Sometimes on the bus home from a night shift when everyone is asleep I get the overwhelming temptation to stand up and scream. Just to see what would happen and how everyone would react. I feel like this now. My head is in a dangerous and self destructive place and part of me wants to stop trying to stay sane, stop trying to do what society wants me to do, and just scream the pain out. I don't know how this scream would come out, whether it would be me standing in the street shouting out the pain I feel, whether it would involve me being incredibly stupid and self destructive. I just know I want to let it out.
I don't know what stops me. Part of me thinks it is a stupid middle class fear of being different. Part of it is fear of the consequences - I don't want to end up on a s136. Part of me just wants to curl up and die and not scream at all.
Last night I did the sensible form of scream. After a day of awfulness I spent about two hours crying my eyes out on the sofa. Then I forced myself to calm down and call the crisis team. I hate calling the crisis team, I'm terrified of them and mostly I find them utterly useless but at 9pm on a Saturday evening they are all there is.
Two hours later they called back. I don't know the man who called me but, being me, I hid the scream and tried to be rational. I tried to explain what was going on, that I was losing the rational bit of me and I could no longer cope. He told me I sounded fairly rational. I tried to explain that I was hiding the scream so I could talk to him but he didn't seem to get this. He didn't seem to understand that I was using every atom in my body to try to get some help. And then it collapsed, I tried to keep going but I was crying so much I couldn't speak. His response was to say, 'well if you don't feel any better maybe you should phone us tomorrow. I think you should go and get some sleep. Bye.' So letting the scream out doesn't work, it just causes them to reject you.
So what should I do? Should I force the remaining rational side of myself to keep going, to fight, to try and get some help or should I just let go and scream? Neither seems to work. Neither seems to get any help. If I wasn't so desperate I would just try and relax but I can't. Every nerve is jangling with the effort of retaining the scream inside me. My head is telling me to let go, to be massively, floridly mad but a tiny tiny part of myself won't let it happen.
I just need to be able to scream.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Hanging on by a Thread
I came back from Scotland. All was OK for a couple of days - I did my laundry, I saw my mates, I went to the Serial Killer. Then it all fell apart. I was meant to be returning to work last Wednesday and during the day I was also meant to be going to the funeral of a friend who died at a stupidly young age in a car accident. I woke up and it was immediately apparent that the anxiety monster had taken enormous grip.
Thinking about it, it's not that unreasonable that a funeral can cause severe anxiety but it was more than that. I phoned the cpn and had a short conversation but nothing was resolved. I took a few too many zolpidem and went to sleep about four o'clock just to avoid the world. It took me until Saturday to be brave enough to leave the house. Thanks to D who forced me to come out or I wouldn't come close. I went back to work on Monday with the help of diazepam and thankfully the rest of the week I don't have stressful stuff at work, just a stupid course although how I'll cope with that with the concentration span of a gnat I don't know.
The anxiety is eating my head. D is now on holiday and I'm dog sitting for her for a week. I have myself utterly convinced that the dog is going to die. I'm scared to go to her house in case the dog is dead. I have to go round this evening to feed him and take him out and I'm terrified.
The other thing that's eating my head is paranoid madness. There's been a run of bad news and sad things happening over the past few weeks and my mind has convinced me that they are caused by me. I am utterly destructive and because people had some contact with me they have got ill or died or something awful has happened to them. I'm scared to speak to people in case I spread my evil cursed contamination to them. I'm scared to go out, I'm scared to talk to people at work (which due to the nature of my job, I sort of have to), I'm scared of everything.
I was going to talk to the serial killer about this last night but there was an accident on the road which meant that I only got there with 5 mins to go before the end of the session. The accident itself had freaked me out because it was on the same stretch of road as where my friend died and because I convinced myself it was my fault and I'd hurt whoever had been injured in the accident. (I later found out that a potato lorry had spilled it's load and no one had been injured but even that felt like my fault.) I didn't get to talk to her about this, instead she told me that she wanted me to talk about the bad things again. Well, when I say again I don't really mean it as I have avoided it for a long time).
So I am left to decide what to do about my cursedness. I am currently just trying to avoid everyone but that isn't a reasonable long term solution. I'm meant to see the cpn on Thursday but I don't think she'll take me seriously and I can't be bothered talking about it, I just want to hide away. Layby nights are again occurring alongside all sorts of weird and stupid shite.
