Internal Soundtrack

The current soundtrack in my head is:

sadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsadsad

Tired of listening to Sad on repeat I changed the CD. This is where things get a little paranormal. The CD changed back to Sad, without me touching it. 

I know, you're gasping and the shock has blown you back in your chair. 

Paranormal activities aside, the CD won't stay changed no matter how many times I change it or how much mood altering medicine I take, it's stuck on Sad. Repeating over and over and over...

There's You and then there's Me.

So I'm sitting here on my bed, looking at pictures, reading tweets and looking at Facebook. I know this doesn't surprise you in the slightest. Especially given that I have three blogs and have accounts for twitter, Facebook and tumblr plus flickr, photobucket and deviant art.

Anyway, my stalker-slash-need-for-attention aside, I was reading my friends' status messages and debating if I should annoy them with responses when I read a comment for a friend who is going through a really nasty time. It was simply:

"you + me and a bottle of vodka. You up for it?"

I started to cry. Yes, yes, I know I don't cry and that I hate it but I'm sick and tired of being alone and so yes, I freaking cried in front of my parents and everything. That's how upset I was.

I cried because I can't offer to do that for my friends because they're either too far away, don't talk to me and mostly because I don't drink so the offer would sound more like "you get drunk while I listen to your drunken woes." It might just be me but I don't really think that's very appealing to anyone.

The main reason that I cried is because no one, no one, has ever or would ever do that for me.
While I appreciate the offers from my interstate friends, it's not really the same seeing as though I have to drive 3 plus hours, depending which friend has offered. Given that I'm generally in a pretty bad state of mind when I need someone, anyone, it's not really safe for me to drive (as discussed in many previous posts.)
There are some friends in my state territory, however they avoid me like the plague. Perhaps I am a plague seeing as though the highlight of my day is writing a blog post or going to my my psychiatrist appointments.
Sure, it's lovely to have people comment on my blogs, which always results in a few moments of sheer excitement and it's always lovely to have artificial hugs, again causing brief moments of joy. These moments are small but potent and I wouldn't diminish them for anything in the world; it's all I get.

All I can think is that I must be a terrible person, seriously awful, to have no friends. Of course there's a rational part of my brain telling me that it is my fault since I require a lot of space or sometimes I smother people when I crave human interaction. Apparently I haven't heard of moderation.
But it's more than needing space or smothering; it's my personality that hinders me the most. At least, that's what I think it might be. All in all, and without dissecting my personality that would take many years to complete, the only conclusion I continually come to that fits like a square peg in, well, a square hole, is that I'm an awful person. People don't want to be around me. Most likely due to being a leech and sucking the life out of people.

Perhaps this blog accounts for some of the trouble too. Being so honest here and talking about what annoys me, what I think and need, how I'm coping and the random waffling in between is actually putting people off. I suppose they can keep updated with my life through this and thus have no need to see me or talk to me.
Yet even without the blog I am basically forgotten. Well, forgotten is great for the dramatics, however I'm not sure it's true but "forgotten" is definitely what it feels like.

I would really like a friend. A real friend. A friend who will actually listen to me sometimes instead of always talking about themselves. Although you have to be what you want to receive and given that I have to beg on my blog for people to even notice me, I suspect this means I'm an awful friend. Okay, okay, I know I'm an awful friend. I was just trying to put it nicely so I wouldn't cry more.
And yet, there is still an element of me that feels like I should be able to be a shitty friend sometimes because I was such a good friend for 23 years of my life. It's just a pity I haven't known anyone for that long for that comment to be proven. The joys of moving around as a child sure pays to bite you in the arse later in life.

So I'll cuddle my teddy bear and participate in internal conversations as I try to piece things together and attempt to make sense of everything. I won't ask for help because I'm ignored, probably with good reason if I were to analyse it. I will write this blog and then remind myself never to speak of it again as people don't want to read things like this. I'll cry in the shower so no one can see me. I'll wonder if it's possible to get better and to live life. I'll read blogs and social networking updates about how wonderful everyone is, how their friends spoiled them by taking them out and all the lovely things they do for their children. During all this, like always, I will keep my mouth shut and keep the hurt inside. I'll let little things slip, either to see if anyone is listening or because I'm too emotional, usually the latter.

And I'll do everything on my own. Simply because that's all I have.

The Hate Files

So there I was cruising through the twitterverse with the music so loud other peoples ears were bleeding and my twittership was bouncing in time with the beats. Quite oblivious to how ridiculous I obviously looked, but content to insert myself into other peoples lives, the parts which they share of course! I'm not a freaky stalker!

All of a sudden there was a blinding light, the horrendous sound of metal jarring against metal and a sound, which resonated with the clarity of a booming bell.
I collided with Hate.

Plummeting and spiralling out of control I was on a collision course with reality.

So many people are hate filled today. The tweets are full of angry, useless comments designed to make the biggest impact possible on the target person. To be honest, they are viciously cruel tweets and I wish I could un-read them.
The horrendous part is that it's not just one or two people filled with hate, it seems that this Saturday morning everyone is angry and hate filled.
And I'm meant to be the crazy one!!

The hate of others, especially when it's not directed at me, shouldn't have any effect on me. Right?
Wrong. It's probably a sign of my weakness to say how upset I am that there is so much hate. It may as well all be directed at me. In part, I think on a subconscious level, the hate I've seen is really directed at me. Even though I know it is not.
The negativity resonates with me on a level so deep it physically hurts.

But all this really has nothing to do with other people.

I am one of those lucky people who take the negativity of others to heart. I understand hate, anger, sadness and the myriad of negatively charged emotions. However, just because I understand them, feel them, have them, doesn't mean they don't affect me adversely.

So, in my burning wreckage of Saturday Morning I will avoid the temptation to return to the twitterverse to immerse myself in hatred. Instead I'll find something positive to attend to that won't unbalance the incredibly delicate ecosystem of my emotions.
Hopefully the hate illness will pass like a 24 hour bug. Temporary Insanity has never appeared so widespread.

Does anyone know how to fix a twittership? It's a little dented and, well, broken. *sad face*

That Woman

It's always bad when I start to think. The latest thoughts are no exception.

