Wednesday, 28 March 2012

Distance.

I'm taking a bit of a break from being a good person at the moment. I'm really sorry and I'm sorry at how this is going to sound, but I just can't be there for people right now. I can't have long conversations, I can't talk about anything deep, I can't really be the friend that I ought to be. Comments on a status? Yes. Messages? No. It's nothing at all personal to anybody (well, except me OBVZZZ), but I have a habit of absorbing other people's problems as though they are my own, even the small stuff. EVERYTHING. And right now, I just need a bit of a break and a bit of a breather, I felt like I was drowning for a while back there. I think that when I OD'd the other week 'cause of my OCD flaring up (it's getting better now, thanks for asking. They fanny'd around with my meds and gave me some clonazepam and that's helping), the OCD was, in part, because I wasn't sure what were my feelings and what belonged to everybody else. So I was obsessing about everything, a lot of the time I wasn't even sure what I was obsessing over.

I'm absolutely fine, I just need some space to untangle my feelings and stresses from the ones I've absorbed. To work out what's real and what's not. Just give me a week or so, and I'll be yours again.

Friday, 23 March 2012

'Before I hated you, I was nothing.'

A former therapist once told me that the best way to get back at somebody is to be the best that you can, the best revenge being getting better or summat. It pissed me off at the time, because it just showed that she did NOT get me at all as a person and I really wondered what the point of me taking a bus, three trains and then having a half hour walk, each week, to see her was (you have to love how lacking the NHS can be, when you have to do a 6 hour round trip every week to see a specialist), but that's a different issue. I wasn't so ill because I was trying to get back at any one of the shadows from my past, I was so ill because I was trying to get back at myself for feeling and falling. If my illness wasn't based on wanting to get on people, than neither could my recovery be.

I suppose the point she was making wasn't a bad one, there is something utterly delicious about leaping back up, bounding up to the person who kicked you down and winking as you go past, but the shadows from my past are no more than that, to my present. They're the shapes and the movement caught in the corner of an eye, the whispers that come in the middle of the night, the phantom pain in an amputated limb. It's so easy to hurt a person and to walk away, not realising that your actions are the drop from which ripples can seemingly go on forever, and I suppose if you're the type of person who would hurt someone in such a great way, to drop a bomb rather than a drop, you're not really going to give much of a shit what happens after, anyway.

I realised this week that I have a strange sort of hatred within me, a permanent hardness that, paradoxically, also creates a softness that I hope I never lose. I hope this fire of hatred never leaves me, because it's created passion and compassion. It's all about paying it forward. My recovery, my life now and, more to the point, everything I can do and be in the future, owes nothing to those who hurt me. The fire that I have is not down to them and you will never catch me saying that all that happened made me stronger, because I will not grant ANYBODY the gift of absolution or credit. But the hatred I have within me is like clay, it can be molded and I've realised that that's what I can and must do- mould it and fling it- and I think now that it might be my greatest commodity, not something to try to hide away. There is so much to hate in the world, so much that needs to be hated, to be fixed. It's lovely to say that all is lovely, it's lovely to sit back and think about how beautiful the world is. Naturally, it is. But there is so much wrong and so I'm going to pay my hatred forward.

Maybe I could be tamed, but that's not what I want. I want to be wild and to hate what ought to be hatred, to direct my fire towards burning what's wrong. The world isn't beautiful, not for most people. The hate I had, and too often still have, for myself, the hate that had been displaced and should perhaps rightfully have been directed at those shadows, needs to be paid forward and that's what I'm going to do. Harness the hate, the passion and the compassion, to see what can happen when all that energy is used outwardly, when I can direct it productively. I'm not talking miracles, I'm talking hardwork and dedication. A drop, to cause ripples. No, a hail and thunder storm to create movement; action and reaction, change and development.

Always forward, never inward or backward.

Wednesday, 21 March 2012

End of term.

