Tuesday, 6 April 2010

The worst type of cancer.

The only days I feel like I can breathe are when I am plotting something that's, oh, I don't know the word. I was going to say 'self destructive' but that conjures up images of empty pill blisters and ambulances and that's not what I mean. It also sounds so clinical, you know? There are so many terms that I can't stand because they just sound too clinical and they make me want to scream, or, or dance naked and start fires and shout obscenities really loud or else do something HUMAN and... show them.

Mental illness is funny, because it's often treated in the same way as physical illness- there is a problem, it needs a solution. And then there are probably some crossed wires and too many people and a lack of communication and some pointless terminology, to prove that we are the experts and you are just a lay-person, along the way. Which is all well and good but sometimes it's too much there're too many things going on and it's too quick and too loud and fighting too much with the intensity in your head, and.... it just has to stop. But most of the time, nothing happens and you're forgotten. It's how I imagine terminal illness is; people, experts, can't be bothered. Why invest time and money (everything is always about money. Always) in somebody when they are going to die, and soon, regardless? They give you pills, pills to sedate you, pills to slow things down, pills to make you 'comfortable', but then they stop them. There are reasons, they can blame the possibility of addiction, whatever. But really, it just means they're no longer that bothered about your comfort, because that's the time when you should be dead. It's like the money you got from the sale of your house 20 years ago has dried up, and you can't afford the nursing home. You lived longer that they expected, almost longer than they hoped.

As bad as the idea of a physical terminal illness is, there's an added complication within the title of mental illness. The fact that you are a human, and that THAT is what the problem is- it's a problem with what makes you a person, as opposed to a problem with your shell- it's a whole other type of cancer, it doesn't grow in easily defined tumours- is so easily lost. You're not a person, you're a block of meat. Almost forgivable with a physical problem, because there is a logic. But anyway, I am being vague- mental illness is so broad a term. Oddly (I think of it as odd, anyway, Clear reason seems so tempting to try to arrange and 'fix'), having a cause (flawed logic needs reasoning) for a behaviour makes them less likely to invest, to fix- because cause and effect is a longer process to undo. If they can blame it just on the chemicals in your brain, or your blood or wherever those chemical inbalances are meant to be- they never explain, you are just, remember, a lay-person. But anyway, if they can just blame the chemicals- excellent. Shove a few more chemicals down your throat, sedate the voices- EXCELLENT. But if there's something more with it, if there's also some sort of problem with your thought processes? That's the worst type of cancer.

But this was about the idea of self destruction. I don't want to destruct, not totally. I'm waiting for my pivotal moment, the moment that people with eating disorders always have in films- where they start sobbing, 'I don't want to die!' and then magically get better. I think that only happens when you've not long been in the game. I think when the realisation that people die doing this dawns on you less directly, you miss that moment. You just always know that you don't want to die, because the possibility is always there. Not including the times, where... well, you know those times. Oh, I don't know. This is such a choppy blog, I'm sorry.

I just need to breathe. I'm ok, I'm not feeling especially depressed and I'm not going to do anything dramatic. I just need to breathe.

Does any of this make sense? Does any of this shit ever makes sense?

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