Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Nobody said it was easy... no one ever said it would be this hard

Forgive the lyrical title, forgive especially that it's a Coldplay lyric, hahahaha. Every admission I seem to get a particular lyric association, one that goes around my head that fits the particular moment and this is so far the line of this admission, despite me not having heard the song in what's probably years. My last admission, coming just 2 months after the one before that came from Jamie T 'two months clean; routine to relapse' and there have been hundreds more, one for each of those horrible periods.

The lyric fits perfectly though. I knew myself it would be tough, and people agreed and acknowledged that. But God, to find yourself bawling at breakfast because somebody else at the table has milk on their cereal and it's scaring you, or sitting on Christmas day and spending a fortune in the sales to distract yourself from quite how terrible the Christmas dinner has made you feel, it's a whole other ball game. Maybe because it's just about 3 year since my last eating disorder unit- I started stopbeinginappropriatewithyourbread just after having me chucked out of there- I'd forgotten exactly how hard meals are, I don't know. The food is tough, and it's strange whenever they make a comment like, 'your white blood cells are very low, but that tends to happen when you're at a very low weight' 'cause I feel gargantuan. On weigh day, I don't know what I was expecting, but I think I thought my weight would immediately be back to where it was before, not still a million miles away from where it ought to be. I know I'll get there and I'd rather get there here than in another unit 'cause at least this one is nice, but I want it now and I want to go home so badly. At the same time as really not wanting to gain weight at all. It's conflicting and confusing.

I'm not very eloquent, that's the exhaustion. Christmas day was lovely and extra terrible and extra lovely and terrible. Lovely in that Ginge and my brother James came to open presents; extra terrible in the food; extra lovely because just as I was sitting almost crying after a hard meal, there was a knock on the door and when it was answered I paid little attention until I heard the voice of my beautiful 11 year old cousin. Since Mohammed couldn't come to the mountain, the mountain came to Mohammed, in the form of my grandma, two of my aunties and my two absolute favourites- Emily and Harry, my 11 and 8 year old cousins. It was set up as a surprise, and it was the best Christmas surprise ever. I miss them all already, that's the second wave of terrible, but I was so, so happy. I don't remember being that happy in forever.

I hope it's a more permanent feeling during 2013, I hope I can make it stick. Because I tell you, if I could bottle and sell that feeling I'd be a millionaire in seconds, there's nothing on earth like it.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

Acute nuthut; eating disorder nuthut; rehab.

God, how things have changed since my last post. I'd actually been keeping a diary of everything unfolding, which I'll publish on here at some point. In the meantime, I'll fill you in with retrospect because I'm sitting in a hospital bed with a nurse next to me and don't really feel like getting my diary out and translating it to the screen- that seems too personal, somehow, despite not being able to piss without having someone within arm's reach of me. So the real time details shall wait.

I'm on an eating disorder unit. Not the one I've been to before, a far nicer one. But, at the end of the day, a unit is a unit, especially when you've to gain weight and you can't go home for Christmas. I'm getting ahead of myself. First of all, I was admitted to the nuthut. Again. I went to my appointment last week- how it was less than a week ago is unfathomable, this has been one hell of a long week- thinking that I'd maybe see if rehab was an option, and was actually told that it was the ONLY option and until such a time as they could sort a bed and funding and all that, I'd be admitted to the nuthut. Needless to say, I wasn't best impressed, but I was given leave of the evening and told I could have a few days out over Christmas, and so whilst I wasn't overly enthusiastic, I was alright. In one place, with guarantees.

So I thought. Instead, on Friday arvo I was taken into a meeting and told my BMI was too low for me to go to rehab, that instead I had to go to an ED unit to gain weight and then go to rehab after that. Adding more months to what is already going to be a longggg admission. I presumed that nowt could/would get done until the new year, not remembering that the week had already taught me to presume nowt good from these meetings. What actually happened was they came and told me little more than two hours later that they'd found a bed and that I was to go in that night. I flat out refused, so they called a section meeting and put me on a section 3. By the time all that was done, it  was too late to come and so I landed here yesterday.

How is it? How am I? Stressful. Stressed. I'm constantly anxious and by mistake or misdemeanor or misdesign, the nuthut staff said I was on half my usual dose of my anti-psychotic so I didn't sleep last night (it's a sedative) and have been extra anxious today. I feel like hell. And I can't go home for Christmas. Fed up would be an understatement, I just want to be home and I know it'll be summer at least by the time I'm finally free.

Sunday, 16 December 2012

Looking to the future.

Things aren't working out and they haven't been for a while, let's be honest. 'A while' is almost a joke- my life has been a mess for most of its duration and now I need to do something about it, I'm an adult that's my responsibility. Nobody has ever saved me, nor are they ever going to, not unless I truly put myself out there and make myself extremely vulnerable. Out-patient therapy combined with university didn't work for me; I couldn't do it, it was all too much. The various general psych admissions ground me down, beat me up, pealed and pickled my life. Treating the symptoms with tubes, drips, ventilators and the works have done nothing but bring me to rock bottom, rather than 6 feet below it.

What do I want? I want a job, and education, to even just be able to leave my house to see my girlfriend and my friends. I want to hold my girlfriend and not be stuck on one end of an internet line, to dance until my feet are on fire with my best friend and to laugh at her gorgeous baby boy, rather than just living though their facebook pages. I want to be able to say, 'things HAVE changed' and to be able to scream from the rooftops that it can be done, it has been done, and to be able to tell anybody that the trip to hell doesn't have to be one way. I want to work towards something and actually achieve it, not letting the bad times keep me down long, like Ce. I want to be adaptable and purposeful, like Willis. Even if I can't be superpowered like them, I want at least to live, like almost every bugger else.

A mental health worker told me the other day, just after I got out of hospital, that the cycle is never going to break whilst we're all just pissing about the edges and not attacking what's at the centre. I'm going to talk to my CPN tomorrow about a more intensive, therapeutic, inpatient admission, different from the general psych admissions I've had every few months for the last several years. Truth be told, the way my weight is heading it's likely that if I don't go somewhere voluntarily soon, I may be forced onto an eating disorder ward again, and that did NOT go well last time. To put it lightly. It was amongst the worst, most traumatic experiences of my life and as I said I before, my life has not been smooth sailing.

To have a future, I need to sacrifice my present. Which, given the hundredth of a life I'm currently living, wouldn't be much of a sacrifice at all. But I need to make myself vulnerable, despite how terribly that went last time and what a mess the time after it was. I need change and it's the only thing I can think that might help me.

Friday, 14 December 2012

A time for honesty.

I'm not a liar. I omit certain truths (if you feel great in summat and I'm not too sure, I'm not going to say owt. Who am I to knock your confidence? If you're in a changing room and ask my opinion though, I promise to be tactfully honest), basically because I'm not a bellend, I avoid all but necessary white lies and occasionally shit that'd get me sectioned, hahaha. If you have me on Facebook (I know some people read this as my Facebook friends, whilst others read this and have me added on Facebook through this), you'll know that I've been in hospital this week but I've been uncharacteristically candid about the details... although not about the flatulence of the old ladies on my ward, admittedly.

I took an overdose on Sunday night.

It wasn't my first overdose, but it was my worst. I've spent days in intensive care before, I've spent weeks having to have daily blood tests as a result of them. I think it's my second of the year, maybe. Basically, I've done this shit too many times. This time, I heard the voice of a person I was very close to but recently fell out with, taunting me over the week's worth of pills (they will never give me more than that. At the moment, they'll only give me a day's worth) I had downstairs, and taking them. I obsessed for hours, before taking them. Straight away afterwards, I felt stupid. Ironically, given how close to death I came and my last post being my fair-well to you, because I thought I hadn't taken enough to kill me, and felt like an amateur. An amateur at suicide attempts, I wonder at what point I stopped considering myself that. That's sad.

But anyway, I called the crisis team because I felt so bloody stupid and then I vaguely remember paramedics and waking up in intensive care in Hull a few days later, not able to breathe or talk because I had been intubated. The thing about the aftermath of an overdose for me is it's a really confusing time. I feel horrific for the fact I almost succeeded in entering the earth in a  literal sense, purely for the effect it would have on my family, especially Ginge. I feel even worse for the fact that I 'failed' summat. I don't fail.

I'm exhausted, this has really wiped me out. I couldn't walk until today 'cause of the meds giving me muscle fatigue but I can just about stumble out for a fag now. I'll write summat more interesting soon, I just felt like I was lying by not writing owt. Goodnight.

Friday, 7 December 2012

This isn't a friendship, a game or a lifestyle.

Anorexia. Bulimia. And every other form of eating disorder. These aren't your friends, they're not even like the sodding person next door that you just nod a hello at every now again; they're mental illnesses, killer diseases. And so fuck this Ana/Mia cutesy-cutesy bullshit, personifying a killer disease by giving it a pretty name, talking about Ana leaving you and Mia making you weak, or whatever. Good old Ana, boo on that Mia. These are mental illnesses with the highest fatality rate of any other mental illness, no less. I know how different the desires of the disease can be from those of your true self, if you can still hear it whispering in the back of you mind, but let's be serious for a fucking second, OK? There's a reason they don't call cancer a cutesy name, do you know why? Can you guess from the theme of this paragraph? Because it's a fucking killer disease.

So piss right off with your Ana/Mia bullshit. This isn't a friendship, a game or a lifestyle. It's a disease. If you go on an 'Ana diet' and really want to be a size fucking zero, if you beg for Ana/Mia to come rescue you, you truly have no idea of the horrors of the illness. If eating a low amount of calories makes you feel good, if that's your lifestyle, you're clueless. Lucky you.

This is more aggressive than my usual style, I realise. I'm not opening this up for discussion, I don't want to hear your reasonings and excuses, not until they start calling AIDS 'Ada' and discussing the best places/ways to get it, or to progress your preliminary HIV to that stage, because you're wrong. In roughly 6 months, I've known two girls die of Anorexia. One in summer, one last night. I knew them. I didn't read about them- there are thousands more to be read about- I'm talking about girls I knew in real life, albeit from hospital, girls I breathed the same air as. Gone.