I made it. It's just about the end of term, and I made it. I was convinced they'd have chucked me out by now and I've hardly handed in anything on time, but I'm here, I'm reasonably together and I've not done all that badly. So three cheers for me, hahahaha. I'm feeling a bit more positive right now. My head is starting to slow down a bit, but, well, that's not to say that I'm not still an utter nightmare; I ended up in hospital at the beginning of the week and while they assessed me after I'd be in 12 hours and decided they couldn't section me, they did want me to go in informally so they could fanny about with my meds. But I haven't the time nor the energy, being in hospital has a bloody awful effect on me, I've said before about hitting my head and losing it when I feel trapped, so being locked up just isn't REEEEEALLY often much of a help. Babysit me when I'm suicidal, sure, but right now I'm not and I'll be JUST FINE all by myself, ta.

Physically, I'm a bit of a mess too. I've not weighed myself since the last time I blogged, because the number really, really took it out of me. I think I've maybe lost a little, but I still feel ridiculously uncomfortable and like nothing really fits. I've consigned myself to the end of my wardrobe that contains the clothes 4 sizes above my usual size, so I'm working the bag lady thing right now even more than usual. But I get to go home and eat healthily and whatever, I always eat better in Scunny 'cause I can sort of align myself with what Ginge eats. I haven't had a single sober day since I was in hospital for that couple of days after the OD, which has some really horrific physical effects, I've got the runs an' all. There's definitely a lesson to be found from the weight, the booze and the state of my bank balance (maxed out overdraft, again. Urgh).

Positive, positive, positive.

Thursday, 15 March 2012

Double life.

I'm living a bit of a double life right now and I feel like utter crap. My OCD is going mad. I believe entirely in faking it until you make it and so that's what I'm doing; I'm trying to act as if all is ok, because I don't have time to act like it isn't. I can't ignore my life and take to my bed, because the world doesn't stop and so neither can I. All I can do is get up, behave like I should, and then go to bed. All the while popping benzos when it gets a touch too much and wait for the fakeness to become reality.

My mind is going a million miles per hour though and I constantly feel motion sick from the ride. I'm obsessing. And obsessing about obsessing. And obsessing about obsessing about obsessing. I feel so obese that I'm almost at the point of attempting to slice off my fat, and every time weight gets mentioned in any form, any time people talk about being too fat or thin, or about some diet or other, I want to fall to the floor and scream and scream and scream. I want to be so empty that I can't move, I want every movement to feel like wading through treacle, because my body is running off nothing. But like I said before, I can't. I can't stop and I can't slow down and I can't afford to waste time wading through treacle because the world doesn't stop and so neither can I. I can't even verbalise it very well and there's nobody I can try to explain it to, or to talk to, because all it comes back it is the same old. Alone, fat, rejected, the weird one, the ugly one, the one that should never have been born, the one that was never wanted and is not wanted now, the one who has caused so much disgust and distress and total mess.

And I'm so, so fat. Everything seems to lead to the same conclusion and I know that I could be numb with just a few days sans food. I'm so fat that when I'm alone with this blubbery mass, all I can do is cry. I can't believe that this mis-shapen bulk is mine, this utter monstrosity. I just want to melt, for my form to melt away.

Life shouldn't stop and so neither should I. But I need to melt away and I don't know that I care about keeping up with life, when I'm this fat.

Thursday, 8 March 2012

Beautiful bald girls.

There's a trend at the moment on facebook of posting and sharing pictures of beautiful, smiling, young people, with no hair, accompanied with a message about how cancer needs to be beaten. It's nice, and I quite like it. I mean, it doesn't do anything to stop cancer, but if even one person who is suffering from cancer sees it and knows that there is a whole world of people out there rooting for them... I think it means something. I do. Especially when you're young and the rest of facebook seems to be out having the time of their lives; these kind of circumstances are probably one of the only times I think a facebook thing like this might make a difference. You are NOT alone. It's not like the utter stupidity of 'change your facebook picture to a cartoon cancer, to help abused children'- DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED on that badboy, I'm still to find a person who can show me a child helped by that one.