Thinking about it, it's not that unreasonable that a funeral can cause severe anxiety but it was more than that. I phoned the cpn and had a short conversation but nothing was resolved. I took a few too many zolpidem and went to sleep about four o'clock just to avoid the world. It took me until Saturday to be brave enough to leave the house. Thanks to D who forced me to come out or I wouldn't come close. I went back to work on Monday with the help of diazepam and thankfully the rest of the week I don't have stressful stuff at work, just a stupid course although how I'll cope with that with the concentration span of a gnat I don't know.
The anxiety is eating my head. D is now on holiday and I'm dog sitting for her for a week. I have myself utterly convinced that the dog is going to die. I'm scared to go to her house in case the dog is dead. I have to go round this evening to feed him and take him out and I'm terrified.
The other thing that's eating my head is paranoid madness. There's been a run of bad news and sad things happening over the past few weeks and my mind has convinced me that they are caused by me. I am utterly destructive and because people had some contact with me they have got ill or died or something awful has happened to them. I'm scared to speak to people in case I spread my evil cursed contamination to them. I'm scared to go out, I'm scared to talk to people at work (which due to the nature of my job, I sort of have to), I'm scared of everything.
I was going to talk to the serial killer about this last night but there was an accident on the road which meant that I only got there with 5 mins to go before the end of the session. The accident itself had freaked me out because it was on the same stretch of road as where my friend died and because I convinced myself it was my fault and I'd hurt whoever had been injured in the accident. (I later found out that a potato lorry had spilled it's load and no one had been injured but even that felt like my fault.) I didn't get to talk to her about this, instead she told me that she wanted me to talk about the bad things again. Well, when I say again I don't really mean it as I have avoided it for a long time).
So I am left to decide what to do about my cursedness. I am currently just trying to avoid everyone but that isn't a reasonable long term solution. I'm meant to see the cpn on Thursday but I don't think she'll take me seriously and I can't be bothered talking about it, I just want to hide away. Layby nights are again occurring alongside all sorts of weird and stupid shite.
Tuesday, May 07, 2013
I'm not having my holiday spoilt my your madness
Last week I went on holiday. I went up to the highlands of Scotland with sister, brother in law and the two kids. Sister and brother in law own a holiday cottage up there (yes I know it sounds like they're posh but it was my granny's house and it's passed through the generations). It was weird visiting it as they have put a loft extension in since I was last up there so there are more rooms and they're in a different configuration to what they used to be.
On the whole the holiday was great. I managed fairly successfully to get enough time to myself that I didn't freak out. Usually they went off cycling in some beautiful hills leaving me to have a stroll about and read a book in the sun which suited me down to the ground. The scenery was amazing, the silence total, the air pure and the stars at night absolutely beautiful.
It was surprising that so many of my memories of the place were positive. It was where we went on holiday as children and it's where my family is from. I feel spookily like I belong there, that some kind of genetic hold exists for me there. I was glad that we were able to visit the cemetery where a number of members of my family are buried and where I have put in my will that I want to be laid to rest.
There was one thing that really put a stress on my holiday unfortunately. The first morning we were up there I was having breakfast when my sister asked me, 'Did you sleep well?' I replied, 'Not really, I had a couple of panic attacks.' To which she replied, 'Well stop that shite right now. I'm not having my holiday spoilt by your madness.'
How do you respond to that? If you're normal and not mad I presume you laugh it off and get on with your holiday. If you're me you see it as criticism of you, the fact you're mad and that any overt signs of madness will be treated with utter disdain and be unwanted. It meant that the entire week I was questioning my every move, my every word, my every thought for signs of madness. This was extremely stressful.
It also upset me that my sister, a doctor, has so little respect for me and the reality of my life. I don't think that I'm overstating my case but I think it was a fairly ugly thing to say.
The other thing of note is that my sister could not remember the vast majority of things I talked about doing as children, simple things like the time we saw the adder or the time I fell into the river while throwing stones (something the children loved doing this week). Maybe she just doesn't remember, maybe she has put it all out of her mind. Maybe that is her coping strategy.
A final comment came from my 3 1/2 year old nephew (you've no idea how important the 1/2 is) who damned me by faint praise when he told me, 'I love cuddling up to you Auntie bourach, you're so squishy.' Mmmm maybe I do need to lose some weight.
On the whole the holiday was great. I managed fairly successfully to get enough time to myself that I didn't freak out. Usually they went off cycling in some beautiful hills leaving me to have a stroll about and read a book in the sun which suited me down to the ground. The scenery was amazing, the silence total, the air pure and the stars at night absolutely beautiful.