I was having a shower and started thinking about how I'll be nearly 40 before I can "live" my life. I know I have explained this before, but I'll reiterate for the sake of continuity. Since I've been "sick" for the vast majority of my life and have only had 1.5 years of intense therapy it is assumed that "recovery" will take half as long as the current length of illness. Basically, if you're like me and have easily been sick for 21 years of your life, it'll take roughly 10 years of therapy and treatment to "get better". Of course this is only a guide and some people will take shorter or longer times to get better.
Personally, I am at a disadvantage with my mental illnesses because it's very hard to treat. Indeed, I've spent many blogs explaining how psychologists and psychiatrists are reluctant to treat me because of the higher statistics of relapse. And by "relapse" I mean the amount of times we try to commit suicide.
So basically, what this all means is that my life, all at my own fault for not being stronger, will amount to nothing.

This train of thought then led to the realisation that I am not special in any way. I'm not the smartest, funniest, prettiest nor am I a high achiever, goal orientated nor have I ever finished anything I set out to do. The latter can be explained in terms of validity and severe self confidence issues.
Anyway, I'm not the person people remember, I'm not an amazing writer or artist, I have no qualifications or skills other than knowing how to be sick.
In short, my life is pointless. By the time I'm in a stable enough place in my life I won't be able to achieve anything anymore. Right now I even struggle staying interested in twitter!

I'm the person that is going absolutely nowhere. The person who won't amount to anything because it requires being able to concentrate, finish projects and study and it requires stability.

These are all the things I'm not really meant to think about. It's hopeless and pathetic and it leads to certain "foolish" acts that one day can not be undone. Yet, when the thoughts are there it's not like I have a remote control to turn them off. I have to listen to them over and over. Even when I'm deliberately trying to ignore, avoid, distract myself from them.

I'm the woman who missed out on a good education because I was too busy being neurotic, even as a child.
I even remember crying in grade 1 when I didn't get a perfect mark the first time I did something.
I was that kid who never really smiled.
I was that kid who went home terrified that I'd done something wrong and that my mother would find out about it; I never did anything wrong.

I'll be that woman who people feel sorry for but don't ever know what to say, to her. And all because I wasn't a strong enough person to overcome my illnesses.

Slipping

My arms are tired, my palms are sweaty and my feet keep slipping off the rungs. I'm losing grip of the ladder.

Now to confuse the hell out of myself, and possibly you too, I am sad because I can feel myself being dragged back into the nasty "depressive" state. Yet, I am proud of myself for feeling it before I hit rock bottom.
I'm scared because I really don't want to slip back but it's happening before my eyes and, perhaps, more so because I'm aware of it.

I really want to ask for help but I have reservations.
In the past when I haven't been totally incoherent and "sick" and have asked for help I was ignored. I wasn't "sick enough" to be seen, heard or helped. Would it be different now?
If nothing has changed all that will happen is my complete inability to hold onto the rungs. I will fall back into the pit of ugly, horrible despair. Loneliness and alienation will then follow.

So what's the plan to hopefully slow the rate at which I fall? Maybe even stop the final horrid descent altogether?
I need to be kind to myself. I can't make others be kind to me, that's just a stupid thought as I don't deserve that. But I can be kind to myself.
I can tell myself it's okay to slip, it's okay to find it hard to cope. I can tell myself it's okay that I'm not perfect. I can remind myself that it will take a long time for me to be able to deal with all of this without help.
I can talk myself down from the ledge and remind that part of me that I can get through it. Even when I feel so powerless and pathetically weak. I can tell myself that others do not understand so their comments are not always valid; most aren't trying to deliberately hurt me.

I will see my shrink of Friday afternoon, I just have to make it until then. I can fall apart when I walk into his room. I can admit to him that my seemingly random thought about being in hospital may have been an even earlier awareness of my possible descent.
To confuse everyone more, I am sad for writing this and yet I feel that I have made a big change in my attitude. I doubt many will see it, but I do and that's all the matters.

Just remember, it's about how you treat yourself not how others treat you.

The Outing

It does not matter what I do before hand to calm my nerves the actual act of going out is horrendous. Then when I am at the shops (or wherever) the panic is so potent it's like I've been kicked in the stomach.

If that wasn't bad enough, people stare at me.
Seriously, they stare. Not everyone granted (thank fuck for that), but enough to make me really uncomfortable. Now I have no idea why they are staring at me, but I assume it's not because they think I'm"hot".
Honestly, it doesn't even matter what they think. I just wish they'd stop staring. It's completely unnerving and totally unacceptable. I don't go around staring at people. Well, not all the time. And when I do I am careful not to be too obvious about it since I know how it feels. Also if I am caught staring I at least have the decency to stop!

Today was probably worse than most since I found out a "friend" deleted me from facebook. Oh, this happens to be the same person whom I tried to contact when I was really upset. And, the same one that apparently doesn't think I am good enough to even bother responding to. The funny thing is that I never, never, did or said anything even remotely confronting to him. So, umm, what the hell?
Right, I know it's probably not about me and that it's about him, maybe someone said something to him or maybe he just didn't like something I said on facebook, but this whole thing still upsets me. I don't like it when people delete me. I don't have a thick skin like some and that's not a bad thing.
It's also really rude since this person complained bitterly to me about people randomly taking him off their friends lists. Yet, he can do the same to someone else and that's okay? Talk about double standards.

So I found out the whole facebook bullshit before I went out. Way to make yourself feel good Renee. I know right, I'm definitely the sharpest knife in the drawer.
It was awful feeling like that. The whole trying to pretend I'm fine since I was with my mum while hoping like hell I don't see anyone I know since I've actually gained weight from that crazy migraine medication I was taking ages ago. Then there's the people staring at me, the kids screaming in front of me and trying their best to trip me up when they run like crazy little fuckers in front of me. You know what pisses me off about that? If I accidentally hit the little fucker I would be the biggest bitch in the world. I mean if I was window shopping and not completely watching where I was walking and one of the little fuckers ran in front of me and I knocked into it, I would be the one copping abuse. So don't fucking tell me I have to like the little fuckers running around in front of me. *Insert evil stare here*

Then there was the shop assistant from hell.

