-cheapo Custard Creams, which should just about satisfy me for half an hour. I'll worry about my next hit later. Oooh, quick vomit before we go and... time to shop.

Quick check of the ATM aaaaand... somehow, there's some money! EXCELLENT. Screw you £1.80 and Custard Creams. Straight in, buy... 12" pizza (crap cheese kills me inside), 3 Easter Eggs (I hate chocolate), toffee cake (bleugh), chocolate custard (custard should be plain or banana flavoured.... And banana is only acceptable because it tastes like Calpol, nomnom), a box of Lion ice cream bars (lions are good, I am a lion), 2 litres of ice cream (ice cream= bad, but easy. Easy easy easy), a big bag of crisps, 2 bars of chocolate and some Cherryade. Cherryade is good, it makes for excellent vom', but the rest... food is hiiiiideous, and we must keep it supersupersuper hideous to ensure there is no possible enjoyment in the whole affair. And there isn't. Coupla hours later, lots of sick and NO FOOD LEFT. OHDEAROHNOOHDEAR, back to the shop. No wait, hang on, stop. No more, must be sensible and sane and happy and sane and sensible and happy and sensible and sane and HEALTHY. DUM-de-DUM. Twiddle thumbs. Itchy skin, itchy feet, itc- and the fingers are in and the head is down and the sick is out. And the bank is empty.

And there's the shop, and... wait. No. There's half a cake and, no, hang on... No cake. Partially disgested cake. Bit of blood, but- oooh, no. Toast. Sodding chocolate and the bathroom, and- it's almost midnight.

Wow, my lifestyle IS fascinating.

Sunday, 7 March 2010

Operation FIIIIIIIINE legs.

You can't eat a packet of Fruittellas one by one. Not just Fruittellas, I'm using them just because they're what I'm eating right now. Same applies to Opal Fruits (in my head it's still about 1994, and there is no such sweet as 'Starbursts') and Chewits and them right good Vimto sweets. What you have to do, right, is open the pack down the seam thing, and unwrap each sweet. If you tear the paper on any of the sweets you have to throw the whole packet away, because then they are tainted. When you have them all unwrapped, you have to eat them all at once. There is no other way.

That's not a metaphor for owt, you know, I'm just sharing wisdom.

I need to lose 4kg. A kilo from each leg (including my arse cheeks), a kilo from my torso, a third of a kilo from each arm and then a third from my face. I have a fat face, oui oui. I realised today that the only way to get cheekbones, when you're over 16, is to invent a time machine so you can BE 16 or to go down the whole emaciated road. Thing is, I've done the emaciation thing and it just gave me facial hair. So I think this time I'll make a time machine. I'm thinking now is the time for sanity, and so my good nourished brain should be right able to make a time machine. I don't even really want cheekbones, but there you go. All I want is FIIIIIIIINE legs, because they will look beautiful with my straw boater (UPDATE- I have £2.17 in my bank, otherwise I'd have bought one today. Turns out the only place to buy one is a fancy dress site, hahaha. So I'mma get one in the next few weeks, when I get my sick pay, and then do it up with fake flowers and ribbons)/gold bikini ensemble. I'm not sure it fully counts as an ensemble, because I'm going to do that thing, that hobos do. You know how they wear socks forever so that their skin sort of grows over them and they become part of their feet (I tried to do that last year, with some pink glittery socks, because I fancied the idea of glittery feet. But my feet got claustrophobic and they felt sick and so that was that done)... Anyway, my gold bikini will become... my gold tootlie wootlie. Or summat. Score.

So really, I have no need for a time machine. I just want my legs to be ok, that's all! At least a kg lost a week, at least 3 miles walked a day. Come onnnnnn, Operation FIIIIIIIINE legs.

I need to stop eating. I was doing well, I was doing well and sane and pretty hell-fee and now I'm trying to decide whether or not to stop binging. Like it's actually a decision, hahahaha. Oh, sure. IT'S ALL A CHOICE, EVERYTHING IS A CHOICE. Sane people have a twisted view of freedom. You can have all the pissing political and social freedoms in the world, but when... Oh, stop pretending to be deep, Rebecca. Stop being inappropriate with your bread ;)

Saturday, 6 March 2010


I have bugger all to say. Nothing. I genuinely don't. I'm announcing that I have nowt to say because I ALWAYS have summat to say, so this is more of an event to blog about than, um... what do people blog about? Yeah, well, it's a big event. Shhhh. I do have something to say, actually. But don't let the words I'm typing now detract from the fact that this is an EMPTY ENTRY. Empty like my soul, but not empty like my belly, lalalala. I haven't been sick in, like... 2 days. Or something. But OH DEARY ME, that's not what I have to say. What I have to say is... I really want a straw boater. I have a vision of me for this summer, and it involves a straw boater and a gold lame (imagine a flick thing over the 'e' on the end of 'lame' I don't mean lame. I hate the word lame. It's gay. I love the word gay. What is it about gay? It's not a cinnamon for bad? Hush yo' mush, as our Lily would say) bikini. Or maybe that would be too conservative. I hate anything conservative, as much as I hate anything Conservative. If you don't know the difference you should go eat shit, and then possibly die. Maybe nipple tassels would be more appropriate. I am all about appropriatism. Is that an ism?

You know, now I type I realise I actually have quite a lot to say. I haven't decided yet whether this is still an EMPTY ENTRY, so I'll let you know at the end. If I remember. I would like to lose some weight; I would like lots and lots of money, so that I can go to Sheffield (twice. Well, more than twice. But at least twice, so that I can see Our Lily AND Cer. But only Cer if I'm REALLY bored, hahaha) and I can go to Crewe and I go to BELFAST and... where else do I want to go? SWEDEN. I don't like all that very many people, which is always good when you're trying to spread a visiting budget. I would like Laura Elliott (who does not get called her nickname until she returns to my heart, ie England) to get back from New Zealand, so I can share my stories from hospital and we can laugh and she can hate things and people and tinned mushrooms, for me.

Tinned mushrooms should be outlawed. But that's not as big a priority as passing a law banning tinned potatoes.

This is definitely an empty entry.