It was surprising that so many of my memories of the place were positive. It was where we went on holiday as children and it's where my family is from. I feel spookily like I belong there, that some kind of genetic hold exists for me there. I was glad that we were able to visit the cemetery where a number of members of my family are buried and where I have put in my will that I want to be laid to rest.
There was one thing that really put a stress on my holiday unfortunately. The first morning we were up there I was having breakfast when my sister asked me, 'Did you sleep well?' I replied, 'Not really, I had a couple of panic attacks.' To which she replied, 'Well stop that shite right now. I'm not having my holiday spoilt by your madness.'
How do you respond to that? If you're normal and not mad I presume you laugh it off and get on with your holiday. If you're me you see it as criticism of you, the fact you're mad and that any overt signs of madness will be treated with utter disdain and be unwanted. It meant that the entire week I was questioning my every move, my every word, my every thought for signs of madness. This was extremely stressful.
It also upset me that my sister, a doctor, has so little respect for me and the reality of my life. I don't think that I'm overstating my case but I think it was a fairly ugly thing to say.
The other thing of note is that my sister could not remember the vast majority of things I talked about doing as children, simple things like the time we saw the adder or the time I fell into the river while throwing stones (something the children loved doing this week). Maybe she just doesn't remember, maybe she has put it all out of her mind. Maybe that is her coping strategy.
A final comment came from my 3 1/2 year old nephew (you've no idea how important the 1/2 is) who damned me by faint praise when he told me, 'I love cuddling up to you Auntie bourach, you're so squishy.' Mmmm maybe I do need to lose some weight.
Friday, April 12, 2013
1992
During the Great Clean and Tidy of my house I discovered my diary from 1992. It wasn't a diary that recorded great detail or massive emotional depth, indeed there was only about an inch for every day of the year. I'd forgotten it even existed and I was surprised it had survived the about 800 house moves I've had since then.
1992 was a big year for me. It was the year I turned sixteen, left care and got my own flat. It was the year that I was surprised by better than expected Standard Grade results that led to me staying on at school and going to university. It was the year that N turned 16 also and she moved in with me and we set up as a happy couple.
I waited til the cleaner of amazingness left and then I sat down with a smoke and read the diary. Then I ripped it into tiny tiny little bits and threw it out in the bin. There wasn't much in the diary that was specifically distressing, just the memories overwhelmed me and the reading between the lines emotions devastated me.
There were so many things I'd forgotten. Things that should have been important. The fact that between January (when I was still recovering from this) and July when I turned 16, I moved three times. I was in two foster homes and one children's home. This reflects the endless moves I made while I was in care. What surprised me about the diary is the matter of factness, the nonchalance with which I recorded these moves. I pretended they didn't bother me. I was overwhelmed with the nihilism of self hatred and hiding my emotions. It interests me that I never bothered recording the reasons for my moves, if indeed I knew them.
It didn't record my fear when I moved into my flat. A horrible flat in a horrible scheme where I knew no one. My flat with its microwave, fridge, one dining room chair and bed provided by a charity which were my sole furniture when I moved in. Not even a comfortable chair, a table or a cooker. Don't vulnerable people on benefits get so much from a caring government. How things change. It made a brief mention that on my arrival at the building there was police tape everywhere because one of the occupants of the block had murdered another that day in a horrible fashion. I recorded this in passing and never mentioned my terror as I huddled in my second hand bed that night.
It recorded my shock and joy at my exam results. Way better than I or anyone else expected. As one teacher said, 'You're in care, you're never going to get anywhere, it's a waste of time teaching you.' I remember how instantly my future changed when I opened my results envelope and how hard I had to persuade the school that I could stay on and do my Highers. I had to sign a piece of paper saying I'd turn up, not skive off as I had done so much before, and that I would study and work hard. Nobody else had to do this but kids in care aren't trustworthy are they? I think, to be honest, the school hadn't much experience of dealing with a sixteen year old who was living independently, working in the evenings, claiming benefits and continue at school.
It recorded the fact that I saw my elder sister twice that year, and only saw my little sister in passing at school. The care system did their very best to destroy our bond and almost succeeded. It's really since the kids have been born that we've rebuilt a good relationship.
I wrote with great delight of N moving in with me and fear that R, Ns mother, would be furious with us. Who really wants their sixteen year old daughter moving into a council flat in a shitty scheme with her girlfriend? It also records the sacrifices that R made to make our flat comfortable. We never got as far as carpets, for all the time we lived there, there was just a concrete floor covered with broken tiles, but R, who was not at all well off, provided a second hand cooker, washing machine and living room suite. She was so generous to us.
