It's been over a month now. My fibro flare-up seems to have ended, and all the bruises are long gone. My tooth is nearly back to normal (it's not wobbly any more and only feels a little odd when pressure is put on it, and I don't taste blood in my mouth often any more). My mood is pretty stable, comparatively. I'm far from sane, but I'm about as good as I've gotten in quite a while. I think it's only been a few days though, I'm not sure. I know my mood's been low and high at various points over the past month, so I haven't stopped swinging or anything, but I am at least getting some relatively moderate periods, and on the whole I've been better than I was. I've been unmedicated for this past month, and I'm still undecided about what to do about that. Given I tried to kill myself it seems sensible to try upping my meds, but given I've been the same or better since coming off them I can't help wondering if I should stay off. On the other hand, my moods are still swinging, and sooner or later I'm likely to drop back down badly again. It might be sensible to go back on meds now and start ramping them up. I was on a potentially sub-therapeutic dose before, only 300mg carbamazepine daily, when the normal lower end for bipolar disorder is 400mg I believe, so it might be worth going back onto them but at a higher dose. I'm nervous of doing anything that could affect my mood while I'm doing better though. I know I should go see my doctor and let her have some say in this, and I do need to go back, but I'm nervous of going without knowing what I want to happen.
It might sound silly, but I'm nervous of going back now I'm doing better in case she doesn't believe how bad it was. It would have been best if I could have gone back right after, when I was so obviously a mess, but I couldn't cope with it then. It's how it pretty much always works, I can't cope with seeing a doctor at the time when I probably most need to, so they never really get how bad it is.
Sunday 22 July 2012
Saturday 21 July 2012
My friend has been to Mind for me, and she's arranging a meeting for me with them at the beginning of next week. They might be able to help get the fee for obtaining my notes down, and they can help me make my complaint. I need to bring notes on what happened. Which means going back through the posts I wrote on here and writing a concise version. I'm kind of nervous about it, because I know reading it all through again is likely to put me in a bad place, mentally. But it needs doing, and better to do it while I'm in a relatively stable place than have to try to do it once my mood's really low again. Probably best to leave it for tonight though. Do it tomorrow or Sunday, in the afternoon, I guess.
My mood's in a melancholy sort of place at the moment. I've been relatively stable lately, compared to how bad it gets, but sometimes I just feel very down and lonely, but in a peaceful sort of way. Not a desperate angry despairing down, just a deep sad wish for something more, for my life to be better, for life to be better, to be not broken, to be not alone, to have some idea of how to pass my life in a way that will have meaning for me. To be not crazy.
Sometimes I feel like I accidentally fell off my life and I don't know how to get back on.
My mood's in a melancholy sort of place at the moment. I've been relatively stable lately, compared to how bad it gets, but sometimes I just feel very down and lonely, but in a peaceful sort of way. Not a desperate angry despairing down, just a deep sad wish for something more, for my life to be better, for life to be better, to be not broken, to be not alone, to have some idea of how to pass my life in a way that will have meaning for me. To be not crazy.
Sometimes I feel like I accidentally fell off my life and I don't know how to get back on.
Friday 20 July 2012
The Blue Room
When I was about
seven or so I moved upstairs, away from the yellow room with my
little sister. My parents let me pick the carpet and the colour for
the walls and I chose robin egg blue for both. They took out the top
bunk bed, and put a skylight in, and I picked the blinds – white
with a pale green grapevine pattern that made me think of the grapes
in the tiny raised swimming pool at nanny and granddad's. In summer
we would sometimes bring an inflatable boat and row the two strokes
from one end to the other and back again, and the sun filtered
through the roof and the vines and our voices echoed in the small
space.
They took the top bunk out when I moved in, but the steps remained – wooden sides painted a thick white, and carpeted steps up to the top of the shelves. There were two shelves and a hollowed out upside down triangle cubby hole that I filled with stuffed animals. The shelves were thick and wooden and white as well, more part of the wall than furniture – they'd been constructed out of the space where a false wall had been, and made thick enough to match, and several feet deep, so I could crawl onto them, high up in the corner of my room, if I wanted. To start with I did, they were part of my playspace, although it hurt my head when I bumped it on the artex ceiling. I hated that spiky texture and became weirdly afraid of it – I hated to touch it at all, and it had a sense of evil to me that in retrospect seems an odd quality for a ceiling to have. After a while I converted the top shelf into a museum, placed all my treasures there and arranged them into sections and labelled them. I loved science and history back then, loved the long latin words and the ordered sections and sub-sections, the stories and explanations, the history. Age was magic to me, anything older than I was was an artefact, a relic, it had weight and importance. I loved the hidden backgrounds behind everything, the idea that any stone or shell I might find had a story, it had a name and relatives and a derivation. I looked for fossils everywhere. The carpark by the lake where we fed the ducks had slate shingle that occasionally offered up a tiny fossil, and every time we parked there I would dawdle and examine them for treasure.
Beneath the steps was a little alcove where I put the books I was in the middle of reading, where they could easily be picked up and discarded from bed. I frequently had five or six books on the og at the same time, and books I'd recently finished would pile up there as well, waiting for me to return them to the bookcase. I kept Growler there too. He was the teddy bear my nanny gave me as a birth present, that growled when you tipped him on his belly. His fur was coarse and rough now, bare in places, and he'd become misshapen from years of hugging, but he was my most treasured possession. I used to pretend he was my twin, in my mind he came into existence the day I was born, so he had to be my twin. I read a lot of stories with twins in, and I wanted one. A twin was someone closer to you than anyone, that would always be close to you, that understood you and you understood them. With a twin you could never be alone. I talked to Growler in my mind as well as aloud – it didn't make much difference. I knew he wasn't really alive but somehow it felt like blasphemy to acknowledge it, and I treated him with respect and care – I couldn't leave him facedown because how would he breathe? I would acknowledge to myself that I knew he didn't breathe, but it was somehow sacrosanct, a little pretence that was important to maintain. I told Growler everything, and when I felt sad sometimes I would put my face into his fur and breathe deeply, because he somehow still smelled of my Nanny's house. I know he couldn't possibly have really done so, he probably wasn't even in their house for more than a couple of weeks at most, and he'd been in my possession for years. But somehow the smell of Growler was the smell of my Nanny's house to me, so potently, and I saved it for when I needed it. I was afraid I could use it up if I sniffed it too much, that the smell would go away and I would lose that last connection to my (now dead) Nanny.
I remember after my dad hit me and I was allowed to go to my room to cry, P would follow shortly after, and check where he'd hit me – usually the bum – to see how bad the mark was. It never bruised, but for several minutes afterwards there would be a bright red handprint wherever he'd smacked me. It was a kind of ritual, and I had this impression that there was a line, some measure of how bad it was that legally he wasn't allowed to cross, how long the mark was allowed to last, or how bad it was allowed to be, and that was what P was looking for. Patiently waiting for evidence that he'd gone too far and we could do something. And she would hug me. And sometimes she'd tell me off for whatever I'd done and sometimes she'd have sympathy, but either way I'd know he shouldn't have hit me, and that was why she was there. So I'd know it wasn't okay.
They took the top bunk out when I moved in, but the steps remained – wooden sides painted a thick white, and carpeted steps up to the top of the shelves. There were two shelves and a hollowed out upside down triangle cubby hole that I filled with stuffed animals. The shelves were thick and wooden and white as well, more part of the wall than furniture – they'd been constructed out of the space where a false wall had been, and made thick enough to match, and several feet deep, so I could crawl onto them, high up in the corner of my room, if I wanted. To start with I did, they were part of my playspace, although it hurt my head when I bumped it on the artex ceiling. I hated that spiky texture and became weirdly afraid of it – I hated to touch it at all, and it had a sense of evil to me that in retrospect seems an odd quality for a ceiling to have. After a while I converted the top shelf into a museum, placed all my treasures there and arranged them into sections and labelled them. I loved science and history back then, loved the long latin words and the ordered sections and sub-sections, the stories and explanations, the history. Age was magic to me, anything older than I was was an artefact, a relic, it had weight and importance. I loved the hidden backgrounds behind everything, the idea that any stone or shell I might find had a story, it had a name and relatives and a derivation. I looked for fossils everywhere. The carpark by the lake where we fed the ducks had slate shingle that occasionally offered up a tiny fossil, and every time we parked there I would dawdle and examine them for treasure.
Beneath the steps was a little alcove where I put the books I was in the middle of reading, where they could easily be picked up and discarded from bed. I frequently had five or six books on the og at the same time, and books I'd recently finished would pile up there as well, waiting for me to return them to the bookcase. I kept Growler there too. He was the teddy bear my nanny gave me as a birth present, that growled when you tipped him on his belly. His fur was coarse and rough now, bare in places, and he'd become misshapen from years of hugging, but he was my most treasured possession. I used to pretend he was my twin, in my mind he came into existence the day I was born, so he had to be my twin. I read a lot of stories with twins in, and I wanted one. A twin was someone closer to you than anyone, that would always be close to you, that understood you and you understood them. With a twin you could never be alone. I talked to Growler in my mind as well as aloud – it didn't make much difference. I knew he wasn't really alive but somehow it felt like blasphemy to acknowledge it, and I treated him with respect and care – I couldn't leave him facedown because how would he breathe? I would acknowledge to myself that I knew he didn't breathe, but it was somehow sacrosanct, a little pretence that was important to maintain. I told Growler everything, and when I felt sad sometimes I would put my face into his fur and breathe deeply, because he somehow still smelled of my Nanny's house. I know he couldn't possibly have really done so, he probably wasn't even in their house for more than a couple of weeks at most, and he'd been in my possession for years. But somehow the smell of Growler was the smell of my Nanny's house to me, so potently, and I saved it for when I needed it. I was afraid I could use it up if I sniffed it too much, that the smell would go away and I would lose that last connection to my (now dead) Nanny.
