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.

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.

I Am Ninja. I Am A Yo-Yo.

How many people can say they are ninja!?
I may not be the legitimate thing, but I can day dream and my day dream includes being a freaking awesome ninja.

You may be wondering why ninja is always in italics. This is simple; one must always respect the ninja. 
Next time you meet a ninja you'll be all set. I know, you'll thank me when that time comes.

Anyway, apart from being the most awesome ninja on the face of the planet, I am almost one of the most skilled emotional yo-yo's. Indeed, it's a hard job to be so skilled in emotional yo-yoism. There are pressures one must encounter that the ordinary emotionally stable person can't even comprehend.
For instance, you have to be able to keep everything under wraps so no one knows what is really going on in your life. This also becomes easier if you happen to be a ninja.


Of course there are other things that separate the emotionally stable and the emotional yo-yo's. Things like:

• being able to orchestrate insanely fast changes of mood in the shortest possible time
• finding ones self crying over something that happened 6 months ago
• laughing hysterically until one cries, for no reason
• grinning at the worst possible times (it's not appropriate when your friend is crying on your shoulder because she/he broke up with her/his boyfriend/girlfriend)
• having a short attention span, especially when people are talking about boring things
• one word: tantrums. 

You see the emotional yo-yo's are the most interesting and fun people you could possibly meet. They're also the most sensitive, intuitive and caring people. Think about the person you turn to for a shoulder to cry on. Do you turn to them because of who they are? Do you turn to them because they're there?

For most people, the person they turn for help, guidance, love and support is usually the emotional yo-yo. That's just because they are all kinds of awesome. 

So my advice to you as a ninja emotional yo-yo is to think about what your emotional yo-yo means to you and give them a hug, maybe even a kiss if you're that way inclined!

Show your appreciation for them since they're the ones most likely to need the reassurance. 

I am ninja! I am a yo-yo!

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*

The Fear

We all fear something. Maybe you fear spiders, heights, being alone, enclosed spaces or even clowns. Whatever it is that you fear, it's real to you. It's simply terrifying.

Some people have multiple fears that reverberate through their psyche every so often keeping them constantly on edge. Not that I would know about that kind of ruminating fear *looks around innocently*

I think fears evolve and grow as we grow. For instance my fears when I was a child are different to my fears as an adult.

As a child my fears revolved around placating my mother. I spent so much time worrying I wasn't good enough that when she inevitably came storming into my room to beat me, all I could think was "I wasn't good enough. I need to be better."
My other fear as a child were migraines. They were another affirmation of my "I'm not good enough" outlook, because I couldn't understand why someone would give me migraines. It never occurred to me that my body would conspire against me and cause a sequence of events that would ultimately lead to a migraine.

As I got older, in my teens, I feared someone finding out about what my "secret life" at home. I felt inferior because I couldn't conceive of any other families being as Wrong as mine. I knew, mainly from movies of all things, that parents beating children isn't normal. Again, this confirmed to me that I was bad and a terrible child because my mum was forced to discipline me.
I harboured this particular fear until I was 23.

More recently my fears have changed shape yet again. Now my fears revolve around my ability to "recover" from my mental illness.
As an adult my fears also dabble in my appalling management of my money; what is this "saving" thing anyway?
Between these two main fears, never underestimate how many things one can fear at any given time, I am forever going around in circles.

In my case my fear has caused me to have a rather intimate relationship with anxiety, among the other labels I'm lucky enough to have trailing after my name.

Fear can grip us at, seemingly, any time. It usually starts in the stomach where our internal butterflies are let loose resulting in our heart trying to beat in time with those wispy wings. Not to be left out, our lungs start us inhaling and exhaling faster and our skin leaks salty sweat, especially over our palms, just to make things even more "fun".
Strangely enough my body doesn't listen to me when I explain that the situation isn't really that scary and continues on it's merry, terrified way.

What are your fears? Have they changed over time?