No, the cancer thing is different. It's an acknowledgement of suffering and a message of the beauty of the fight, and the person at the centre. A reminder that the disease isn't all; there's light and a life that's so very valuable, an absolute strength and fire. But it makes me sad, because Lord knows that's not the only type of suffering. I can appreciate how a message like that might mean a little when you're suffering because I'm a little sad there wasn't, and won't be, anything like that for us. If you posted a picture of a young person with swollen eyes so bloodshot, skin a pale yellow, rotten teeth, neck and chin glands swollen like eggs, all from vomiting? An emaciated person? Scars? You'd immediately be inundated with messages of disgust. And I can get that, the disease isn't beautiful and when the symptoms can be classed as self-inflicted, a phrase I hate, by the way- there's so little genuine self involved in inflicting such damage- people recoil somewhat, because they can't imagine a decline of self in that way. They only see the ugly, the tumour, but not the fight and the light and life and strength and fire that they see when they see somebody battling the cancer. They don't understand that cancer is as ugly as mental illness, they can't separate the mentally ill person from the ugliness of the disease in the same way they can separate the person fighting cancer, from their cancerous growths.

In a way, maybe that's alright. We don't want our children seeing the beauty of the manifestations of mental illness, right? Maybe then they'll develop their own mental illness? No. NO. Be as worried about your children seeing the beauty of cancer and so smoking 60 a day. You don't get a mental illness because you want to be pretty, or even because you just WANT one full stop. I don't believe in glorifying emaciation or self-harm, but I believe utterly in glorifying people. We are not the disease, we are the fight. And that is, we are, as beautiful as the beautiful bald girls.

I wish being mentally ill wasn't almost criminal.

Monday, 5 March 2012

Picking battles.

Sometimes, you have to know when to fight and when to just GIVE IT UP AS A BAD JOB. This isn't about owt noble, purely the fact that I'm drowning in deadlines. I had an essay to be in last Wednesday, which with the overdose and all the obsessiveness before and after, then going to Scunny for the weekend, it just did not get done. I can get up to a week's extension, but that means it's got to be done by Wednesday, when I have another deadline this week. I've just about got myself resigned to the fact that the one due last week just isn't going to get done, and sitting and trying to knock it out probzzzz int too good for the ol' sanity, anyway. Maybe. I'm a bit too stressy-obsessy to leave it, but sitting here feeling guilty and playing Spider Solitaire, because I'm too obsessive to type, isn't really a great use of time, either.

I've a bit of an odd week coming up. Seeing my CPN tomorrow for the first time (not including after the OD, 'cause she did my assessment thing to check if I needed to be sectioned) in forever, then an appointment with my dietitian for the first time since before Christmas, 'cause they kept giving me appointments for the morning and... oh, my. I AM PHYSICALLY UNABLE TO DO MORNINGS. I'm pathetic, I have to make a phone call tomorrow at 9, and even though I'll be able to do it in bed and then go straight back to sleep, it's gon' be a monumental task. But anyway, this week. I also start therapy. I haven't had proper therapy since about July last year, and there were all kinds of very, very NHS-y (if you've been in the system, you'll know what I mean. If you haven't, lucky you. The NHS is brilliant and terrible, all at once) problems with waiting lists and blahblah, but HERE I AM, finally starting again. Not really sure how I feel, because it's with a bloke and I've never had a bloke therapist before, which I don't reck would really arse me 'cept most of my mentalz are in some way man-related. But we'll see; I need help, and if there's help offered, I'm there.