I remember after my dad hit me and I was allowed to go to my room to cry, P would follow shortly after, and check where he'd hit me – usually the bum – to see how bad the mark was. It never bruised, but for several minutes afterwards there would be a bright red handprint wherever he'd smacked me. It was a kind of ritual, and I had this impression that there was a line, some measure of how bad it was that legally he wasn't allowed to cross, how long the mark was allowed to last, or how bad it was allowed to be, and that was what P was looking for. Patiently waiting for evidence that he'd gone too far and we could do something. And she would hug me. And sometimes she'd tell me off for whatever I'd done and sometimes she'd have sympathy, but either way I'd know he shouldn't have hit me, and that was why she was there. So I'd know it wasn't okay.
I remember her coming into my room, years later, right before I moved to the orange room. She was at college by then, and she'd been to the Citizen's Advice Bureau to find out if she could take me and S with her if she left home, if we agreed to come. She wanted to know if I would want to. I think I said yes. I remember telling her I hated our parents, and her being surprised. She told me she hated dad, but not mum. And I felt guilty, because I didn't really hate mum either, and I wasn't sure why I'd said it, but didn't feel like I could take it back, because then she'd think I'd just said it to impress her. Maybe I had, a little. Not consciously. But I was angry and hurting, and I did hate dad, and I was angry at mum because she didn't stop him, and I wanted P to know I was on her side. I wanted out, and I wanted her to think I was grown up enough to make that decision. She didn't want to push me into it at all. I remember she seemed surprised that I felt able to say it already, that I hated him, and she said something about how at my age she'd still been confused about it all, it had taken her a long time to realize she hated him. She seemed impressed that I had already figured it out.
It never happened, of course. Whatever the latest crisis was settled down, and P left for university and I stayed until it was my turn to go. He stopped hitting me not long after I moved to the yellow room (although he didn't stop threatening me).
I remember the day I realized it could end. My mother was in hospital – I don't remember what for this time, she had all sorts of medical problems. I think it might have been for her bladder this time, I remember her carrying around a catheter bag. We were all there I think, although I don't remember S. There was some kind of row, I think dad was mean to mum, and A and P took mum's side. And my dad threatened to hit them, and they told him if he laid a finger on them they were calling the police, that they were over 16 now and so it was assault. And he didn't hit them. There was bluster and shouting and we went back to the car. And I remember looking at them and realizing they had power now, they could stop him hitting them. And so when I was 16 I would get the same power.
My dad hit me less once I was in secondary school. It still happened sometimes, I remember my best friend coming over once, and me her and my dad were messing around with a ball, and me and dad both went for the ball at the same time and our heads collided. It was an accident, but my dad's immediate reaction was to blame me, so he hit me. And then we stopped playing with the ball, and my friend looked really uncomfortable. After that she didn't come round again, and told me it was because my dad scared her. I was mad at him for that, but I preferred going to her house anyway, so we did that instead.
I don't know why I focus on the hitting all the time when I talk about my dad being abusive. It was only one part of it, he didn't even hit us that hard really, and it was mostly just on the arse. Sometimes he'd hit us round the head, but mum didn't like it when he did that, she thought we were going to get brain damage or something. I'm fuzzy on the details, I just remember that there was some medical reason she didn't think he should hit us round the head.
It was more the fear. The hitting us was more of a warning, that he could always hit harder. He was a big man, an athlete, although he got pretty fat for a lot of my childhood as well. I have always been terrified of my father. It used to be a protective kind of fear as well, knowledge that he could always protect us, because no one could ever be bigger or scarier than our dad. But mostly it was just fear of him, knowledge that no one could ever protect us from him, either, because no one could ever be bigger or scarier than our dad.
I remember when I was little – I must have been about five or six, I was walking to school with my mum and we were going to the front entrance, which means Reception or Year 1 – realizing that I must be a bad girl. Getting hit was a common occurrence when I was in first school – I remember figuring out that it happened about once a day, but I don't know how accurate that is, my memory has always been dreadful, and I could well have been extrapolating from a particularly bad week. I just don't know. But it was common. And I knew that I only got hit if I was naughty. So I must be naughty a lot. But I didn't mean to be naughty. I didn't remember ever deciding to be naughty. I realized that I was just a bad person fundamentally. I must deserve it, or they wouldn't do it. I didn't have friends at school, and my sisters told me all the time how I was an annoying little brat, and my parents hit me all the time because I was naughty. I must just be a bad person. A pathetic, annoying little shit.
Later on I would challenge the assumption that I deserved it. I became aware it was maybe not okay, but at the same time I think that underlying knowledge that I basically suck has lingered and festered and swells up every time I get depressed. I still often feel grateful and surprised that people actually like me, and I still often expect them to change their mind once they actually get to know me. It's better than it was, I think. Having some friends that have stuck around for years has helped a lot. But that sneaky voice still turns up whenever I'm crazy, telling me I'm disgusting and pathetic and Bad. That I'm a failure and I always will be. That no one could possibly like me if they really knew who I was. I've worked hard on fighting that voice, and I think for a while I was winning, before everything went to shit again. I often think I'm beating it and then I find it underlying things that I didn't even realize were there. Maybe I'm making progress again though.
Saturday 14 July 2012
So apparently they can charge me fifty fucking pounds to give me a copy of my medical records from a one day visit to hospital within the past month. Fucking great. I DON'T HAVE FIFTY FUCKING QUID. The letter says I can go in and view my records free, but I don't know whether I'm allowed to make copies myself or what. Not to mention I'm somewhat terrified of going in myself because I don't want to meet any of the people involved in my care. I'm scared of going back to the fucking hospital at all. Partly 'cause of my memory gaps, so I won't know if anyone I'm talking to was someone that was there. It's hard to explain why but that makes me feel horrifically vulnerable and exposed and weird.
So I don't know what I'm going to do now.
So I don't know what I'm going to do now.
Wednesday 11 July 2012
Things are going rapidly downhill. Today I woke up and just started crying for no real reason. Well, no reason and every reason. Everything is just suddenly terrible and I'm a shit person and I've lost so many people and it's all my fault and I miss them so much. Everything I thought about just made me cry harder. I think the thing that tipped me over into tears in the first place was thinking of my sister. My mum had to tell me a couple of days ago that she can't give me my own sister's address, because she doesn't think she'd want me to have it. I don't even like my sister and I don't expect her to like me but she's still my fucking sister and I miss her and I love her and I kind of always thought it was would be the same for her but apparently instead she gave up and decided not to bother having any kind of relationship with me at all. And now I'm crying again. And thinking of her made me think of the other people I've lost.
I've been crazy for much of the past few days. Yesterday my anxiety got really bad in the evening, really suddenly, and it kind of turned into depression and everything became terrible and wrong and messed up and I was disconnected from everyone.
I'm scared because I don't want to go crazy again. My head feels all tangled again and like everything is wrong and I can't fix it. And I'm scared because I don't want to get back to where I was, where the only option was to kill myself. I'm really really scared of that. Not of the killing myself part, but of feeling that bad, and that isolated and full of despair. I don't want to be there again.
I knew my mood was going to drop again, I know this is how it goes, up down up down up down I KNOW but I guess I still get caught up in feeling happy and start thinking maybe it will last this time. So fucking stupid. So I had my week or two (I really don't know how long it was :/ It feels like everything after a day or two just fades away and there are patches of memories, knowledge of things that happened here and there, but I don't know when or what connects them and it all feels very far away.) of being able to do things and think vaguely clearly and now it's being taken away again.
I've been crazy for much of the past few days. Yesterday my anxiety got really bad in the evening, really suddenly, and it kind of turned into depression and everything became terrible and wrong and messed up and I was disconnected from everyone.
I'm scared because I don't want to go crazy again. My head feels all tangled again and like everything is wrong and I can't fix it. And I'm scared because I don't want to get back to where I was, where the only option was to kill myself. I'm really really scared of that. Not of the killing myself part, but of feeling that bad, and that isolated and full of despair. I don't want to be there again.
I knew my mood was going to drop again, I know this is how it goes, up down up down up down I KNOW but I guess I still get caught up in feeling happy and start thinking maybe it will last this time. So fucking stupid. So I had my week or two (I really don't know how long it was :/ It feels like everything after a day or two just fades away and there are patches of memories, knowledge of things that happened here and there, but I don't know when or what connects them and it all feels very far away.) of being able to do things and think vaguely clearly and now it's being taken away again.
Sunday 8 July 2012
TWIM
Feel strange about my blog being mentioned on This Week In Mentalists. I was hoping it would be, because I would like if people read this and commented and things, although didn't really think it would be - there are a lot of awesome blogs out there and, well, I ramble a lot so I'm not entirely convinced anyone's going to be interested in making it through all the shite I write on here. :P I've been trying to stop lurking and start actually commenting on the blogs I read, too, try to actually get involved instead of just kind of watching. But I also feel weird knowing that there are people out there I don't know reading this now. Mostly good, but weird. If anyone is reading this please please feel free to comment and say hi and stuff. *waves*
Anxious
I'm feeling kind of anxious today, and was for much of the night. I think the situation with my ex is what triggered it. I haven't been having trouble with anxiety much lately at all, up until last night. Very long story short he's upset because I'm with someone else now, even though it was about 7 months ago we split up and we were only together a few months (although they were admittedly a very intense few months that were the result of having had feelings for each other for years), and he doesn't want to be with me anyway (in his words, L is welcome to me - said with vehemence). He told me in person and then messaged me further online afterwards. I told him I was sorry he was hurting and I hoped it would get better and I didn't really know what else to say. Apparently this was me 'acting like we never even fucking knew each other' and he decided 'fuck this noise' and went to bed. I got apologies by FB message this morning. This wouldn't be such a big deal if this wasn't such a familiar pattern. Him doing this, being hurt and angry and lashing out at me and then apologising the next day, repeatedly, was one of the reasons I ended up cutting off all contact with him for 6 months. We recently tentatively started trying to be friends again, and things were going well, aaaaand now this.
