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Back To Blank

3 Jun

I’m happier with t his one than the last.


Camera Angles Of The Mind

31 May

It’s as if my mind is an abstract film with only one camera angle at any one time. If the camera stays in the same place for a length of time, i start to feel a bit more self-assured, stable, aware of a me?

But at any given moment, the camera can zoom out and spin round, fly up or drop down, and adopt a completely different position. From that position the world, me, and my place in it will all seem (be?) completely different.

For a little while, this makes me feel afraid and anxious, because nothing makes sense, reality is fluid…which view is real, which me is me? Are they all real, all truths? Some, but not others? All illusions?How to tell the difference? I can’t trust my own perception.

Does my subconscious try to shield me from some things that i do not want to acknowledge, but sometimes get glimpses of? Is this why it feels frightening? The destructive behaviours that i use to function, are they protected by my subconscious: I do not allow myself to recognise the counter-productive nature of them (most of the time), and is this why i am unable to stop it, even though it exhausts me, and i am consciously convinced i want to stop? Short term vs long-term: feeling better now vs being better overall. Progress vs developmental delay.

If the camera does not settle, and instead fits and panics, trying out different views but finding no foot hold in any of them, then i will suffer a dark and confusing period, for X amount of time.

If the camera settles again, eventually I’ll start to feel something that resembles security, stability. I thinks that view is what i am, who i am, where i am.

Until, without warning or reason, it will move again.

Why Do We Cry?

28 May

I cannot cry anymore, at least not at the moment. This is alien to me. It’s not a bad thing per se, except i feel like i need to cry and i can’t.

Usually i cry so much, so often and so easily (from nowhere, sometimes) that it is embarrassing. I’m the one silently weeping on the bus. Usually.

I stopped taking all medication a couple of months ago…so it’s not that. I self-medicate with weed, but that’s been consistent for the last 10 years or more, so it’s not that.

I need to cry but it’s staying hidden under the surface, bubbling away, gaining momentum, liable to come crashing down on my like a ton of sand to suffocate me, at any given moment.

Why can’t i cry? I think it’s cos I’ve had enough, the sadness is exhausting and overwhelming, it wrings me out. Ultimately, it is useless.

I remember once in a biology class at school, asking the teacher why we cry. Not the physical aspect, but what purpose it serves; the tears, the snot, the guttural sounds. He could not answer me, and i have wondered about it many times since.

We are social creatures, we live, strive, thrive on our interactions with other humans. From an evolutionary perspective, it’s one of a few reasons why our species has been so successful.

I think crying is a communicative display; it’s a visual sign that conveys an internal state to others. It says ‘i feel awful, please help me, comfort me’, in much the same way as a smile says ‘hey, i’m approachable, come say hi!’. For babies, it’s probably the most effective form of communication, and a very useful survival mechanism.

Maybe i can’t cry anymore because i know it is useless. My sadness is a very private thing that few people are aware of, and even those closest to me that are aware, are not aware of the crippling extent of the desolation i often feel exploding in my solar plexus and infecting my soul. I wouldn’t want to worry them with it.

If i have cried, wept, screamed, i have done so in private. It sucked away all my energy left me drained and sore and broken…and it didn’t fulfil a purpose, it didn’t communicate my pain to anyone that could hold me and make me feel safe.

So my body has gone on strike. It is refusing to take part in such an exhausting pharce. It won’t cry.

I thought i would feel better if i didn’t cry, back when i couldn’t stop it, but i don’t. I feel anxious, like I’m walking a knife-edge. I feel sort of detached from everything, not just from everything else, like usual, but from everything, my own self included. I feel like I’m watching myself, like the person who feels things is not me but just someone i observe closely, because i do not relate to her and her emotions. I do not relate to anything.

Yes, i should stop smoking. I’m sure the waves would come crashing in then. I’m in this little cotton-wall bubble, shielded from feeling anything, good and bad.

But i am (reasonably) safe, and that is something.

Getting Better/Staying The Same

22 May

The first and only other blog i ever made prior to this one, was on LiveJournal, and i called it Blurred Edges. This one is called FringeWalk, obvs. I think I’ve given myself a subconscious clue there, to who i really am (?) or at least, how i feel.

