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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.