The only way to win with Anorexia is to die from it. There aren't any losers, just the winners- those cold corpses- and those who forfeited- clawed their way away from the disorder and chose to live. You can let go, take yourself out of the race, the eternal quest for thinness. You can choose to live.... or you keep trying to win, and eventually you do. You die. There are two ways out of Anorexia. And I have no idea what to do right now.

Wednesday, 5 December 2012

Cold weather and baby steps.

I hate the cold. There are few parts of my body that it doesn't kill. My fingers and toes are purple, my joints are crumbling and my skin isn't too great a fan, either. Living in England, rain I can handle. Grey weather in 'summer'... that's ok, too. I should really be able to cope with the cold too, it comes every bloody year (and for a lot of the year, tropical we are not), but as soon as Raynaud's season comes, so does my whinging.

The medication for it makes me faint and dizzy, so it's a bit of a trade off- I had to come off it last year 'cause I was fainting left right and centre, but now I'm not at uni and spending all day doing fuck all, why the hell not add fainting in a few times? Give me summat to do, like. I'm so bored and so isolated, 'cause I still can't get out of the house without Ginge, although I did manage to get into my CPN's car yesterday. After a coupla panic attacks, but still. Baby steps.

Speaking of yesterday, my CPN took me for an ECG and bloods. The ECG was fine, they always make me giggle 'cause they're so softly-softly as they explain the amount of clothing you have to take off/undo for one, never assuming that I've had so many that I could do it myself if they let me loose with the machine and the stickers and the wires and all that balls. The bloods were quite funny though, apparently my veins are easy to find, but full of air, I shot a vial a good metre purely from the air being released. I was excited when I saw it go, 'cause I presumed my blood had gone squirting out like a tacky slasher film, but sadly not.

I don't have any great insights today, just that I HATE COLD WEATHER and being underweight is making it even worse. I've managed to reign in my weight loss, maintain and not lose, but that means I'm still a while off the target of a BMI of 17, making shit-all progress to get up there. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps.

Friday, 30 November 2012

Old lady joints.

Ginge has had Arthritis for as long as I can remember, so I suppose I was always pre-dispositioned to get it young myself, but I blame the fact that I've spent more years of my life with an eating disorder than without (even accounting for the years I was in recovery, before this blip), for quite how young I got it. There are far more consequences to this shit than weight fluctuations and swollen glands, let me tell you. Naively, I expected that this winter my joints wouldn't be too bad, because I have less weight on them, but God my left hip especially has gone today. The temperature has dropped and Jack Frost has taken his pneumatic drill to my body.

I've taken some Tramadol and now I'm a bit dopey, but my hip feels better and it's making me calmer. I was a bit of a mess this morning, I saw my shrink 'cause I wanted my meds, esp my anti-depresso, increased and while he upped that a tiny bit and gave me some sleeping pills (I yawned constantly, hahaha), everything else is apparently too high for my current size anyway. I have to gain 2kg in the next two weeks, for him to consider upping shit, 'cause my weight was down this week and my height was a little higher than I thought, so that's lowered my BMI. If I lose, they decrease my meds. I want to gain the weight, I want to gain far, far more in fact, but at the same time, I feel ginormous... such is the paradox of the disease, I know, but I just want to be where I was a few months ago.

I want to be this Rebecca Condron again, please. That's what I would like for Christmas.

Saturday, 24 November 2012

Words.

As I lose weight, I lose words. I forget where I'm going, suddenly stop talking half way through a sentence, and what I'm saying. I write completely different words to what I mean, dependent on outside noise or the inner battle. Recovery Condron could write, could express herself, Anorexic Condron has no idea what what's even going on, most of the time. Conversation feels stilted, like I'm at least half a beat off with every comeback, and even my strongest opinions, even my values and politics, justice and logic, are only half hearted right now because I can't spare the energy or mind space to formulate (it just took me literally minutes to come up with the word 'formulate').

I don't feel a vast amount right now, I'm relatively alright because my weight today was lower than yesterday, and yesterday was lower than the day before, and so on. I hate that. I hate that I'm allowing my day to be dictated by the lump of plastic, glass and metal that inhabits a small square in my bathroom. I hate that I've let myself get ill again, fall for the empty promises of the disorder. I hate my lack of eloquence and I'm starting to understand why the psychotherapy team will only work with me if I'm over a certain BMI (I'm currently just about above it, but I don't know that I can reign it in enough to maintain/gain), 'cause my cognitive skills are already falling apart.

Words are everything to me. The written word is my favourite form of art, and despite not being particularly artistic in that field myself, I'm a true appreciator of the great artists. But I can't even read right now, I'm reading a pretty light book at the moment- -The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of a Window and Disappeared', which I recommend by the way, it's like a Swedish Forrest Gump, but kookier- but I have to constantly go back to remember how the characters met and what they've done, etc etc. The fine artists are so far above my current intellectual level, my reading age must currently be about 12.

The logical thing is obvious even to me. Eat more; do more; live more. But... I just can't. I need a light at the end of this tunnel, and for it not to be a train.

Sunday, 18 November 2012

Birthday.

I got sectioned this year on about the 28th of August, in Colchester. That was mid-week and my birthday is the 1st of September. I need to get a complaint in, actually, just thinking about it, 'cause the team who sectioned me told me did so under a set of conditions, none of which were met. Half the time, prisoners have more rights than psych patients, swear down. Actually, yanno, the section itself needs my bitchings- I agreed to go voluntarily so they shouldn't have sectioned me anyway. I really do like complaining. BUT ANYWAY. Ginge got her gears going to get me transported to the nuthut in Scunthorpe, 'cause being in hospital 5 hours from home is a bit of a shitter. Also, Scunny nuthut is dead nice- you get an ensuite and I've been in so many times that I get know all of the staff, dead well, hahahaha. I virtually am a staff member, just a particularly lazy one ;).

So I got woken up on that Saturday, my 22nd birthday, at about 7 and was given an injection and several pills before I had a clue what was going on. Somehow (I vaguely remember sitting between two nurses who wanted me to eat grapes, in a taxi or ambulance car or some other type of car or summat), absolutely off my tits on all the drugs they gave me, I found myself hours later in Scunny's psychiatric intensive care. By evening, which I can only just sort of remember from, I wasn't in much of a party mood. I think by then it'd been a few days since I'd taken any food or drink, so that plus all the drugs and just being locked up again, didn't make for much of a birthday, so I decided I just wasn't going to have it. No cards or presents or a thing.

So we had my birthday this weekend. My brother lives in London, so me and Ginge went down on Friday and went to the Natural History Museum 'cause I bloody LOVE dinosaurs. And whales and anything really big. Then on to the V&A and I got such a hard-on over all the clothes on show and finally for cocktails. Saturday, my brother and his friend took us around London by foot (Ginge and I are now hobbling 'cause of our shitty joints), including a mini tour of watering holes. Now we're back and exhausted, but it was great to get away, away from all the money stresses and the depression and isolation, just for a few days. I'll give you the link to the Facebook album, 'cause I can't be arsed uploading owt proper onto here...

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.4687750907647.2183100.1110150891&type=3

Tuesday, 13 November 2012

Money.

I'm sure I've written about money before, more specifically, my complete lack of it. And I'm really in the shitter right now, in some serious debt. I need to find a way to come up with a grand, and then another £310 a month after that, pretty damn quickly. I don't come from the type of family with that sort of money. Without going into too much detail, we lived years with my mum's abusive ex who had her wages put into a 'joint' account, to which only he had access, so when we left, we had nothing much more than our clothes. At the time we left, unmarried couples, even those who had co-habited for almost 7 years, had no rights as to money or owt like that, despite him buying a fucking holiday home before we left. There was talk about changing that law after we'd gone, but (probably bad for me as a politics student), I don't know whether they ever did. It's irrelevant anyway, we left in 2005, on my 15th birthday. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table, but monetary wise, we still have nothing.

I can max out my credit card, which I've never used, and that would give me £500 of it. But the rest? And after that? Ginge wants me to go to my dad, but we're estranged for reasons that we're both at fault for, really (although I'm sure he doesn't know my reasons, and just thinks of me as some sort of ungrateful brat). Besides which, my dad claims I only ever go to him for money. I hate not having my dad in my life and that needs fixing, but I don't know how that can be fixed when, well, I would be coming to him for money. Bad timing for a reunion.

I'm seeing my CPN tomorrow and I don't know whether he can offer any advice. I'm hoping so. I just have no idea what to do and Ginge is stressed, which makes me feel even more stressed 'cause I know I cause her enough problems.

Monday, 12 November 2012

I need to write.

It's been almost a month since my last post and not a whole lot has changed. I'm not self harming anymore- I actually almost lost my lower right arm due to it. I got a terrible infection and was told by a doctor it had been caught just in time (I was then admitted to hospital for IV antibiotics and all that kind of balls). I'm still stuck indoors, I'm still underweight, I'm just not where I feel I ought to be, not at all.

The comments on my last post meant a lot, by the way, and logical Condron knows that health comes first. Fucked up Condron is convinced everything is fucked up. Guess who wins most days?

I miss writing here, I suppose it's the only way I ever really know how I'm feeling. Although I know I'm just permanently anxious right now and nowt is taking the edge off. I have a selection of various pills, and nowt is even beginning to touch it. I feel a such a need to write, but I don't even know where to start, what even I NEED to write. I'm so out of touch with myself, I think, I have been since I was admitted in August, when my writing mostly stopped. So I'm back. I'm going to keep trying, keep coming back, keep typing typing typing until I finally work this shit out, work out how I feel and all of that. I need to write.

stopbeinginappropriatewithyourbread has, over the years, been my best therapist, ever.

Friday, 19 October 2012

I'm sorry.

I finally got discharged from hospital. That three weeks without food I mentioned in my last post turned into five and an NG tube, but I'm alive and sort of free. I'm seeing a team who come out to my house every day, helping me get through shit (getting back online would have been impossible without them), but it's a slow process.