Blurred Edges – I think i was trying to convey the sense of uncertainty, of not knowing who i am and who i am not, of being unsure of myself and others and the world and having no clear sense of when one stopped and another started.

FringeWalk – It’s kind of the same thing; i still have no real sense of self, except it’s about 10 years later and i am more empowered, or at least, for the moment i am. I take ownership of feeling so confused about my own identity, and try to see that as some kind of identity in itself.  Fringewalk because i exist on the edges of everything, not really a part of anything, not really belonging anywhere. I can be with this set of people, or that set of people, for an amount of time…but nobody misses me when i am gone.

I can be this or that thing at any given moment, and fully believe that is what i am, in the moment.

I used to see this as a weakness because it can leave me feeling very isolated, lonely, sad, not valid, worthless. But sometimes these days, i am seeing it as a strength, because it offers an interesting perspective. Plus, it’s what i am (or what i do?) and it isn’t liable to change anytime soon. So mayaswell make the best of it.

I’ve noticed that i am (generally) more emotionally consistently lately. consistently low, unmotivated, sad. But consistent, stable-ish, which is something for me.

I attribute this to a couple of things.

First and foremost, i am not in any kind of relationship, and haven’t been for the longest period in my adult life. Previous to this, maybe i’d gone 2 weeks single since i was 14, and i’m normally involved in some kind of romantic trauma or drama, even if i’m not in a proper relationship. For about the past 2 years now, i have been officially single, and for about the last month, i’ve not been romantically involved with anyone.

This is good for me.. I have spent so much of my life holding on to things that aren’t worth having, being in abusive relationships, being dependant on someone else. I have always sought validation from external sources. I think that if someone else loves me, then i must be lovable, worth something, a human being who is just as valid as everyone else. If someone doesn’t want me, i am useless, ugly, unlovable, fat, worthless, stupid.

If I’m completely honest with myself (and you) i still hold this belief, even if i know it to be false. But i am on my own, single, and I’m still alive, I’m still here, nothing terrible has happened. I am finally facing a fear that has literally terrorized me my whole life, and I’m still here. I am not happy (that is because i am an ungrateful twat who doesn’t appreciate how lucky i am, not really), but i am here. I am here, and the sun is shining outside my window.

Secondly, i have very recently moved back in with my Beautiful Dad. He has his own mental health problems that i worry about, but all in all, this is the safest, most consistent place i could be (and my beautiful boy can be). It is a good place to regroup, rethink, heal. Every day at some point it crosses my mind that i am lucky to have this option, that my parents divorced (very recently – finally!) and so i have a place with my dad. I feel  afraid and upset when i think about the alternative, and the reality for some people less fortunate than myself. Thank fuck for my Beautiful Dad.

So, I’ve been less scattered lately, miserable, but peaceful, no drama. I feel worn out from everything; in my mind’s eye i imagine myself as a naked, broken heap piled carefully on the floor. I know that doesn’t sound very positive, but it is, cos nothing is attacking me (I’m not attacking me?), no more injuries being sustained, no more wounds inflicted to get bruised, sore, scarred, infected. If nothing is attacking me, then i have opportunity to heal.

This improvement is manifested by:

  • Far less frequent self-harming, or urges to self-harm. If i do, it is minor and/or subconscious.
  • Less reactive to stressful situations. This is a work in progress; im not saying i don’t react. But I’m less prone to feel uncontrollable rage. Which means less likelihood of a) losing everyone i love and b)developing a tumour. Go me!
  • Have actually taken the time recently to explore things i might enjoy, particularly self-expression (evidence by the existence of this post, and blog!)
  • Have (very slowly) started to think about entering back into the Realms Of Real Society. I have to keep a toe in the water (fingewalk!) on account of my Perfect Boy, but in honesty, i do the minimum possible,; only what i have to do so that i can lessen my guilt about my mental health effecting him. He has birthday parties, we go to soft play, play group, the beach, picnics, etc regularly. But i hate every single minite of it, i dread it, i make myself do it, because i love him so much. But that is it, that is as far as myself and society dance. I gave up working when my relationship with Daddy Moonbags failed and have fallen ever deeper into isolation since. But, i’ve just volunteered for some work in my community, for a cause i really believe in. I have been stalling, panicking, worrying about it (that’s another post!) – but i do want to do it, and i am trying. that is a big step…3 months ago – no way.

