Thursday, 30 January 2014

More change.

I've had an absolute 'mare of a week.  They've had to change my anti-psychotic, again, because my blood levels were out, so I've spent the week withdrawing from two, and with really bad side-effects from my new one, plus then just general mental-ness from the new one not being built up in my psychotic soul; crying and hearing shit and even feeling shit that isn't there, all the time. I even ended up in the general hospital because my symptoms were so bad they thought I might have a chuffing bleed on the brain, pahaha. In the long run, once everything has settled down and my body is used to the change, it's probably the right move. But I tell you, if I could go back, with how awful this week has been, there's not a chance I would agree to the change... not that I had that option, but, well, nonetheless.

I berate myself often for the chances I missed to turn my life around, and think about what I'd change, if I could go back. The answers are so obvious that I won't bore you with them, but it's really, really hard not to think of what could have been, had I the insight, back when, yanno. I had I told someone X, or been honest about Y, or even just took my fingers out of my bloody throat, would I have ended up here? Would the chemical component of my illness still manifest? Would I still have ended up where I am now, mentally? It's not that I'm ashamed of my present, but I can't help but wish for a better past, and often at the moment, no future. That's horrible to admit, but things are really, really hard right now.

I really don't know what I would have done, or tried to do, over the last week or two, had I not had all the support I have. So many people walked out, or were forced out, of my life due to my being ill, but maybe that was the right thing, because now I'm much more vigilant about who I have in my life. My incredibly supportive and just generally amazing mum, who I can call in hysterics and can calm me down and reassure me better than anybody; Becky, who can take me out of the past and into a hopeful present; and my beautiful Alex, who I love more than anybody who doesn't share my blood. The Cygnet girls; the people I went to school/college/uni with who send me random, lovely messages. I should feel beautiful because I have so much beauty being sent to me, but instead, well. Well.

Monday, 20 January 2014


If you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, when I was three, I'd have told you a rabbit. If you take away the fact that the philosophy on which I was brought up is that animals are for eating and wearing, I still think it sounds like a very viable career choice. I wanted to share my bedroom with African children because they were so skinny they wouldn't take up much room, and I didn't understand why we didn't all do that, then we could share the food I wasn't very interested in, and they wouldn't have so little. I think that sounds pretty sound politically still, too. I once swore to my mum, after she caught me eating jam from the jar, that when I was a grown up- or a rabbit. Either- I'd eat a jar of jam for tea, and I've done that a few times in honour of my younger years.

When I was three, before everything went wrong, I was a damn sight more, I don't know, sorted, than I am now. I know it's quite common to be nostalgic for your childhood, but it's not that that I'm nostalgic about- the majority of it was a complete and utter fucking mess and you couldn't pay me enough to go back- but more the feeling of certainty over who I was, who I was going to be and what I was going to do. Although I was precocious, I wasn't all that confident, but I still possessed a certainty in myself that I haven't had for years.

Like I say, my childhood then ended up a mess. I was forced into fluffy tail-free adulthood and then, of course, I ended up here, torn away from the coral reef and put into a sterile fish tank. My childhood ended at a point only just before my furthest memory, and my self-certainty was gradually eroded, along with what self-respect I had at 3. I didn't grow up in the traditional sense, in fact it often feels like I regressed, instead. Sure, I can be pretty self-sufficient. I pay bills, I can write a complaint letter and I can almost shave my legs without cutting them (accidentally, mind), to ribbons. But tell me to do something outrageous and irresponsible, and I'll do it. I've done things and put myself in such dangerous situations that I could make your hair curl. Tell me to do something sensible and socially acceptable, and chances are I'll tell you to fuck off. I'm reckless and feckless and take too many pictures of my bare chest.

I just want to know what to do, where to go and even who or what I want to be. I want to lose weight. I don't want to lose weight. I want to die. I want to change the world. I want to save you, but I'd really rather you didn't save me. I'm eternally confused and completely lost. I'm isolating myself from pretty much everyone at the moment because if I don't know who to be, who do I present? Every day I get into character, but I'm running low on stage presence right now.

Thursday, 16 January 2014

Medication changes, and a messy post.

