Thursday, 26 September 2013

Mental patient costume.

I'm sure you've read in the news, Asda produced a mental patient Hallowe'en costume. You know- I can't believe they thought of it before I did. I could have been renting out my clothes all this time (clothes maketh the mental, of course). I thought I'd share some tips, help you put together your own outfit based upon this Mental Patient sat right before you- the complete package of psycho-horror (I'm 5'2.5 of pure crazy).

Mental Patient sits before you now in a Mickey Mouse top and bright pink shorts, with her hair drippy wet from the shower. Mental patient has changed her clothes since this morning though, when she wore an over-sized vintage denim shirt, multi coloured shorts, and her hair in a top knot and tied with a black and white gingham ribbon. That's quite a lot of different components though, so what about going as Mental Patient's invisible friend? Not that Mental Patient has an invisible friend- she is an actual mental patient, not a cliche that really ought to have been left somewhere in the last century, after all- but what better way of really getting in the Hallowe'en spirit? Invisible is quite hard to pull off, but since we're talking of amazing and clever costumes, why not work it? If you fancy a slightly simpler but still as mental costume, why not dress as one of Mental Patient's real friends, who also happen to be mental patients? Becky brought fear and disaster to the world today, dressed in a sweater with a dog on and indigo jeans. Feel the nightmare and insanity! Aimee sent children running from her, in a vest, a blue cardigan and black leggings. More nightmare! More insanity! And then there's Chelsea, ever terrifying in her skinny jeans and pastel sweater. ULTIMATE NIGHTMARE! ULTIMATE INSANITY!

Of course, this might all be a bit too hardcore for you, so maybe you ought to get some fake blood and a plastic knife and call yourself a psychotic killer? Not that Mental Patient has ever killed anyone, despite getting psychosis. But, yanno, we must be modern and forward thinking and as politically uncorrect as possible. Next up- shaving your head for a realistic cancer patient costume!

Saturday, 21 September 2013

Rejection.

It's been a 'mare of a week. Extra vomit and extra meds is probably the best and most concise way I can sum it up. It was my fortnightly ward round this week, and these, as you maybe know from my previous rants, are always extremely brilliant or extremely terrible- there's never any place in the middle. With my 'disordered personality' (ahem), I'm not really a middle of the ground kind of a person, and, sadly, neither is my consultant. We either really come to blows or are bezzers during my ward rounds, and, typical of the ridiculous mood swings that characterise Borderline Personality Disorder, can pendulate between the two whilst everyone else in the room shakes their heads, like they're watching a particularly quick tennis game. If my ward rounds were a person (I realise what a bizarre statement that is, but just go with it), she would be sectioned for a verrrry long time.

This week, the Good Doctor (he once told me to think of him as God. Seribo), managed to hit on my giant issue over being rejected, by asking if I really thought my current hospital is the best one for my needs. I class as 'complex' and various other grim words, that basically mean that I'm too much like hard work for services, doctors, nurses, some family members and most of my (now past) friends. Consequently, I have a giant issue with rejection. Like, really massive. I know that when it's services it's not always personal, but with every passage between services, I feel more and more hopeless because it's always a move because one more service or person can't help me. When I have a person as the face of a service, like the Good Doctor, it feels also like when friends have cut me out or forgotten me or whatever. I don't know, it hurts. But back to the case in hand, as I told the GD, if this hospital can't help me, nowhere can. The amount of units/treatments/therapies I've tried that have failed me is huge. This is my last chance saloon. It's more than wanting this to work- it's NEEDING this to work.

It was agreed though that everything this unit is doing with me isn't working. I'm not getting any better. I'm sad. I'm anxious. I have numerous flashbacks a week and, in all honesty, given the chance, I'd probably end up doing some serious harm to myself. I'm in the same position that I was when I came, just with a few extra kilo. So we're trying a new thing where they let me do whatever the chuff I like with my eating, as long as my BMI stays above 17.5, so that they can focus on my other issues. I reck it's a better arrangement because way too much focus has been placed on records of my calorific intake, and it means they'll actually be addressing instead the factors that led to this admission... but whether I'll keep my BMI up when I know I won't lose my leave if I don't eat, is, I suppose, up to me. I hope so. Mostly 'cause winter at a low weight is really bloody grim.

Monday, 16 September 2013

Time.

It's been a while since I've properly written here. In a way, there's so much to say and so little. Same two hospital corridors, same bland activities, same lack of spontaneity and adventure. Case in point, though, of nothing changing, but everything changing; I happened upon the written record of my weight, last week. I've gone from weighing a very underweight, very horrible number, to a very healthy, but somehow similarly horrible, healthy number. Nowt changed, in real terms, because I saw the number. My thighs didn't suddenly swell and my stomach didn't expand, but seeing the number may have well have done that to me, because now when I see myself, that awful number is scrawled all over my ever expanding flesh. I've gone from being glad that my bones aren't screaming out my diagnosis, to feeling that my fat is howling out from beneath my clothing. What I meant to say, in that convoluted example, is that every day is the same, but sometimes tiny details that can change everything.

The other thing is, events arrive- like my birthday, a few weeks ago- that make me realise that time has passed and the world hasn't stopped turning, it's just that now it's turning without me really being a part of it. The nights are drawing in, and soon it'll be winter, like it was when I arrived here. My place in the world is growing smaller and smaller, if I even have a place out there anymore. I suppose, I'm just sad. I don't seem to be getting anywhere, or gaining anything but weight.

I have to keep reminding myself that this isn't a short term fix. My mental health problems didn't occur over night. I didn't wake up one day hyperactive, just to crash through the floor by dinnertime and to be hearing voices by tea. I didn't suddenly limit my diet to the bare minimum, or suddenly decide it'd be a good idea to eat a week's worth of food, to then vomit until I saw blood. They didn't occur overnight and it's going to take a long ol' time for any type of recovery. And so generally, I try not to think too far into the future. That's a lie, actually, I don't really seem able to do so. I mean really, why bother? I could still be here in a year, two years, or even longer- who knows. Besides which, had I the ability of foresight I'd have never imagined this as a future for myself. I'm all or nothing- in my head I'd be mad-successful or, well, dead. But less of that.

I think the time frame is probably easier for us on the inside to handle, in a way, than it is for our loved ones. Humans are adaptable and it's a lot easier than you'd think to make a home, even in a hospital. My room here has more of my stuff than my room at home, and is covered in photos and pictures and letters from people. Communal areas are very clinical, but I've seen worse student accommodation. This is what I usually think, anyway, what I try to tell myself. With time being such an issue right now for me though, honestly, it broke my heart when Ginge left me on Sunday. You can make a nest in any tree, but there's always that one bit of foliage that really IS home and mine's back in Scunthorpe. And I miss that place. And that strange little half life I lived there last year.

Thursday, 12 September 2013

I'm alive.

I'm alive, but so much has happened since I lasted posted that part of me is amazed that I am. I'm reeling and shell shocked and I feel entirely wrung out and deposited at the bottom of some hole, somewhere. I lost a friend to that bitch Anorexia, I had an amazing birthday, I found out my weight (after 6 months of massive weight gain, where I wasn't allowed to see the numbers increase) and I caught quite a nasty little virus. I hurt both physically and mentally and it's all I can do to stop myself wriggling to the bottom of my bed and bawling for all I'm worth. How ever little that is.

I find myself squeezing my eyes shut, when first I wake up, wishing like a child that I could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. I want to run away. Even though you can never run from yourself, I'd at least like to try, you know? I'll post properly in a few days, but until then, know this- I am alive.