It also recorded the normal teenage nonsense that everyone experiences. Many entries started with 'fell out with X, Y or Z. She's a bitch. I'll never talk to her again.' I can almost picture the stamped foot and nasty teenage bitchiness. Others told me that my life was soooooooo boring and nothing interesting ever happened. Considering how eventful a year it was, I must have had a remarkably low boredom threshold. These entries reminded me strongly of Kevin the teenager and I appreciate them for the normality they express.
So I ripped it up. I will never read it again. I never want to read it again. I never want to reenter the awful emptiness of my emotions then. The overwhelming feeling and reality that nobody wanted me, nobody loved me and I could just be dumped on a crappy scheme and left to rot.
1992 was a big year for me. It was the year I turned sixteen, left care and got my own flat. It was the year that I was surprised by better than expected Standard Grade results that led to me staying on at school and going to university. It was the year that N turned 16 also and she moved in with me and we set up as a happy couple.
I waited til the cleaner of amazingness left and then I sat down with a smoke and read the diary. Then I ripped it into tiny tiny little bits and threw it out in the bin. There wasn't much in the diary that was specifically distressing, just the memories overwhelmed me and the reading between the lines emotions devastated me.
There were so many things I'd forgotten. Things that should have been important. The fact that between January (when I was still recovering from this) and July when I turned 16, I moved three times. I was in two foster homes and one children's home. This reflects the endless moves I made while I was in care. What surprised me about the diary is the matter of factness, the nonchalance with which I recorded these moves. I pretended they didn't bother me. I was overwhelmed with the nihilism of self hatred and hiding my emotions. It interests me that I never bothered recording the reasons for my moves, if indeed I knew them.
It didn't record my fear when I moved into my flat. A horrible flat in a horrible scheme where I knew no one. My flat with its microwave, fridge, one dining room chair and bed provided by a charity which were my sole furniture when I moved in. Not even a comfortable chair, a table or a cooker. Don't vulnerable people on benefits get so much from a caring government. How things change. It made a brief mention that on my arrival at the building there was police tape everywhere because one of the occupants of the block had murdered another that day in a horrible fashion. I recorded this in passing and never mentioned my terror as I huddled in my second hand bed that night.
It recorded my shock and joy at my exam results. Way better than I or anyone else expected. As one teacher said, 'You're in care, you're never going to get anywhere, it's a waste of time teaching you.' I remember how instantly my future changed when I opened my results envelope and how hard I had to persuade the school that I could stay on and do my Highers. I had to sign a piece of paper saying I'd turn up, not skive off as I had done so much before, and that I would study and work hard. Nobody else had to do this but kids in care aren't trustworthy are they? I think, to be honest, the school hadn't much experience of dealing with a sixteen year old who was living independently, working in the evenings, claiming benefits and continue at school.
It recorded the fact that I saw my elder sister twice that year, and only saw my little sister in passing at school. The care system did their very best to destroy our bond and almost succeeded. It's really since the kids have been born that we've rebuilt a good relationship.
I wrote with great delight of N moving in with me and fear that R, Ns mother, would be furious with us. Who really wants their sixteen year old daughter moving into a council flat in a shitty scheme with her girlfriend? It also records the sacrifices that R made to make our flat comfortable. We never got as far as carpets, for all the time we lived there, there was just a concrete floor covered with broken tiles, but R, who was not at all well off, provided a second hand cooker, washing machine and living room suite. She was so generous to us.
It also recorded the normal teenage nonsense that everyone experiences. Many entries started with 'fell out with X, Y or Z. She's a bitch. I'll never talk to her again.' I can almost picture the stamped foot and nasty teenage bitchiness. Others told me that my life was soooooooo boring and nothing interesting ever happened. Considering how eventful a year it was, I must have had a remarkably low boredom threshold. These entries reminded me strongly of Kevin the teenager and I appreciate them for the normality they express.
So I ripped it up. I will never read it again. I never want to read it again. I never want to reenter the awful emptiness of my emotions then. The overwhelming feeling and reality that nobody wanted me, nobody loved me and I could just be dumped on a crappy scheme and left to rot.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Disability Living Allowance and Cleaning
I realise the two things don't automatically go together but they are both things that have entered my life recently.