So, in those ways, i’m doing better.

In other ways, not so much. I am still smoking an obscene amount, enough to pacify myself, my emotions, in order to avoid the feelings. I am still very isolated and pointless. Nothing i do has any real meaning or gives me any lasting joy or peace or love. I crave love and attention and affection. I think it will make everything better, even though i know it won’t; the kind of thing i’m looking for or expecting, doesn’t even exist.

I feel hopeless and i don’t think my stupid mind remembers what self-esteem is.I feel like life is only a series of fragments that i can’t piece together. I feel frustrated that i can’t do it, can’t do what everyone else seems to manage with ease.

If it wasn’t for my Perfect Boy and my Beautiful Dad, i think i’d probably want to die. I wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it, but i’d want to.  I think about it quite a lot, but don’t worry, i am sensible and i love my baby far too much. There has only been one time, during a very bad period, when i was in mental chaos and anarchy reigned, did i ever seriously believe (and only for a moment) that my Perfect Boy might be better off without me. That thought is dangerous. But even in that chaos, i still had the observational capability to be shocked by the thought, and that shock brought me back to my senses.

I’d never before felt like that and never understood parents that choose to leave their children, even knowing how harrowing living with this shit inside your head all your life can be. But in that second, i did, and i felt so sorry for being so ignorant and uncompassionate before. Being a parent doesn’t change the fact that you’re fucked. It just makes you feel more guilty for being this way, which in itself starts a vicious cycle. All you can do is endeavour to keep it away from your baby, to surround him with positive people, to love him immeasurably, and to make sure he knows he’s worthy of all that love, and more.

I am annoyed with myself for being so whiney and unappreciative of this Life Gift, and then i am annoyed that i am so hard on myself, when i afford others sympathy.

I am tired of thinking, tired of trying to find answers, tired of coping and managing. I am so immensely bored of myself.

I wish i could realistically picture a time in my life when i don’t feel this empty. I try to , and sometimes, in good hours, i almost think it could be possible. I imagine being part of a family, with a man who loves me, really loves, me, and My Perfect Boy, and some more perfect babies. When i picture myself in that life, i imagine i am happy.

But i know that life is an impossibility for me, because i turn everything to shit, i am so hard to have a relationship with, that isn’t a remotely realistic option.

There i go again, thinking love will save me.

Only i can save me. But i don’t know where to start, or how to stop the waters rising.

Rearview Mirror – Part 1

13 May

I was born in the south of England in the 1980’s. My dad was 27, born and raised locally, his dad Irish, his mum an local. He has 2 brothers, 2 sisters. Although their family was relatively poor and (I think) my granddad struggled with alcohol abuse at sometime in his life, there was, by all accounts and certainly my own experiences of my nan and granddad, a lot of Love in their family. My mum was born in Ireland under the British flag, because my granddad served in the army there. She comes from a poor, uneducated family with a history of abuse (every kind you can imagine, and to extremes), neglect and alcoholism, and although I have reason to doubt everything she says, I think alot of what she has said about how she was raised is true, mostly because I’ve seen history repeating in her brothers and sisters, and because it goes some way to explaining why she is the way she is.

She was 17 when I was born, I imagine she met my dad, 10 years her senior, and thought he could be the escape she needed from the miserable home life she knew. He was freshly divorced from his first wife (who I don’t really know much about, except that she had mental health and drug abuse problems and was unfaithful to him) and dealing with the heartbreak of little contact with my older (half, technically) brother. From what I understand, dad fought for him in court, but paternal rights are insufficient now, so 30 years ago, I think they were pretty non-existent. So I guess both of my parents were a bit lost in the world when they met, had me, and married. In that order.