And then in my sleep-deprived anxious state last night I started worrying about everyone else I might have somehow hurt with this. I kept trying to remind myself I have no reason to feel guilty. No one else wants a relationship with me (to my knowledge) so I'm not rejecting anyone by doing this (not that I should feel guilty for that anyway, you can't choose who you like, but this is crazybrain we're dealing with), I have been single for 7 months so neither of my exes have a reason to feel like I'm being inconsiderate, there's been a good gap, we've told people pretty much immediately as soon as it happened, I even told one ex (the one that freaked) in person first before we announced it on FB so he wouldn't find out via the internet. There is no reason I should be feeling guilty. I like a boy, he likes me, no one is getting hurt. And I had just been feeling smiley and happy about it all. And then after W last night I felt crappy and stressed about him hurting over it and just started thinking of all these reasons people might be upset or hurt by it, that my other ex who I was getting on really well with last night might be hurt, that maybe it's really bad timing, that he was trying to reach out for us to be friends again and now doing this will make things weird and awkward, that he'll be upset I didn't tell him in person before announcing it on FB, there are people I'm worried will be hurt I didn't tell them personally or warn them it was going to happen (even though I'm not bloody psychic, I didn't *know* it was going to happen, nor do I have some kind of obligation to inform them), that the guy that was my play partner will be upset because I'll have to take him off my fetlife relationships section, even though we haven't played in over 6 months cause he left town and we just kind of left it up cause we figured we might play again if we were ever in the same place so what does it matter?, that my friend I slept with a few times last year will be upset because he'd still like to sleep with me (even though we're not sleeping together atm anyway so me being with someone else doesn't change anything) that my sister will be weirded out by it because he's younger than she is, that people will judge me because of the age gap or that I'll end up hurting him somehow that I'll go off him suddenly after leading him on and end up breaking it off and making him feel crappy or saddling him with some kind of insecurity or neurosis or ARGHHHHH. My brain just wouldn't shut up all night. I kept trying to think about other things, kept reminding myself this is all silly and I have no reason to feel guilty, that I'm not doing anything wrong, but it just kept running back down the same tracks over and over and over. I wouldn't even realize I was thinking about it until I realized how stressed I was feeling - I was in that half-asleep state where you can't really control your thoughts, they just kind of slip around and drop in and out of things, rather than following a coherent train, and so I just had this barrage of stress and accusations pounding away at me no matter which way I turned.
I'm feeling better today, I don't believe any of those things, I don't think I have any reason to feel guilty, and I don't really think anyone other than W is going to be hurt by this, and if they are then it's not my fault or my problem, and anyone who wants me to feel guilty for having a relationship with someone I like (given we're both available and have no obligations to anyone else) is not someone whose opinion I should be caring about anyway. But the anxious feeling in my chest seems to be lingering. It's not really bad, it's not up to stabby chest pain levels, it's just kind of like a fist around my heart squeezing firmly all the time.
It's also making me avoid things. L said to text him when I wake up and he'll head over, and I want to see him, and I'm feeling smiley about the thought of seeing him, but I don't feel capable of facing the day yet, of dealing with people and making decisions and things. I need to ring my parents, urgently, and we need to make plans for tonight - might be meeting up with another friend and watching musicals this evening - and I just feel... unready. For life. And people. And so I've been putting off texting him because I'm not ready for today to start yet. Even though I've been awake since 9am.
In fairness I'm also tired - was up until 6am by accident. And then slept badly due to anxiety, and woke up early at 9 and couldn't get back to sleep. That's probably not helping with my levels of cope.
On the plus side, I'm not depressed. Just anxious :) Anxiety is vastly vastly preferable to depression, at least for me.
L just came on FB. Easier to message on there than text somehow. He's heading round after lunch :) Still feeling anxious and scared of the day starting but glad that the decision's been made now.
And then in my sleep-deprived anxious state last night I started worrying about everyone else I might have somehow hurt with this. I kept trying to remind myself I have no reason to feel guilty. No one else wants a relationship with me (to my knowledge) so I'm not rejecting anyone by doing this (not that I should feel guilty for that anyway, you can't choose who you like, but this is crazybrain we're dealing with), I have been single for 7 months so neither of my exes have a reason to feel like I'm being inconsiderate, there's been a good gap, we've told people pretty much immediately as soon as it happened, I even told one ex (the one that freaked) in person first before we announced it on FB so he wouldn't find out via the internet. There is no reason I should be feeling guilty. I like a boy, he likes me, no one is getting hurt. And I had just been feeling smiley and happy about it all. And then after W last night I felt crappy and stressed about him hurting over it and just started thinking of all these reasons people might be upset or hurt by it, that my other ex who I was getting on really well with last night might be hurt, that maybe it's really bad timing, that he was trying to reach out for us to be friends again and now doing this will make things weird and awkward, that he'll be upset I didn't tell him in person before announcing it on FB, there are people I'm worried will be hurt I didn't tell them personally or warn them it was going to happen (even though I'm not bloody psychic, I didn't *know* it was going to happen, nor do I have some kind of obligation to inform them), that the guy that was my play partner will be upset because I'll have to take him off my fetlife relationships section, even though we haven't played in over 6 months cause he left town and we just kind of left it up cause we figured we might play again if we were ever in the same place so what does it matter?, that my friend I slept with a few times last year will be upset because he'd still like to sleep with me (even though we're not sleeping together atm anyway so me being with someone else doesn't change anything) that my sister will be weirded out by it because he's younger than she is, that people will judge me because of the age gap or that I'll end up hurting him somehow that I'll go off him suddenly after leading him on and end up breaking it off and making him feel crappy or saddling him with some kind of insecurity or neurosis or ARGHHHHH. My brain just wouldn't shut up all night. I kept trying to think about other things, kept reminding myself this is all silly and I have no reason to feel guilty, that I'm not doing anything wrong, but it just kept running back down the same tracks over and over and over. I wouldn't even realize I was thinking about it until I realized how stressed I was feeling - I was in that half-asleep state where you can't really control your thoughts, they just kind of slip around and drop in and out of things, rather than following a coherent train, and so I just had this barrage of stress and accusations pounding away at me no matter which way I turned.
I'm feeling better today, I don't believe any of those things, I don't think I have any reason to feel guilty, and I don't really think anyone other than W is going to be hurt by this, and if they are then it's not my fault or my problem, and anyone who wants me to feel guilty for having a relationship with someone I like (given we're both available and have no obligations to anyone else) is not someone whose opinion I should be caring about anyway. But the anxious feeling in my chest seems to be lingering. It's not really bad, it's not up to stabby chest pain levels, it's just kind of like a fist around my heart squeezing firmly all the time.
It's also making me avoid things. L said to text him when I wake up and he'll head over, and I want to see him, and I'm feeling smiley about the thought of seeing him, but I don't feel capable of facing the day yet, of dealing with people and making decisions and things. I need to ring my parents, urgently, and we need to make plans for tonight - might be meeting up with another friend and watching musicals this evening - and I just feel... unready. For life. And people. And so I've been putting off texting him because I'm not ready for today to start yet. Even though I've been awake since 9am.
In fairness I'm also tired - was up until 6am by accident. And then slept badly due to anxiety, and woke up early at 9 and couldn't get back to sleep. That's probably not helping with my levels of cope.
On the plus side, I'm not depressed. Just anxious :) Anxiety is vastly vastly preferable to depression, at least for me.
L just came on FB. Easier to message on there than text somehow. He's heading round after lunch :) Still feeling anxious and scared of the day starting but glad that the decision's been made now.
ESA evidence
Thought - I'm on ESA, I've had my medical assessment and am currently waiting to hear back on the decision. Does me trying to kill myself count as a change of circumstances/evidence of the severity of my illness that I should tell them about? Or is it too late now to provide further evidence, and I should wait and just use it in my appeal if they find me fit for work? I'm guessing the latter?
Although given the hospital said I was faking I guess it could work against me, if they asked for my records off the hospital or anything. Maybe best not mention it. Bah. I don't know.
Although given the hospital said I was faking I guess it could work against me, if they asked for my records off the hospital or anything. Maybe best not mention it. Bah. I don't know.
Managed to make myself go out. Had a nasty panic attack at one point, still not sure why. Two of my exes were out, which could be why I guess - I felt okay about it consciously, but it did add to stress levels so maybe that was what was up. Whatever it was I was ordering drinks in Varsity when suddenly I found my chest was tight and I had really bad stabbing chest pain and felt panicked. I tried to ignore it and joined people and tried to make conversation but the pain was really bad and I felt really panicky so I escaped to the loo and focussed on my breathing and tried to calm myself down. It took a while but I managed to get the pain and panic down to manageable levels and went back out and it gradually got better as the night went on. Ended up having quite a nice time, at least until drama with one of the exes happened. That upset me rather a lot. The night ended nicely though, cuddles with my boyfriend, and we announced our relationship on FB.
Saturday 7 July 2012
:/
I've been looking forward to tonight all week and now I just can't face it. I have to go, it's my chance to see some friends that live on another continent normally and I've no idea when I'll see them again. But I'm just feeling crappy. I'm physically feeling shit, I'm in a lot of pain and exhausted still. I slept 17 hours last night, but I'm still feeling tired. It's been a long week. And I'm still on my period, which always makes everything worse. And mentally I'm feeling... wobbly. I think getting the letter through from my doctor this morning just brought everything up again. I'm feeling anxious, and just kind of... upset? Kind of broken. This week has been about focussing on being productive and sorting things and planning things and putting things back together and getting on track yaddda yadda yadda and I feel like I've just been hit with the unavoidable awareness that I am still completely fucked in the head and broken and crazy I have so many issues to resolve and I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF THREE WEEKS AGO.
