Easy Like Sunday Morning

I wanna be free
Just me, babe!
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy

As you may have guessed it's Sunday morning. I know, you're astounded by my perception and, to be honest, so am I! It's just another day of course, the beginning or end of the week depending on your personal preference. Either way, it's not as easy as the song suggests!

We'll forget that the song is about the guy leaving his girlfriend and how he is actually complaining about the constraints and pressure of being someone whom he is not.

For as long as I can remember Sunday's have never been easy, at least in my household. Sunday has always been a day of high anxiety with the impending Monday looming dark over head. This anxiety was at it's peak when I lived in Sale, Victoria. You see,  in 1996 Monday's meant primary school, which meant The Run and disgusting teachers who would bully me because I was (and still am) not very good at running.  My anxiety manifested in such a way that when I ran I would hold my breath! Anyone who has ever run in their life knows that breathing is one of the most important aspects of running. Having a steady breath equals a good steady run. So after a few steps while holding my breath (without realising I was doing this mind you) I would inevitably have to stop and pant and, consequently, wonder why I wasn't able to breathe. At this point more panic would set in as I realised I would have to walk and thus get in trouble, again, for not running.
My friends weren't much help as they too would tease me for being fat and lazy because I couldn't run. No one ever asked why I was having so much trouble and, as far as I recall, no one cared. I was on my own.
In 1997 at the beginning of high school the anxiety got much, much worse. Not only was I now in a completely different environment with new students but it was here that the bullying increased. My very first day I was called "steam roller Renee", which didn't really help in reducing the fear of being there. Of course, that name stuck throughout the year I was forced to attend the school, despite my best efforts to be the nicest, sweetest, quietest person. The latter failed miserably as I wasn't really able to keep my mouth shut and that became another avenue for the other kids to tease me. The part that used to really make me angry, and I mean angry, was that there was another girl in my class who was the same size as me yet no one ever teased her. She was even more pathetic than I was but somehow I was the one "chosen" for the "privilege" of being teased. What the fuck was up with that?
What ever it was about me I managed to cop it all, except being physically touched. I'm still unsure why no one tried to beat me, they managed to break me mentally so it would have made sense that they'd "finish the job". Maybe they just enjoyed breaking me from afar?

Of course now it's 2010 and we're on the verge of welcoming 2011 and these things should no longer factor into my every day life. Yet, strangely, it still does. The old panic still surfaces every few weeks and I begin to panic as if I were still the 12/13 year old I once was. Of course now I can talk myself down from the hysteria and dry wretch inducing panic and remind myself I'm now 26 and no longer the helpless, pathetic child I once was.
Well, I may still be rather pathetic.

Sunday's may be easy and I'm quite sure for a lot of people they are lovely days of cruisey relaxation or maybe housework or maybe even a day of cute cafe's while reading the paper and meeting friends. What ever the day means for others I'm quite sure it's not the anxiety ridden dread that my Sunday's are filled with.

A Little Secret

I have anxiety so I can safely say I feel scared about 80% of the time. Being scared of “life” is interesting in a funny, crazy way.

Today, however, I am scared about something quite real. It’s not a fear as the result of a what if. It’s the genuine article.

Six and a half months ago I had surgery to remove my gallbladder. Nothing horrendous there. It was keyhole surgery and I healed quickly, on the outside. Inside, since then, I have been very, very sick. For many months my GP didn’t believe me and, of course, neither did my mum. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I spoke about how sick I’ve been feeling to my psychiatrist and HE made the suggestion I see a specialist, that anyone listened.
I realised then everyone else thought it was in my head.

Today is my first consult with the specialist. The first consult lasts a matter of minutes before being shuffled back out to the waiting room to make the “actual” appointment.
The fear takes hold of me when I know someone will be looking to see what the problem is and will ultimately figure out why I’ve been so sick. Of course, I have no idea what it could be.
I only know that whatever it is has been affecting my brain. That is what scares me.

Ever since my surgery I’ve been unable to think clearly and coherently like I used to. I can’t process new words nor remember their meanings. I forget words, simple words, and have trouble trying to prompt myself or others with hints or similes. It’s like the word has been erased from my mind completely. And no, as yet none of the words I’ve “lost” have come back.
Most people wouldn’t care about these things. I wish I were one of them. However, I’m not and I do care.
Writing is the only thing I have. It is the only satisfactory creative outlet I have. My words are what stand by me when no one else will. If I can’t write, I can’t think and if I can’t think I may as well be institutionalised.