I walked into City Chic since that's about the only place I can shop in Australia and find things in my size that don't look like an old lady's antique floral covered chair upholstery. The shop assistant starts off by over zealously yelling "Hi ladies! How are you today?" I'm pretty sure the people walking past outside the shop looked to see if she were talking to them.
My mum replied since I was kind of running around grabbing a huge pile of stuff to try on. Okay, so it was three items and I wasn't really running, more like dawdling. Anyway, the shop assistant huffs loudly because we didn't yell back(?) and stomps, yes stomps, into the back room. I resist muttering "niceties" under my breath.
She returns from the depths of hell, I mean the back room and loudly yells at us "Is there anything specifically you're looking for?", to which mum replies "no thanks, we're just looking at the moment." Even I thought what mum said was pretty decent. Apparently not so with Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants. She huffs and stomps to the front counter.
Another customer came in and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants greets them. This time she's not yelling at all but being really lovely and nice. What. The. Fuck.
I tell myself to breathe. This shop assistant is obviously kind of nuts if she thinks we're deaf, dumb and/or blind. I couldn't help it, I shot a glance her way. She was smiling at the new customer as if she were the nicest person on the face of the planet. I really didn't like Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants.
Roughly 5 minutes later I'm scrutinising the clothes on the other side of the shop trying to decide if I really like things. I'm not just fussy in second life! Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants yells out "Do you want me to put anything in the change rooms for you?", obviously she saw the nice little pile in my arms. I reply "no thanks, I'm still looking" and smile my best smile at her. If you've ever seen this smile it's one of a kind awesome. Again she huffs and stomps off. Seriously, wtf?
Anyway, I try on the clothes and decide on two items so we proceed to the front counter to pay. Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants is waiting for us. I groan, inwardly.
She takes the clothes and begins to scan the tags. All is going well. Then she reads out the price and something wasn't right, it wasn't expensive enough. Mum points this out and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants starts huffing and rescanning the two items, finally satisfied she says "It must be on sale" in the most acidic tone I've ever heard. And let me tell you, after working for Telstra I've heard some really nasty tones.
Mum hands over my credit card (I buy too much stuff online if I have it in my possession) and we do all that fun stuff of signing etc.
Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants folds the items and bags them, hands me the bag and scowls at me while I'm politely saying "thank you".
We leave the shop.

Now what the hell was this woman's problem? I've never seen her before in my life nor had my mum or I said anything rudely or in a tone that was rude. She was perfectly fine to the other customers in the store and yet she treated us as if we were deaf and dumb.
If we had have been rude then I could totally understand where she was coming from. If we had have made a mess, spoke down to her, ignored her or anything like that I also would have understood her coolness towards us. Yet we didn't do anything other than enter "her" store to have a look.

Have you ever had this happen to you?

Lucky

I'm extremely lucky. I am surrounded by amazingly talented, intelligent and creative people.

This makes me sad.

I adore everything they do. Their personalities just shine through in everything they put their minds too. Whatever the project it is always brilliantly executed and designed.

This makes me sad.

They are the nicest people I have ever met. They're genuine in their nice nature, not trying to be something they're not. They would never deliberately flaunt their amazingness. They are all beautiful and confident of themselves and their abilities. They shine with brilliance.

This makes me sad.

I am none of these things. I do not shine, I forget who I am on a daily basis, my talents are limited and faulty, I am awkward and strange, my personality doesn't shine through anything because I have to hide it.
I'm broken emotionally and have trouble not being nice, even when someone is being awful to me. I cry a lot and I don't like to share my stories. I'm not particularly good at anything, only basically good at some things. My ideas are hardly original and my humour is never understood. I have more bad days than good.

I am literally everything they are not.

This makes me sad.

Failure.

I failed.

There I said it. The two words that have chased me throughout my life have, again, caught up with me.

I failed.

For the sake of coherence I'll go back a little bit and explain. I applied to write some online articles for a website. It was a rather harrowing two hours as I had to write two example articles. Upon finishing the articles I clicked on send. Then the waiting game began.

I got an email not even two hours later telling me, clinically, that my application was declined.
A few tears were shed.

Then, perhaps miraculously or perhaps not, I realised that I'd been had. Those nice comments about my writing, suggestions to do more, write more, were really just people being polite. Isn't that what you say when someone does something in the way of an achievement? We utter polite phrases and niceties because that's what we're conditioned to do.
These niceties aren't really a problem unless someone as gullible as me comes along and starts to believe them.

It was at that moment, that very moment when I started to believe it might be possible, I began to set myself up for failure. I actually began to believe the niceties. The sweet, kind niceties that are like candy for the soul. Truly, I have no one to blame but myself for blindly munching on those soul-sweets.

That brings me back to where I began. I failed. Of course I was going to fail. I'm a small followed blog writer who started to believe she was better than she was. Molotov cocktail anyone?

Perhaps my biggest mistake was mentioning it on twitter. As always my words were misunderstood, as I know these will be too, and I was questioned as to why I would give up after only one knock back.
My hackles raised I wanted to scream "don't you know anything about me?" then abruptly realised that no one "knows" me. That's the security of twitter. Being "unknown" was my favourite part of it. Now, when I need to be known, that part of twitter isn't quite so much fun.

I know my place now. I am fully aware now that niceties are lovely and soft and cosy when you need to inflate an ego. But they're definitely not the basis of true strength of character.

Watch this space. This heartbreaking turn of events will lead to my return to hospital and, more importantly, a return to the mind fogging medication I felt sure I was rid of.

I failed.

P.S. I'd strongly advise a lot of thought before replying to this post. I'm extremely sensitive right now and while I try to joke and undermine the severity of the situation, the reality is quite serious. Yes, I agree there's a certain amount of self pity in this blog. I'll come to roll my eyes at it one day. For now though be aware that it was a positively MONSTROUS effort for me to apply to this website.
Keep that in mind when you're shredding what's left of my self esteem, ego and myself in general.

Confusion

Some of you know how I've been feeling lately, some of you don't. For those that don't I'll succinctly put it like this: I'm in a really bad place and very sad.

I've been consumed with anger lately. Anger directed at my mother. Not the kind of anger that one feels when frustrated by something another has done. This anger is 25 years of rage, building up, consuming me until I snap. I think I'm about to snap.