 More than anything, I feel like I'm letting everyone down. I'm underweight, I'm self harming multiple times a day and I can't go outside without my mum, although I did make it to the end of my close (which only has about 20 houses on it, but still), with the team today. I'm taking another year off (for those who don't know, I took off the academic year 2009/10) and graduation and having a career and absolutely everything seems so far off. All my friends either graduated this year or will do next, and I still have two to go. If I even go back. I don't know, I really don't know.

 I'm just genuinely sorry because I feel like such a fraud.

Sunday, 16 September 2012

A bit of a state.

I'm in a bit of a state. I got myself sectioned a few days before my birthday, which is the 1st of September, a few weeks ago (hence the lack of tapping away on this an' that), and I've got myself in this corner where I haven't eaten a thing for nearly 3 weeks and I'm ill and sick and tired. And sick and tired of this whole fucking mess. Every 2 months having an episode. I hate this shit.

I'm too tired and weak to type much more and my head is an absolute mess. Just wanted to say that I haven't abandoned this or owt, I've just not being able to get online (and even if I could, it'd be gibberish).

Full story will follow if I ever get out. 'kin' hell. I have a feeling I'll be discharged on Tuesday so my lack of eating isn't the ward's responsibility, Ginge says I'm dreaming. I don't know, we'll see. That's the beauty of being sectioned; all decisions down to the consultant and fuck the rest.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Ceriann swims.

In year 11, I decided that at college I wanted to take politics, history, psychology and philosophy. I know, I know, I was one English lit course away from being Miss Pretentious 2007. I dropped out of psychology after 3 lessons, when I realised they wanted me to piss about on graphs and that my teacher would be called Ana. I should have dropped philosophy really, I'm about as deep as a puddle, but stuck at it for a few reasons. The teacher fascinated me; he was Greek and it was so ridiculously easy to get him off on a tangent (those two facts aren't related, I don't think. But both fascinated me... this was before I went to uni and decided that Greek Cypriot girls are bitches), so I could make lessons about whatever I really wanted; sod the curriculum. I fancied one of my class mates, who later ended up my college boyfriend. And I met a teeny tiny girl with an opinion on everything (within the second week or so, when she asked, 'what the FUCK are you wearing, Condom?' I realised we'd be long time friends) and this incredible, I don't know, attitude and spark, that I wanted in on. It's three years since we left college and as predicted, we're still close. She lives in Sheffield and I live in Colchester and Scunthorpe, so geographically, it's not like we're constantly in each other's pockets, but that's just a test of true friendship.

Why that little story? This isn't just me waxing lyrical about a good friend of mine. I'll explain, let me just tell you summat else. When I met Ce, despite the blatancy of that attitude and spark, she was oblivious, which is insane because she's definitely among the sharper crayons. Ce was miserable. I was miserable. When we weren't on MSN fucking our lives, we were doing it by phone or in person. We felt cheated by health problems (which are in no way the same, but that's another thing I'll explain in a minute). We hated our lives, we hated our pasts and we weren't the biggest fans of ourselves, either.

Ce changed when she went to uni in 2009, the year before me 'cause of me taking that year out to get intensive treatment. And since the first time I saw her, after she'd started to get herself together, having been away for a few months and grown up and away from her past and her diagnosis, she's inspired me. So this is especially close to my heart now, when I'm struggling. Apart from what were basically issues created by her main diagnosis, her issues weren't mental. Ce was born with Osteogenesis Imperfecta, which is brittle bone disease, to you and I. Neither of us had conventional childhoods, nor do we have conventional worries and problems now. Her problems were mostly physical and mine mostly mental, but we each had cross-over points, along with the hurdles and challenges unique to being different from your peers. But we, she especially, deals. She graduated with a first class degree and is now working for Sheffield's Children's Hospital charity.

In short, my girl has made it.

And now my tiny, massive inspiration is going one step forward. No, not one step... she's going 51.7 miles further, IN A SWIMMING POOL, for Sheffield's Children's Hospital. This isn't just a girl in a pool, this is the girl who I think about now whenever I'm triggered ('I'd rather be Ceriann than a ...' repeated whenever I see someone who seems more ill than I am/were), and who spurs me on. This is a girl swimming the distance between her house and Sheffield's Childrens Hospital, for the kids who have to travel even further to see the country's specialists in OI. She met a family who had travelled from DUBAI, to go to the hospital. This is a girl who faces her problems, her past, her aches and pains, and goes and kicks arse.

https://www.justgiving.com/Ceriann-Rush

Oh, and you can follow her journey on Twitter @ceriannswims :)

Thursday, 23 August 2012

Slipping.

I deleted my last entry; it was evidence of why you shouldn't blog whilst drunk. If you read it, everything I said still stands, just in a hopefully slightly more eloquent and slightly less self-pitying way. If you didn't, you didn't miss a lot, just a rant about how sick I am of drinking so much and not eating or sleeping right. I feel like I'm on the verge of a depressive episode. That about sums it up.

I feel like I'm slipping. I'm losing perspective and an ability to judge what of which I'm feeling is real, and what isn't. Whether I have any worth, hope, future at all, whether I should bother trying to fight this one or just be done, when it always comes back around. God. I just feel like complete and utter shit, mentally, and it's making me feel the same physically, because I am losing grasp on all the basic human necessities. Nutrition, hydration, sleep... all going to pop. So I'm sitting here now in leggings, thick socks, a baggy top, a huge cardigan and a blanket, as if I am ill. I really, really need a cuppa, but I can't bring myself to walk to the kitchen. I'm feeling a bit pathetic.

I'm so anxious and paranoid, that it's making me flat and weapy. The other night I went to bed, took out my lenses and laid down in the dark, and just cried. Last night I took extra sedatives, before I could think enough to be paranoid about sleep. Ginge was so worried yesterday that she called up her doctor (mine is based in Essex) and got me temporarily registered and got me an emergency appointment for last night, but obviously there's not a lot he could do. I don't know what I need, but whatever it is, I know he'd not be able to help. Instead, he wrote me a prescription for some extra anxiety pills (I already take them twice a day, now I'm to take them three times, too), but that's about it.

Just got to keep it together until I see my GP and shrink next week, really. And then some after that, given that it's my birthday on the 1st of September, hahahaha.

Sunday, 19 August 2012

And so it begins.

The first wave of my friends going away for their Study Abroad year, began this week. That should have been me. THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME. I'm so jealous, that, I don't even know. I don't begrudge a single person and I'm not bitter towards those who got the opportunity. It's just... I've been dreaming of it since I was 19 and laid in hospital beds, surviving through the idea first of all of getting myself better enough to go to university and then better enough to go away, in my third year. No, since before then, I applied to go away in my third year when I did my original UCAS form, when I was 18. I've pretty much failed on both parts of the dream, given that I'm having to retake the year of uni from missing too much 'cause of my mental illness and subsequent million hospitalisations, and that even if I wasn't having to resit, I'm not well enough, stable enough, to go away.

And I feel so guilty, as if somewhere there exists a younger me who has been disappointed and failed by my actions over the last few years. I've failed at it all and to be completely honest I'm not sure whether I'll even stick out university long enough to graduate. I'm trying to go into the next academic year open minded, but at the same time I'll be looking and seeing what opportunities there might be for me, if I was to leave without a degree. I'm not committed. I'm committed to a particular career path, even to the idea of a politics degree in itself... but not to the University of Essex. I think because I feel so let down by how the university has treated me, especially over the last year; it's ruined my whole experience of it and I'm sick of being at the mercy of an organisation that's tried so hard to push me out, without legally being able to chuck me out. Although they may have found a way around that, since I have to present a doctor's note saying I'm fit to continue the course, and because of various reasons, I've not been able to get an appointment with my doctor until the 30th of this month, so haven't been able to do that yet. If there's a deadline, I've probably missed it. Another day, another stress.

I do have my appointments through for my next psychiatrist appointment too though, as well as my appointment with the alcohol service. Coincidentally all on the 30th, so it's going to be a laugh of a day, hahaha. I'm glad though, I can't wait to get on a path to getting more control of my life. I was thinking yesterday of all the things I can do now that I couldn't when my eating disorder was at its peak (I'll make a list at some point- for those suffering, you don't realise quite how much it really impacts until you get the opportunity to take it all back), and so I suppose there must be a similar list for alcohol dependency. I'll be fine.

Wednesday, 15 August 2012

Sleep.

I can't sleep.

I could sleep.

I mean, physically, I could. I could get up off the floor where I'm sitting, walk to the kitchen, take a pill or two, and be soundly asleep within the hour, probably sooner. I don't usually allow myself to think as sleep as optional, much like I try not to think as food as optional, either. I take my medications when I should, powerful shit that guarantees I'll sleep for a pretty big portion of any given 24 hours, because I know the effects of missing even just one or two anti-psychotics on me... I face the effects multiple times a day, whenever I have to carry anything with both hands and can't, because I can't move my left thumb, after an 'incident' almost two years ago, after missing a day or two of medication.

I took my medication tonight, but then I fought it, which isn't as bad as not having taken it at all, but still isn't too great because sleep deprivation hits me really, really hard. Harder than just being mardy the next day and needing a bit more caffeine before I bed down the following night. I've got used to being so drunk by the time I take my meds that I half pass out, as cliched as that is, but today I sort of drank all day (embarrassing. Very embarrassing. It's hard to explain the shame, but I have my appointment with the drug and alcohol service in a few weeks, so hopefully not a shame I'll be carrying too much longer. I'm never ashamed when I'm fighting; no matter what the demon, when I'm fighting, I have no shame), so had pretty much sobered up by the time I took my meds.