Aside:
I got some pork chops off a friend a few weeks ago cause he was emptying his freezer. I'm not normally a fan of pork, but I need food and they were free and last time I tried pork it wasn't *vile* so I thought it would be okay. I made sure I was starving when I cooked them, 'cause that makes everything taste nicer. I found them kinda dry so I put some chutney on them as it was all I had. I made it through the first one and started on the second but found it just tasted worse and worse until I felt kind of ill so had to stop.
Since then every time I think of them I feel physically sick and sometimes my gorge rises. Writing this has been astoundingly difficult. The reason I'm bringing it up is I wasn't sure why I was having such a strong reaction to it, and then just now I was checking my facebook to check the date of something and found the day I ate them was the day of my overdose. Am wondering if it was the eating that was the problem or the vomiting it back up later perhaps - I've had this once before, there was a meal I used to like until one day I had a tummy bug after and vomited it up and after that I felt sick every time I thought of it. Brains are weird. Okay gonna go think of something else because this is making me feel seriously sick.
Aside:
I got some pork chops off a friend a few weeks ago cause he was emptying his freezer. I'm not normally a fan of pork, but I need food and they were free and last time I tried pork it wasn't *vile* so I thought it would be okay. I made sure I was starving when I cooked them, 'cause that makes everything taste nicer. I found them kinda dry so I put some chutney on them as it was all I had. I made it through the first one and started on the second but found it just tasted worse and worse until I felt kind of ill so had to stop.
Since then every time I think of them I feel physically sick and sometimes my gorge rises. Writing this has been astoundingly difficult. The reason I'm bringing it up is I wasn't sure why I was having such a strong reaction to it, and then just now I was checking my facebook to check the date of something and found the day I ate them was the day of my overdose. Am wondering if it was the eating that was the problem or the vomiting it back up later perhaps - I've had this once before, there was a meal I used to like until one day I had a tummy bug after and vomited it up and after that I felt sick every time I thought of it. Brains are weird. Okay gonna go think of something else because this is making me feel seriously sick.
Three weeks ago tonight I tried to kill myself. Got a letter in the post today asking me to make a follow-up appointment with the doctor/nurse at my surgery. It doesn't specify why but I'm assuming it's cause of that. I suppose I should feel glad they got in touch eventually. Instead it just seems to have made me more angry. I don't know if it's fair to be feeling this angry at the doctors, it's not their fault I'm ill, it's not their fault I tried to kill myself, and I could have reached out for assistance some time in these past few weeks. But I feel let down. I feel like I've had to do all of this by myself and I'm angry at them for that. I feel like I've desperately needed help and they're supposed to help me and they haven't. There are other reasons I haven't gotten in touch too. I don't know how to explain what happened and where I am and discuss what to do about it in a ten minute appointment, but I'm scared of my doctor not understanding. It feels like an impossible task so I'm putting it off. I'm also nervous of making the actual appointment - there's normally a 3 week wait minimum to see my doctor, to see them more urgently involves ringing every morning to see if there's been a cancellation, and I can't do mornings, let alone making a phonecall in the morning. So I'm just putting off having to deal with the situation.
At some point I should write a post about avoidant behaviours. I'm starting to think this is a big part of my problems and has been for a long time. I get scared of so many things, and when I try to face them I become anxious or have panic attacks, and so I avoid things, even though it causes more problems long term, because I can't cope with the short term consequences. I've done this for a long time. One of the main things that caused conflict at home was me not tidying my bedroom. I spent a very large portion of my childhood shut in my room, supposed to be tidying. Only when I tried to tidy up I would have what I can now identify as a panic attack, I couldn't cope with it, so I would read or daydream instead. And then I'd get caught reading, or either way the tidying wouldn't get done, and my dad would shout at me and hit me and I'd get in more trouble. I would be told what a shit person I was, that I was pathetic and disgusting and lazy and a failure and he was ashamed of me and so on, and so I think tidying just became associated with such a strong negative emotional response that I would become anxious. And I would feel overwhelmed by it, there was such a lot to do and I just couldn't face it. And I knew the consequences of not doing it would be unpleasant as well, and that would stress me out more. And I'd become overwhelmed by feelings of self-hatred and disgust because I was pathetic for not being able to do this, and I would always be a failure because of it. My dad, of course, thought that it was just lack of self-discipline and so the way to fix it was to up the consequences, shout at me more, threaten to throw away all of my stuff, ground me, ban me from using the telephone. Make it more and more of a big deal.
The first time I planned to kill myself was because of not being able to tidy my room. Sounds kind of ridiculous, but it really was a massive deal back then. My dad gave me until the end of the week to get my room immaculate or he was going to go in there with a binbag and throw out everything I didn't need for school. He was quite serious about this. I tried to get it tidy but I couldn't, because of freaking out every time I tried. So I knew I wouldn't make it, and so that sunday became fixed in my head as, well, the end. I was about 13 or 14 at the time. I know things are just things, but they were all I had, everything connected to my friends, to my nanny (who was dead), the books that kept me going, all my artwork, things from my childhood. Everything of mine would be gone, and I decided that was the last straw. I'd been struggling with suicidal feelings on and off for years, but I'd never gotten to the point of deciding to do it before, just thinking about it. But I just had no hope after that. I couldn't see myself surviving that sunday, if that makes any sense? It didn't feel so much as if I'd decided to kill myself as that I knew I couldn't go on after that. And in a way it felt like the only power I had left, that he was taking everything away from me so the only control I had left was to choose not to endure it. He couldn't force me to put up with any more. I don't remember what I was going to do, possibly hang myself? I don't know. But I remember that week passing and feeling like I was approaching a death sentence, nothing after that week was going to exist. I'd recently gotten some new friends in the year above, who I was closer to than in my year, and they knew that something was wrong, I'd stopped smiling properly or being bouncy and fun or talking much at all, and a couple of them asked me what was wrong and gave me hugs, and one of them gave me her number and told me I could ring her whenever if I needed to talk, and that she'd gone through some stuff too, she knew things could get bad sometimes. That meant a lot to me. No one had ever noticed when I was depressed before. No one had ever cared before. I still didn't feel like I had any choice, but it meant a lot that someone might actually care if I died.
My memory of what happened at the end of the week is fuzzy. I think my sister A turned up and helped me and we managed to get my room done after all, by working all weekend, and her forcing me to keep going, possibly my mum pitched in too. I found it hard tidying with other people there because when I panicked I couldn't explain it or tell anyone but I couldn't escape it either. I think there was a lot of crying involved, and them getting frustrated with me because they didn't understand what was wrong and why I didn't just *get on with it*. That's what usually happened. But with other people there it would at least happen, because I didn't have a choice but to push through. That was one of the few nice things A has ever done for me - she would help me tidy sometimes if we were at a point of crisis. In fairness, it's not that A was never nice to me, it's just that everything she's ever done with regard to reaching out to me has been to try and fix me, trying to teach me how to be a better person, how to do my hair or make up or tidy my room. She's never given any indication of actually liking me, the person I actually am. But I know she did used to try to help, that was her trying to be a good sister to me.
I can't remember if it was that time or another time my dad threatened the same thing, but I remember my parents having a massive row over my dad threatening to throw away all my things. My dad was insistent he was going to and my mum told him no, and said that if he touched my stuff she would smash his CD collection. He said if she did that then he'd destroy her father's paintings, and she was horrified at him, that he would threaten such a thing - her father is dead and his paintings are probably my mum's most important possessions, her last link to him. They were really close. I remember being both impressed and depressed by hearing it. I'd never heard mum stand up to dad like that before - sure they argued over things, but her actually threatening to smash his stuff to try to stop him doing something? That was new. I'd never thought of my mum as that strong. But then his counter-threat made me realize that it didn't matter what she threatened, he would still always win. That he would always be willing to go further than her, to really hurt her in ways she wouldn't do to him. Yes, his CD collection is important to him, but you can replace CDs. It would be an annoyance, but nothing more. Destroying her father's paintings would be do irreparable emotional damage to my mum. So I knew she couldn't protect me. But I was glad she tried, that she didn't think what he was doing was okay. After they argued she came to me and just yelled at me more to tidy up though, so I felt like she resented me for having to argue with him about it.
At some point I should write a post about avoidant behaviours. I'm starting to think this is a big part of my problems and has been for a long time. I get scared of so many things, and when I try to face them I become anxious or have panic attacks, and so I avoid things, even though it causes more problems long term, because I can't cope with the short term consequences. I've done this for a long time. One of the main things that caused conflict at home was me not tidying my bedroom. I spent a very large portion of my childhood shut in my room, supposed to be tidying. Only when I tried to tidy up I would have what I can now identify as a panic attack, I couldn't cope with it, so I would read or daydream instead. And then I'd get caught reading, or either way the tidying wouldn't get done, and my dad would shout at me and hit me and I'd get in more trouble. I would be told what a shit person I was, that I was pathetic and disgusting and lazy and a failure and he was ashamed of me and so on, and so I think tidying just became associated with such a strong negative emotional response that I would become anxious. And I would feel overwhelmed by it, there was such a lot to do and I just couldn't face it. And I knew the consequences of not doing it would be unpleasant as well, and that would stress me out more. And I'd become overwhelmed by feelings of self-hatred and disgust because I was pathetic for not being able to do this, and I would always be a failure because of it. My dad, of course, thought that it was just lack of self-discipline and so the way to fix it was to up the consequences, shout at me more, threaten to throw away all of my stuff, ground me, ban me from using the telephone. Make it more and more of a big deal.