My fear is real and no one knows, other than my psychiatrist, how painful the last six and a half months have been.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Aftershock

I think I scared some people today. It seems that I have this ability to appear okay, then I'm not okay and people are shocked. This surprises me because I am constantly living with the craziness, the mood swings and other sundry "benefits". Perhaps I could be an outsider for a day and see what others see?
Today was particularly bad. My reasoning and ability to cope is severely limited at the moment. This period (the Christmas one) always makes me sad. I guess I've never had what I would call a happy Christmas. I always found it boring. I mean sure, there's presents, but then there was nothing. Just my parental units and me. All my friends were on holidays, with their families or both.
Mind you, being in Tasmania for three years and living in the Anglesea Barracks was fun. I could run around the whole barracks and never bump into anyone! However, even that got boring after a few hours.
Many days I wish I could just wake up and not have so much ridiculous rubbish floating through my grey matter. Although, I know that in my case such a wish is extremely unrealistic. There are very few people who wake up one day and are better.
Tomorrow... Ah well now we're dealing with a whole new kettle of fish. A new day and all that rubbish. Another year since more shit happened! Another year in which I haven't been able to change so everything is better. Another year of failing. Yes it is failing because I haven't been able to fix, help, do anything to make the next day better.
Now I even begin to wonder why I write such horrible things that only make others upset. Maybe it doesn't? But what if it does?
Upon scarring someone you can never take it back. It's burned and etched in their psyche forever. That's a guilty side of life I have trouble dealing with.
Haha, it's all a guilty side of life for me!!
Well 10pm, I have to go to bed. Apparently my GP thinks that if I take my meds early and take a double dose I will miraculously feel better. Ha!

Over it

I've realised so much in the last few days. One thing is the latest near breakdown I'm sort of having. Okay, so that doesn't make a lot if sense.
Basically since my last botched hospital attempt I've been on a tightrope, desperately trying to keep my balance. Lately I've realised that I've been falling for a couple of weeks. Falling hopelessly into yet another black hole.

Then there's the part where I tried to pretend everything is fine. I put on the smile and say "sure you can stay here!" instead of really saying "I'm feeling like shit and can't cope with people here right now". I guess I worry that my friend won't understand. It doesn't matter if I'm not feeling well, as long as they are happy.
Now I wonder if they really are happy if I'm breaking apart?
Do they notice?

There is such a sweetness in escaping reality. If only I could escape it permanently! Oh, right, because that's not allowed. I seem to always forget that little part.

Anyway, I guess I have to suck it up and find some way of dealing with all this. Well, at least finding a way to tell my friend that I need her to stay with someone else while up here. I'm struggling with not having my space. I'm totally not coping with anything right now. In fact I'm very close to driving myself to hospital... Or doing something else. I guess another few weeks in a psych ward wouldn't be so bad. I hope. Maybe? 

Broken pieces

It started at 7pm. The darkness surrounded me in thick black waves. It enveloped me and smothered me. I couldn't escape it. There was no hope.

The message came through at 7pm. He seems to feel compelled to speak to me. I really wish he wouldn't. He makes me feel guilty. He makes me feel like I need to justify myself and my actions, when they have nothing to do with him. I really wish he would leave me alone, at least for more than a few days.

I tried to escape the darkness, I ran away from it. However, I can't run fast enough to get away from it. No, it's still with me, being insidious and snaking it's way through every pore and cell of my body. It's tearing me apart from the inside.

The feelings are the worst part. The darkness on its own is bearable. Feelings of loss, hopelessness, uselessness, sadness and angryness are not bearable. They fight for pole position, which one will take over?

Each day passes and I feel even more fragile. My life has become one big fractured and tortured existence. What is the point of fighting when no one will help?

The person who said he wanted to help, inevitably wanted me to listen to him and listen to his problems. He wanted me to be his rock, his safety net, while he told me he wanted me to talk with him.

I hope I am not the only one to see how ridiculous this is?

I am alone in this fight. At the end of the day there is no one else.