Sleep is a lot less threatening when I'm drunk. Sober? Horrifying. I'm petrified of sleep or, well, not sleep per se, but the threats that sleep leaves you defensive against. I like to be aware, on my toes, and alwaysalways poised for a fight. I'm quite little, but I can fight, I had to learn to, early on. I think it's part of why I drink so much, it's the only way I can relax slightly, whilst knowing that drunk I'm more feral and so just as able, if not more, to fight. I hate the thought of sleep and the changes that can take place completely without your permission, around you. Anybody could do, well, anything and I'd not in a fighting position. The irony is, of course, whenever I start to allow myself to view sleep as optional for one night, the fear grows and I'm likely to then stay awake for days on end, until my mental state declines, I end up in hospital, and they sedate the shit out of me- the fight lost somewhere before even the hospitalisation, where I'm even more paranoid and too afraid to do anything about it.

Sedated in hospital leaves me with less control of my environment than asleep at home, where the doors are locked and only my mum is in. In hospital, I usually wake up with different members of staff in my room, and other patients, strangers, only meters away. This is what I have to remember. A smaller sedative dose now than they'd inject me with in hospital and a few hours sleep tonight, could be what saves me from yet another snowball to admission.

Deep breath. God, it's gone 3am, I really need to pull this back, rescue this night, prevent the decline. Good night?

Friday, 10 August 2012

Lump.

They've found a lump in my eye and two opticians and an optometrist have decided it needs to be seen up at the hospital. I'm scared. It's in my left eye, which is pretty much useless anyway, but I'm scared. I looked at my face earlier, truly looked, and despite all I punish myself for what I see as its ugliness, I am terrified of it changing. Please don't let there be anything else wrong. The eye was operated on when I was 7 and since it was spotted as bad when I was 3, my vision has gradually deteriorated. Please, please let it be ok. Please just don't let me lose my vision in it; I struggle enough with my face as it is, and vain as this sounds; I can't take the change.

It's all so fucking ugly. I'm tired of shit going wrong. And I'm alone in Essex, going back north tomorrow, far sooner than planned, because I need my mum so much.

Monday, 6 August 2012

A review of a letter, part two.

I should have known it was all part of the game. You know how I wrote before about how the different NHS trusts (areas of the country) fight over government funding? Well bodies and services within the same trusts also have to fight over funding. I don't know if you've ever done this, but if you take a slice of bread and chuck it among a whatever-the-collective-noun-is of ducks, they all go on attack mode to get a bigger piece of it than the others, and that's the best description I can think of as to how the NHS works. There's no logic or strategy, besides eye on the prize and peckpeckpeck.

I was pretty damn angry last week, anyway. So I called up the therapy service and demanded to speak to my therapist. I was told he only worked there on Thursdays, but was assured they'd have him call me back on Thursday. Come Thursday, I was so set for a fight that I actually got out of bed at 9 (that's ridiculously early for me, hahahaha. I may not be a teenager, but my sleeping pattern doesn't seem fully aware of that fact) so that I wouldn't sleep through him calling me. And I waited. And then I waited some more. My usual appointment time is 12, so I was fully aware that he'd be free between 12 and 1 so did some of my best waiting during that period. No phone call. It got to about 2, half 2 and by then I was pissy to fuck, so called the service again, at which point the receptionist told me that he'd be in session constantly all day and would be until 5, and so wouldn't be able to talk to me. I wasn't letting him off that easy and told her that if she looked in the book, she'd see he was free between 12 and 1, a point she had to acquiesce. So I had a bit of a bitch fit, because he'd obviously decided he didn't want to discuss it on the phone and would discuss it in my last appointment, which is on the 9th, and I wasn't happy with kind of holding on to all my anger for another week.

Bitch fits at mental health services tend to work, hahaha, and he finally called me back. It's a bit cringey to think back over the conversation, so you're not getting a transcript because I most definitely cried down the phone. Apparently, I misread the letter or missed his point or WHATEVER. I say apparently, because having reread it a few times since then, I stand by what I thought it said and don't think it says what he's claiming it does. He reassured me that the letter was first and foremost a letter referring me to the drug and alcohol service, which was why he put in all the stuff about my hospitalisations and instabilities and all that. Oh, and I misunderstood what he meant by discharge... apparently we'd take right back up as soon as I've been to rehab or whatever.

I don't know, I don't entirely trust him now, because reading the letter even know brings me to the same conclusions it did a week ago. He offered to put in writing what he told me on the phone, but I was too embarrassed by that point, it was a most un-British display of emotion, and to do it down the phone is more than a touch embarrassing. But I'll be seeing him on Thursday so I suppose we see from there where to go.

Monday, 30 July 2012

A review of a letter.

I got a letter from my therapist.

He lied to me. I'm sure there must be some patient-therapist code of conduct whereby they're not meant to fucking lie to their patients or clients or service-users or whatever bullshit term they call us, these days. But to receive a letter written on the very day of my last appointment, the appointment where I was told I needed to move back down south, but wouldn't be discharged from the service if I did, telling me that I am in fact being discharged? I actually begged him not to discharge me, 'cause I could see where it was going, and he agreed not to. All I want is some fucking help and nobody is prepared to help me. This is what always fucking happens.

Right now he's citing the lack of stability caused by my hospitalisations. Now, forgive me if I'm wrong, but isn't there some sort of connection here? Therapy/psychiatric admissions? You know, like how I'd not need so many if I had some fucking help? He cites the fact that I've had to travel down the country. Well, I'm sorry that I had nowhere to live in Essex for a month, I'm sorry that my family aren't local. But given that he told me to move permanently back down and I am doing, as soon as I can? What else could I fucking do? He cites my alcohol use, and even acknowledges that I'm ready to change that because I am fucking SICKSICKSICK of this dependency, and that I'm willing to go into hospital and do detox, if that's what the alcohol service think I ought to do, when I go see them.

The letter finishes with some sort of, what? Nicety? Bullshit about how I can go back on another 2 year waiting list and be reassessed for therapy, once all of the above is fixed?

I'd laugh if this wasn't real life, if this wasn't MY real life that everyone is fucking about with. I just want some fucking help and everyone is just passing the buck, as per. It's always bullshit about how wide my problems are, each service is never equipped to deal with them all. I bet the alcohol service tell me they can't help me. Nobody can ever fucking help me.

Sunday, 29 July 2012

Permanent residence.

The NHS (National Health Service, the free healthcare system that means Britain is even worse than the USSR, yanno? ;)) isn't one body, it's a load of little, interconnected, localised bodies, and they don't all have the same specialist services. If you require a service outside of your area, then your NHS trust has to pay for you to use the service in another area. It's a weird system, so let me just give you an example... the NHS area that I live in doesn't have any specialist eating disorder service, just a general therapy thing. When I was really ill, then I had to go over to Leeds for specialist therapy. When they decided that I ought to go in as an inpatient at the facility in Leeds, then they had to apply for NHS funding from my area, despite the facility in Leeds also being an NHS one, and I'm not sure how likely it would be, but there gen was a possibility that I might not have gotten funding. There are not exactly excess funds within the NHS, to put it lightly, so the different trusts are almost petty where it comes to funding people from outside their area.

I do have a point with that little lesson, there. My hometown (holiday home? Hahaha) is Scunthorpe and my university town is Colchester. All my treatment now happens in Colchester; that's where I'm set up with my GP, psychiatrist, CPN (community psychiatric nurse), therapist etcetcetc. I've been going up and down the country this holiday for my therapy appointments, but 'cause I've not had anywhere to live in Essex (the contract on mine and Ellis' new flat starts on Wednesday, it's exciting but would be far more exciting if I didn't just have to activate my credit card to pay for it. Terrifying) over the last month, I've been to therapy but only really travelled down for that. The powers that be have found out that I'm actually livin' the northern dream right now (I make it sound so much more interesting them finding out actually was, when in fact I just, yanno, told them) and aren't dead thrilled. My CPN has dropped me and my therapist is threatening to unless I can prove that my permanent residence is in Essex; he gave me two weeks last Thursday to get my arse down there properly.

So that's what I'm off to do, early next week. I've been dreading it 'cause I really, really hate being alone and with uni being out, I'm limited to fuck for company. Ellis isn't moving into our flat until October and everyone else is scattered, although at least I'll be near Willis 'cause she's an Essex girl. I'm trying not to be too negative about it though, 'cause obvzzz sitting and feeling shit about it isn't going to change the fact that I have to do it, have to get a new CPN and see my doctors and so on and all that balls. We won't have the internet immediately and I won't be able to take down a tele on the several trains it takes for me to get down there, so that's going to make it tougher and make me feel lonelier, but I'm trying to dress it up around how good my phone and internet package is so I can still communicate and that (Facebook is malyf), and maybe it'll be good to take a break from the world, just to take a shit tonne of books and retreat.

Monday, 23 July 2012

Comparisons.

I've started this entry umpteenth times, and deleted every word, because I can't quite express what I want to say; I'm contradicting myself and putting myself across really, well, knobheady. But I need to get this out. So I'm going to give it a final hash, promise myself that there will be no totalitarian erasures of text, and accept that if this isn't exactly what I thought I wanted to say, it must be what I need to type. So if you're reading this, I kept my promise. If I break it, nobody will ever know, until I start crying hysterically in public about how many feelings I have ;).

Last week was the first of three reasonably short periods over the next year that are going to be really tough for me. Last week, all my school/college friends who went to uni, graduated. I'd have been among that number, had I not been ill and had to take the academic year 09/10 off, and start my uni a year after. The next tough one, will be when quite a significant amount of my university friends leave for their study abroad year. After not being able to be part of the first number, this was one I settled reasonably happy into; I'd have been among that number, had I not been too ill to move away from the constant care that I need. The one though that I'm dreading above all else, is this time next year where my university friends graduate. Can you guess what I'm going to say now? Had I not been ill, at least I'd have got that day, with the people I'd spent the previous few years with. That would have been my day, too. Three different groups of people- those my age, those who chose the same academic path as me, and those I began university with- are all leaving me behind. Three groups I've been part of briefly, leaving me with the illnesses that have been my only constant.