The first time I planned to kill myself was because of not being able to tidy my room. Sounds kind of ridiculous, but it really was a massive deal back then. My dad gave me until the end of the week to get my room immaculate or he was going to go in there with a binbag and throw out everything I didn't need for school. He was quite serious about this. I tried to get it tidy but I couldn't, because of freaking out every time I tried. So I knew I wouldn't make it, and so that sunday became fixed in my head as, well, the end. I was about 13 or 14 at the time. I know things are just things, but they were all I had, everything connected to my friends, to my nanny (who was dead), the books that kept me going, all my artwork, things from my childhood. Everything of mine would be gone, and I decided that was the last straw. I'd been struggling with suicidal feelings on and off for years, but I'd never gotten to the point of deciding to do it before, just thinking about it. But I just had no hope after that. I couldn't see myself surviving that sunday, if that makes any sense? It didn't feel so much as if I'd decided to kill myself as that I knew I couldn't go on after that. And in a way it felt like the only power I had left, that he was taking everything away from me so the only control I had left was to choose not to endure it. He couldn't force me to put up with any more. I don't remember what I was going to do, possibly hang myself? I don't know. But I remember that week passing and feeling like I was approaching a death sentence, nothing after that week was going to exist. I'd recently gotten some new friends in the year above, who I was closer to than in my year, and they knew that something was wrong, I'd stopped smiling properly or being bouncy and fun or talking much at all, and a couple of them asked me what was wrong and gave me hugs, and one of them gave me her number and told me I could ring her whenever if I needed to talk, and that she'd gone through some stuff too, she knew things could get bad sometimes. That meant a lot to me. No one had ever noticed when I was depressed before. No one had ever cared before. I still didn't feel like I had any choice, but it meant a lot that someone might actually care if I died.
My memory of what happened at the end of the week is fuzzy. I think my sister A turned up and helped me and we managed to get my room done after all, by working all weekend, and her forcing me to keep going, possibly my mum pitched in too. I found it hard tidying with other people there because when I panicked I couldn't explain it or tell anyone but I couldn't escape it either. I think there was a lot of crying involved, and them getting frustrated with me because they didn't understand what was wrong and why I didn't just *get on with it*. That's what usually happened. But with other people there it would at least happen, because I didn't have a choice but to push through. That was one of the few nice things A has ever done for me - she would help me tidy sometimes if we were at a point of crisis. In fairness, it's not that A was never nice to me, it's just that everything she's ever done with regard to reaching out to me has been to try and fix me, trying to teach me how to be a better person, how to do my hair or make up or tidy my room. She's never given any indication of actually liking me, the person I actually am. But I know she did used to try to help, that was her trying to be a good sister to me.
I can't remember if it was that time or another time my dad threatened the same thing, but I remember my parents having a massive row over my dad threatening to throw away all my things. My dad was insistent he was going to and my mum told him no, and said that if he touched my stuff she would smash his CD collection. He said if she did that then he'd destroy her father's paintings, and she was horrified at him, that he would threaten such a thing - her father is dead and his paintings are probably my mum's most important possessions, her last link to him. They were really close. I remember being both impressed and depressed by hearing it. I'd never heard mum stand up to dad like that before - sure they argued over things, but her actually threatening to smash his stuff to try to stop him doing something? That was new. I'd never thought of my mum as that strong. But then his counter-threat made me realize that it didn't matter what she threatened, he would still always win. That he would always be willing to go further than her, to really hurt her in ways she wouldn't do to him. Yes, his CD collection is important to him, but you can replace CDs. It would be an annoyance, but nothing more. Destroying her father's paintings would be do irreparable emotional damage to my mum. So I knew she couldn't protect me. But I was glad she tried, that she didn't think what he was doing was okay. After they argued she came to me and just yelled at me more to tidy up though, so I felt like she resented me for having to argue with him about it.
Friday 6 July 2012
HAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPIES
Today is made entirely of win and I am so full of happy I could burst :D Everything seems to be working out really well :)
I successfully kicked my arse into cleaning the kitchen, and did the corridor and bathroom floor as well (L cleaned it once for me already cuz she's awesome but either she missed a bit or my cat trod more crud in 'cause it was all dirty again in places) before bed, although I then failed at sleeping - I drifted off here and there but really not much and it was all full of dreams so I didn't feel like I'd really slept at all. But it meant I was awake early and so I managed to get up and weed the garden and check my bank account and take money out for rent.
The flat inspection went really well, the woman was really quick and was more concerned about making sure I was happy and there was nothing wrong with the flat that I needed fixing or anything than she was with making sure I was looking after it, and she even commented on what a nice job I'd done with the place and how homely it feels, and commiserated with me a bit about how small it was. She's cool about the rent situation as well - I've said I can pay in £300 today and the rest Monday, which hopefully should be doable - I have the £300 and I think my parents will probably be okay to give/lend me the last £100, I just need to ring and ask. Which I will do in a bit.
I also spoke to W today and he confirmed it's okay for me to see B again - his daughter - I just need to arrange it with C :) *allthehappy* I've missed her so fucking much.
There are other smileyface things going on as well, but this isn't really the place to talk about them.
I am also sleep-deprived, which may be assisting with my current euphoria, and I may be up, but whatever it is I don't give a fuck I'M FUCKING HAPPY AND IT'S FUCKING AWESOME :D
I successfully kicked my arse into cleaning the kitchen, and did the corridor and bathroom floor as well (L cleaned it once for me already cuz she's awesome but either she missed a bit or my cat trod more crud in 'cause it was all dirty again in places) before bed, although I then failed at sleeping - I drifted off here and there but really not much and it was all full of dreams so I didn't feel like I'd really slept at all. But it meant I was awake early and so I managed to get up and weed the garden and check my bank account and take money out for rent.
The flat inspection went really well, the woman was really quick and was more concerned about making sure I was happy and there was nothing wrong with the flat that I needed fixing or anything than she was with making sure I was looking after it, and she even commented on what a nice job I'd done with the place and how homely it feels, and commiserated with me a bit about how small it was. She's cool about the rent situation as well - I've said I can pay in £300 today and the rest Monday, which hopefully should be doable - I have the £300 and I think my parents will probably be okay to give/lend me the last £100, I just need to ring and ask. Which I will do in a bit.
I also spoke to W today and he confirmed it's okay for me to see B again - his daughter - I just need to arrange it with C :) *allthehappy* I've missed her so fucking much.
There are other smileyface things going on as well, but this isn't really the place to talk about them.
I am also sleep-deprived, which may be assisting with my current euphoria, and I may be up, but whatever it is I don't give a fuck I'M FUCKING HAPPY AND IT'S FUCKING AWESOME :D
I just sent an e-mail requesting my medical records from the hospital, hopefully to the right person at the trust. Here goes nothing. I really hope I manage to follow through with this. I'm really scared that when/if I drop back into depression again I won't be able to deal with any of it. I still need to visit Mind or someone and get advice on how to proceed. I still need to do a lot of things. I still need to clean the kitchen and the bathroom floor before I can go to bed, 'cuz my flat inspection's in the morning. I tidied away all the washing up, but it still needs cleaning. I procrastinated all evening and now I'm in a ton of pain and exhausted. Gee, who saw that coming? Garden's still really overgrown too. And I haven't sorted my rent money. And I'm not sure what to tell them. Arg. I haven't eaten properly today, just frosties, but I don't want a pot noodle or a tin of fruit cocktail and they're pretty much all I have in, other than dry pasta, but I don't have anything clean to cook or eat that in and I can't face cooking right now anyway. I think the not eating properly is part of the reason for suddenly feeling crappy a little while ago. I'm all weak and shaky feeling. And hurting. A lot. But that's cause of all the tidying and vacuuming I did earlier. I want to go to bed. I won't be able to sleep for ages 'cause I hurt. I will in fact probably have a shitty night's sleep entirely. My period's turned up which always exacerbates my pain as well. And I'm going to have to get up several hours early tomorrow because they're coming any time between 10am and 5pm. Super helpful. Might sleep in clothes so they won't walk in on me naked if I fail to wake up in time. I really hurt. Wahwahfuckingwah. Go clean the kitchen.
Thursday 5 July 2012
Panicking about being happy
I keep feeling things and feeling all panicky and scared and overwhelmed, and then realizing that the feeling that is scaring me is just happiness. It's been so long since I felt it that I don't know how to cope with feeling happy. Fucksakes, brain.
On the plus side: I'm able to feel happy again. Just sitting in my room reading a book and listening to music and eating frosties I can *enjoy it*, can feel happy being alive and doing things, and it doesn't feel empty and pointless and just passing time until I can die.
Noting this down so that next time I drop and I can't remember when I last felt happy I have a record of this: I am happy. I'm not saying everything is fine and dandy and fixed or that I know everything will be okay, but right now I have hope and I am happy and I can enjoy things, and I want to live. At least for now, I want to stay alive and see what happens.
My chest is tight and painful just thinking this stuff, it's terrifying. Being happy and having hope is terrifying.