Not a lot of people know the full story behind my illness. Even fewer people know what happened to me. Let's not beat around the bush, I'm going to tell you my memories. Turn away now if you are soft of heart.

To this day I still don't know just what would set her off. She would be fine one minute and the next she would be this evil, devil-like monster screaming at me telling me that I am useless, pathetic, if I had half a brain I would be dangerous, among other things. If I didn't cry at this point I would only get the verbal abuse. However, I was a child and my reaction was to cry. That's when the beating started.

A lot of you reading this will roll your eyes and suggest that I'm making this up. I used to be hurt by the lack of care people show, but now, well, let's just say I know what happened to me. I dream it still, her voice is now my inner voice that tells me I am stupid.

My mother used to pull my hair, smack me, kick me, throw anything in arms reach at me. It was always body blows so I wouldn't have any marks on my face. I would spend my time curled up in a ball, crying, hoping like hell it would stop soon. I couldn't tell you how long each beating lasted, they all felt like an eternity for me.
The beatings went on until I was 15 years old.

After each beating, when she'd stormed out of my room and slammed the door, I would grab my teddy bear and crawl into my cupboard. I would sit with my back against the corners so she couldn't sneak up behind me and hurt me. It was during this period that I learned to cry silently. My teddy bear would be drenched in tears before I would whisper, angrily, how stupid I was for not being a better child. I would repeat everything she said to me as if I was confirming everything she said were true. I couldn't stay hidden for long because she always came back for a second beating. I always hoped she wouldn't.

There was one particular time I remember my dad being home. Stupidly I thought he would help me. I screamed out to him when she started beating me. I knew I would be hurt more for even thinking to call out to him. He. Ignored. Me.
Instead he sat on his beanbag, drinking his beer and watching the football or something on TV. It was at that moment I knew I was done. I was broken and nothing was ever going to change that. The two people who made me, hated me.

Sometimes I would dream about my "real" family coming along to save me. It was a fantasy that I was adopted. I'm not. I would rock myself to sleep some nights thinking of my "real" family and how much they must love and miss me. They would find me... One day.

So I hear you thinking "why didn't you tell anyone about the abuse?"
That's easy. I couldn't tell anyone. For one thing I was an only child and it never occurred to me that what they were doing (or not doing in my father's case) was wrong. Secretly I never thought anyone would believe me anyway. We moved around a lot so I had no adult figure whom I could turn to. It was always just them.
Once I thought about running away and telling the police. I ended that thought abruptly when I realised the police wouldn't believe me and the thoughts of the severe beating I would get for telling anyone scared me senseless.

There were so many instances that I can't recall where my trust, love and innocence were stolen from me.

So here I am, a screwed up 25 year old, living with the person who abused me and unable to do anything about it. (That's a post for another day.) Sometimes when things are bad in my head I am a lot harder to talk with, I do tweet and FB status my moods. I know a lot of people can't understand, accept nor do they care what I'm going through. It's selfish of me, but I need to get it out... Somehow.

Stability In Question

It is not often I blog about something someone has said to me.

Okay, maybe it is. However, it has been a while since I have written any blog posts. There are many reasons for the lack of writing, although, the main one is a severe lack of original content. It's all well and good that I write constantly, but I don't wish to bore my readers by repeating the same issues and concerns, even if those issues and concerns repeat in my head.

I went away for a few days last week and found out some information I don't think I should have ever been told. Apart from this information causing me to have, yet another, breakdown it has perhaps fuelled an anger that I have been trying to quash for some time.

So what the hell did I find out?
An ex-boyfriend told a good friend of mine that he was concerned about her sons safety in my presence. For instance, if i should look after her son, would I be capable without being a danger to him?

There are many responses to this, especially from me. However, it has taken quite a few days for this comment to really sink in, grab hold and rip out my fragile stability.
Now, I am a nervous wreck in need of tenderness but unable to let anyone know just how much this comment hurt. I am partly afraid this comment may be true. There are many times I am sad and not coping and I don't think that would be healthy for a two year old to see.
While I would never, NEVER, hurt him I still do not think seeing someone emotionally collapse would be beneficial to his life.

So here I am, conflicted yet again. I am angry that this person should say such horrible things about me, when I have neither said anything mean nor negative regarding him. If anything I have put aside my immense anger at being used and remained supportive of him. Okay, so he perhaps didn't know that I was being supportive as I never spoke to him, however, I never said anything so cruel, mean and just disgusting like he has done. Instead, I shall vent on my website and thus equates the tit for tat. (Please note, the last sentence was sarcastic.)
Perhaps there is some small merit of payback by writing on here, however names are never mentioned and unless you know me and know my life you will never know whom I am speaking of. So where is the payback if no names are mentioned?

Anyway, here I am wondering if his hurtful words are indeed true and if they are, how will I ever allow myself to be around anyone, let alone a two year old, ever again?
To you this may be a stupid reaction and partly I agree with you, however, partly I do not, as I do not trust nor like myself enough to be able to reassure myself that I wouldn't ever hurt or subject a child to something they should never be subjected to.

It hurts me to know that someone else thinks so low of me that they feel like they should say something like this. It also hurts that I should find out, as silly as that sounds. If you think about it, had I not have known the comment was said I wouldn't be having this particular breakdown. Mind you, I would just find something else to be sad and worried about.

Have you ever had your stability ripped out from under you which has made you question everything?

Pscyhobabble

Cast:

Renee - Patient in need of therapy

Dr Red* - Psychiatrist appointment to meet Renee and determine if her mental health case file should be reopened.

Setting:

Tuggeranong Mental Health.

Time:

2:30pm (1430), 24th February 2010.

Enter Renee and Dr Red

Dr Red suggests Renee should sit down in one of the chairs he offers. Renee is clearly uncomfortable especially when Dr Red tries to shake her hand. Her confusion comes across as agression with a look of complete distaste crossing her face.

Dr Red doesn't notice this silent emotional turmoil, instead he proceeds to sit down.

Dr Red then asks Renee a few questions. Renee's face doesn't show her anger towards this person and the system, instead she liberally applies her mask of "I am okay, I'm fine, I don't know what is wrong with you people".