In December I decided to attempt to claim disability living allowance because of the mentals. I made an appointment with the citizen's advice and they helped me fill in the form. The form is horrendous. It's about 328342323 pages long and you have to delve into all the awfulness of the madness to complete it. I didn't think I'd get any but I decided to have a punt. I did feel guilty about it because I work full time in a relatively well paid job but I rationalised it that being mad does cost money. I spend money on microwave meals and takeaways because I can't get it together enough to cook. I spend money on hotels when I panic too much to stay in the house overnight and its too cold to sleep in the car. I spend a fortune on therapy which isn't what DLA is supposed to cover but it is a cost related to the madness. The cpn said to expect nothing for mobility and lowest rate for care.
I sent the form off and didn't expect to hear anything for weeks. The next time I saw the cpn she had a form from them to complete and she showed me what she'd written. A week after that she said they had phoned her and she had told them about my self harm and suicidal ideation and my love affair with laybys. She said the woman seemed quite reasonable about the whole thing.
Surprisingly soon, about three weeks later, I received my decision letter. Much to my surprise I had been awarded lower rate for mobility. This was because I have severe panic attacks when I'm out on my own and a lot of the time I need to drag someone with me if I'm going somewhere new. I'm very lucky that my mate D is so obliging and takes me places when I can't cope.
The letter also said that I would not receive any of the personal care element. It said I didn't need help with cooking (bollocks), that I wasn't at risk from harming myself at night (bollocks x three) and that I didn't need help to sleep comfortably. That one made me laugh a lot. I haven't slept comfortably in more than a decade. I self harm almost every night and I have that enviable attraction to laybys.
I spoke about it to the cpn again and she said I should appeal because it was nonsense. I made another appointment at the citizen's advice and they helped me write my appeal. I am capable of doing these things on my own but I convince myself that there is a special secret way of phrasing things that the CAB know and I don't.
A couple of weeks later I got a call from a man at the DWP. He was horrible, really aggressive and patronising. He asked me if I worked and I said I did. He asked me what I did and I told him to which he responded, 'that doesn't seem like the type of job someone with a serious mental illness could do.' Yay how understanding. I tried to explain about the myriad of reasonable adjustments I have in place and the three months I had off sick last year but he didn't seem interested. I did ask why he was asking about work as DLA is an unwork related benefit and he said that he had to ensure I was genuine. I wish I'd been together enough to ask for his name as he was a right arsehole. I also wish he'd seen me when I turned up at D's house crying my eyes out and hyperventilating about five minutes after his call. Unsurprisingly a couple of days later I got a letter saying they'd reviewed my case and were not going to change the decision.
I left it at that and got on with life genuinely grateful for the £20.55 a week my lower rate mobility element gave me. Most of it goes to D to pay for petrol for the many times she's driven me about. Then yesterday I got a scary brown envelop through the door. I opened it and there was a letter saying they had changed the decision and I was now going to get lower rate mobility and highest rate care. I am really pleased that they've changed their minds and confused about the fact that two people can read the same information and make such diametrically opposed decisions.
I also feel very guilty. I manage to work full time (most of the time). I earn a relatively good income, I own my house and car and get by ok. I look at my foster mother who has MS. She is unable to weight bear, stuck in a wheelchair, needs hoisting into bed and onto the loo, is almost blind, can hardly talk and needs fed. Apparently my madness needs the same level of care as she does. This is a bit of a mindfuck to put it mildly. The letter also says I'm a danger to myself and others which freaks me out a bit. There is also a feeling that I'm now an official mental which feels a bit weird. But nonetheless I am very pleased.
As to cleaning. My house was an utter pit. I hadn't cleaned it in years and I had to climb over piles of shite to get round it. I'm so embarrassed by the state of my house that I never let anyone in. Just before Christmas I made a decision and put an ad on gumtree for a cleaner. I was honest, said the house was a tip and asked that someone could help me and motivate me to put it right. I got 84 applications before I pulled the ad because I couldn't cope with the number of responses.
My cleaner started a month ago. My bathroom and kitchen are now completely spotless. As she has cleaned them I have worked on sorting out the living room. Dozens of bags of rubbish have gone to either the tip or the charity shop. My living room is now almost done and next week we'll finish that and move upstairs.
I was dreading doing it. I was really panicky at the thought of it but in reality it hasn't been that bad. I expected to get very emotional about throwing things away but that hasn't happened and I've managed to be relatively pragmatic. I wish I'd made the decision years ago before letting it get to the point it has.