Unfit for Children

So I'm sitting here watching Dr Phil. There is a surrogate mother who has reclaimed the twins she handed over because the "adoptive" mother has a mental illness. According to the surrogate mother a mental illness means the adoptive mother is unfit for parenthood.

Unsurprisingly this makes my blood boil.

The surrogate mother has spent 40 minutes of the show saying how horrible, wrong and unfit someone is if they have a mental illness. In the next breath she says "it's not about the mental illness" and proceeds to claim she is tolerant and that the babies weren't safe with the adoptive mother because of her "undisclosed psychotic illness."
I'm sure it's not just me who can see the obvious contradiction.

I'll state now that the adoptive mother does not have an "undisclosed psychotic illness" and it was shown conclusively with her psychiatrists reference for the adoption.
In the 8 to 9 years prior to the adoption the adopting mother had not spent any time in an institution, regularly takes her medication, has been employed at the same company for 21 years and is so highly recommend in her job she is able to work from home.
Wow, this woman is doing better than most "normal" women!!

So, anyway, this whole story has made my blood boil so fiercely that I think I can feel steam escaping from my ears.

What this story is creating is nothing more than hysteria over mental illness by a selfish, judgemental and callous woman.
To Dr Phil's credit he spat the dummy about this hysteria and unfair, unjust and judgemental view regarding mental illness. He explained the varying degrees of psychosis and how many millions of Americans live highly functional lives even with mental illness. Yeah! Suck on that bigoted bitch!
Dr Phil also, correctly, stated that this whole issue has set back mental illness acceptance and awareness in America by 20 odd years.

Basically what this means to me is that some people would deny me the right to have children based solely on my mental state. How dare anyone, anyone, tell me what I can and can not do.
I have to state clearly I do not want children and I do not think I would be a good mother and not because of my mental illness.
My decision that I'm not the mothering type is based on my lack of ability to nurture. Some people are made to be mothers and some, like me, are not.

This story raises my hackles because I have had someone say I am not a safe person for my friends 3 year old boy to be around. This was said by someone whom I dated; a mutual friend. I realise he said this because he was hurt that I had broken up with him. However, he had no basis for this blatantly judgmental comment. All he did was hurt me (most likely intentional) and make me doubt myself. He reinforced my "bad person" image I have endured all my life. But that's another blog.

So here I am, raging because people, both on my life and in the world, are so horrible. They have absolutely no right to say who is fit and who is not fit to be a parent. As far as I am aware there are only two people who have the right to say that; yourself and your psychiatrist. (Seriously, if your shrink says it's not a good idea to do something they aren't saying it for kicks.)

So here we are, one person reading this, another person raging while writing this.
Would you ever tell someone they are not fit to be a parent based solely on their mental state?

Valium tales

Well, for those of you who read my last post you'd know that I was meant to skip a day by taking Valium to sleep through it. (If you want to know why you'll need to read Dissociative, the previous post.)

So, Tuesday night (23rd november) I took my usual sleeping medication (seroquel) and I took a small amount of Valium. *insert skepticism about the Valium working here*
I must say that I did have a headache so I also took two ibuprofen. Then, all mighty and powerful, I went to bed.

I noticed two things. Firstly, my headache got worse from the Valium and secondly, it didn't put me to sleep nor keep me asleep. I woke up at 9:30am which is about standard for me lately.

There are two arguments about what I should have done next. The first is that I should have taken double the amount of Valium to sleep through the day and possibly even the night.
The second argument is that I shouldn't have to take something that will give me headaches. In fact I shouldn't have to take anything at all because I should just "grow a pair" and"get over it".
Both arguments are flawed.

I chose not to take any more drugs and therefore I was conscious through one of the four hardest days of the year. Out of the four November the 24th is by far the worst.

