It's been a crazy, no pun intended, few weeks. I actually feel a bit guilty for leaving this blog with my last entry, as if I stood up a friend after promising something grand and grotesque, but I'm sure you can guess where it all ended, and it wasn't with me alone, tucked up in my own bed. I can't remember what I wrote and I'm not sure that I can bring myself to go read it right now, but I can remember the feeling- thoughts so intense and alien from my being that I was afraid they might drill out of my head of their own accord, or else my head might implode from the pressure. I can remember the whispers, the voices, and what felt like The Knowledge; a 'truth' that I believed so passionately that I all but convinced myself I'd never sleep again, because sleep could bring only dangers that I needed to be alert for. The irony of making myself so completely mentally ill that I was sectioned onto a mental health ward, to prevent a non-existent physical danger that I couldn't even articulate, makes me yearn for something, but I'm not sure what. There are some annoyances that are pretty unavoidable and part of life, but unnecessary suffering pulls at me, even if it's just compassion for a previous version of myself. It's a strange feeling, it's not a self-pitying or negative one, just strange.
I'm quite proud of myself for one thing. I wasn't the perfect patient, I was actually awful; I'm so demanding in crisis and I resisted medication and had to be restrained and sedated quite heavily for a few days. That's a thing I'm neither proud nor ashamed of- that's the disease that I had to allow somebody else to fight for me, just for a few days. Psych admissions don't ever make me feel shameful, because battles, much less wars of the level of carnage that this one has been, are not won by a lone warrior. What I am proud of though, is how I at least fought what I could, and this ended as not only my shortest ever admission, but also the only one where I've managed to eat and drink, instead of having tubes. It's also the first time that I've been given discharge papers that not only list my main condition as Bipolar, instead of Anorexic or Bulimic, but actually have no mention of any eating disorder on at all. THAT, I am proud of. I'm not Anorexic, I'm not Bulimic. I do not have an eating disorder, not anymore.
Wait, what was that?
I DON'T HAVE AN EATING DISORDER ANYMORE.
It's glorious and I love to say it. I'm not stupid or naive about it all, I still fight but that's the thing, it's rare that I have to consciously fight now. I've gone from being submerged entirely; to occasionally managing to open my eyes underwater; to that first breath of air; to treading water and to now, where I'm slowly, but surely, walking out. Strides forward and slips back, the slips just as essential as the strides. I don't know how all this shit will play, I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow or the week after or the month after, but who does? All I know is, I will not be beaten. My psychiatrist thinks the anti-depressant was making me manic, hence the crazy-head, and so I'm off it and have had my anti-psychotic increased, and her logic all makes sense. But I need help and I need rest, so I've come back to Scunthorpe. I've pretty much given up on uni for the year, but I don't want to think or write about that right now, I just need to be pleased with myself before... Aye. That's summat to write about in a day or two, right now I just need this victory.