I started feeling like maybe I was happy sometimes last week, I think, there was a day when I went to the library in the morning with D and then K came round and we hung out in the afternoon and talked about lots of stuff and then I wandered along the beach and talked lots with L and I realized I was enjoying myself, with all of them. I'd started the day feeling not so great, and was feeling a bit shut-in and crazy and anxious but relaxed over the course of the library tour and got better pretty much as the day went on. At the end of the day I stopped and looked back and felt this sense of... achievement, maybe? Kind of a sense of wonder too. I'd had a good day. All day. I'd spent time with my friends and enjoyed it. I was scared to acknowledge it as happiness - it's hard to explain exactly why. Partly I wasn't even sure if it was, weird though that sounds. Emotions can be bizarrely hard to identify sometimes. More so when they're ones you aren't used to having. Partly I was scared that if I acknowledged it it might go away. I was sort of scared I could be wrong, that I might label it as happiness when it wasn't, it was just hypomania or just not-depression, and it felt weirdly important that when I identified myself as feeling happiness it was definitely real. I needed to be sure, or it wouldn't count. Part of what's made it so hard to hang on when my mood's dropped of late is that I haven't been able to remember being happy, not really. I've been able to enjoy sex and sometimes food and music/dancing, but pretty much nothing else, and they're the closest I've come to actual happiness, and because they're such small defined things, just moments, they didn't really feel like they counted, they weren't enough, they didn't reach all the way down. They were very limited happinesses. They were very important, and without them I don't think I'd have made it through, but they still weren't enough to count as proper happiness, just happy being alive kind of happiness, happiness that wasn't directly stimulated by some kind of physical/sensory input, and only present as long as that stimulus continued.
Since then, on and off, I've felt... happy, I think. More and more often.
I'm not sure whether I'm still up or if this is just what being happy is like. I *think* I'm probably still a little up, but I'm not sure.
My opinion of myself has risen massively, I feel intelligent again, and talented, and capable of achieving things, and I feel... there's no non-up-myself way to say this, but kind of better than a lot of people. In my defence, most people are really stupid :P It's very hard to know from my point of view whether this is hypomania-induced inflation of ego, or if it's just the depression lifting and allowing me to see and acknowledge my own strengths again. Either way, right now I feel like I'm a pretty awesome person, and if I could get past the bloody crazies and the pain and fatigue limiting me I could do pretty much anything I set my mind to. Which does sound pretty arrogant, but then a lot of people have told me before that I *am* fucking intelligent and talented and could do pretty much anything I set my mind to, so... *shrugs*
I'm not tapping and twitching, and my brain doesn't feel fizzy. I *am* however thinking a lot, words and thoughts and ideas are flowing very freely. It's so wonderful to be able to think again. The depression makes me so stupid, and the bad hypomania makes it impossible to concentrate and focus, I get bits and pieces of thoughts but the next one takes over before the first one can finish, and I'll forget where I started, and everything is scattered. I can feel like I'm having fantastically important ideas and thoughts, that I'm seeing things more clearly, and my ideas are profound, but I can't pin any of them down long enough to examine them. I'm not like that right now, I can follow a thought through to its conclusion most of the time. My brain feels very alive and active and fertile.
My libido is... um. Up. But I've just started my period and that often has this effect on me as well. And there's nothing wrong with a healthy sex drive.
The most basic test I established last year was 'do I want to get my nipple pierced?' - for some reason every time I was hypomanic I would become obsessed with the idea of getting my nipple pierced, to the point of once deciding I had to do it RIGHT NOW, going all round town and being unable to find somewhere that was open, so going to a pharmacy and getting a sharps kit (the kind intended for drug addicts) and trying to pierce it myself with the syringe, after numbing it with ice and difflam (anaesthetic spray for sore throats). I couldn't numb it enough to stop the pain, and I'd calmed down somewhat by the time I'd done all this so I ended up abandoning it without doing any significant damage in the end, luckily. Normally it would just be a thought in my head running in the background, I could be doing anything, and my brain would just keep coming back to this idea of the sensation of my right nipple having a bar through it, or the sensation of a needle going through it (it wasn't a realistic sensation, it wasn't horrifically painful like actually shoving a needle through my nipple would be, it was an imagined lessened pain that was really appealing). When I wasn't hypomanic then I felt relatively unfussed about the idea of having my nipple pierced - not exactly opposed to it, but didn't really care much about it, and felt like the potential problems wouldn't be worth the advantages - I don't have a great track record with piercings.
Anyway, going by that measure, yes I'm up, but not by lots. It's not an intrusive thought that keeps coming into my head, but it's a really appealing idea, and now that I've thought about it I've got that imagined sensation of a bar through it in my head and it's really appealing and kind of a turn on. The imagined pain of piercing is appealing too, although not as insistently as it has before, and I'm still very much aware it wouldn't be pleasant in real life.
Fluid - I've been trying to think of the right word to describe the sensation in my brain right now, and I think that's it. My mind feels very fluid right now. Flowing and liquid and fluid. You know how pleasing it can feel being underwater, the way you move, that gentle resistance from the water and yet how easily you can slide through it, and it moves with you, and how weightless you are, and the water holds you without smothering you. How freeing it feels. My mind feels like that right now.
I should probably admit that I'm also sitting here typing this, and before that was singing and recording myself singing and looking for backing tracks to sing along to and record and post online, when I should be tidying and cleaning before my flat inspection tomorrow. It feels like I have plenty of time and I'll easily be able to get everything finished and I'm enjoying myself right now and I don't want to go do boring things. I'm enjoying myself and I want to carry on enjoying myself.
Looking at this head on I can see that this is probably unwise, I know my pain will interfere and I will only be able to work for short periods at a time, and that I will get tired and sleepy, so if I delay too long I won't be able to get it all done tonight. I just don't want to take that into account, I feel like it'll be fine, I'll be able to push through it, but I know from experience that it doesn't work that way. My mind keeps slipping away from that knowledge though, keeps putting it off anyway, wants to do fun things, feels like it'll be fiiiiiiiine. I don't want to medicalise regular old procrastination, but this *does* fit my thought patterns when I'm up very well. I procrastinate all the time, but when I'm up I'm always convinced that I can totally do it later, I'm not putting it off and trying to ignore the fact that I won't be able to get it finished in time, I'm convinced that I *will* be able to do it, I feel completely capable and able to achieve anything. I feel powerful and in control.
Anyway, this post has gotten a tad long, when it was really just going to be essentially 'hey, I feel happy. And I keep panicking because I feel happy. Weird.', so I should probably end it. And I really should get on with tidying and cleaning :/ Although I think I'm probably just going to go read or write something else as soon as I publish this. I really need more self control. For all I've identified my thoughts and assumptions and the fallacies therein, I still feel on a gut level that it'll be fine and I'll totally be able to do it in a little while and enjoying myself right now feels more important.
On the plus side: I'm able to feel happy again. Just sitting in my room reading a book and listening to music and eating frosties I can *enjoy it*, can feel happy being alive and doing things, and it doesn't feel empty and pointless and just passing time until I can die.
Noting this down so that next time I drop and I can't remember when I last felt happy I have a record of this: I am happy. I'm not saying everything is fine and dandy and fixed or that I know everything will be okay, but right now I have hope and I am happy and I can enjoy things, and I want to live. At least for now, I want to stay alive and see what happens.
My chest is tight and painful just thinking this stuff, it's terrifying. Being happy and having hope is terrifying.
I started feeling like maybe I was happy sometimes last week, I think, there was a day when I went to the library in the morning with D and then K came round and we hung out in the afternoon and talked about lots of stuff and then I wandered along the beach and talked lots with L and I realized I was enjoying myself, with all of them. I'd started the day feeling not so great, and was feeling a bit shut-in and crazy and anxious but relaxed over the course of the library tour and got better pretty much as the day went on. At the end of the day I stopped and looked back and felt this sense of... achievement, maybe? Kind of a sense of wonder too. I'd had a good day. All day. I'd spent time with my friends and enjoyed it. I was scared to acknowledge it as happiness - it's hard to explain exactly why. Partly I wasn't even sure if it was, weird though that sounds. Emotions can be bizarrely hard to identify sometimes. More so when they're ones you aren't used to having. Partly I was scared that if I acknowledged it it might go away. I was sort of scared I could be wrong, that I might label it as happiness when it wasn't, it was just hypomania or just not-depression, and it felt weirdly important that when I identified myself as feeling happiness it was definitely real. I needed to be sure, or it wouldn't count. Part of what's made it so hard to hang on when my mood's dropped of late is that I haven't been able to remember being happy, not really. I've been able to enjoy sex and sometimes food and music/dancing, but pretty much nothing else, and they're the closest I've come to actual happiness, and because they're such small defined things, just moments, they didn't really feel like they counted, they weren't enough, they didn't reach all the way down. They were very limited happinesses. They were very important, and without them I don't think I'd have made it through, but they still weren't enough to count as proper happiness, just happy being alive kind of happiness, happiness that wasn't directly stimulated by some kind of physical/sensory input, and only present as long as that stimulus continued.
Since then, on and off, I've felt... happy, I think. More and more often.
I'm not sure whether I'm still up or if this is just what being happy is like. I *think* I'm probably still a little up, but I'm not sure.
My opinion of myself has risen massively, I feel intelligent again, and talented, and capable of achieving things, and I feel... there's no non-up-myself way to say this, but kind of better than a lot of people. In my defence, most people are really stupid :P It's very hard to know from my point of view whether this is hypomania-induced inflation of ego, or if it's just the depression lifting and allowing me to see and acknowledge my own strengths again. Either way, right now I feel like I'm a pretty awesome person, and if I could get past the bloody crazies and the pain and fatigue limiting me I could do pretty much anything I set my mind to. Which does sound pretty arrogant, but then a lot of people have told me before that I *am* fucking intelligent and talented and could do pretty much anything I set my mind to, so... *shrugs*
I'm not tapping and twitching, and my brain doesn't feel fizzy. I *am* however thinking a lot, words and thoughts and ideas are flowing very freely. It's so wonderful to be able to think again. The depression makes me so stupid, and the bad hypomania makes it impossible to concentrate and focus, I get bits and pieces of thoughts but the next one takes over before the first one can finish, and I'll forget where I started, and everything is scattered. I can feel like I'm having fantastically important ideas and thoughts, that I'm seeing things more clearly, and my ideas are profound, but I can't pin any of them down long enough to examine them. I'm not like that right now, I can follow a thought through to its conclusion most of the time. My brain feels very alive and active and fertile.