My memories pre 13 are pretty sporadic and hazy, to say the least. I dunno if that’s just how I am, a result of the amount of weed I’ve smoked, or that I don’t want to remember, or a combination of those things. It certainly wasn’t all bad, and in many respects, we were very fortunate and there were happy times. One of my earliest memories is dad letting me paint anything I wanted on the outside wall of out house, as he was painting over it. I can remember dad taking us out on a homemade sledge one winter when we had decent snow (big deal down here on the island, a bit of snow). Dad taking us swimming and ice skating, and later, me to Glastonbury festival.

Its funny how when you want to remember stuff, you cant…im trying to think of happy childhood memories that involve mum, I know they exist, but now I cant think of any. The nice memories of mum I can recall right now, seem to be tainted sad. Like, I can remember pretending to be sleeping as she stroked my hair…but oftentimes this was accompanied with an apology for loosing her temper or whatever, in the day. Did she know I was only pretending to be asleep? I didn’t think she did at the time, but with my adult eyes now, I cant imagine being that young and that good of an actress.

She used to spend a shed load of money at Christmas, buying us near enough anything we wanted. She did feel guilty. I know that she did, and does love me, in her own way, as best someone like her can love. I do believe she did try her best, even though she fucked up. I want to make that clear now. She’s only a product of her environment. To be frank, it’s a fucking miracle she did as well as she did, and we have only the medium debilitating psychological disturbances we have! It is a testament to how hard she tried…I often think, I could easily have been born as my cousins, her sisters kids, who had it infinitely worse than we ever did. Then I feel guilty and disgusted with myself for being so ungrateful, whiney, and pathetic. I try to remind myself that its all relative, and my suffering, the way I felt and feel, the negative impact it has and still has on my life, on the (stupid?) people that have had or have the misfortune of trying to love me, and try to remember, reassure myself, that my feelings are valid.

So I don’t really remember that much from childhood. I can remember being very lonely, walking around the playground looking at the leaves and my feet, at about the age of 5? 6? When I think of that time, I get a visualisation of leaves, woodchip and the concrete playground. I always felt sad, different, isolated, even then. I remember having friends, but I think I was always on the edges…I’d get invited to birthday parties (paranoid adult head: cos their parents made them invite me?), but I don’t remember playing at school much. Maybe I did, and just can’t remember?

I can remember being oddly interested in boys at that time, which is weird, cos I know I didn’t know what sex was. Once, me and the boy I fancied thought we had ‘done it’…but he had only laid on me, fully clothed. I ‘loved’ Daniel Attwood all through primary school. Maybe that’s normal? But it seems weird, I never think about it, only thinking about it now as a necessary bi-product of writing this, but for a 7 year old, I had really strong feelings for the poor sod! For a sustained amount of time (years!). Maybe, even then, I was desperate to be loved, a feeling that has never left me. Needless to say, the affection was never mutual, I was never his girlfriend, though lots of other pretty girls were.

I spent a lot of time at this age (as much as I could, infact) staying with my paternal nan and granddad. I felt safe and loved there. They were so kind to me, I feel so lucky to have been able to have that relationship with them, and I wonder what might have become of me if I hadn’t had their loving refuge to escape to. Ive tried to tell my nan (sadly, granddad died when I was 10) through a letter, but I don’t think she will ever really understand what she means to me, how much I love her for all she did for me back then, how much I always will.

I was not happy being at home. Even then, I felt like mum hated me. Nothing I ever did was worth anything, or good enough. Everyday, she would call me names I didn’t really understand until a little later (‘stupid bitch’ etc), half the time I never knew what I did wrong, and she would be screaming at me.

It felt like she only ever spoke to me to tell me to do something, or to tell me I didn’t do something right. I can vividly remember thinking ‘I bet she doesn’t even know what my favourite colour is’ I know that’s trivial, but the point is, she never bothered getting to know me, wasn’t interested in me at all, except for what I could do for her. Mostly, that was cleaning.

She has a severe (undiagnosed) OCD, probably because of her own filthy and neglectful upbringing (im talking literally shit on the walls). Every weekend, both days, my brother and I would have to clean for hours before we were allowed to do anything that might’ve considered usual for kids of our ages, if we were allowed (probably not, probably did something wrong or not good enough or complained too much so would be refused even after the work was done, as punishment). I literally cleaned our kitchen, countless times, with a toothbrush. Every day in the summer holidays, or half terms, we did this. Mondays was housework day: school nights, we’d clean from when we got home, until bedtime, and in the holidays we’d simply clean all day, from when we woke up, to when we collapsed in our beds, tired and miserable, at night. We knew we were missing out. The other kids never had to do anything like it, and so whilst we were cleaning, we could think of all the fun they were having, that we were missing out on (specially my bro, who was a popular kid).