So yes, I did survive the day and that in itself is very little comfort to me. There is nothing remarkable, strong or even remotely good about surviving another day. I'm even starting to believe that's true of all people and not just me.
I have no sympathy anymore. I still empathise with certain people and situations but even that is less than what it used to be.
It really boils down to this: no one cares about me so why should I care about them?*

And thus ends the Valium tales.
I completely realise "tales" implies more than one story but in this instance I have decided to use it as artistic flair.

*while people may care my current perception dictates otherwise and as such I am very much alone in a cruel, heartless and careless world.

Dissociative

Lately I have blank spots in my memory. Time has elapsed and I am completely unaware of it, until later when I realise there are hours unaccounted for.

If I were writing a story I would start hinting at multiple personalities and delving into the personalities. However, this isn't a story, this is my life. For the record, I don't have multiple personalities. Multiple moods which may appear as different personalities maybe, but I am always conscious of myself during these mood changes.

It's Monday, which means I've seen my shrink. It's also the 22nd of November, which is two day shy of the day I'll kill myself. Of course the year of my death is still undetermined. Technically, it should have been last year. I never wanted to live past 25 so being 26 is something strange and unnatural. But that's a whole different kettle of fish.

I've been having these blank periods for most of my life. Usually during the most harrowing times. This is apparently very natural for someone who has experienced a lot of severe trauma in their life.

Like all new developments in my diagnosis/condition/mental illness this new awareness of noticeable dissociative episodes is daunting. It's scary.
My current worry is what I am doing during these times. I don't mean driving or things like that. The dissociative periods only happen when I am at home and when my mood is low. What I do mean is when I'm sitting on the couch and an hour or two later I'm in my room and I have no memory of getting up and walking there or what I did.

In my current state of fretting about the negative forces at work in my brain that want me to kill myself in two days, I fear I might have, or do, something to help bring this about.
Short of being thrown in hospital (which in Canberra it's not possible as there are currently no beds in any of the three mental facilities) or strapped to my bed, I have no way of assuring my own safety. Especially in light of the dissociative episodes.

To "normal" people this would sound like a sci-fi story or a severely active imagination. I wish that were the case.
Instead I get to spend Wednesday drugged out of my brain. For the first time in my life I will have Valium and I will willingly sleep an entire 24 hour period away. This won't make the suicidal urge go away. All this will do is get me through the day that I am most likely to act on those urges.

It is times like this when I pinch myself and hope like hell I wake up from this nightmare.

Approval

Time and time again I find myself seeking approval; family, friends and even strangers on the Internet must approve of me and the things I do.

Truly, I'd like to declare my non-conformity and assert a don't-give-a-fuck attitude, but the reality is vastly different. I do care and I do strive towards those holy grail of words "you did well."

I shall now spend the rest of this post with my head hanging in shame.

From some psychology-esque readings people of all walks of life also crave approval from their family and peers. With this in mind I should really be rejoicing; I'm not alone in this. However, I am not comforted by this idea.

In my life my interaction with "real" people is minimal, by choice. The stress of social etiquette and niceties do not really sit well with me. I find those niceties to be no more than socially acceptable lies and I, personally, find that institution revolting. So, if I have so much animosity for the "general" public why on earth should I care if they approve of me or not? Surely in my escapades to free myself from the constraints of socially acceptable lies I would have developed a self reliance, independence and/or the confidence to approve of myself. Apparently this whole concept has completely escaped my attention.

I have to laugh when I realise that even this post will allow my insecurities to flourish as I wait for comments, replies or emails of approval. Truly, it's a cruel cycle.

Of course there is only one thing to do to help quell this insatiable and ridiculous need for approval. I must learn to approve of myself and my abilities so others approval is less potent. Indeed, another facet of my fractured personality that my psychiatrist will have to help me remedy. I feel rather sorry for the poor guy, just don't tell him.

Fatty Diary

I've been looking at an online magazine which has raised many, many, of my old distressing observations of the ostracism experienced by those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty.

