Thursday, 31 October 2013


When the sun eventually burns out, what's living on this planet will have a few minutes whilst the last rays of sunshine travel through space, before The End. I'm no scientist, but I know that's not something on our immediate horizon... still though, it does make you think. Not just in the cliched kind of what-would-you-do-with-the-last-few-minutes sort of a way (priests would have to do the Last Rites en masse for all the death-bed Catholics. I think all of us recovering Catholics have an expectation of suddenly reconciling with the bloke we don't really believe in, at the end), but sort of in a... I don't know. All I know is that if The End was of an immediate concern, chances are, there'd be nothing I could do to stop it.

The sun doesn't care. Or, rather, it doesn't know that sometimes we think it should. The sun burns, whether we're cursing the cold, brittle light in winter, or squinting against the warm (warmer, anyway. This is England, let's not get carried away), strong light of summer. The sun won't try and deliberately burn out because of criticism hurdled over the weather. The sun doesn't care that you don't have a sufficient SPF on your skin, or that its rays might blind you as you're driving. The sun doesn't have fat days; I don't want to talk on its behalf, but I'm sure it has never looked upon its reflection on the moon and cursed its roundness. The sun just gets on with its purpose and burns, burns, burns, even when it's dark or cloudy or dark and cloudy. On good days and bad, the sun still burns.

When you look at the sky, you don't really know what you're looking at. You might be able to join the dots and create a picture and you might always be able to find your way through the North Star, but you don't know whether you're witnessing the glory days of a great sun, or are looking at a star that's actually been burnt out for years, a star whose light is still travelling to us. You don't know how many other people are looking at the same star as you, whether there's another you, a better you, looking at the star from another perspective, or, by the same token, a you who has done heinous things, gazing up.

I think what I'm trying to say is all about perspective. I can't change a lot things and I need to learn to pick my battles. I need to remember that there is always someone looking at the same situation from a completely separate vantage point, that another me, another you, might see all this differently. Let's be open-minded. I need to take on board the criticisms leveled at me (it was reiterated that I'm manipulative, misuse my intelligence etcetc, in my last ward round. To be honest, it was a complete assassination), and accept that in this situation, this is how I'm being perceived and all I can do is burn on, regardless. There probably won't be too any times in the real world when being intelligent will be an insult. The fact that I was told that any staff who have told me they don't agree with the damning character review are lying to me, makes it harder because now I feel like I can't trust anyone, that I'm not safe. But all I can do is burn and know that now I'm an adult, I'm in a stronger position that I was when I was an unsafe child. I'm the sun.

The sun is independent, but surrounded by other stars. I think that's a pretty wise position to be in. The sun does as it does best, and no matter how we complain (as we Brits often do), the sun is unaffected. When The End comes, the sun will burn out in a blaze of glory, knowing that its time has come and the end is natural. The sun will have done all it can and lived as brightly as natural, for it.

Saturday, 26 October 2013


If Rebecca lives, there will be a relatively long stretch in hospital, followed by a far longer stretch outside of hospital... apart from an infamous case of what she'll insist is gangrene (read: an ingrown toenail), and that day spent in a hospital bay, creating chaos. She'll hit on three doctors and end up sharing a bottle of vino with a nurse, after his shift (read: they'll drink too many neon shots).

If Rebecca lives, her nurse friend will melt into a pot of many men and a fair few women, before she'll settle down with a quiet, unassuming, laid back and completely undramatic fellow, who is everything Rebecca is not. He'll be a surprise to people around her, but after a little while, nobody will be able to imagine them apart.

If Rebecca lives, she'll enjoy more than anything the times spent with her family, before she heads up as family of her own, which'll be bigger than the average Catholic rabbit's. She'll love more and deeper than she ever thought possible and will adore life with the ferocity she once reserved for hating it.

If Rebecca lives, she'll retain her knowledge of how dark and dismal life can be, and will use that to empower herself to change the world. She'll sometimes seem overly ambitious, but only to people who underestimate her. She'll realise she's in a unique position and that she has a duty to make a difference, and so will lean on governments to really care. She'll do something big and important.

If Rebecca lives, life will test her and won't always be beautiful. At times, the darkness will threaten to overwhelm her again, but she'll remember how she fought for her life- beautiful as it is or isn't- and will know she can never go back. She'll maintain her eccentricities, but she'll also manage to mostly maintain her mental health; she'll have blips, not relapses, and her days as a revolving door psych ward patient will be left in her teens and early 20s.

If Rebecca lives, she'll weep more tears through laughter than crying; will dance in her kitchen more than she will cook in it; will use her hairdryer more for warming up her knickers than for drying her hair; will wear socks with sandals more than the strange eastern European bloke who gawps at her through her window in her 30s, which she so totally hates (read: is very flattered by, and sometimes finds herself putting on a show for).

If Rebecca dies, there will be a wooden box. And silence. She'll never love, change the world, fight, laugh, dance, heat her knickers, wear socks with sandals or put on a show. Just darkness and silence.

Thursday, 17 October 2013

Struggling and fuzzy.

I'm still quite fuzzy (mentally, I mean. For once my legs are smoothy-smooth. Honestly, their baldness is a turn out for the books), so I've not been writing. I've been waiting for a day when I feel clear and strong and able to properly and really articulate what's been going on. I'm coming to the conclusion- as almost every day I end up fuzzy from having to take extra meds to manage my worsening symptoms- that I'll end up with a bloody big hole here if I try and wait for the day that never seems to come. I'm not feeling clear and I most definitely don't feel strong, so maybe this won't be well articulated and written. But that, I reck, is how it'll have to be, because that's how, well, life is for me right now and I've got to accept that.