The questions range from why Renee should be having the appointment, how many people in her immediate family, how does she get along with family members to feelings and emotions, goals and plans for the furture. All of Dr Red's questions are met with resistance and hostility. Renee was clearly frustrated having been through all these preliminary questions before.

Dr Red is clueless and has a difficult time trying to decide how best to treat this unique (and slightly scary) patient. He would very much like to ask her to leave, however, he can't do that due to his profession and his cultural background. He knows this and he also realises that Renee also knows this. He feels trapped.

Dr Red continues asking questions, this time he asks about Renee's thoughts to do with Tuggeranong Mental Health. Renee does not hold back.

Renee: I have no faith in the system.

I was told when I first came here, I wouldn't be forgotten.

I was told no one would give up on me.

I was also told that I could contact my case manager, my shrink and/or anyone else here.

No one has returned my calls, emails or sms for four months.

The last time I saw anyone was before I went to St. John of God in Sydney.

After the disasterous turn of events in Sydney I needed to come back to support.

Instead I come back to a closed case file, no word from my psychiatrist and no support.

I do not trust this system nor the people working in it.

Dr Red is clearly taken aback by this honest, heartfelt and slightly angry explanation. He suddenly begins to realise the depth to which this patient has been neglected and tries desperately to find something that would help her. Dr Red asks Renee more questions, what would she like to see happen? who would she like to treat her? what would she like the outcomes to be?

Renee rolls her eyes and sighs. Each question has been asked to her a thousand times before by a thousand different psychologists, psychiatrists, psych ward nurses and social workers. Renee responds in a manner that make Dr Red pause. She explains that as she has no faith in the system she is looking interstate for a better support program. Renee continues to explain at length that she will move to the place with the best mental health system as Canberra's mental health system is incredibly pathetic and is doing more damage than good.

Dr Red stops writing his notes and changes the subject. He remembers that Renee's case manager wanted to also see her. Dr Red quickly explains that he needs to find Renee's case manager and then leaves the room.

Renee looks out the window, visibly shaking now as the panic takes over. She would never show this inept Dr Red her true emotions and she knows that all he will get from this visit is anger and hostility. Renee can hear other patients in the waiting room as they talk quietly with each other, her thoughts begin to drift to things she knows she's not meant to be thinking about, especially while in mental health. She begins to daydream about how she would vanish, disappear, cease to exist. Renee thinks about how fantastic it would be not to have to deal with any more centrestink people, mental health people, or having to explain to anyone why she feels the way she does.

Eventually Renee's daydream is interrupted as Dr Red returns with the news that the case manager is out. He asks Renee if she'd like to wait for her case manager to return. Renee looks at the incredibly stupid doctor and tells him that she will not wait, she is having a panic attack and would very much like to go home. He stares at her. Renee realises this psychiatrist has probably never seen someone hide their emotions so completely before. She shakes her head slightly and wonders who's brilliant idea it was to see this inept psychiatrist.

Finally, Dr Red makes the necessary motions that release Renee from the appointment. He makes one last comment about finding out what he can do to help and how someone will contact Renee at some point. Renee nods and leaves, obviously thinking that this man is an idiot.

As Renee waits for the lift to go back down to her car and finally leave the place she refers to as "hell", she realises that the last 30 minutes were a complete waste of time. Nothing was achieved. There was no goal other than for Mental Health to determine if they'd like to reopen her case file. Renee feels an intense anger and frustration for being made to go along to these silly appointments when there is no need.

Renee drives home, hoping all the way that someone would crash into her car and kill her. She is just so sick of people lying to her, she's unable to cope with all the broken promises and all the people (mental health as well as friends) who say they'll be there for her and then, when the time comes, they are scattered everywhere else ignoring her request for help.

She makes it home in one piece. Physically, not mentally.

* name has been changed to protect the psychiatrist mentioned in this blog.

Through the Looking Glass

I had a very ghastly day. To be honest I'm in need of many hugs that may just result in one super long hug.

Today was centrestink form day. So I presented at centrestink with my form. The welcome lady tells me "you're payments have been suspended". I very nearly died on the spot. The lady tells me to go sit down, as if the colour hadn't drained from my face.


I go and sit down and wait. After about ten minutes of waiting a centrestink dude calls out my name. I was in the middle of a tweet about how much I hate to wait and how much more I hate centrestink, but I jump up and nearly run (I don't do running) over to the dude's desk. This in itself is rather awesome since I've done something to my back and it's been killing me to walk. Anyway, back to centrestink dude.


Apparently my last medical certificate was declined, but no one told me before today. I know, you're thinking I got a letter that I didn't read or didn't answer a phone call, but I got nothing. Not a letter telling me my medical certificate wasn't accepted nor a phone call to say the same thing. Nothing. Silence.
So the dude tried to fix all these mistakes that were made. Kudos to him for trying. However, I had to explain, again, why I missed my last JAC (Job Capacity Assessment) appointment. I called them at the time and told them I was having a panic attack, blah blah blah.


So anyway, I begin having a panic attack while I was sitting at the centrestink dude's desk, but I can't just get up and run. He's asking me questions and is actually being helpful, also I would never make a scene. So I sit there in fear. Sweating. Shaking. Hardly able to breathe.


Finally he said it was all done and I could go. I pretty much ran (I need to stress there that I do not run) out the door, then remembered I had to go to Max Employment and give them a copy of my medical certificate. Damn.
I walk in and talk with the reception guy, he tells me that I will have to wait because the lady, who I would have seen for the appointment, will need to talk to me to confirm things.

I sit down and wait. My heart is beating out of my chest (okay, so that's kind of an impossibility but it still feels like it.) I still can't breathe. I'm still sweating. My whole body is shaking. I am wishing the bloody day was already over.


20 minutes later...

The lady comes out with a letter and their copy of my medical certificate. My next appointment with Max Employment will be when the certificate ends. She then tells ms that I need to get the DSP (Disability Support Pension) form from centrestink. Now, I have had job capacity assessments every few months for over a year and not once has anyone said I qualify for DSP (Disability Support Pension).

It's time like these I would really like to start banging my head against a wall. I'm sure I would get more information from doing that than talking with Centrestink, Max Employment and everything else in between.