Part of a teenage girls mandatory rights of passage, during my teen years, was fawning over popular magazines such as Girlfriend, Cosmo and Sane (the free magazine one could acquire from the music shop "Sanity").
These magazines lacked the substance I needed to really be interested. What they didn't lack was the lashings of self loathing I was required to feel due to my body being bigger and of a different shape to the, very nearly, skeletal images of young women models.
Then, in an almost negligent way, the next two pages would be attributed to "exercises" that would tone and reduce the fat clumping around my arms and butt.
It was fundamental in my development for me to realise that I would never be anything like those skinny, wear-anything-they-want-and-look-great models. Despite a rational realisation of this I still spent many, okay, every day and night thinking about how horrible and disgusting I was because I couldn't wear anything even remotely fashionable.
Now, by the time I reached 16 (coincidentally that happened to be when I was in year 10) I had stopped looking at magazines because the depression and anger that would consume me, because of my self loathing, was uncontrollable.

It comes as a great shock that ten years later I would look at a magazine, even if it was a new online one. Part of me was curious to see if magazines had indeed evolved during my ten year separation or if they had remained frozen in time.
Turns out, they remained frozen.

There was one particular article written by their resident "Green Geek" which spoke about cotton awareness and fashion places who are supporting the fair trading of cotton in third world countries. This is all very good and I'm truly amazed to read that, at least, some things are improving, albeit slowly. The not so amazing part is that only small or "standard" sizes are available at these fair trading shops. Now, if I could just step out of my fat suit I could partake in the tremendously good appropriation of these amazing cotton garments! Where was that damn zip located again?

For those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty, who are curvy, rolly, rotund, flabby and squishy we must continue to be ignorant of the advancement in the fair trading of cotton. We, apparently, are not worthy of helping and supporting this organisation. And neither is our money good enough to be placed with those of "traditional" beauty.
No, we must continue to buy our frightfully ugly, misshapen and, quite frankly, frumpy clothes from stores that do not support the fair trading of cotton, thus preventing us from helping cotton farmers in third world countries.
How delightful that we should miss out.

Of course we could potentially donate money to the cause to all participate in our own way. However, and this is probably only just my view, isn't it backwards to donate money instead of purchasing the items made with this fair trade cotton? Isn't the whole point of these shops and foundations and organisations to make the whole market aware of, and comply with, the fair trading of products, in this case cotton?
Truly, I must be crazy to assume there is a real and genuine care for those in need. How remarkably silly of me!

There is of course one blatant fact that I have neglected to mention here. The clothing industry, media industry and fat haters will never change. Thin and beautiful men and women sell those newspapers, cd's, tv shows, magazines and the other array of socially acceptable paraphernalia.
Personally, I look forward to a time when anyone of any shape or size can be included without ridicule. Tell her she's dreamin'!

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.

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.

Regina's Song by David & Leigh Eddings

How I Spent My Vacation

By Twinkie

I spent my vacation in the bughouse, listening to the other buggies screaming and laughing just to pass the time away. Normal people can't seem to understand how nice it is to be nuts sometimes, and that's very sad. People out there in the world of normal have to face reality every day, and reality is usually flat and grey and ugly, and time only runs in one direction, and doorknobs can't talk. A true nutso doesn't have to put with that. We can make our world as beautiful as we want it to be, since it has to do what we tell it to do. 

   Isn't that neat?

   In the world of nuts, nothing is real, so we can change anything we don't like. If a day is beautiful we can make it last for a thousand years; if it's ugly, we can just throw it away. If the sun is too bright, we can send it to its room, and if the stars are too dim, we can tell them to burn more brightly, and they will, just to make us happy.

  That's what makes the world of nuts so much nicer than the world or normies. Our truth wags its tail and licks our fingers; their truth snarls, and it bites. 

  Sometimes, sometimes, those of us in the world of nuts think about the world of the normies, and we've pretty much decided that it might be sort of fun to visit it once in a while, but we certainly wouldn't want to live there. It's just too desperate and ugly, and the normies never seem to get the things they want, no matter how hard they try, and that's very sad. 