It's 11am now, and I'm going to write this as a draft and come back to it later.
My current anti-psychotic and I have a very complicated relationship. Sometimes, we're best friends. It gives me a decent nights sleep usually, and a hell of a lot more stability than I have when I decide we need a break. I resent being so reliant on it, though, and over the years I've had some batshit crazy times when I've come off it, or when I've ran out for any reason. Once, not long after I'd started uni, my GP decided I'd been stockpiling meds to overdose on (which, to be fair, I have a long history of doing, and even was doing then, just sadly not the anti-psycho), and refused to give me any more of anything until I handed him everything I had. I don't know, maybe he just fancied some pills. Anyway, long story short(er), I missed two doses and ended up trying to carve my thumb because I thought it was a chicken leg. Over three years down the line, I still have really limited movement in that thumb.

I've been on the same anti-psychotic for more or less exactly 5 years now, and despite me recently having been taking over the daily limit of it, it's not been doing its job so much, so they're changing it. Changing is problematic, though. That's actually very diplomatically put, because actually it's a bloody bitch. They're weaning me off it over a week or two, then will start me on the next one. I'm already struggling to keep a firm grasp on reality and I'm not even on a particularly low dose of it, and it's just going to continue to be decreased. I'm going to have a really, really difficult few weeks now, whilst they get it sorted.

In other news, I've a bitch of a chest infection. I spent a few days completely out of it in bed, but I can just about function now. I'm so tired (probably as much down to the meds situation) now though, that I can barely see straight.

It's 4pm now and although I'm not quite a daisy, I am much more fresh.
I'm going to try and catch the doctor now and just beg for something, anything. I'm really regretting agreeing to this change of meds. The alternative is to try and force myself to disassociate to a point and just go with what seems like an inevitable week or two of madness. I don't even know if the medication I'm being changed to will be effective. I don't know anything right now, just that things are going to get even more difficult.

It's just gone half 4.
I spoke to the doctor and somehow we got onto a conversation where I refused to tell her my current coping strategies in case saying them would make me gain weight. There's absolutely no connection between how I'm getting by and my weight, but therein lies the crazy. She gave me some meds now to try and sedate me a bit, and wrote me up for extra to be taken through the next few days. I've got to learn to trust, but when all you can trust in is the necessity of losing weight, it's difficult to let people in. I feel really guilty that I'm not, I don't know, winning at recovery.

Oh, and now it's twenty past 5.
The meds have taken affect, and I'm calmer. I just had a nice chat with one of my favourite nursing assistants- we have them whenever she's on and we basically just solve every political and social problem EVER, all from a mental hospital. I think they should reclassify Parliament as an asylum.

Friday, 10 January 2014


I think outrage is the greatest weapon against almost anything. Outrage is about the only thing I can guarantee I'll always feel, and outrageous is how I am when I'm probably at my best (that last bit has bugger all to do with the price of eggs, but it's true). I sometimes struggle with the whole idea of recovery because recovery has a lot riding on acceptance of all manner of shit, and I think there are some things that we just should not ever accept.

I know acceptance of yourself and your past is a lot different to accepting certain scenarios at a conceptual level, but I think maybe I'm just scared that if I accept the abuse I went through, I'll become complacent about the world. Maybe I'll stop wanting to be sick and my heart-rate taking off when I hear that things that happened to me are happening to children, and that even the things that haven't happened to me, but that I'm outraged about- famine, genocide, UK and world poverty, child labour, slavery, etcetc- will become things I just accept. I don't want to live without passion for people I love and outrage about situations that that are wrong. I don't want to live without passion and outrage at all.

If you know me or you've followed SBIWYB for any length of time, you'll know I'm an utter nightmare for hyperbole, grandiose plans and sweeping statements. To be honest, even if you don't know me but you've seen me, you've probably already worked that one out based on my outfits (one of my best friends' dads described me as being 'dressed like an explosion' and my nurse described me having a 'schizophrenic dress sense.' My mama just kind of recoils every time she sees what I've put together and my brother used to start every morning by asking 'what the fuck have you come dressed as?'). To say I have no interest in a world where everything is accepted and everybody is laid back about atrocity, is probably at least part of my current issues. 

I sometimes feel like I'm going to explode because I'm so caged in and I feel like nobody else cares as much as they should about the things that I do. I don't understand how people can close their eyes or look away, and I feel so guilty and responsible for absolutely everything. I'm outraged that people will demand that we, as country, take ourselves out of international aid packages or that people compare small disasters in this country to things like the Syrian situation as arguments for why we should 'take care of our own.' I need to channel my outrage because at the moment it's just isolating me from both the issues and my surroundings, and my head is going so fast that I'm scared it'll take off. 