In December I decided to attempt to claim disability living allowance because of the mentals. I made an appointment with the citizen's advice and they helped me fill in the form. The form is horrendous. It's about 328342323 pages long and you have to delve into all the awfulness of the madness to complete it. I didn't think I'd get any but I decided to have a punt. I did feel guilty about it because I work full time in a relatively well paid job but I rationalised it that being mad does cost money. I spend money on microwave meals and takeaways because I can't get it together enough to cook. I spend money on hotels when I panic too much to stay in the house overnight and its too cold to sleep in the car. I spend a fortune on therapy which isn't what DLA is supposed to cover but it is a cost related to the madness. The cpn said to expect nothing for mobility and lowest rate for care.
I sent the form off and didn't expect to hear anything for weeks. The next time I saw the cpn she had a form from them to complete and she showed me what she'd written. A week after that she said they had phoned her and she had told them about my self harm and suicidal ideation and my love affair with laybys. She said the woman seemed quite reasonable about the whole thing.
Surprisingly soon, about three weeks later, I received my decision letter. Much to my surprise I had been awarded lower rate for mobility. This was because I have severe panic attacks when I'm out on my own and a lot of the time I need to drag someone with me if I'm going somewhere new. I'm very lucky that my mate D is so obliging and takes me places when I can't cope.
The letter also said that I would not receive any of the personal care element. It said I didn't need help with cooking (bollocks), that I wasn't at risk from harming myself at night (bollocks x three) and that I didn't need help to sleep comfortably. That one made me laugh a lot. I haven't slept comfortably in more than a decade. I self harm almost every night and I have that enviable attraction to laybys.
I spoke about it to the cpn again and she said I should appeal because it was nonsense. I made another appointment at the citizen's advice and they helped me write my appeal. I am capable of doing these things on my own but I convince myself that there is a special secret way of phrasing things that the CAB know and I don't.
A couple of weeks later I got a call from a man at the DWP. He was horrible, really aggressive and patronising. He asked me if I worked and I said I did. He asked me what I did and I told him to which he responded, 'that doesn't seem like the type of job someone with a serious mental illness could do.' Yay how understanding. I tried to explain about the myriad of reasonable adjustments I have in place and the three months I had off sick last year but he didn't seem interested. I did ask why he was asking about work as DLA is an unwork related benefit and he said that he had to ensure I was genuine. I wish I'd been together enough to ask for his name as he was a right arsehole. I also wish he'd seen me when I turned up at D's house crying my eyes out and hyperventilating about five minutes after his call. Unsurprisingly a couple of days later I got a letter saying they'd reviewed my case and were not going to change the decision.
I left it at that and got on with life genuinely grateful for the £20.55 a week my lower rate mobility element gave me. Most of it goes to D to pay for petrol for the many times she's driven me about. Then yesterday I got a scary brown envelop through the door. I opened it and there was a letter saying they had changed the decision and I was now going to get lower rate mobility and highest rate care. I am really pleased that they've changed their minds and confused about the fact that two people can read the same information and make such diametrically opposed decisions.
I also feel very guilty. I manage to work full time (most of the time). I earn a relatively good income, I own my house and car and get by ok. I look at my foster mother who has MS. She is unable to weight bear, stuck in a wheelchair, needs hoisting into bed and onto the loo, is almost blind, can hardly talk and needs fed. Apparently my madness needs the same level of care as she does. This is a bit of a mindfuck to put it mildly. The letter also says I'm a danger to myself and others which freaks me out a bit. There is also a feeling that I'm now an official mental which feels a bit weird. But nonetheless I am very pleased.
As to cleaning. My house was an utter pit. I hadn't cleaned it in years and I had to climb over piles of shite to get round it. I'm so embarrassed by the state of my house that I never let anyone in. Just before Christmas I made a decision and put an ad on gumtree for a cleaner. I was honest, said the house was a tip and asked that someone could help me and motivate me to put it right. I got 84 applications before I pulled the ad because I couldn't cope with the number of responses.
My cleaner started a month ago. My bathroom and kitchen are now completely spotless. As she has cleaned them I have worked on sorting out the living room. Dozens of bags of rubbish have gone to either the tip or the charity shop. My living room is now almost done and next week we'll finish that and move upstairs.
I was dreading doing it. I was really panicky at the thought of it but in reality it hasn't been that bad. I expected to get very emotional about throwing things away but that hasn't happened and I've managed to be relatively pragmatic. I wish I'd made the decision years ago before letting it get to the point it has.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Escapism
I admit it, I have been abandoning my beloved blog for the last few weeks. This is for two main reasons. First of all I have been doing an online course with the wonderful Coursera which is a social enterprise that offers free short online courses from universities around the world. I have just finished a course on Social Aspects of Mental Health and Illness and it has been excellent. The other reason is not quite so good, I am currently obsessed with watching The Killing box set.