I feel somewhere between being abandoned and being a failure. The abandonment issue is obviously bullshit and wrong and unhealthy, but being left behind has been summat I've felt so often, and I suppose I confuse being left behind with being abandoned, despite one being the natural progression of other people and the other being a deliberate separation of them from me. It bothers me so much that I have such dependencies on people and things, that I can't just cut loose and run off and do what I want- where would my therapy and medication come from? Especially the medication, since they'll only give me a week's worth at once. Without a psychiatric nurse every week catching any decline, and a psychiatrist to monitor medication, a breakdown would be inevitable, and what then if I'm not settled? It's completely impossible to go away more than a week and I HATE that. I want to run. It's the feel of being tied down whilst it feels like everyone else can escape and/or grow up. I know I'm not the only one in this position, but it's very easy to be jealous of people when all you see are their Facebook updates, I suppose. I think the feeling of failure is pretty self explanatory. I know I'm intelligent, but by the same token I'll be 22 in September and in classes with 19 and 20 year olds, from October. Urgh.

I had a bit of a... not epiphany exactly, but I realised that all I'm feeling is based on comparing myself to people who have no doubt had their own shit, but haven't had to deal with all I have, or haven't been as ill as I have been. Everyone is fighting a battle, that I know, but not everybody is or has fought quite such a long, bloody one. I think this is where I start to sound a bit knobheady, but when I compare myself more reasonably with people who have been through similar to me or have been as ill, I suppose I'm in not such a terrible position. I still managed my lower qualifications (GCSEs and A-Levels) whilst very ill, so have good but not amazing grades, and have tried to work through my degree, fighting, with... mixed results. Good marks for first year, not even having completed enough work to have failed second year. I don't know.

Those were my first and second levels of thinking/comparing, but that was all wrong, I'm thinking now. Comparisons are human nature, right? Keeping up with the Joneses? I'm not interested in having the latest gadgets or best designer names, but right from childhood, being academic was all I was good at. I can't sing, dance, swim, play any sport, play any instrument... but I tend to do well academically. I used to be pretty damn great at having an eating disorder, and I'm almost always the 'most ill' mentally. But now, I'm essentially two years behind where I should be academically and was getting better on the other fronts, so WAS a bit lost and down because of not being the best at any of those three, fucked up as that sounds. And so my eating was awful last week. A mix of eating shit all, drinking too much, and then eating whilst drunk summat that I'd throw up until I saw blood- a pattern I haven't followed in so long. My mental state started to decline. And why? So I can live down, not up, to a certain role? Bugger that.

There's a Baz Luhrman song, 'Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)' which is based on a 1997 Chicago Tribune article. The song is brilliant, but as the original is the article, I'll link you to that and let you go find the song yourself, hahaha- http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/columnists/chi-schmich-sunscreen-column,0,4054576.column. The paragraph, 'Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself' is my mantra now. Letting myself get more ill isn't going to hurt the people who have hurt me, it isn't going to punish the mental illnesses that have caused all these road blocks, it won't make me graduate any sooner and it sure as hell won't make me any happier. There's no race with any of the three groups I mentioned previously, and I can't have any bitterness. I'll get to where I want to be, it's just going to take a bit longer than I thought. There are demons to be fought and mountains to be leveled, obstacles most people haven't necessarily had to face. I might have to crawl over the finish line years after everyone else ran over it, but I'll get there.

Sunday, 15 July 2012

Demands to a toddler.

I take trains a lot, it's rare a week goes by where I don't have to be somewhere that takes a bit of distance for whatever reason, and since I don't drive, public transport basically owns my organs. I'd say soul, but that one's long since been taken. When you're on a train for a few hours, you get to know your fellow passengers, directly or not. In the (glorious, glorious) north, you get to them directly 'cause us northerners are so damn great and friendly and nosey and would REALLY, REALLY like to hear your whole life story. In the south, you have the be a bit more secretive in your spying, but us northerners can still find everything out. It's a bit like, oh, if you're in a shop in the north and somebody is looking at a pretentious pack of teabags, it's fair game as to advising the person on the brewing time of them. In the south, it'll get your burnt at the stake. Ever told you how much better the north is? ;)

'Cause of my northern nature, I hear all sorts of bits and are told all sorts of pieces. The most obvious genre is parenting toddlers, 'cause I usually travel during the week when the older kids are at school and parents with toddlers aren't usually as subtle at they think they are. I can't say I really take notes or owt, but the way parents talk to toddlers is exactly the same way that doctors and nurses speak to mental health patients and it's a really strange feeling.

I'll be sitting there and hear a particular demand, issued in a firm, deliberate tone, and it'll take me back to one admission or another, or every admission, ever. It's so bizarre, after my first few admissions the tone of a demand to an unknown toddler could make me feel guilty, but now it sort of grates on me. Not at all because I'm judging parenting techniques, but 'cause it makes me sick that a mental patient and a child are some how held on the same level. Coincidentally, after I was hospitalised, just for the night, a week ago, my friend Ce said about how some of the staff just shouted at me and acted as if I was a naughty child. Coming from a person who is extremely used to being around children (her mum fosters), I reck that sort of, yanno, ooft... I don't know, justifies my feelings?

It irritates the balls out of me, sitting here now and thinking, but being on a train and hearing a demand, 'STOP that!' or having someone else being told to look after the child, feeling it as myself, 'make sure she can't get near that!' or whatever, that makes me stop. It's the Supernanny tone. She's got all these parents using a certain tone, one that's also used by psychiatric nurses, and it's horrific. I've seen the tele programmes and I've seen it work on kids, and I never remember enough about my admissions to know whether it works on me then, but the fact that it's all tret the same (it arses me even when they tell me that at that moment I need to go into hospital because I'm not capable of taking care of myself and keeping myself safe), just seems so damn patronising. Even when I'm ill, my intelligence doesn't disappear and my mentality doesn't become that of a naughty child. I watch it and wonder how long, really, it is until psych wards have naughty steps.

Sunday, 8 July 2012

Alcohol.

I'm raw today and so I don't expect this is going to be all that eloquent. I've been so busy keeping my eating under control, trying as best I can to navigate the twists and turns of the bipolar (the term ups and downs seems so wrong in discussing bipolar. The frenzied highs are as far from my idea of a good mood as they are from the idea of a bad mood. Whatever the platonic idea of a good/bad mood is. Are? I don't even know my tenses. Tense). See, I'm already not doing very well, this doesn't make sense at all and my mind is swimming through empty analogies and I feel sick from the motion of it all. All I want to be able to do is to write, to be able to express everything in a way that doesn't involve some yet another breakdown. I won't recover from another right now, I'm weak. I can't seem to be able to do or express anything, I'm too raw and I'm not even really saying anything now.

Give me a few minutes, I need to cry.

This is pathetic.

I have an alcohol problem. Or rather... I don't know how to express this. I have a problem with pretty much every area of being human. Animal, even. The primal shit. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Interact socially. The food thing has been pretty extensively covered here, my fear of sleep I'm just able to manage right now. Socially, at the moment I manage. I'm weird and awkward and not well understood, or, probably, liked, but I have friends and we manage. But I feel on the precipice of a new wave of self destruction, one that's been a long time coming, but I've been denying the existence of, from myself, based on that final hurdle; drink. Another battle to fight and one that...

I'm not strong. I never have been, not to have ended up with all these problems. I feel pealed and pickled, raw, naked and bleeding under a thousand glaring suns. When you start cutting corners, that's when things crumble. Cutting corners off recovery, from fighting, having to save face always, rather than to admit how horribly wrong everything is. Managing to get enough calories through alcohol. Calming the intensity of my fears around sleep, by drinking until I can't feel anything. Drinking before and during every single social interaction, no matter how inappropriate, hoping that it will make me interesting. And always, through it all, drinking so I don't have to remember. I don't want to remember so much, there's so much that I wish I didn't know and I'm tired of the whole fucking mess that has been my life. Melodramatic? So it sounds. But it would be a lie to say anything else.

And drinking sort of fixes that. In the very short term. In the long run, it's ruining everything. It's controlling me and degrading me and has crept up with the familiar scent of self-destruction, a monster on my back. Maybe how people can go from abusive relationship to abusive relationship, I don't know. Waking up in a hospital bed this morning, yet again, with the tell tale bruises on my arse from sedative injections and a hangover borne from the alcohol, the medication they gave me, and the utter shame of having ended up in another hospital bed, in another state, ruining a night with a best friend and putting someone I love so much through it all. Sometimes alcohol doesn't fill the cracks and the face I present crumbles, it melts the armour away and I'm nothing more than just the mental patient who needs to be restrained and medicated for her own safety.

I need help.

Friday, 6 July 2012

On-again, off-again.

My on-again, off-again relationship with my scales (my several sets, if I'm going to be completely honest. A set for at uni, a set for at home and then extra sets so I can aggregate. God, that's both embarrassing to admit and a liiiiittle bit depresso; at one point I had more scales than, I don't know, BRAIN CELLS, and I'm sure that's not how it's meant to be), is heading towards being off-again. I need my scales to keep grounded, I'm a 1.6m long magnet for paranoia and taking away my scales gives me another thing to be paranoid about- after a few days without them, I get pretty sure that I must have gained a good load of kilo. Like my scales are the only thing keeping my weight at a certain point. You'd think a person ought to be able to tell from their reflection whether they've suddenly inflated, but I'm not the biggest fan of mine and have learnt not to spend too long dwelling on it if I want to be productive.

So that's why I keep 'em around, but the problem with that is probably quite obvious from the fact that I own so many sets- I'm not just a long magnet (long in the sense of fridge magnets, anyway. I'm not in denial about what a shortarse I am, hahaha) for paranoia, but also for obsession. So when I'm weighing myself constantly and my weight fluctuates by 100g or, God forbid, even more, as human bodies do, I then despair and it gets a bit pathetic and I'm liable to take to my bed for a few days, which is a bladddddy terrible idea 'cause then I feel even worse. There's a productive type of wallowing, you have to give yourself a few days every now and again to get it out of you system, when summat kicks you back down. As long as it's scheduled and deserved, you're reyt, hahahahahaha. But it's not justifiable for a coupla hundred grams, so I've to strike some sort of balance.