My libido is... um. Up. But I've just started my period and that often has this effect on me as well. And there's nothing wrong with a healthy sex drive.
The most basic test I established last year was 'do I want to get my nipple pierced?' - for some reason every time I was hypomanic I would become obsessed with the idea of getting my nipple pierced, to the point of once deciding I had to do it RIGHT NOW, going all round town and being unable to find somewhere that was open, so going to a pharmacy and getting a sharps kit (the kind intended for drug addicts) and trying to pierce it myself with the syringe, after numbing it with ice and difflam (anaesthetic spray for sore throats). I couldn't numb it enough to stop the pain, and I'd calmed down somewhat by the time I'd done all this so I ended up abandoning it without doing any significant damage in the end, luckily. Normally it would just be a thought in my head running in the background, I could be doing anything, and my brain would just keep coming back to this idea of the sensation of my right nipple having a bar through it, or the sensation of a needle going through it (it wasn't a realistic sensation, it wasn't horrifically painful like actually shoving a needle through my nipple would be, it was an imagined lessened pain that was really appealing). When I wasn't hypomanic then I felt relatively unfussed about the idea of having my nipple pierced - not exactly opposed to it, but didn't really care much about it, and felt like the potential problems wouldn't be worth the advantages - I don't have a great track record with piercings.
Anyway, going by that measure, yes I'm up, but not by lots. It's not an intrusive thought that keeps coming into my head, but it's a really appealing idea, and now that I've thought about it I've got that imagined sensation of a bar through it in my head and it's really appealing and kind of a turn on. The imagined pain of piercing is appealing too, although not as insistently as it has before, and I'm still very much aware it wouldn't be pleasant in real life.
Fluid - I've been trying to think of the right word to describe the sensation in my brain right now, and I think that's it. My mind feels very fluid right now. Flowing and liquid and fluid. You know how pleasing it can feel being underwater, the way you move, that gentle resistance from the water and yet how easily you can slide through it, and it moves with you, and how weightless you are, and the water holds you without smothering you. How freeing it feels. My mind feels like that right now.
I should probably admit that I'm also sitting here typing this, and before that was singing and recording myself singing and looking for backing tracks to sing along to and record and post online, when I should be tidying and cleaning before my flat inspection tomorrow. It feels like I have plenty of time and I'll easily be able to get everything finished and I'm enjoying myself right now and I don't want to go do boring things. I'm enjoying myself and I want to carry on enjoying myself.
Looking at this head on I can see that this is probably unwise, I know my pain will interfere and I will only be able to work for short periods at a time, and that I will get tired and sleepy, so if I delay too long I won't be able to get it all done tonight. I just don't want to take that into account, I feel like it'll be fine, I'll be able to push through it, but I know from experience that it doesn't work that way. My mind keeps slipping away from that knowledge though, keeps putting it off anyway, wants to do fun things, feels like it'll be fiiiiiiiine. I don't want to medicalise regular old procrastination, but this *does* fit my thought patterns when I'm up very well. I procrastinate all the time, but when I'm up I'm always convinced that I can totally do it later, I'm not putting it off and trying to ignore the fact that I won't be able to get it finished in time, I'm convinced that I *will* be able to do it, I feel completely capable and able to achieve anything. I feel powerful and in control.
Anyway, this post has gotten a tad long, when it was really just going to be essentially 'hey, I feel happy. And I keep panicking because I feel happy. Weird.', so I should probably end it. And I really should get on with tidying and cleaning :/ Although I think I'm probably just going to go read or write something else as soon as I publish this. I really need more self control. For all I've identified my thoughts and assumptions and the fallacies therein, I still feel on a gut level that it'll be fine and I'll totally be able to do it in a little while and enjoying myself right now feels more important.
Tuesday 3 July 2012
A little bit up
So I seem to still be up, but not unpleasantly so, for the most part.
I'm frequently physically agitated and will sit and tap my fingers or jiggle my leg or drum on the table. This is usually the first sign that I'm up or in a mixed state, and it happens every time. Sometimes it's just a background thing that I don't even notice I'm doing, but other times it will ramp up and I'll *feel* very agitated with it, the tapping and twitching is compulsive and I can't stop it, or at least not for long, and it often goes along with a particular headspace, where I can't really concentrate and I feel separate from everyone and everything, and sort of... jerky? Sometimes in films, especially when the character is high or crazy they'll shoot everything in little short bursts, just half a second or a second at a time and then it blinks to a slightly different angle or exposure, the world comes in bursts, little snippets - it kind of feels like that sometimes. My vision isn't actually altered, it's more of a perception thing, a focus thing. Sometimes I'll feel hyper-focussed on my tapping or drumming or twitching and the world will shrink down to just that, I just have to focus on that.
Sometimes I have all this frantic energy but I can't focus on anything long enough to do anything with it, so it's very frustrating and I feel trapped in my skin, like I want to rip it off, like it's what's holding me back.
At the moment I'm at a lower level than that, I'm tapping sometimes, and sometimes it's unpleasantly agitated and sometimes my mind unfocusses or feels separate or overly focussed on the tapping, but not to the level of it driving me crazy and feeling horrible, and I'm currently able to use my energy to DO things.
I spent today tidying my flat with a friend, and got more done in one session of tidying than I've managed in months. Words seem to be flowing, I've written various posts here and there, and I'm aware I've been more open than usual about my life on facebook, about all my debts and the fact that my crazies stop me doing things, and all the things I need to do and all the things I've managed to do... I'm not sure if I'm going to regret it or if being more honest for once is better. I've written a few posts on FB and G+ today about varius things, and now I'm writing here, and the words are just flowing out of me, I'm typing at probably around 100wpm, maybe a little under and I've written everything you see here in basically one go so far with very few pauses to consider where I'm going with this.
I've made lists of things that need doing and things I've done. In the last few days I managed to arrange for my car to be MOTed and put it in and okayed repairs and stuff, I looked up how to tax my car and checked I can do it with the documents I have (and got all those documents together), I've set up my internet banking and checked my finances and figured out how much money I need to try to get hold of to pay my rent and car stuff, I've done the aforementioned tidying, I've contacted the pain clinic to get them to put me back on the waiting list to see a specialist (I've been waiting nearly a year I believe now, and they contacted me a few weeks ago to ask if I still wanted to see someone, and told me I had ten days to get back to them or I'd be taken off the list. They can leave me hanging a year, I get ten days. I wasn't able to get back to them within 10 days what with the whole being severely depressed and then recuperating from trying too kill myself THANG, so they took me off the list. They were fine about putting me back on when I explained I've been ill though, so I shouldn't complain really, it's just that it was one more thing stressing me out because I was worried I might go to the bottom of the list and have to wait another fucking year, not to mention the stress at having to ring them in the first place, given my trouble with phones normally), I rang the DWP to find out where my ESA decision is at and request a copy of my report and see when my last sick note is due to run out... I *think* that's about it? I can't remember very well. And I've spent time with friends.
So yeah, doing All The Things!
Still have wayyyyy too many things still to do, but right now I'm feeling optimistic and ready to at least TRY. Today I feel like maybe, somehow, it could possibly turn out okay? Which is much much better than my usual feeling of being completely overwhelmed and defeated because no matter which way I turn it there didn't seem to be any possible way of fixing things. The odds are still pretty long, there are still so many things that could go wrong and so many things to fix, but I feel like maybe, just maybe, I'm making progress.
As I pointed out in my facebook post earlier today, I only get, what, a few days a month maybe, where I'm able to actually do things. The rest of the time I'm either too depressed or too hypomanic - I know hypomania is supposed to be awesome and useful and lets you do All The Things, and yeah, when it's really mild like this it can be pretty useful. But when it goes past that it's really not, it makes me spend money I don't have and not care about the consequences and want to focus on doing things I enjoy because for once, for fucking once, I CAN enjoy things, that fucking anhedonia eases off for a while, and so I want to do everything that I enjoy, and I feel like I can do anything and so I'll take on more projects and make promises I can't keep, and I'll want to drink and have fun and so sorting paperwork and doctor's appointments and visiting Mind and tidying up and cleaning all gets left for another time. The only times I can actually achieve things are when I'm very mildly hypomanic or only mildly depressed. And that's not very often. And then I'm still fighting anxiety and phone phobia and pain and fatigue and a perfectly legitimate non-clinical level of feeling overwhelmed by all the things I have to deal with.
But right now I can do things. So I will do as much as I can. I have Plans. And I will try to fix as much as I can so that maybe when I next drop there won't be quite as many things to stress me out, and maybe, just maybe, I'll have made enough progress that I won't end up accruing more problems than I managed to fix, and I will actually be making net progress forward, instead of fighting and fighting and fighting to just stay where I am, or sometimes go backwards again. Forwards, even if very slowly, would be very welcome. Sometimes it feels like I haven't made any progress in the past year. It's been more than a year since The Cataclysm (K and I decided that was the best name for when I came off my tramadol and suddenly went batshit - my life as I'd been living it basically shattered into pieces very suddenly, and so the world became split into before and after that moment, and we needed some way of referring to it. My last bad episode we refer to as the Summer Of Crazy. Apparently my mental health episodes are best referred to as if they were LARP events...) and sometimes it feels like for every bit of progress I've made since then, something else has fallen apart, and I'm still in as dire situation as I was then.