Life goes on as usual. Good days, bad days, mediocre days. The usual spiral of madness circles endlessly. The same endless discussions with the serial killer about the things I have written here so often. The same horrible and distressing emotions. The same memories. The same nightmares.
So sometimes I have to escape from all of this. Some people use television, others alcohol. My escapism of choice is reading. I am an utterly obsessive, determined and wide ranging reader. I will read anything from the most erudite books on theology to the most badly written chicklit. I have to admit crime fiction is a perennial favourite.
Apparently I learned to read very young. I have been told that my sister taught me to read when I was two because she was bored of reading to me. I don't know if that's true or not but that's the family legend. Of the many negative things I have said about my family, one thing I am truly grateful for is the fact that reading was very much encouraged. Reading as a child was not a solitary occupation, my entire family would sit in a room all reading our different books.
As a child I loved anything that was from a different world, a world I could escape into. I have never lost the childish habit of entering fully into a book. When I read, I am the characters, I am facing the decisions they face, experiencing what they experience, feeling what they feel. I hate to be interrupted because then I have to re enter reality which always sucks. I get lost in books. It isn't unknown for me to be surprised when the alarm goes off in the morning because I've been so involved in my book that I haven't gone to sleep.
Reading is more than escapism for me. It is what allowed me to get an education, what allowed me to create a life for myself. Reading helped me to create the social norms that were missing from my life. I could read of what was normal and exist in that and then create it for myself.
I am extremely lucky that the job I do gives me the chance to read a fair amount at work. In quiet periods I can close off from the stress of work and re enter whatever world is sitting in my kindle that day. This is a precious thing.
Books are what give me a glimpse of worlds that are beyond me. Worlds that my anxiety make impossible for me to visit. I will never get in a car and drive across America but I can read of someone else and their experience of this. I will never climb Everest but I have read the books of a number of people who have. I will never be an American communist during the McCarthy era but I can read a novel and experience how the characters experienced it.
A lot of the time what I read is utter drivel. But even then, even though what I'm reading is never going to change the world, never going to alter the principles or ideals of anyone, it is still of huge value. When I am in that world I am not in my own. And not being in my own world is a massive advantage to me. My own world is so often unbearable, others are not. And if others are, I can put the book down and run away. Not so easy to do in your own world.
So I read incessantly, I read quickly and I read voraciously. And I am truly grateful that most of the time the madness allows me the concentration to do so. Without books I would have to be in reality all the time and that would be unbearable.
Life goes on as usual. Good days, bad days, mediocre days. The usual spiral of madness circles endlessly. The same endless discussions with the serial killer about the things I have written here so often. The same horrible and distressing emotions. The same memories. The same nightmares.
So sometimes I have to escape from all of this. Some people use television, others alcohol. My escapism of choice is reading. I am an utterly obsessive, determined and wide ranging reader. I will read anything from the most erudite books on theology to the most badly written chicklit. I have to admit crime fiction is a perennial favourite.
Apparently I learned to read very young. I have been told that my sister taught me to read when I was two because she was bored of reading to me. I don't know if that's true or not but that's the family legend. Of the many negative things I have said about my family, one thing I am truly grateful for is the fact that reading was very much encouraged. Reading as a child was not a solitary occupation, my entire family would sit in a room all reading our different books.
As a child I loved anything that was from a different world, a world I could escape into. I have never lost the childish habit of entering fully into a book. When I read, I am the characters, I am facing the decisions they face, experiencing what they experience, feeling what they feel. I hate to be interrupted because then I have to re enter reality which always sucks. I get lost in books. It isn't unknown for me to be surprised when the alarm goes off in the morning because I've been so involved in my book that I haven't gone to sleep.
Reading is more than escapism for me. It is what allowed me to get an education, what allowed me to create a life for myself. Reading helped me to create the social norms that were missing from my life. I could read of what was normal and exist in that and then create it for myself.
I am extremely lucky that the job I do gives me the chance to read a fair amount at work. In quiet periods I can close off from the stress of work and re enter whatever world is sitting in my kindle that day. This is a precious thing.