  People from the world of the normies used to visit us in the bughouse now and then, but they weren't really very much fun. They always looked so serious and worried and they almost never laughed. Normies just can't seem to see the world the way we buggies see it, so they can't even begin to see how funny it is. They couldn't seem to relax, and their eyes got all wild when the nutso down the hall started to practice screaming. Don't they know that screaming is a fine art? In the Olympic games of the world of nuts, a perfect ten scream wins the gold medal every time. 

  I've moved back to the world of the normies now, and I know that I'm supposed to be serious and never laugh, but sometimes -- sometimes -- I scream a little bit, just for old times' sake. I make it a point to scream politely, though. It's not nice to wake the neighbours in the grey world of the normies. A few quiet little screams aren't really all that disturbing, though, and I always seem to sleep better after I scream.

  And when I sleep, I sometimes dream of the world of nuts, and my doorknob sings to me, and my walls hold me tight, and I drift above the sky and look down at the desperate, grubby, ugly world of the normies where everybody is serious and worried, and never, never, ever smiles. 

  And I laugh.

Renee's Note: This is the best description I have ever read of mental illness. It's the most accurate, most heartfelt and, definitely, the most intuitive piece of work I have come across since being in the "bughouse".

I felt I had to share this as it truly captures how I feel most of the time. I am one of you, yet I am nothing like you.

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.

Shhhh, It's Oh So Quiet

If only it were nice and quiet in my head! So many things happened today that got my brain positively racing and now I can't shut the silly thing off.

I've been rather active and outspoken on some websites I'm part of and the responses are still making my blood boil. To be honest I think some people simply like to argue. It doesn't even matter what they're arguing about!
Okay, so I can be that person sometimes too.

In other news, I established today that I've spent a lot of time lately trying to be someone I'm not. I've been trying to say the "right" things to make people like me. Bloody hell, I thought I was passed all this bullshit! Maybe this is what some could refer to as "falling off the wagon".
Part of it is trying to figure out my place in a social setting. Since being diagnosed with depression, anxiety and borderline personality disorder my whole life has revolved around my illnesses. I've been constantly aware of situations and how they would affect me and how I will inevitably leave the situation under bad circumstances. I have been so consumed with all the negative aspects of my illnesses and my subsequent failings that I've lost my ability to "fit in".
Before I was diagnosed I could fit into any situation. I could be the life of the party, the listener, the witty one, the cute one and the one that would stand up for my friends.
Now I have trouble being "social" in Second Life! And Second Life isn't even scary like real life! I can "hide" behind my avatar and still talk with a vast range of people. The problem is I'm not really "talking". Instead I'm panicking while desperately trying to figure out what is socially acceptable in any given situation! This is with pixel people. Can you imagine what I would be like in a real social setting!?

So that's my most recent challenge/awakening. I don't know how to be in social settings. I realise now I don't have to tell every person I meet I'm utterly crazy, but at the same time I find that people are hesitant around me because they can pick up on my resistance and socially awkward behaviour.
Back at square one. Great.

Well, all I can do is continue on my path to "recovery". I think the term remission is far more appropriate since my illnesses (and many other mental illnesses) will never be "cured".
I will live with this for the rest of my life. Yay.

Really, Who Has An Hiatus These Days?

When you're as special as I am an hiatus is essential.

Every so often I need to take a break. I've been through all this before, so I won't bore you with all the details.

My hiatus was very eventful, well, depending on your definition of "eventful". Mostly I spent my time just trying to breathe and trying to tread the black watery depths of depression.

I watched tv in a desperate attempt to fool my brain into believing everything is okay. Unfortunately my attempt didn't work as well as planned since everything I watched made me angry and resentful. It wasn't fair to me that everyone would always have a happy ending! And don't even get me started on the commercials.

At one point, lasting about two weeks, I was devastatingly low. All I could think about, night and day, were the ways in which I wanted to die. I was so obssessed with the idea of my death I started to make plans. One day I'd had enough and I tried numerous ways to end it all. Each attempt failed, obviously since I'm writing this post now.
The failures made everything worse.
I kept spiralling out of control.

