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.
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'!
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.
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.
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.
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.