Turbulent Friday

Friday started off like any other day. I woke up, I walked around the house wondering what I was doing and then I sat on the couch and played Bejeweled Blitz on my iPhone. I know, you're all terribly excited to witness the life of Renee.

Anyway, this particular day I knew I had to see my doctor. It was time for the "how are you going? But I don't really care, are your meds up to date?" visit. I always enjoy this visit, it's right up there with the centrestink visits.

To make myself feel better I thought I would spend some time teasing my hair, and no not the standing in front of the mirror cracking jokes about my hair. Just in case you were wondering. I spent a whole 20 minutes on my hair. It looked fantastic by the time I was done. Bits of hair sticking up everywhere, just the look that I like. But I'm off topic.

I drove myself to the doctor's surgery and waited until it was my turn. I walked in to the room when the dr man called my name. I sat down and the hell began.

Let's give my dr a name, Dr B sounds good enough. So, Dr B starts talking and as usual I rarely listen. He mainly repeats himself so I only respond when he asks me something new. This time it was different. After Dr B had finished asking the preliminary questions he started to talking to me about my local mental health place and how he thought it would be a good idea to get in contact with my old case manager. (I say old case manager because mental health closed my file last year in November when I went to a psych hospital in Sydney.)
Before I have the chance to think of some feeble way to get out of having to deal with some reality, Dr B picks up the phone and dials mental health. I'm stuck. I want to run away. I can't.

Dr B talked with my case manager explaining that he thinks I need to be reassessed as I'm worse than before, then put me on the phone to my case manager. I was told that I wouldn't be able to see my usual psychiatrist because the waiting list is about two months long. Instead I get to start again. Two years worth of work is now gone.

And don't you dare suggest it's not, when you have to start with a new psychiatrist you have to start from the beginning, again. It's not like a GP who reads your history, asks you a few questions and maybe does a physical. A new psychiatrist goes through your history, your feelings, emotions and everything else. They tamper with your medications, you have to explain things you've been over before, you have to learn to trust them. It's not an easy thing to do.

So, I crashed and burned after the doctor's appointment. I cried my eyes out. I realised that mental health and the professional team who were meant to be behind me and in my corner, weren't. They had given up on me. Suddenly I found myself in the too hard basket. I wasn't worth their time nor their help.

Now I have to wait until Wednesday to be reassessed and to start again. I'm still struggling with the whole situation and it's now Sunday. Sunday people.

Here's to yet another beginning. Here's to yet another disappointment and yet another fall. The hole gets deeper every time I fall in it.

Humiliated

I am dreading something that I have to do today. The thought of me dreading anything is so strange I'm sure you're all sitting there gasping for breath with the shock of it.
However, I am dreading having to deal with centrestink today. It's another appointment day where I have to "justify" myself and prove to them I am actually as crazy as I say I am. It is so humiliating.

Lately I have been pondering thoughts of cancelling all involvement with centrestink. The whole organisation treats me like a liar, they assume that I scum and am just too lazy to work. Hell, I've said before and I'll say it again, if you have a job you'd like to offer me where you don't mind that I may only turn up once a week or need to run and hide because I feel the grip of an anxiety attack.
I am sure there is a boss out there who love to have someone so unrealiable working for them. In fact, I should waste everyone's time and look for a job only to leave after three months. Yes, you're right organisation that is centrestink, I should be working no matter what.

I find this whole silly thing makes me so angry. I like to work. I like the feeling of accomplishment one gets when working. I like being "important" in some small. What I don't like; being told by centrestink that I do not like these things and that I just want money for nothing.

Today's appointment is all about the interviewer judging me. The person who I will see will look at me, take into account my appearance, how I talk and act. This person will write a report on their findings and will send that to some other department within centrestink.
I don't like acting or pretending to be something other than what I am. I lied to myself for 23 years about being sick, I will not lie about it now. I must admit, I do take some joy out of being blunt and telling the person who interviews me just what my frame of mind is. One lady actually sat at the desk with her jaw open, staring at me. All I can say is "hey Lady, you asked the question."

Having said all this, I contribute terribly to this dread as I do work myself into a lather of trepidation and anger due to their assumption I'm lying scum. I would sincerely love to say that what I have experienced is all lovely and they treat me with respect. Not one person that I have had the pleasure of dealing with at centrestink has treated me with respect or even with the decency of being professional. Instead, I am constantly met with rude employees, eye rolling, sighing, "you shouldn't be on this payment, why are you lying?" and other such horrible encounters. Is it any wonder I feel such acute anxiety when it comes to appointments with centrestink?

I have two hours before the appointment. Right now my stomach is a knot of muscles, my gallbladder is trying to leap out of my body and I'm breaking out in a cold sweat. I will stop writing now so I may administer some emergency anxiety controlling procedures. I sincerely hope it works otherwise I will definitely be labelled "loser scum of the Earth" by centrestink for not appearing at the appointment.

The Day I Went Away

After spending the early afternoon wondering if anyone actually reads blogs on weekends, I decided I should catch up on all the blogs that I have not read yet. I have been a bad follower and have been neglecting my follower duties.
So I began from the top. I read about happiness, sadness, new technological updates and lots about what it's like to be a Mum! I cried, I laughed and I got angry along with the writers of the blogs! I fell in love, I fell out of love, I wondered why I bothered and I experienced being unsexy! Whatever you can imagine I have read about today.

Then as I was approaching the final blog in my reader list I felt some trepidation. Perhaps I already knew what was coming and that's why I felt the sudden clenching of stomach muscles?
I click on the blog. Inside my mini-reader-panel there are the gems that I had missed. But what is this? The last post was written 5 weeks ago! Surely I haven't been that neglectful?
I click on the first post I haven't read...

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!

Oh no... Please dear God no.
There is no more blog. The awesomeness that I was instructed to sit down before reading, is no longer.

I felt the air leave my lungs and no matter how much my brain screamed to inhale I could not. One of my favourite blogs is gone. Gone.
The word is still bringing up hysterical behaviour in my brain. The threat of forgetting to inhale and exhale is looming dangerously close.

What am I going to do now? How shall I get my fix of that which is awesome?