The depression was kicked off by the event, mentioned in my previous post, followed closely by some incredibly harsh and unproductive text messages sent to me. Some people really know how to kick you when you're down.
I did try and reach out to one person while I was spiralling down, however that person declined to respond to my text or email. Actually, I think I may have sent two emails a week or so apart. Anyway, that person obviously thought I wasn't worth it and at the time I happened to agree with them.

Now, I'm okay. I'm not great, I'm not "over" it all and I'm sure not happy. But at least I'm not suicidal at the moment. In my world, this is something to celebrate.

Some people just need to take a break, close off and live in their own little worlds until things blow over. Many of you won't, and can't, understand this need to be alone. That's fine by me as long as you don't try to tell me what I should and should not do during that time.

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.

Taking control of my own mental health

After two years of letting psychiatrists, mental health nurses and psychologists tell me what's best for me I have decided it's time to take control.

No longer am I just sitting by idly letting them prod and poke me, stuff me full of medications in the hope one of them may work.

It has been about two weeks since I made that decision. It has been about a week and a half since I actioned those decisions. However, let me clearly state that the path I've chosen is not for other people to follow. It is MY path, MY decision and I will walk it MY way.

The decision was one which involved the pharmacy of drugs I was required to take. At the peak of my medicinal intake I was taking anything up to 15 tablets a day, more on bad days. Now, if all these tablets were helping me to some degree (even a small degree) I would gladly have continued taking them. However, the only effect these tablets had were to make my physical health plummet into almost constant distress.

Let's now look at this logically. Part of getting better is feeling better. This feeling encompasses not only mental but physical health. Now, the medications I was taking deprived me of my sort-of-okay-physical-health and replaced it with ill-health. This, in turn, assisted the decline of my mental health to new lows.
All in all this is not a healthy way to feel. I'm sure even the most stubborn person can agree there.

So, with mental and physical health on the decline I weighed up my options. I could either continue getting more medication to hopefully suppress the myriad of side effects or I could slowly stop all the medications and deal with the nasty withdrawals.

A month went by before I was ready to make a decision. In that time my psychiatrist had stopped one medication and replaced it with yet another. I was also admitted to hospital, the psych ward, in part to kickstart the new medication.
During this time my health continued to deteriorate.

Finally, I came to a decision. I would stop taking the medications. I would only take one for the apparent "reflux" (that's a whole other blogs worth of disdain) and one for sleeping. After all a good nights sleep is extremely important.
After careful consideration I begrudgingly decided to take a migraine preventative that my GP had prescribed for me. All up three medications, which is a vast improvement from the ten plus.

I would also like to note, in passing, that I have since stopped rattling.

After only one week, and a half, my physical health has improved rather profoundly. I am still finding some lingering side effects, the dizziness mainly, but even they are becoming less frequent. It should also be noted that the dense ruminating fog that was clouding my brain, and causing me such distress when trying to write, is nothing more than an annoying wisp of fluff that occasionally gets stuck on a jagged thought.
Indeed, both my mental and physical health have been improving and while I'm still crazy (in the nice way) I am finding many situations where I am quite capable at handling them.

Now, in no way am I suggesting that the medical professionals who prescribed all the medications to me were wrong. I strongly believe they helped, at least part of me. In a very real sense they could have given me placebo's which would have had much the same effect (minus the side effects of course). The fact that I knew I was taking them comforted a need for something to be done. It was largely irrelevant that those medications didn't work.

I've come to a point in my journey where I have decided to take control and, as such, it is my decision to monitor just what is being poured into my body. Until such time as I am truly in need of medication I simply won't take them.
Being a realistic person, at least one of my personalities is, I am quite aware that I may have need for medication during darker moments of my life. For now, however, I'm rather enjoying a sense of freedom and a sense of being whole again.

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.

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.