So we're going on a break. I'm not throwing them out or any of that bullshit, I'm just having a few days (I reck that's about as long as I can go before I'm convinced I weigh 100kg) off them to sort out my bloody priorities. I have a tonne of shite to sift through, but writing about being stressed is almost as tedious as being stressed. Money, uni, weight, blah. Fukmalyyyyyf.

Monday, 2 July 2012

Graduating class, 2014.

For all my previous optimism, getting an email telling me that my appeal has been denied has pretty much broken my heart. Their reasoning is pretty solid and I can't really argue- summat about the volume of work I'd have to do being virtually impossible in the time frame. They're right, I know they're right. But they're basing that on my not submitting a load of work throughout my second year, which makes me angry, because surely this could have been worked out half way through the year, when I'd submitted hardly anything. I've spent this year in and out of hospital, getting out and then having to throw myself into university work before I've been recovered. During a bout of a serious illness, one that required you to be hospitalised, there's a home recovery time. Hospitals keep you in until you're at a point where you can continue recovering at home, they don't tend to keep you there until you're 100% better. So rather than me getting out, having some time to fully recover from an episode at home, I'd had to immediately throw myself into getting caught up at uni. Which has worked about as well as a chocolate teapot, and led to a hell of a lot of mental distress and, indirectly or not, more hospital time.

Throughout the year, I've had to plead my case to stay. But it was never done in a way that had my health as the main concern. It was always how the university might look to visitors or to freshers, especially. During the last episode I had in Colchester, I was told that if any other student sees, I'd be asked to leave. Do you see what I mean? The whole thing has been a battle, and my mental state has never been anybody's priority. But had they said, say, in March or April or so, when they knew I'd missed too much, that it'd be better for me to go home, recover, then come back in October 'cause there was no way I could pass the year (even before I'd missed my exams, I'd missed a lot of coursework from the year) I could have handled that. I could have saved myself the last few months and made have put myself in a damn site better a position than I'm in now.

I think the hurt and the anger comes from what an awful year it's been. I was sectioned in the first week of term, then spent many other nights in hospital, before you even count the longer term hospitalisations I've had after I've been sectioned, a trillion times. Throughout that, they had me begging to stay and accused me of traumatising security and other students. Seriously, I had to apologise for security, because apparently some had had to have time off 'cause me having episodes 'traumatised' them. Give. Me. A. Fucking. Break. But nobody ever said to me, as they just have NOW, that it would be impossible to catch up and that I'd be best off recovering at home and starting afresh. They just do not give a flying fuck about the students, or at least not the ones with the mental health problems (being more concerned with the ones potentially 'traumatised' as a result of seeing somebody have an episode).

I'm so angry that I'm just sitting here crying. And how fucking dare they reduce me to fucking tears. The University of Essex should have to declare their complete disregard for and incompatibility with students with severe mental health problems.

Sunday, 1 July 2012

Separating feelings.

I used to live in such a way that half the time I wasn't sure whether it was me or my eating disorder that felt certain things, disliked certain things and acted in certain ways. Naturally, when you live within the pocket of a particularly forceful person- as so often it felt like the disorder was; an abusive Siamese twin- you lose your sense of self and with that goes the ability to detach your feelings from theirs. Mostly now, I'm alone. I've gone through the long, painful, operation to separate myself from my conjoined twin, and I'm forever recovering, slowly getting stronger. There are some things, though, that linger, some reactions and feelings that aren't mine, but still sometimes shove their way forward, fighting any reaction that might belong to me alone.

What felt, for a bit back there, as MY first reaction to being told I had to repeat the year at uni was to kick off, to act in a particularly dramatic way and to make the black and white decisions so typical of an eating disorder. No compromise, no room for logic, just the FUCK YOU attitude which pretty much defines what was my disorder, especially from when I was 16 or 17. Before then, I was too concerned with hiding shit and making a good impression, but by the time I was 16 or 17, my world narrowed to the width of a pin and FUCK YOU was my (our?) reaction to everything and everyone. It was a protective thing which, I've slowly learnt, I don't need. It's counter-productive to everything but maintaining a severe, public (public to my world, anyway. Pretty much everyone around me knew by then) eating disorder. Still though, it lingers and like I say, it popped up again, with particular force, when I read the email telling me I was to retake.

I've appealed the decision now, and HAD made the decision that if my appeal was not successful, I'd attempt to transfer to Hull uni, 'cause then I could live at home and commute. A giant FUCK YOU to the uni I'm at now. And I felt awful. It's pretty much the reason I haven't blogged for a week, for most of it, I've been feeling horrific 'cause of the decision I thought I'd made. I've calmed down though, reclaimed my own feelings and thrown out the automatic fuck you, and now I think that even if I do have to resit, at least I have all my friends, all my healthcare, EVERYTHING down in Essex. I'd have no therapy if I moved back up north, 'cause of waiting lists, so I'd be in hospital more. I'd have to set up and get a new CPN and psychiatrist. I'd have to set up with a new student support, sort out new Disabled Students' Allowance, and so on. There's so much, and, really, I just massively can't be arsed. I don't want to have to learn my way around a new uni and city alone, I really have a hard time with being alone. I can't abide being alone. I'd rather do another year at Essex, than all of that. Besides which, my set up for next year will be diff. I'll be with my VERY EXCELLENT Ellis, in our beautiful flat, and so will be able to escape from the uni and the paranoia I constantly feel there in a way I couldn't this year, 'cause I lived on campus.

So I'm sticking with it. I hope I'll only have another year, but if I have another two, I'll survive. I'll get over it. And one day I'll look back and... shit on the uni. I don't think I'll ever look back and laugh, but I'll sure as hell shit all over the whole mess ;).

Monday, 25 June 2012

It's never simple.

I'm angry. I'm really angry. I missed my exams, a couple just because I was so unprepared from all the shit over the last year, and a couple 'cause I was actually in hospital for them. The ones that I missed because I was unprepared were pre-planned, student support and my department told me that the exam board would most likely allow me to take the exams in September. And lo and behold, I got an email today from the exam board saying that not only can I not do that, but I have to retake my whole year. If I can get a doctor's note saying that I'm fit to, just to add insult. Oh my God, I'm angry.

I despise my university. I liked it in the first year, but throughout my second year I've felt like every week I'm having a meeting with a new body within in, to beg for them not to throw me out 'cause my mental health. For what? To make myself so ill that I ended up with this fucking Section 3 on my fucking record, and then to be told that none of that has been enough. I've worked my arse off to get this mentally healthy, and it's not enough. And they want me to do another fucking two years, during which I'll no doubt have to spend the entire time fighting to stay on the course, making myself ill to jump through their hoops and give the impression that I reach their fucking arbitrary level of mental health.

Well, they win. They fucking win. I've appealed the decision, and if they don't let me catch up over the summer and then start my last year in September, I'm gone. I'm sick of them degrading me, making me beg, and so I am fucking DONE.

Sunday, 24 June 2012

Coming out of the medicine cabinet (part 1).

The first time I realised I had an eating disorder I was about 12, and read summat in a magazine, some piece of 'awareness' (which was no doubt horrifically uninformed- when is the media coverage of them ever not? Even after the usual step of getting a bland, obvious comment from b-eat, a charity I have little time for 'cause I reck it has so much wasted, untapped potential). I sat and cried, learning that I was disordered, not just the eccentric that even then I liked to think I was; the cynical, world weary, pre-teen I disassociated from the world and became in my personal observations; the vain, plagiarised feelings, that make me howl whenever I come across in some sort of written format; probably in the same way I'll look back on all of this, in 10 years. As eccentric as I liked to escape away to believing I was, I wasn't really mature enough to be different on that level, to be ill rather than fancy myself as secretly special. I've always been vain when it comes to the written word. You know how some people have hundreds of self taken photos of themselves on their Facebook? I find myself wishing that I was born a century previous, to upper-class Americans, so that F. Scott Fitzgerald might have written about me, immortalised me in his beautiful prose.

I didn't just discover that day that I was ill, I discovered that I had been for years. I don't think that tends to happen to people who get ill when they're older and they've grown up already in a world where eating disorders exist, rather than the sudden discovery I had of the realities, I think then recognition of the illness occurs sooner. And, of course, too many people work towards acquisition of an eating disorder, whether they then lose control of the beast and find themselves later trying to claw back the life they worked towards starving away, or whether they eventually grow up and give it up. That world is bizarre to me. So maybe that titbit about my discovery is a touch irrelevant to this, but it's my party and I'll anecdote the shit out of it, if I want ;).

After my discovery though, it was all very standard. I cried for a night, then spent a month or so muttering to myself, trying on all the words for the disorder on for size, then I carried on, regardless. There were years more where the disorder was mine and mine alone, hoarded and hidden away, protected from everybody, bar the people I met online in my early teens. At times it was obvious but summat locked in innuendo, snide comments from people, but no actual acknowledgement of my suffering, as my weight dropped through Anorexia. At other times it was presumed to have been a phase I was over, as my weight rose and then leveled off, through Bulimia. But until I was about 17 or 18, I was locked firmly in the medicine cabinet. Then I came out and shit hit the fan; hospitalisations, intensive therapies, more hospitalisations and on and on, as you'll know, if you've followed my journey.

The thing is though, shit didn't hit the fan BECAUSE I came out. Shit hit the fan because I was very ill and very, very ready to change that. That's what people need to know. Reaching out for help will not get you put on a hospital ward, or with your will taken away from you. If you want help, help is there to be accessed. If you don't, you won't be forced, but you can take responsibility for your physical health, at least. Even if you don't want to get better, reaching out for help managing the physical health costs- that's a pretty good step to take and again, won't get you locked up or forced into therapy or owt. Help is there for those who are ready for it, but nothing's forced. Unless your BMI falls below about 13, you can be confident that you won't be forced into anything. I mean, for one thing, the NHS is too pressed and tightly belted to provide help for anybody who isn't 100% sure they want it. I think that's where the awareness needs to go and that's what would save lives, if people knew that they could have their physical health managed but wouldn't be forced into everything, I think it'd be easier for people to at least seek help from their GP or even practice nurse or whatever.