My overriding memory from this time is of literally crying myself to sleep in the dark…’why does nobody love me?’ I feel sorry for that little girl, who doesn’t feel like me now.

There were only a few occasions when she was really physically abusive, that I can remember. I have felt so confused about it, for so, so long, because its really hard to put your finger on, to describe how my mum was cruel and hurt me, when she rarely actually was physical. I felt ( and sometimes still feel – it’s a constant battle) like I was just a whiney, whinging, ungrateful, spoiled brat.

The public face of my mum is very likable. Even to this day, very few people know what she is really like behind closed doors. On the face of it, if you had seen us or met her, you would have no reason to doubt she was anything other than a good wife and parent. She was even a foster parent for many years (that hurt… you’ve got the time for other children, to be patient and kind to other children, what’s so hideously wrong with me?). I can still see her eyes, the angry eyes she’d flash you when you had annoyed her, but other people were there, so she couldn’t deal with you in her usual way. I used to love it when social workers (for the foster kids, not us) were round, and mum would be so nice.

My mums forte is power games, weird manipulation and lies and tricks, but she was physically abusive a few times.

Generally though, mums abuse was cold and cruel and emotional – I honestly believe she probably, for the most part, had no idea she was doing it. Though some things do seem too premeditated, or to sustained, to excuse as impulse or anger. When I was about 9, I can remember her sticking my dirty knickers to the front door, with a sign saying ‘fringewalk’s pissy pants’, to humiliate me. I can’t remember what I had done wrong.

Its hard to explain how things were. Mum and her depression were the domineering factors in all our lives. Everything the family did was mums will, no one else was considered; mums happiness (which never, ever came) was always paramount.

My dad worked shifts and nights a lot back then. For a while, as much as I completely love and respect him, and as painful as it was to have the thought, I did wonder how he could have let it go on. As an adult, I’ve concluded it was a combination of factors; he wasn’t there much, he didn’t want to see it, he was probably just about managing with the responsibility of putting food on the table and, mainly, he was dominated and emotionally bullied by mum too. He is a very lovely, family orientated man, easy to take advantage of. Apart from a few mistakes he made not controlling his temper when my bro was a very difficult adolescent, I cannot fault him. If I had a choice; him and mum or completely different parents, I would choose him and mum all over again, so that I could have him in my life.

In the last couple of years he has *finally* divorced her, and is now recovering from the aftermath of the years of abuse he suffered.

Its taken a long time for me to allow myself to say I had an abusive childhood, for a number of reasons. Maybe in the last year, I’ve come to terms with ‘admitting’ it.

Firstly, so many people have it infinitely worse, it seems selfish and ignorant to moan about what happened to me.

Secondly; loyalty. I love my mum, in spite of her behaviour, I always will. Even more than that, I understand why she was how she was (and still is), and I feel sorry for her, she never really stood a chance, and as I have said, I do believe she tried. She was abused in ways I (thankfully) cant even imagine, she was very young when she had me and married dad, she got diabetes (and very fat) as a result of her pregnancy with me and her dad died just a few months after. She must’ve had severe post-natal depression, but back then it wasn’t really a known thing. It must’ve been incredibly difficult for her. Maybe it’s why she hated me. Her life strikes me as very tragic and sad.

I still wish I could help her, and it is with great sadness that I try to accept that I can’t, and never will be able to. It goes against everything that I try to believe in, but sometimes, it really is just too late. She is still exactly the same, and it is to dangerous to have her in my life. She will only use and hurt me, all the while pretending to be my friend. I’ve had very minimum contact with her over the last couple of years, and the one time i did se her and speak to her properly, it was a series of lies followed by manipulation and problems that followed. So i can’t let my gaurd down.

