Two days in a row of constant social activity is too much for me. I know this.
I need breaks; I need a chance to hide in the bedroom and not get out of bed. To pace myself, do what I can when I can, and not what I can't when everything's gotten to be too much. It's the only way that I can manage to do things at all - storing up the willpower and energy and spoons to get it done and then expending them all in one go. I know, full well, that doing too much is not good for me.
But I continue to do it anyway.
This last weekend, which was only the second time I'd been out of the house in the past horrible fortnight, I stepped beyond 'too much' and into the realms of 'this will break you'. On Friday night I saw my brother for the last time before he goes to France for six months; one of the first things he said to me was that he'd been to see dad on the way down, and I felt my brain smash into millions of pieces as I realised that I felt scared of my own brother just because he'd been near that man who was once my father and is now just an imposter wearing his skin.
We had a meal that was nice when I convinced myself not to break down and he went.
I tried to sleep, but was alone because my boyfriend was away. I don't sleep well. I never have done, but these days if I close my eyes all I can think about is how if I fall asleep I won't be cognisant and it will be like death and then I will think of how terrified I am of dying and the world will close in around me. I get to sleep because I can listen to him snoring and breathing and being alive and being there. It shouldn't really have surprised me that when he's not there, I don't sleep. At all. I suppose really it didn't surprise me, just disappointed.
So after tossing and turning for a night I got up and went to play LRP. It was a fun day, except I felt myself overcome by the mid-level and constant nagging feeling that no one likes me and I'm being an utter idiot. Nothing bad happened. I still felt like it. Being the entirely logical and sensible person that I am, I then went to the pub in the evening. Because cramming myself into the corner of a hugely busy room full of noisy and drunk people is totally the best thing to do.
I was doing okay, and then one of my dear friends who is wonderful and meant me not a single ounce of harm in any way whatsoever started talking about how someone we know frustrates him - and although he was talking about them all I could hear was you, it's you we hate and are annoyed by, and then it was like he was talking in my voice - the voice I use on myself. I asked him to stop talking. I burst into tears, and broke down like I hadn't done in front of my brother. I hid in my friend's arms so that I could pretend no one else was there and they weren't seeing me and judging and looking at the useless and weak and stupid mentally ill girl in the corner.
I couldn't get the words out to explain to my friend what was going on. He kept apologising. I couldn't summon the words to tell him that it wasn't him that had upset me, but it was me. He looked after me for the rest of the evening and made sure I got home safely and all I could think was I do not deserve any of this.
I went home and couldn't sleep again.
The next morning I ran an LRP adventure for eight of the most experienced roleplayers I know, including two of my best friends and a good deal of people who utterly terrify me because they are so very much cleverer and better than me. It was just me and a well-meaning but massively irritating 14-year-old. I felt the story I had written falling to pieces around me and everyone judging me and it all going utterly, utterly awfully. I forgot things, screwed things up, it was awful.
All of the players wouldn't stop telling me how good a day they had. I guess my perspective is screwed; but when I came home and finally saw my boyfriend I almost broke down again in front of everyone and it was all I could do to go to bed and log onto my MUD and pretend that absolutely nothing was wrong. (But my boyfriend knew. He can always tell even when I don't say).
I did, however, finally get some sleep - and I've managed to regain composure enough to write this (there's an irony there because I've only just noticed that I've been crying constantly whilst writing). What I wanted to say...well mostly I wanted to vent, I think, and to explain how too much is a relative thing - is that even though I know this weekend was horrendous and more than I could ever do, I will do exactly the same thing again.
Because I have to prove to the world that I'm not utterly broken, and I wish I could do that without just breaking myself more.
Monday, 5 December 2011
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Achievement and Ambition
Last year I competed in and completed Nanowrimo, a writing contest where the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in only 30 days. It's one of those things that seems like a huge task as a whole, but when broken down into day-by-day doesn't seem so bad; 1,666 words a day doesn't seem like as much as 50,000 in total. Even still I didn't expect to finish. I'd competed twice before, once abandoning my novel at around 20k and the other time at 15k.