I have this burn in my stomach because I don't understand how what happened to me could have even happened, how people can sometimes be so bloody... I don't even have words. I don't understand how I can come to terms with it whilst retaining the view that little of my past should happen to others. I really, really don't understand acceptance because I'm angry. I'm angry and I'm constantly reliving the past. A lot of the time at the moment I have absolutely bugger all idea of what is real, what is the past and what is fabricated and the only thing that feels real is the assertion that I need to lose weight. I'm drowning, in my past, my problems and the problems of everyone around me. I feel so responsible for what happened to me and what is happening around the world, because I didn't stop anything and I'm not stopping anything now. I don't even know if this makes sense. But I really do feel like I'm drowning.

Monday, 6 January 2014


I'm sad tonight, and it's making me pretty introspective. The internet is wonderful- there's a whole world of knowledge, weird shit, pictures of cats, awful clothes to be bought and so many methods of staying in touch. Had I been born a few decades earlier, I doubt at this point I'd really have many friends left, because I don't own a phone (and I've never been a big fan of speaking on them or texting) and as much as I love to write and receive letters, I can't often really be arsed getting that organised. Maybe the internet has made us all lazy at staying in touch, or maybe I'd be just this crap at contact even without it, especially because even with the ease of the web, I'm STILL awful at keeping in touch. We'll never know... and you'd never know, anyway, precisely because I am so crappy.

No matter what your circumstance, whatever joy or horror befalls you, there will always be somebody who has it worse and somebody who has it better and somebody who will have reacted better and somebody who will have reacted worse to it. For that reason, there is absolutely no reason to ever compare yourself to another, because we are so amazingly diverse in the power of our minds. Let yourself feel everything, because you have every right to feel whatever, no matter what situation others may be in. It's kind of beautiful- even our horrors are interlinked in an everlasting spiral of human spirit, some of us coming out worse but some of us coming out better, just a rainbow of human emotion. I think that's pretty cool. We'll never overlap completely nor are we truly comparable with anybody, in life, we just create a dance of fire around and around each other. I like that idea.

Despite me fully subscribing to that idea, it's so hard not to compare myself. I feel like I've fell out of the real world, like my only place is within this tiny bubble of poor decisions, poor judgement and even worse mental health. All locked up within this hospital. They say the world will be waiting for me when I get out, but I so desperately want to have done it all. Or even a bit of it. To have graduated or travelled or started a career or had a baby or got married. It's all possible in the future, if I have a future, but I just want it now. When I think about it, I think too much and start imagining what a disaster any of those things would have ended up, given my past and current mental state, and it's confusing because I can't predict how I'll feel tomorrow, never mind in a year or two, and so I don't even know if it's ever going to be possible for me to do those things.

But like I said, some have had it better, some have had it worse. In many respects, I'm lucky. I'm lucky to be alive, at this point. I didn't think I'd see 2014. I didn't think I'd see 2013. Wow. I'm here and one day I'll be out. Prepare the world, I shall be electric.

For now though, I'm exhausted. My eating has gone absolutely shits up, I hurt myself in a way I've not for over a year, this last week, my thoughts are running at a million miles per hour (anything that doesn't make sense in here is evidence of that) and I'm barely sleeping. I want to be electric, but for now I'm not even that tiny buzz you get when you lick a battery.

Thursday, 2 January 2014

My hopes for you.

I hope that your head is used for thinking up wild adventures and making plans for the future. I hope you change things for the better and use the dark times to inspire you to fight for better.

I hope you know that you can fight for better.

I hope your eyes show you the wonders of the world. I hope they also show you the horrors, and I hope you use this mix to see you're in a unique position to change things.

I hope you know that you are unique.

I hope your mouth bubbles over with words of love and words of power. I hope you are brave enough to be honest, but that you always have tact and compassion. I hope you inspire and are inspired and I hope that your words shock even yourself, at times.

I hope you know that you are inspirational.

I hope that your hands make art and are waved around excitedly when you're passionate and excited. I hope that they reach out to the great and the good.

I hope you know that you are great and good.

I hope your body dances and leaps. I hope you fill it with the right amount of delicious things. I hope you wrap it around somebody you love and that you also treat it with love.

I hope you know that you are loved.

I hope your legs carry you to amazing places, and always towards the good. I hope they move you towards a future better than your present.

I hope you know that you have a future.

I hope your life is balanced; filled with everything you need, and some of what you want. I hope you can harness all the good and the bad, and that you can accept both excited passion and restful calm.

I hope you have passion and I hope you have calmness.

And more than anything, I hope that you don't suffer.