Thirdly, because of the public face, because it was only me she treated like that (not my bro really, except the cleaning), for all my life, I thought it was me, my fault, something wrong with me. No one else seemed to notice. Was I imagining it? Remembering it wrong? Attention seeking (which I am prone to)? Later, she turned out to treat my sister (who is 15 years younger than me) in the same way, so now i wonder if it’s just the girls?

It has only been these last few years, when everything has unravelled, that everyone has seen her for what she really is. The mask hasn’t just slipped; it’s fallen clean off, at least for those of us close to her. It wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault, and there is nothing wrong with me.

I still don’t feel this is the truth, the lessons she taught are very deeply entrenched in my psyche, so I try to be logical, look at the facts, and remind myself it is the truth.

Not that it matters all that much now. It is a relationship i will never understand despite continued effort, and one that haunts me. But I am grown, responsible for my own choices, my own sucesses and faliures. I need to accept and find worth within myself, i need to not just know, but realise that self-worth is not something to be given to me by anyone else, but something i scuplt for myself .

I know this, but i cannot realise it, it is not true for me, i still seek it else where because i cannot find it inside, i’ve been hardwired from an early age not to. And even that belief  is yet another excuse/self-fufilling prophecy/obstacle to self-esteem. Grrrr. It is very frustrating.

I think i started smoking weed aged about 16. It’s weird, cos I was always one of those ‘say no to drugs’ kids, and I never smoked cigarettes. I was a bright-ish kid, I got a few As in my GCSEs, I was involved in the school community (student rep, ran tuck shop, always involved in music/drama productions) etc.

When I was 16, I was dumped by the first boy I had ever ‘loved’. It was teenage, all encompassing, need-to-be-with-you-all-the-time, deliriously happy kind of love, but when I look back on it know, I am think I did love him, albeit in an immature way. Anyway – I didn’t take the rejection very well. I almost turned into a crazy stalker for a while, i was kind of in limbo, and heartbroken.

When I did finally realise it was definitely over, I kind of fell into a black hole. Its sort of embarrassing now, all melodramatic – but the pain was unbearable, and it affected my whole life. When I think about it now, I try to understand why it effected me so much – plenty of teenagers get their heart broken but they don’t self-destruct like I did. They cry and listen to music in their rooms, then they get over it and move on.

I tried to commit ‘suicide’, taking loads of paracetamol and my parents’ Prozac and hip-replacement medicine. I don’t think it was too serious an attempt, the infamous ‘cry-for-help’ more likely, but it was enough to give me a kind of lock-jaw for a couple days when the muscles in my jaw were almost locked closed and my legs were all tense and shaky, and I threw up a lot. It felt like really horrible flu, and it scared the shit out of me. What if i really fucked myself up?

Maybe quite tellingly, my parents didn’t notice. To be fair, I lived in a mobile home at the bottom of their garden by then, my sister was only about 2, and they both worked, so it’s easy to see how; they were busy. To this day they know nothing about this. They knew that I was a self-harmer after a teacher at school got in touch with them when I was about 11 (I think), but to this day I don’t think they have any idea how isolated and alone and miserable I was at this time and through most of my childhood. Most of my life. Ungratful twat.

After the ‘suicide’ attempt (feels weird seeing that in black and white, even though i know it wasn’t as bad as the words implies), everything was the same. I started drinking vodka a lot, straight from the bottle. I slept with 6 people in a few weeks, some whom I did not know and have not seen since, some of which were supposed to be ‘friends’.

My ex-boyfriend, G, (not the one who had broke my heart, but one who’s heart im sure I broke), who remained my good friend, took care of me, and drove me about for hours on end. I only felt ok when we were driving, I don’t know why. I suppose when we were driving I wasn’t sat around trying to deal with the feeling in my stomach.

I owe a lot to G and the compassion and love he showed me during that time – he was the only person who was there for me, and im very lucky to have had him, even though i didn’t deserve him and ultimately, i think i used him and treated him badly (which i have since profusely apologised for). He was my boyfriend off and on from the age of 14 to 18, it was a serious relationship, but i think i would have had anyone who would take me, i was so desperate for love. I never really considered if i felt it or if it was real. I don’t know why i didn’t fancy him that much, he’s a great guy and he’s very good looking. Maybe it was because he treated me so well.