Even if you're still in love with the disorder, you have to know that your body will not be, and that YOU, the person behind the disorder, have a responsibility to ensure that your family, YOURS, not the disorder's, don't find you dead over your toilet. You may love your eating disorder, but if you love your family and if you truly want to prevent choices being taken away from you, you have to take responsibility enough to allow somebody else to help you manage your physical health. That'll probably mean blood tests and perhaps electrolyte drinks, which could well stop you having a heart attack, as well as saving you from a million other health problems. Seriously, just google 'electrolyte imbalance' and see what you're looking at.

The other thing is, even if you're under 18, in the UK your doctor will not, and cannot, tell your parents about your eating disorder. Obviously, talking to your family and friends is a big part of getting better, but it doesn't have to be the first step, or even the second or third. if you're not ready to look at the mental side of it, face the internal, physical side.

This hasn't really gone how I intended it to, when I sat down to write, hahahaha. So I'm going to stick 'part 1' in the title and then post again when I get my thoughts together, really about what coming out really means. Until then, GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODNIGHT ;)

Wednesday, 13 June 2012

Confidence.

I've just spoken to my lawyer. I want to cry, but the system is not getting any more tears out of me. It turns out that while I thought he was confident about getting the Section off my record, for it being unlawful, he actually was confident about getting me off Section (which would mean I got out of hospital, but wouldn't erase it from my record), for it being unlawful. Which isn't all that handy, by the way, 'cause I got myself discharged on Monday. Despite lying my arse off about how I'd been sober in the entire time I'd been on leave, as I'm sitting there almost falling asleep, covered in cuts and bruises and dinosaur skin transfers, all from summer ball. JOLLY GOOD TIMES.

Now my record, however, and chances of ever leaving the EU or having a bloody career are not looking quite so jolly good. He's off to do the lawyer version of asking about, to see if there might be any chance of it, which fills me with approximately zero confidence. There's not a lot I can do, and so worrying is completely pointless, but nonetheless. I don't know, I'll see what he says and maybe I'll try the mental health charities. I desperately don't want to let it drop, but there is an end to every road and I'm hoping this isn't it.

On a completely different confidence note, I'm off on holiday tomorrow and I'm nervous. Since my last entry I've eaten pretty well and felt pretty good, which feels a bit bizarre given that in the run up to spending a week in a bikini, I feel like I should be subsisting on salad and Pepsi Max. But no, this is my body, this is what it wants- no, is programmed- to weigh, and so I will not attempt to change that. I won't. But it's making me a bit nervous, last time I went on a proper bikini holiday I weighed maybe about 7kg less than I do now. I looked like shit, don't get me wrong, BUT STILL, hahaha. In an attempt to calm myself, I tried on all on my summer clothes, clothes for the nights and that, and everything fits lovely and all is fine, it turns out I haven't balloon'd over the last week- who'd have guessed it, eh? Not me, seriously, I always presumed accepting a weight was a slippery slope to immediately becoming obese. But given that I weigh the exact same now that I weighed before I accepted it, the weight my body has returned to every time I've lost weight over the last few years, I reck I'm probably safe for the moment.

Thursday, 7 June 2012

This is my body. Broken for nobody.

My weight fluctuates, depending on how well I'm doing at the time at fighting the good fight, defeating my demons and eating my tea. Well, it used to, by maybe about 10kg (22 pounds, for those stuck in Imperial times. God mate, just get over that system ;)), over just a few weeks, when I first started this blog. These days, it maybe does by about 3, over a month or so (oh wow, I hadn't really thought about quite how much of a difference that was, and as a way of measuring how much better I am now... shit, I'm kicking arse). Sometimes I lose, sometimes I gain, but it always levels at the same point, when I get back in control. I cannot describe my previous horror and disgust at the number it settles at, the ferocity and feralness of wanting to cut and scrape fat off, every time. Every time it settles at the exact same point, higher than the minimum my doctors like me to keep to, the number that I was once made to gain weight to, the ghost of the disorder strengthens and feeds, and the longer I stay at that number, the louder the whispers of disgust grow, until all I can hear are shouts of my deformation. And so the fluctuations begin again. Eating disorders are notoriously black and white, entirely unforgiving and constantly demanding, and to weigh more than the minimum I had to, to be healthy, has had me believing for years that stepping off that very, very fine line meant I was overweight.

The minimum number I have to weigh became bearable. Any number below creates conflict; the disorder fed for a little while and as much as I hate to think I'm falling, that my life might not end up my own again, at the same time, there's a relief. A guilty pleasure. Any number above also fed the disorder, I can slip so easily back into such an intense hatred of my physical being that somehow manages to seep through to all other areas of my being, like a person returning to an abusive partner. It's not pretty and there's no purpose other than a twisted nostalgia and familiarity that although burns, is at least known. Being what I deemed as overweight was as much of a comfort as starving or throwing up. I've spent more of my life ill than healthy; more time with my toilet than my friends; more time filling my brain with personal taunts and devising new tortures for myself than for demanding true justice; more time creating a tiny world of hell and ugliness, rather than finding beauty, or even the hell out there and demanding and creating beauty from that.

I'm just coming to the recognition now that the number I was to weigh, the number they all wanted from me, was created by a computer, a computer that knew nothing of Rebecca Condron and Her Body. The number I keep settling at is my body's, and if anybody knows Rebecca Condron and Her Body, it's her bloody body. And so this is my body, and I will not break it. I'm not naturally thin, so why on earth should I waste my beautiful mind on plans and tricks, to make it unnaturally thin? Why should I make my mind work against my body, when they're made to work together so perfectly and in sync? You give one nutrition, you give the other nutrition, and it's only when you're nourished that you can be all you were meant to be. Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, I believe in myself. I believe I can do and be something, I have such a sense of justice borne from injustice, and the first thing I need to be, cliched as it's going to sound, is myself. And myself is 3.5kg above whey want(ed) me, and that is NOT ugly and has no relevance to myself as a sentient being.

A lot of people will tell you that thin isn't beautiful or womanly and that's a bag of wrinkly, old man, bollocks, as a definitive. Eating disorders are ugly but most slim people are not ill, and even those who are, are certainly not ugly- it's just that their disease has ravaged their true, natural, beauty. Thin is beautiful when that is the body's natural shape. One of my best friends, Willis, had a baby 8 months ago and was tiny during the pregnancy, immediately after, and now, and is undeniably beautiful. Another of my best friends, Ellis, wears a couple of clothes sizes higher than I do and is stunning. She's not thin and she's certainly not fat, but she doesn't starve or stick her fingers down her throat. My body's natural size is where it is now, and it's neither thin nor fat. But it's mine and I am finished trying to make it replicate anybody else's; torturing myself over pictures of people I know who are smaller than me is about as pointless as wishing I had long fingers.

This is my body. 1.6m and 55.5kg. This is my body, broken for no body nor thing. Nor fucking disorder.

Sunday, 3 June 2012

An 'unlawful Section'

The majority of my blog views come either from Google or from Facebook, and so I wouldn't have thought that most people reading this have all that much knowledge of the ins and outs of the English mental health system. I'm trying to work out if I'm being a patronising cock, and if I am, how much of one I am, but I reck I ought to explain some bits and pieces, 'stead of assuming everyone has been through the system as I have. This could well end up VERY BORING, but be nice and then I'll tell you about my latest admission and The Story of the Unlawful Section.

You can get admitted to a psychiatric hospital a few ways. Either a member of the crisis team or whatever can say that they think you ought to be admitted and you can throw your hands up and go in voluntarily, or you can get yourself dragged in. The former is the cleanest way, the neatest way, the way that makes it easier for you to leave when you're better, and the way that my stupid pride barely ever lets me go. Instead, I end up 'detained under the Mental Health Act' (known more as 'sectioned') which is a legal way of saying you refuse to be admitted, so they shove your arse in anyway, and make sure you can't run or refuse any treatment or owt. It also makes shit very messy, because it means that when you're better, you can't just ask to be discharged, you have to petition your consultant. You have to play a certain role; say certain things in a certain way and, oh, sit in a certain position and make sure you're very groomed and blahblah.

Sounds easy enough, when you know the routine, but, like... ohhhh, one time I was told by the nursing staff I'd be discharged on a Monday, but then my consultant went home early. The Tuesday she had off. The Wednesday she was called to an emergency. The Thursday, after I had spent the few days kicking off big styleeeee, I finally got out. Had I not been sectioned, when the nursing staff thought I was good to go on the Monday, I'd have been straight on out, rather than the extra few days (which, since there are about 3 weeks in the normal world to every day in the nuthut, was bladdddy awful).

There are a whole load of sections of the Mental Health Act, like any law, and they can detain you under about a trillion of them. There's Section Two, which is all fine and dandy and I've managed to rack up a fair few of them, bit of a nightmare when you're in and trying to get out, but don't really have any repercussions for owt once you've gone. Then there's Section Three. And mymy, is that a different kettle of fish. If you've ever filled out a job application, maybe you've noticed that they ask if you've ever been detained under Section Three of the Mental Health Act. Oh aye, that question is there, just begging for the company to discriminate against you. From the shit I've been given in the past and reactions to my episodes by laypeople, I don't trust society not to discriminate. Society is not developed enough, if it was then that question wouldn't even be asked. You can't travel really anywhere outside the EU with a Section Three on your record, either. Did you read my entry about how I wanted to graduate and then pack a bag and travel America? Goodbye dream. It's the ultimate glass ceiling and so to detain somebody under it, rather than just under Section Two, is a pretty big deal and there are supposed safeguards to make sure they can't ruin your chuffing life, just for the chuffing lulz.

Now for The Unlawful Section. I got admitted to hospital in Doncaster not last Wednesday night, but the one before, and went in without them sectioning me and everything. Good girl. On the Thursday, I was told that despite the state I was in, I was being discharged. Then an hour later, I was told that actually I wasn't. On the Friday, I was sick of their bullshit and decided that actually going home would be a glorious idea and demanded they let me discharge myself and then went to pack my bag. Instead, I was presented with Section 5.2 detention papers (I told you there was a whole bunch of different sections, hahaha), which meant that I was being held there for 72 hours, which would give them chance to assess me properly after the weekend.