Books are what give me a glimpse of worlds that are beyond me. Worlds that my anxiety make impossible for me to visit. I will never get in a car and drive across America but I can read of someone else and their experience of this. I will never climb Everest but I have read the books of a number of people who have. I will never be an American communist during the McCarthy era but I can read a novel and experience how the characters experienced it.
A lot of the time what I read is utter drivel. But even then, even though what I'm reading is never going to change the world, never going to alter the principles or ideals of anyone, it is still of huge value. When I am in that world I am not in my own. And not being in my own world is a massive advantage to me. My own world is so often unbearable, others are not. And if others are, I can put the book down and run away. Not so easy to do in your own world.
So I read incessantly, I read quickly and I read voraciously. And I am truly grateful that most of the time the madness allows me the concentration to do so. Without books I would have to be in reality all the time and that would be unbearable.
Monday, February 04, 2013
Kindness
A couple of weeks ago I had a melt down at work and went home. Later on my line manager emailed me about something else. I replied, thanking her for her kindness earlier. Her reply to this was, 'Human beings are kind generally - nothing special about me being kind.'
This made me think. I would like to believe that human beings are in general kind but this has not been my experience. If people are, on the whole, kind then why does kindness stand out so much when it occurs? Is kindness really the default position of humanity?
I remember a session I had with the serial killer a couple of years ago. I don't think I've written about it before but it was a significant turning point in our relationship. I can't actually remember what we were discussing (I rarely remember what we discuss, I have some sort of safety forgetting thing going on). But then I asked her, 'do you want to hit me?' She seemed horrified at the idea and said no. This was the first time that I had realised that she didn't want to hurt me. It seemed to change the whole world on it's axis.
At that time I was still seeing JC, my case worker. I asked her at my next appointment if she wanted to hit me. She was very perplexed at the idea. It seemed to distress her that I would think that. I also asked Fr S and he was honest and said that sometimes he got frustrated with the way I thought but he never, ever wanted to hurt or harm me in any way.
I presume that people are going to hurt me until proved otherwise. It takes a very long time for me to believe that they will not. Only very few people fall into the category of safe and it takes a long time and a lot of trust for that to happen. I don't believe people will be kind to me, for me kindness is something that is only there to cover up the inevitable screwing over that will occur.
Maybe that's why I'm so cynical - I think the whole world is out to get me. When written down that seems incredibly paranoid but my early experience was that people were out to get me, hurt me and screw me over. I see my nephew and niece completely trusting the world - people in their world are kind. They love them and they are secure in that. I am extremely jealous of this as it isn't anything I've ever experienced.
Do I believe that people in general are kind? No I don't. If people were, then individual acts of kindness like those of my line manager would not stand out so much. But I think that people are generally better than I imagine them to be. I think my early conditioning has led me to be far too cynical about the world. Maybe I should give humanity more credit.
This made me think. I would like to believe that human beings are in general kind but this has not been my experience. If people are, on the whole, kind then why does kindness stand out so much when it occurs? Is kindness really the default position of humanity?
I remember a session I had with the serial killer a couple of years ago. I don't think I've written about it before but it was a significant turning point in our relationship. I can't actually remember what we were discussing (I rarely remember what we discuss, I have some sort of safety forgetting thing going on). But then I asked her, 'do you want to hit me?' She seemed horrified at the idea and said no. This was the first time that I had realised that she didn't want to hurt me. It seemed to change the whole world on it's axis.
At that time I was still seeing JC, my case worker. I asked her at my next appointment if she wanted to hit me. She was very perplexed at the idea. It seemed to distress her that I would think that. I also asked Fr S and he was honest and said that sometimes he got frustrated with the way I thought but he never, ever wanted to hurt or harm me in any way.
I presume that people are going to hurt me until proved otherwise. It takes a very long time for me to believe that they will not. Only very few people fall into the category of safe and it takes a long time and a lot of trust for that to happen. I don't believe people will be kind to me, for me kindness is something that is only there to cover up the inevitable screwing over that will occur.
Maybe that's why I'm so cynical - I think the whole world is out to get me. When written down that seems incredibly paranoid but my early experience was that people were out to get me, hurt me and screw me over. I see my nephew and niece completely trusting the world - people in their world are kind. They love them and they are secure in that. I am extremely jealous of this as it isn't anything I've ever experienced.
Do I believe that people in general are kind? No I don't. If people were, then individual acts of kindness like those of my line manager would not stand out so much. But I think that people are generally better than I imagine them to be. I think my early conditioning has led me to be far too cynical about the world. Maybe I should give humanity more credit.
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