I asked G to get me some hash during this time, i just wanted to get out of my own head. I had been with him and a few of our friends when they had smoked before, but up until then I had always refused it and made them promise not to go onto harder drugs (which is funny now, given my drug experiences). G was at university at the time and got an eight of hash from his friend there. We had one of those pipe/tube things you can attach to a beer bottle and make a bong from- neither of us smoked baccy or could roll. That first eighth lasted agggggeeesss.I would have a little pipe every now and then, nothing serious. I couldn’t roll a proper joint then, i had to use a rolling machine on the odd occasion i did smoke one. For a while, i was an occasional smoker, until i began probably my most significant (and damaging) relationship with a full time smoker.

Life Is Sacred

13 May

This won’t be a very good introduction.  This is a bad day for me, and so i doubt this post will be very engaging; a shame since it’s the first one. First impressions and all that.

I’ve been meaning to keep a blog (or at least, a consistent-ish online one, as opposed to random scribblings in a notebook) for a good while now.  Now i have an internet connection and a computer decent enough to do it, today’s the day. I have some rough pieces of writing on this PC, which I’ll find and post in a moment, and hopefully complete in the not-so-distant-future.

A book should tell a story, or be factual or funny or portray a journey. If this turns out to be a book, it will have a story, a beginning, a middle, and an end, I’ll get somewhere, be successful in some of my aims, or I’ll learn something about myself, or the world, that those ambitions I began with become meaningless. It won’t be a fantastic story, but a personal and honest account of how this life is, for me, for others? If it’s not those things, then it’ll be a diary: interesting and embarrassing and sentimental to me in years to come, and therapeutic now, at least.

It’ll be sporadic, cos I only write when I feel like it, and only about what I feel like writing, so maybe it’ll be difficult understand, but life’s like that, people are like that, I’m like that. Writing something like this in any other way would be a misrepresentation of something that’s supposed to be true, or true to me.

Try and channel it. Write it down. Try to understand it, manage it, make sense of it, identify it. Remember it? If you have to live with it, at least try to get something positive from it.

The thought troubling me today is: where does ‘it’ and ‘i’ begin? What’s really me and what isn’t, and how do I know the difference? I haven’t taken my tablets for a while. The difference is significant, and it has taken me a bit by surprise. The well of sadness is palpable again. I am very emotional, my eyes want to cry, it’s all lurking just below the surface. It’s shocking how quickly you forget how harrowing it is when you snuggled safely in a chemical bubble. I don’t feel too bad in this moment, or at least, it’s not in the centre, but I am smoking a spliff. Earlier, I felt very anxious/worried (no reason to be) This is not unusual…but not usual either. Not nice. I know the alone-ness would be acute if smoking wasn’t taking the edge off.

I am surprised because, having resisted medication for years (not because I didn’t think it could work, but because I couldn’t (wouldn’t?) acknowledge I was ill), the evidence that medication was at least helping to a point ( and therefore, the realisation that this IS a sickness, and not just me) is undeniable. But if that is true, and most of my life I have thought it was just me, normal to feel and behave that way, how do I know what is reality? What is me, and not me? Me and illness? I was strange and unfamiliar before, now I am a bigger question mark and that makes me afraid.

People are just a series of chemical reactions and electrical impulses? That’s it?

I stopped taking them because it is a false door, an illusion, just like the smoking. It doesn’t really help me get better, it just stops me feeling so bad in the interim. It just postpones the reality, but it’s still there, in the post. So what’s the point in relying on yet another chemical to be able to cope, to function? I need to be getting off this shit, not on more.

I’m doing ok. I mean, I would like to not be reliant on anything, to be able to cope on my own, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, and i don’t feel very strong or very capable at all at the moment. I get by on a day-to-day, sometimes moment-to-moment basis. But i AM getting by, and that’s what counts.

It is a beautiful sunny day and i don’t have anything to do except enjoy it, my jobs are done and my boy is with his dad today. The lawn here has just been cut and smells delicious. It’s bright green and the sky is azure blue. The apple tree is in blossom. The world is beautiful in it’s springtime promise.

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