Doncaster is a half hour or so away from Scunthorpe, when actually my house in Scunny is all of about 30 seconds from the nearest nuthut, but there were no beds in Scunny. Saturday morning, one came free so they shipped me over. Saturday night, I was woken up and taken into a room with a crowd of people, and told I was being detained under Section Three, apparently for the lulz, since I wasn't threatening to leave (not even I can whinge and bitch and threaten whilst asleep, and I am usually le patient terrible) or, yanno, doing owt but drool and probably snore like a pneumatic drill. They made a few fatal errors though, in trying to get that glass ceiling in place, the major one being they never got Ginge's permission. Because a Section Three is an absolute biaaaatch, they have to either get permission from your nearest relative, or go to court and get the state effectively made your nearest relative, stripping your mama or whomever of their right to refuse.

So I have me a lawyer. I keep trying to get it into conversation just so I can say MY LAWYER dotdotdot. It's like waaaay back when I first got a psychiatrist, for the first year or two, and I kept trying to get it into conversation. And he thinks he can not only get me off Section now, but hopefully get it off my record altogether. He recks that they'll maybe just want to stick a note on my record pretty much saying 'ooops, TOTEZ DIDN'T MEAN TO STICK A THREE ON HER' which wouldn't be any help whatsoever, 'cause I'd still have to declare it. So he's pushing to get it off my record altogether and thinks we have a good chance because of it being UNLAWFUL. And unjustifiable (for the record, I don't disagree with the 72 hour section, nor with maybe needing to be held in general. But the way it was done, the fact that I still had 2 days of the 72 hour section left ANYWAY and the whole Section Three instead of S2 in general... utter bullshit). And a bit of a dickhead move, given that I'm only 21 an' that.

I begged and pleaded to be discharged on Friday, I did everything right and got almost what I wanted. I'm still Sectioned and will be for at least another week, which just means that there's a bed on the ward for me and if my symptoms return all Ginge has to do is take me to the ward and I'll go right back to where I was, in the same position. But I'm home on leave and it's amazing, there is nothing like the feeling. I've to pop in on Wednesday, sort of like for a mental health check up, and if I pass that, then I get to go to Essex for a few days, for summer ball on Saturday, which I am ridiculously excited for. Then back to hospital on Monday week, to be discharged if all goes to plan, and then off to Spain for a week, 3 days later :).

After a terrible coupla week, things are looking a bit peachy, although I'm feeling a bit delicate. But I'm trying to sort out the major stresses, which triggered this blip, the money sitch and uni sitch and everything like that. I'm going to be JUST FINE, I think (although if you want to chuck me some cash, this would be hella more simple, hahaha).

Saturday, 2 June 2012

Massive lolz ('cept, not really).

Read back my last entry, right...? Then picture me bawling, Ginge coming home and finding me banging my head against the wall and then picture me on the psych ward 12 hours later. Absolute zero surprise, non?

This is just a rush entry; I have so much to say, but I felt like I couldn't leave it at the last one. I'm currently on a Section 3 (oh yes. The scary one. The ones that means I can't travel outside the EU really everrrr, can't apply for a job without declaring it, everrrr...), but I have 11 days leave, begged partly so that I can go to my uni's summer ball next week, TRUTH BE TOLD. Although condition of my leave is that I don't drink. AS. IF. Pahahahaha. Anyway, I just wanted to share the progression, muchos muchos to write later or tomorrow.

In the mean time, um, here's a nice summery picture taken at Cleethorpes, the day before I got sectioned. Don't I look sane, eh? Bizarre.

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

Please don't make me go back.

I have to go back to Essex today, because I've an appointment with my psychiatrist tomorrow, which is verrrry important for me to get evidence for why I can't do exams right now. I'm crying, I really don't want to go. The last few entries would make it appear that I cry a lot, but until a few months ago I hadn't cried in years. Don't go giving me any balls about tears being healing, not when my tears are because I'm so, so scared. Besides which I can't afford to go, all my money is going on tickets between Colchester and Scunthorpe, as I got between therapy appointments and home. For those who don't know England, it ends up as over 5 hours each way, just for an hours appointment, and is ridiculously expensive and I'm ridiculously skint.

This is such a nothing blog, but I needed to do summat, to write or whatever. I'm petrified of being alone, it's when I'm alone that the anxiety and everything becomes too much. And in Colchester, I'm alone. I can't handle my own company.

Saturday, 19 May 2012

Bit of a rough 'un.

It's been a rough week, but I'm hoping that this is it getting better. Last time I wrote was Sunday, and by Monday night I was convinced I was on my way to another psych ward, I was a total mess. Constantly crying and having tidal waves of flashbacks and panic attacks, followed by genuine moments where I thought I was close to stabbing somebody. I'm never, ever, violent, not on anybody but myself and certainly not unless you scare me, because I can fight if I need to. But I've just been so, so angry. And it's taken me a while to identity the feeling, anger is not one I ever let myself experience, because I've seen the damage that it can do. I've witnessed the fall out from people dying due to an angry moment erupting into something far greater and truth be told, I'm petrified of anger, mine or anybody else's- it just seems too absolute a power and too great a force.

I'm more isolated now though, I'm back in Essex (anyone who can ever keep up to date with my moves up and down the country is a greater woman than I am. I genuinely get a few moments every day where I'm not sure where the balls I am) and I'm mostly alone. It's horrible, but in a different sort of way. At least while I'm alone I'm not lashing out at anybody else, I'm saving it all up for the person who deserves it; me.

Everything is too intense still, but it's starting to slow down, because I've given up on exams and that means I can take my medications more as they're supposed to be taken, rather than how they fit in with revision. I was so, so stupid. I got out of hospital quicker than originally planned, because I was released to go back to my mum's and rest. Instead, I got out and threw myself into revision and never got a chance to slow down, nor to take my Clonazepam especially, as I should have. Own worst enemy. But I'm counting on it only getting better from here, so that I can take exams in September.

I tell you what though, I'm still constantly on the verge of tears. Everything is still too heavy and hard and bright and quick and although I feel like I need to be isolated, to protect everyone else, it means I'm taking on a bit too much of the energy myself. Turning any positive energy I can possibly throw together into sounding bright in phone calls and occassional, desperate attempts at acting like a real person, socially. I'm quite the actress. The days are full of anxiety attacks and flashbacks, and the nights are full of nightmares. And I'm alone and I'm sick and I'm too scared to reach out to anybody because I feel like such a bad person, both for being so angry, angry at the whole world and angry at nothing, and for constantly expecting some sort of support that I can't give back.

EDIT-
Fuck this, I'm going home. First thing tomorrow, back to Scunny. I just can't handle this place, at all.

Sunday, 13 May 2012

Patterns.

Every time I get off section, I get a day or two of complete euphoria, where I feel completely and utterly as if I'll never have a problem again. I'm likely to make comments about how it'll be my last ever hospitalisation or about how positive I'm feeling about a new medication, how summat my shrink said really made sense and suddenly everyone seems to be working for me, rather than against. I make sweeping statements and feel on top of the world, even if an hour before I was discharged I was sitting in a corner hitting my head or having to be restrained, or whatever, which has happened more times than you'd think. I don't know anyone who has been in and out as much as I have, but I bet it's a pretty normal feeling for us 'revolving door patients' determined to finally get out of that trap and desperately needing to think that we will.

I'm not a realist, hardly ever, I tend more to expect a lot and make big decisions and sweeping moves that never quite work out, optimistic to reckless, thinking and hoping and expecting more of myself and the world than is ever really real, and I suppose it's another extension of that. I expect so much because, I think, I need to think that if at one point my mind could, and can, cause such destruction, if a past can conjure demons with such ferocity, then when it's not going against the self-preserving grain, my mind ought to be able to create something of beauty; if beauty is finite and a person creates a certain amount of a life, I've saved up years worth to be claimed. I need to know that the demons the past can create are nothing to the power and beauty that the future can. Simply, I don't want another 21 years like the last.

This euphoria lasts as long as it takes for reality to give me a beating. Over the last few admissions, it's been some sort of university thing, either them threatening to chuck me out or asking myself to quietly, like, piss off myself and save them the paperwork (and legal battle, ahahaha). This time, it's been a million things. University, feeling gargantuan, and if I'm totally honest, more than a dash of PMT, etcetcetc. And now I feel horrific, which is also part of the pattern; summat mundane or if not mundane, summat I would usually handle pretty smoothly, comes along and I start to doubt if I even deserve my freedom, whether I'm even stable enough and whether I feel in control of my actions and whether I can really take responsibility even for myself. So with that comes a LOT of obsessing about my admission, about the few days leading up to it and what happened whilst I was in, which is made a lot more complicated, and makes for a more fertile obsessing ground, as I can never really remember much of admissions, once I'm out. I dunno whether that's a psychological thing, or just because I tend to be on some heavy duty pillz whilst I'm in, but either way, I remember hardly owt.

So I'm obsessing. I keep going over the night I went in, and comparing how I feel now. Physically better, but mentally I'm still afraid and paranoid about sleep. I'm having nightmares too, a lot around being in hospital, which is making the idea of rest even less desirable. It's putting me in such a shitty mood, I'm angry and I'm still feeling everything too much, the increase of my medication hasn't caught up with me yet, I don't think. When I'm warm, I'm boiling. When I catch myself on the table, it feels like I've been shot. If a noise is too loud, it feels like daggers are digging into me. And I can't get hold of my thoughts. Everything is too heavy and near and fast, and that includes the obsessing and the shitty mood, I'm angry and alone and I don't know if that's how it all should be, or how I want it to be.

My over-riding thing is I want to be left the fuck alone. But I don't even know if that's what I really want, if my thoughts are even my own and... urgh. In circles. I don't know what I want or need, just that all the bad feeling is making me sick and I HATE the person I am right now, I'm impossible to deal with, an utter shit.