Surely this great tragedy affects the entire world? There is now no level of awesomeness to compare those that wish they were awesome to. Yes, this is me panicking. If you have a good imagination you could even hear me hyperventilating right about... now.

You Might Want To Sit Down For This... was one of the best blogs I was following. Indeed I would like to say it's one of the best blogs I have ever read. I enjoyed every minute of Rick's writing and his penchant for throwing in big words that I would desperately look up in my dictionary. Frantically, I would read every word he wrote, almost salivating over his precision and the delicacy with which he wrote. Now, that amazing blog of awesomeness is... *insert deep breath here*... Gone.

I am yet to decide just how I will endure without this blog as part of my daily (okay, so almost daily when I was being a good follower, oh just shut up!) reading. Nor am I sure what the future will hold without some of the most awesome blog posts in the history of blogs and posts.

Broken records

I started playing an online game again. I don't know why I did that. I don't know what possessed me to sign in and play. All I know is that it's been about two weeks now and already I feel like shit.

Most of the time I think I avoid a lot of drama and things from other people. I try very hard to remain neutral because it's usually none of my business and I have enough of my own drama. However, since playing this game again I am now assured that I cause the drama. It has to be me.
The part I don't understand is how, when or why I cause it. Surely I don't say things to incite people...? Do I?

So here I am. I got banned from a place, a sim. I don't know when it happened and I very much do not know why. I suspect it has something to do with a nasty rumour being said.

This is only a small snapshot of the circus going on. I realise I'm not meant to care, however, I do care because I am human. I'm not a robot devoid of emotions or feeling. A slurr against my virtual self hurts just as much as a slur on my real self. Yes, it HURTS.

This snapshot of life, both real and virtual, has created a rather large whole in me. Like a tyre with a small hole. A little bit of air escapes every few seconds so it takes days for the tyre to go flat.
I am beginning to think that people just don't care about anyone other than themselves. Everything I seem to do or say is met with hostility, paranoia and stupidity.

People, let me state right here: I do not care about your inner most secrets, or shame. I do not care about your petty squabbles with other people. I do not want to spy on you to find out whatever it is you deem so important.

It's truly ridiculous that I allow myself to be affected by so many people. I guess I allow it because I want to fit in, I want to be liked and I want to please everyone. If I can't please people I get frustrated and begin to worry about my usefulness as a human. Hey, I never said I was sane.

So after two weeks I've been followed around an Australian sim by one of the "admin", I've been lied to, I have been the recipient of rumours and false accusations and I've been treated in a cruel manner.

Is this the best the world, both real and virtual, has to offer? If it is, well, I want out of both. Where's the off button for the real world? It needs one.

Why I Hate Christmas - Part 2

It was Christmas 1995. My father had just been posted to a country town in Victoria (Sale for those of you  who are familiar with it).

We left Hobart when the school year ended and drove from Melbourne to Sale after crossing Bass Strait on the Spirit of Tasmania.

While the trip itself was relatively good the next 6 weeks were not.

The married quarter we were meant to move in to wasn't available until the beginning if February. That meant we were stuck in a motel for 6 WEEKS.

I mean hey, that could be cool! I was 11 so it was an adventure for me. The thought of having my own room while living in a motel was pretty wicked!! I was going to have the best adventures in the history of adventure havers!

We rocked up at the first motel (two weeks at this one before the four weeks at the one with the extra room for me!) We were absolutely dumbstruck when we opened the door.
The room was disgusting. Dirty was an understatement. My mother immediately began her tirade and we checked out 30 minutes after checking in.

We ended up at the other motel, spent three days in the double room and the rest of the 6 weeks in a single room.

Living with my parents in ONE room was torture. It was the most horrible experience. I mean my father farts in his sleep. And I don't mean little "fluffs" either. He let's these massive explosions erupt from his arse. How he still has his intestines intact I will never know.
Then there was his need to continue to sleep naked. Ffs, he could have TRIED to sleep with some pants on so I wouldn't be scarred. I tell you what, it's fucking horrible waking up in your sleep because someone is moving around and seeing your father starkers.

So anyway, this is about Christmas and why I hate it, not the many idiosyncrasies I had to endure during those 6 torturous weeks.

For one thing there was no Christmas tree. Fair enough there was not enough room for one, considering three humans took up a fair amount if the space. However, how was Santa meant to find me and lavish me with presents when there was NO TREE?!?
Please note: I had already established that Santa Claus was a huge lie told to children, but I was ever the dreamer and hoped that maybe there really was some magic out there.

I raised the no tree issue with Mother and she whips out (of a bag you dirty people!) this puny and ugly little tree. It sat on top of the puny and ugly little tv. I mean, seriously, how were my presents going to fit there?!?!?

Turns out they weren't because there was no magic and there truly is no Santa because I didn't get a single thing for Christmas. Oh right, other than the joy of living in ONE ROOM with my flatulent father and moody mother.

It was that horrible Christmas morning when I woke up and realised I was an idiot. That's a pretty big thing to realise as an 11 year old.
As I looked around the room I realised my life was shit, I was an idiot because I had hope and that my parents really didn't give a shit about me.

When they got up there was no explanation, no sorry for ruining Christmas and destroying my fragile 11-year-old ideals. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The day went on and I kept hoping that they were just going to surprise me and grab me in a bug hug, laugh and tell me they loved me! I kept that hope alive for three days. Then I little the flame burn out. They were not going to do anything like that.

So Christmas 1995 was when I realised I was an idiot, how much I hated my mother (that's a blog for another time), and how much my dad smells and drinks. I never knew until that Christmas that he drank at least two cartons of beer a week. A WEEK people.

Now let's take a look at Christmas 2009. I'm stuck with the two people who irritate me more than anyone else in the world. But I'm meant to love every minute of it because they are my family.

My father will be drunk by 2pm, my mother will be coming to me to bitch about my father drinking, then she'll go to him and bitch that I'm not listening to her. No doubt the heat will be terrible and I'll spend the day wishing I had any other family (preferably a loving one) than the one I have and contemplating the ways in which I can avoid being "present". So far I'm thinking of taking my sleeping meds and sleeping through the whole fucking ordeal.