Every day at the moment is a bad day. I know you can relate to that; everybody has them, after all. But with most kinds of mental disorder, every bad day, or even negative thought or feeling, is a million times more intense and entrenched. Not that I mean to undermine the regular type of bad day- feelings aren't comparable and there's nothing for making yourself feel worse than deciding you don't have a right to feel a certain way because other people have it worse. It's all relative. But my days are full of dark and no amount of positive thinking can bring light. It's a bit like trying to turn on a lamp with your mind.

But anyway. Feeling so awful and having such a barrage of memories and voices is strangely invigorating, as well as being so awful. It shows I'm alive and that I have lived, for better or worse. After everything I've put my body through and everything I've been through mentally, I suppose the fact that I can feel anything is beautiful. It's life, and it's beautiful. Horrible, but beautiful. Horribly beautiful.

It's not just internal factors, though. On Tuesday, my consultant told me I was manipulative and abuse my intellect, to 'intellectually swivel' my way out of things. Oh, and apparently that's not just his opinion, but how the staff in general think of me (although the histrionic thing was kind of thrown away). No matter how much people reassure me of this inaccuracy, I feel like I can't trust anybody. It's even worse because I've been so down on myself recently that my intelligence was the only thing I didn't hate about myself, and now it's been made into a negative.

I'm getting upset as I write about this, so I'm going to stop. I just feel like a really, really bad person.

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

Histrionic Condron.

I am very and extremely anti-psychotic right now. This week has already included a lorra extra anti-psychotics; my blood, once just red vodka, is now an anti-psychotic smoothie. I've had to have extra meds every day since, I don't know. Thinking is too hard. It's been a while. It's making it quite hard to write and my thoughts are flying about my head, like bees about a hive. I think I might be tired, but thinking makes me feel all fuzzy, so maybe I'm just fuzzy. Also, typing hurts because I stabbed my right index finger too many times with my knitting needles. Knit happens.

Today, it was decided by my psychiatrist that I'm more Histrionic than Borderline, with regards my personality disorder. It's hilarious and insulting, all at once. It effectively means I've been diagnosed as an attention seeking drama queen. I'm too bloody desperate not to be forgotten, really, and for people to at least like me a bit more than I do (love in the minuses, like), that's the problem. Anyway, the title of 'personality disorder' is bad enough, but the histrionic thing is cringey as hell. MATE, I'm just a drama queen. Attention is more a consequence than an intention. I am dramatic. It's ok. We're good. Just my personality. Disordered? Pfft. The only thing disordered about me is how fuzzy, um, I don't know. I'm definitely going to write about this when I'm a bit less anti-psychotic. More psychotic? If you get me.

I just fell asleep on my keyboard and now my nose feels weird. Oh God, this is like when people post drunk and it's really annoying. Being drugged up on prescribed pills isn't as nice, honestly. I mostly just feel fuzzy and tired and sad. I'm really sad. I don't want-. Nah.

Thursday, 3 October 2013

This week, I didn't kill myself.

I know the title sounds insanely obvious- doing this from beyond the grave would no doubt be problematic- but this week I didn't kill myself, nor try, when I really, really could have done. You've got to understand, I've not been alone since last year. I class as quite the danger to myself, so I live in a strange little bubble of soft corners and padded walls. I mean, not literally, but not far off- if I even want to use my tweezers (not really a tool I use as often as I should; my monobrow has its own psychiatrist), I have to be bloody assessed. I'm allowed out from hospital only a few times a week, and during those times I'm to be in eyesight of a member of staff, apart from on Sundays where my mum takes over the role of my escort. I've been home once in the last 8 months, and that was for a day and with a member of staff tagging along (it was dead bizarre, it really was) and I've only seen the centre of the city I'm hospitalised in, twice. Imagine being a criminal toddler, and that's kind of like my current situation.

So, the opportunity to do myself the kind of damage that I'd have once thought of as my duty, is not one that comes knocking often. Or ever, really. It popped along on Monday though, completely out of the blue; a member of staff left me alone in Asda- completely violating my Section papers, a legal document- whilst she looked for her lost phone. I ended up leaving after half an hour alone, in such a mess that I don't remember the walk back to my hospital, and couldn't talk for a good half hour after. A lot of people congratulated me on taking myself out of the situation where I could have accessed things I'm usually completely prohibited from, but to be honest it was only my anxiety that carried me out and back, rather than back into the shop. A nurse posed to me that maybe this shows there's a part of me that wants to be alive and safe, but I don't know; I'm too kind of emotional about the whole thing now, but a part of me hopes that it this is a sign that I'm recovering a sense of self-preservation. I really want to not want to kill myself, if that makes sense, and that's what mental health recovery means to me right now. I want desperately to want to live.

I've been struggling like billy-oh since, though. All I can do is berate myself for an opportunity lost and it makes me feel like even more of a failure than I already do. Really, I hope it's progress. My anxiety, if nothing else, is a part of me and it's a part that protected me. Of course, I could just be way over-thinking this. Either way, I'm alive and I suppose there are a damn sight more opportunities to be risen to alive, than dead.