God. I'm struggling so much with my obsessions right now, that's in part why I realise that I'm writing this extremely dull list of plans, I have to write them all down so that the plans are real, and that they stick and... I don't even know. I've a weird type of nervousness right now and it's all linked. I keep getting ideas of things I HAVE to do, like writing out all my plans, and then having to work out how to do them. And I'm so nervous that I might have to do something I can't, or that I can't quite work out what it is I have to do right now, but there's something and that's freaking me out. I don't expect this is either interesting or makes much sense, but that's the beast, really. It's not usually interesting or logical.

Friday, 2 March 2012

Two years.

Two years ago today, I was told that I was being thrown out of the eating disorder unit I was inpatient on, due to me having too many other mental health problems. Sound familiar? It's pretty much the same line that my uni tries to use sporadically when they forget that I'm a chuffing brilliant genius (well, I can usually write an alright essay. When I write essays. Oh, I'm such a wasteman) and decide that MENTALZ MUST BE REMOVED. The thing about it two years ago, was that it had come after a year of being told I'd never recover from the eating disorder. There was so much going on with my eating, or so little, since it never changed- my life revolved around my scales, my toilet and whatever pill was my bread that week- that I suppose I never stopped to think there might be a touch more to it, despite being diagnosed bipolar and having chilled on the psych ward for the first time six months previously. I was a lot more ill than I realised, or rather ill with a lot more than I realised.

When I was little, my mum had a right temper on her (she's ginger, it's just the way of our people. We also bleed a lot, don't wanna be around us when we're on our blob, unless you're in scarlet). One night I was in the bath and started messing about with all the bottles on the side of it, including my mum's Henna shampoo. The problem with the Henna shampoo was that it was a deep red, and as soon as a gulp of it hit the bath water, the water turned a brilliant crimson. I then spent the next 10 minutes trying to herd the crimson into an area of the bath that I could hide under a flannel, for fear of the ginger one's wrath. Sometimes I feel like I'm just trying to divide up that bath water. I don't know what's my personality, what's chemical, what's due to the life that I've lived, what's due to all the bloody tele I've watched, even. Or if it even matters. I don't know what to hide, what needs to be addressed and what is just, well, water. All I do know is that every time you shift a bit of water one way, there's always some more that's going to flow to that spot. I mean, the water gets clearer. I fight. I sift through the junk and it gets easier and clearer. But it feels like there's always something.

I overdosed on Monday. I've overdosed before, more times than I care to remember or admit to, there's an odd sort of shame in my relief that I never succeeded; I don't fail things, I just don't. But this time it was different, this time I wasn't suicidal and success wouldn't have been death. And, ironically, it's the time I've probably come closest to death. I came around on Wednesday, in a hospital bed with the sides up, attached to a heart monitor, an oxygen mask, a catheter and three IVs. My chest doesn't feel right still and my kidneys are sore, they think there may be some long term, if not permanent, damage. So if not from being depressed or suicidal, why? Weeeeelllll, I stockpile medication. I have done since I was 13 and got put on Beta-Blockers for the first time. And my OCD for the last week or so has not let me think of anything other than the stockpile I had, and taking them. I had a week or so of my head being utterly empty but for the thought of taking them and trying to distract myself. The brilliant mind I made out I had in the first paragraph of this? Not so brilliant. They let me go when my physically stable, I was assessed to see whether I needed sectioning again, but I don't need to be, obvzzz.

If you could go back to the day I first went onto the eating disorder unit and tell me that I'd be discharged in an even worse position than I went in? My eating would be as bad, with the addition of the dam being broken and everything that had happened before that I think didn't effect me, would begin to ruin my life? Self-pitying is completely pointless, but I kind of feel a bit sad for the 19 year old me. I had no idea how huge the fight was going to be, how there wasn't just one huge fight, but rather a million gargantuan ones. Eating disorders are a shield, they protect you from feeling, thinking, knowing anything. And there's so much to feel and think and know. To bear witness to the good, you have to accept the bad, and that's what I didn't know then but know now. Two years and I'm beating the eating disorder and squaring up to fight the other beasts. Christ.