So don't expect me to buy into this bullshit that people harp on about. Christmas is the loneliest time of year and I have two people I'm supposed to spend it with. Kill me now. 

Bah Humbug. My version of Christmas (Part 1)

So far I have tried very hard not to write a blog about the horror that is Christmas. However, I have failed in my resolve and here is my Christmas rant.

I hate Christmas. Call me Scrooge, the Grinch, whatever you will. I do not care. I still hate Christmas. Although, in my defence, I have a rather good reason as to why I hate Christmas so much.

We need to go back about 20 years, to a time in the 1990's (actually it was 1990) when I was 5. My 5th ever Christmas. We were living in Melbourne at the time. It was the year I'd started school and the year I started walking to school on my own too. It was safe in those days, and I lived just down the road and around the corner a bit. But I digress.

I was 5 and it was Christmas. I was so excited even though it was hot and I wasn't liking the heat very much. Mother had set up the Christmas tree and I wasn't allowed near it (even though it was in the room where I watched my afternoon cartoons.) In fact I distinctly remember being banned from the room. Oh well, I was 5 and was easily entertained with my barbies.

Finally,  finally, the magical day had arrived. Christmas was here. It was the day I held in such high esteem because I would be showered with gifts and love and my parents would love me unconditionally.
Like all fairy tales it wasn't to be.

Parental units finally woke up and allowed me to enter "The Room" only for my grin to drop and tears to begin their sluggish way down my cheeks.
Santa Claus ripped me off.

Yes, that fat bastard ripped me off. There were only two presents under that tree for me. A lousy TWO. But the best was yet to come.

As I was standing there with two rogue tears sliding down my cheek, my mother looked at me and sized up my ungrateful attitude. Without any warning her hand connected with my wet cheek and a screech issued from her lips. I have no idea what she screeched as I was in my own little world of cursing Santa for being a tight arse.

I was sent to my room. Hey, I don't mind being sent to my room. I mean that's where all my toys were and everything so, send away mother dearest.

I spent that day in my room writing a long letter to Santa listing all the things I thought of him. I'm pretty sure I made up some new swear words too that day. Pity I never kept the letter...

There's always one that got away

This is the story of a girl, a broken heart and the wrong decision.

It was a couple of years ago now. I was playing this online game, being all pretty and popular in this virtual world. I felt like I had this virtual world as my oyster, I could do with it what I wished. It was like an adult version of playing with a barbie doll.

There was this one part of the game that I liked the most, an unexpected surprise that was strange yet wonderful.

I was into the emo, neko (that's a hybrid human and cat person, post apocalyptic etc, I have pictures of my avatar on Flickr if you really want), grungy chick who loved the whole guns and weapons scene. Yes, indeed I am describing RP (role play).

Then one day there was this chick. She was running through the street, shooting someone (or thing really, she was after a lycan) with such accuracy I literally stopped what I was doing to watch this spektical. I was hooked.

Her name was CrimsonX Varriale.
She taught me how to use weapons, where to find the best things and how to have fun in this virtual world that was fast becoming the only life I had.

We spent pretty much every day together. We spoke via voice (thus I know she was a real chick!) and were never at a loss of things to do or talk about. She opened my eyes to amazing games, music and even photoshop techniques.
In a word, she was perfect.

One night at a gig I was doing (I was an online DJ, which is a lot of fun!) she requested a song. Flyleaf - All Around Me, which I still listen to and think of her.
Crim then asked me to be her partner, yes in this game you could partner people, and I accepted.
I had never been so happy in my life.

I didn't know it then but I was actually in love. I was in love with her brain, with her personality. It wouldn't have mattered what she looked like in the flesh, I was hooked. But I digress.

One day I started to think. This was pre-diagnosed-with-crazy-illness. The thinking led me to do something I regret.
I ended the partnership with Crimson and promptly decided to leave the game. I couldn't face her or even myself and chose the easiest way to leave. I regret that decision with every fibre of my being. I miss her.

I miss talking with her, laughing, joking and all that other stuff. She knew there was something "not quite right" about me, but she liked me anyway. I never had to be anyone else other than myself with her. I was in awe of her awesomeness. I was, in all honesty, in awe with her.


Now I sit here and tweet about how unhappy I am. Yet I know that I'm the reason I am unhappy and this regret eats away at me every day. A little more each day I become harder, jaded and more fractured. All because I was scared of what I felt for her and of the thought of her finding out what I'm really like and thus leaving me.


Every time I hear Flyleaf - All Around Me I stop and think about Crim and my utter stupidity.

Saturday Blues

Who would have thought that on a Saturday afternoon I would start to fall apart.
Why I am falling apart, I don't know. I am just falling apart.

I probably shouldn't have indulged in the behaviour that makes me upset. However, if I did that I would have nothing to blog about. Maybe that would be a good thing?

Anyway, I was tweeting as I always do when I am bored. I mentioned something to a friend about a game I used to play and how the people on that game hate me. This is where my crazy disorder kicks in.
On one hand I was saying everything in jest, I mean I'm not that horrible am I?
On the other hand I knew that the people I used to chat with on that game do in fact hate me, even if I don't know why.
Unfortunately, it was sort of comfortable being in my little world where I wasn't sure which one of the two it was. I believe this is called denial.

My friend told me which of the two options it was.

Result: Renee is crushed.

Rather stupid is it not? I mean it's not a big deal. So pixel people hate me. I mean I have nothing more to do with them, so why should it bother me?
Argh, it's so frustrating being a few sheep short of a paddock! Although I might actually have a few sheep too many thus all the confusion. It makes a bit more sense than not enough sheep....

So now, I'm sitting on my bed resisting the urge to scream at everyone for ignoring me and to just leave me the fuck alone, while holding back the hysterical laughter and a tempest of tears.

How can things go from awesome to broken in a few minutes?
As much as I'd like to believe the professional mind fucks about a series of events happening that cause us to be sad but not acknowledge that sadness until it's too much, I just can't seem to come to terms with their reasoning.
Wouldn't I feel something if I were upset by situations and circumstances?
Wouldn't I notice something different before the final spiral into oblivion?

Oh well, I only have a mental illness (or three), I'm not the one who knows anything about them.