I think it might have been that milestone that pulled me down again, actually. I *think* I was doing a little better, was a bit more stable - I can't remember, but I know I reported that to the doctor, so I must have thought I was. And then I realized it had been a year, a year since I'd last worked, a year since I was in a happy stable relationship, living in a nice house with the man I was trying for a baby with, and had plans for a career - was actively working towards the qualification that would get me where I wanted to be, a year since I had a great relationship with my best friend, a year since everything had been snatched away from me. And I'd known it would take time to rebuild and figure things out and make a new life for myself and recover from my relapse into crazy. But I thought I would at least make slow progress. And looking back a year later I didn't feel like things had improved at all; if anything they'd gotten worse. And that made me feel so hopeless. And once I'd had that realization I just couldn't shake it. I'd been trying to focus on one day at a time, and then I looked back and found that one day at a time wasn't getting me anywhere, that I was fighting and fighting and fighting just to stay right where I was. And I was just getting more and more tired. What was the point of fighting and fighting and fighting with all your strength when it didn't get you anywhere, and you didn't want to be where you were? If there was just a little steady improvement, two steps foward one step back, then at least I would be moving and know that one day it would be better. But it felt like putting everything in got me nothing out, so I was stuck there forever, and that was intolerable to me.
Today I feel more optimistic than that. I think I have achieved some things, and I *think* I'm making progress. I'm not sure, and I certainly don't think it's quick, but it at least seems possible right now. I have some hope today. Hope is necessary. I'm scared still, because I know this mood won't last, and I don't know what will happen when I drop again - I know I've had hope before and it's been snatched away so thoroughly that I no longer believed I had ever had it, and I know my brain will do that to me again. And I don't have enough hope that I feel like I can tell myself 'No, this is worth it, I really believe it will get better, HOLD THE FUCK ON, you are happy enough sometimes for the bad parts to be worthwhile'. If I could tell myself that then maybe I could hold onto it, I could write it down and look at it and try to trust my past self even if I don't remember feeling what I said I felt. But I don't have enough hope for that, I still feel like everything could still fall apart, I still feel like I don't know if the ups make the downs worthwhile. I *hope* they do, and I want to try and find out, but I don't have enough certainty to counter the certainty of my depressed self.
But one step at a time, eh? Today I have hope. That's enough for today.
I'm frequently physically agitated and will sit and tap my fingers or jiggle my leg or drum on the table. This is usually the first sign that I'm up or in a mixed state, and it happens every time. Sometimes it's just a background thing that I don't even notice I'm doing, but other times it will ramp up and I'll *feel* very agitated with it, the tapping and twitching is compulsive and I can't stop it, or at least not for long, and it often goes along with a particular headspace, where I can't really concentrate and I feel separate from everyone and everything, and sort of... jerky? Sometimes in films, especially when the character is high or crazy they'll shoot everything in little short bursts, just half a second or a second at a time and then it blinks to a slightly different angle or exposure, the world comes in bursts, little snippets - it kind of feels like that sometimes. My vision isn't actually altered, it's more of a perception thing, a focus thing. Sometimes I'll feel hyper-focussed on my tapping or drumming or twitching and the world will shrink down to just that, I just have to focus on that.
Sometimes I have all this frantic energy but I can't focus on anything long enough to do anything with it, so it's very frustrating and I feel trapped in my skin, like I want to rip it off, like it's what's holding me back.
At the moment I'm at a lower level than that, I'm tapping sometimes, and sometimes it's unpleasantly agitated and sometimes my mind unfocusses or feels separate or overly focussed on the tapping, but not to the level of it driving me crazy and feeling horrible, and I'm currently able to use my energy to DO things.
I spent today tidying my flat with a friend, and got more done in one session of tidying than I've managed in months. Words seem to be flowing, I've written various posts here and there, and I'm aware I've been more open than usual about my life on facebook, about all my debts and the fact that my crazies stop me doing things, and all the things I need to do and all the things I've managed to do... I'm not sure if I'm going to regret it or if being more honest for once is better. I've written a few posts on FB and G+ today about varius things, and now I'm writing here, and the words are just flowing out of me, I'm typing at probably around 100wpm, maybe a little under and I've written everything you see here in basically one go so far with very few pauses to consider where I'm going with this.
I've made lists of things that need doing and things I've done. In the last few days I managed to arrange for my car to be MOTed and put it in and okayed repairs and stuff, I looked up how to tax my car and checked I can do it with the documents I have (and got all those documents together), I've set up my internet banking and checked my finances and figured out how much money I need to try to get hold of to pay my rent and car stuff, I've done the aforementioned tidying, I've contacted the pain clinic to get them to put me back on the waiting list to see a specialist (I've been waiting nearly a year I believe now, and they contacted me a few weeks ago to ask if I still wanted to see someone, and told me I had ten days to get back to them or I'd be taken off the list. They can leave me hanging a year, I get ten days. I wasn't able to get back to them within 10 days what with the whole being severely depressed and then recuperating from trying too kill myself THANG, so they took me off the list. They were fine about putting me back on when I explained I've been ill though, so I shouldn't complain really, it's just that it was one more thing stressing me out because I was worried I might go to the bottom of the list and have to wait another fucking year, not to mention the stress at having to ring them in the first place, given my trouble with phones normally), I rang the DWP to find out where my ESA decision is at and request a copy of my report and see when my last sick note is due to run out... I *think* that's about it? I can't remember very well. And I've spent time with friends.
So yeah, doing All The Things!
Still have wayyyyy too many things still to do, but right now I'm feeling optimistic and ready to at least TRY. Today I feel like maybe, somehow, it could possibly turn out okay? Which is much much better than my usual feeling of being completely overwhelmed and defeated because no matter which way I turn it there didn't seem to be any possible way of fixing things. The odds are still pretty long, there are still so many things that could go wrong and so many things to fix, but I feel like maybe, just maybe, I'm making progress.
As I pointed out in my facebook post earlier today, I only get, what, a few days a month maybe, where I'm able to actually do things. The rest of the time I'm either too depressed or too hypomanic - I know hypomania is supposed to be awesome and useful and lets you do All The Things, and yeah, when it's really mild like this it can be pretty useful. But when it goes past that it's really not, it makes me spend money I don't have and not care about the consequences and want to focus on doing things I enjoy because for once, for fucking once, I CAN enjoy things, that fucking anhedonia eases off for a while, and so I want to do everything that I enjoy, and I feel like I can do anything and so I'll take on more projects and make promises I can't keep, and I'll want to drink and have fun and so sorting paperwork and doctor's appointments and visiting Mind and tidying up and cleaning all gets left for another time. The only times I can actually achieve things are when I'm very mildly hypomanic or only mildly depressed. And that's not very often. And then I'm still fighting anxiety and phone phobia and pain and fatigue and a perfectly legitimate non-clinical level of feeling overwhelmed by all the things I have to deal with.
But right now I can do things. So I will do as much as I can. I have Plans. And I will try to fix as much as I can so that maybe when I next drop there won't be quite as many things to stress me out, and maybe, just maybe, I'll have made enough progress that I won't end up accruing more problems than I managed to fix, and I will actually be making net progress forward, instead of fighting and fighting and fighting to just stay where I am, or sometimes go backwards again. Forwards, even if very slowly, would be very welcome. Sometimes it feels like I haven't made any progress in the past year. It's been more than a year since The Cataclysm (K and I decided that was the best name for when I came off my tramadol and suddenly went batshit - my life as I'd been living it basically shattered into pieces very suddenly, and so the world became split into before and after that moment, and we needed some way of referring to it. My last bad episode we refer to as the Summer Of Crazy. Apparently my mental health episodes are best referred to as if they were LARP events...) and sometimes it feels like for every bit of progress I've made since then, something else has fallen apart, and I'm still in as dire situation as I was then.
I think it might have been that milestone that pulled me down again, actually. I *think* I was doing a little better, was a bit more stable - I can't remember, but I know I reported that to the doctor, so I must have thought I was. And then I realized it had been a year, a year since I'd last worked, a year since I was in a happy stable relationship, living in a nice house with the man I was trying for a baby with, and had plans for a career - was actively working towards the qualification that would get me where I wanted to be, a year since I had a great relationship with my best friend, a year since everything had been snatched away from me. And I'd known it would take time to rebuild and figure things out and make a new life for myself and recover from my relapse into crazy. But I thought I would at least make slow progress. And looking back a year later I didn't feel like things had improved at all; if anything they'd gotten worse. And that made me feel so hopeless. And once I'd had that realization I just couldn't shake it. I'd been trying to focus on one day at a time, and then I looked back and found that one day at a time wasn't getting me anywhere, that I was fighting and fighting and fighting just to stay right where I was. And I was just getting more and more tired. What was the point of fighting and fighting and fighting with all your strength when it didn't get you anywhere, and you didn't want to be where you were? If there was just a little steady improvement, two steps foward one step back, then at least I would be moving and know that one day it would be better. But it felt like putting everything in got me nothing out, so I was stuck there forever, and that was intolerable to me.
Today I feel more optimistic than that. I think I have achieved some things, and I *think* I'm making progress. I'm not sure, and I certainly don't think it's quick, but it at least seems possible right now. I have some hope today. Hope is necessary. I'm scared still, because I know this mood won't last, and I don't know what will happen when I drop again - I know I've had hope before and it's been snatched away so thoroughly that I no longer believed I had ever had it, and I know my brain will do that to me again. And I don't have enough hope that I feel like I can tell myself 'No, this is worth it, I really believe it will get better, HOLD THE FUCK ON, you are happy enough sometimes for the bad parts to be worthwhile'. If I could tell myself that then maybe I could hold onto it, I could write it down and look at it and try to trust my past self even if I don't remember feeling what I said I felt. But I don't have enough hope for that, I still feel like everything could still fall apart, I still feel like I don't know if the ups make the downs worthwhile. I *hope* they do, and I want to try and find out, but I don't have enough certainty to counter the certainty of my depressed self.
But one step at a time, eh? Today I have hope. That's enough for today.
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