To this day I am not sure what it was about last year that enabled me to get all the way through to the end and finish. I'm sure it's due in large part to the fact that my psychiatrist and I were working on dealing with things one at a time. So taking it day by day, looking at those 1,666 word groups instead of the whole, meant that I worked my way through the thirty days (not without numerous hitches) and came out the other side with a novel.
Except I didn't - I got to my 50,000 words and realised, to my surprise, that the plot swimming vaguely around in my head was not even half complete.
Bollocks, said I, and proceeded to ignore the novel for the best part of six months. Eventually at that point I managed to go through and do a rewrite, and was astonished to find that I didn't actually think it was quite the epic pile of shit I remembered. I rewrote and edited and came up with the crazy idea that perhaps there weren't just a few more words in that story - but there were another 50,000.
So November rolled around and I said hey, you know what. Let's see if I can't get this finished. Several friends of mine were also taking part, so spurred on by their companionship, the lingering pride of ever finishing last year at all and a perfectionist's need to get the story told, I started writing. The first couple of weeks went alright; when I missed days, I caught up reasonably quickly. I won't say it was easy. Often I'd sit down and find myself totally unable to write anything purely because I was gripped so terribly by the concept that no matter what I wrote, it would be utter tosh.
Then I got so sick the other weekend that I gave myself the flu. I missed five straight days - just under 10,000 words worth - of writing. I fell utterly behind, managing only about 500 words in those days. I came very close to giving up. I was looking at the graph thinking I am meant to be at 35,000 words and I've written just over 20k. I can't pick myself up from there, surely?
But, largely out of not having anything better to do - and the secret fact that, if I can get through all of the things that annoy me like my fear of failure and the fact that typing for too long gives me this funny feeling in my fingers that makes me want to shake and punch things, I rather enjoy writing - I continued. And then I realised that I was catching up, bit by bit, writing 2,500 words a day instead of 1,666. Then I realised, two days ago, that I was at 45,000 - I was nearly there.
Then yesterday I wrote up to my 47,000 target...realised that I was right near the end of the story, and I pushed on. And I finished. Properly finished, this time - a whole novel, a whole story, 103k words.
What this reminded me of and what I wanted to say, other than to celebrate, is the following:
Depressed people can have ambitions too.
We play life on a higher difficulty setting and have less mana to cast spells with. It's like running the same race as everyone else, but carrying a huge rucksack with you. Our ambitions might not strike as high (or they might aim too high, and that's half the issue), and the things that fill us with the glory of achievement might seem trivial to some people.
But I don't think any achievement, even if it's just getting out of bed - or leaving the house for the first time in a week and a half like I did this morning - is trivial or petty. And even if I can't say that I'm proud* of myself, I can at least say that I did something and there is proof and evidence and even my fucked up psyche cannot deny what I have done and achieved.
So that's what my novel means to me. Victory. Victory through massive adversity.
* Regarding the P-word: this word when spoken to me by anyone makes me instantaneously burst into tears. Following this post I have now discovered that such reactions also apply if I write it about myself.
To this day I am not sure what it was about last year that enabled me to get all the way through to the end and finish. I'm sure it's due in large part to the fact that my psychiatrist and I were working on dealing with things one at a time. So taking it day by day, looking at those 1,666 word groups instead of the whole, meant that I worked my way through the thirty days (not without numerous hitches) and came out the other side with a novel.
Except I didn't - I got to my 50,000 words and realised, to my surprise, that the plot swimming vaguely around in my head was not even half complete.
Bollocks, said I, and proceeded to ignore the novel for the best part of six months. Eventually at that point I managed to go through and do a rewrite, and was astonished to find that I didn't actually think it was quite the epic pile of shit I remembered. I rewrote and edited and came up with the crazy idea that perhaps there weren't just a few more words in that story - but there were another 50,000.
So November rolled around and I said hey, you know what. Let's see if I can't get this finished. Several friends of mine were also taking part, so spurred on by their companionship, the lingering pride of ever finishing last year at all and a perfectionist's need to get the story told, I started writing. The first couple of weeks went alright; when I missed days, I caught up reasonably quickly. I won't say it was easy. Often I'd sit down and find myself totally unable to write anything purely because I was gripped so terribly by the concept that no matter what I wrote, it would be utter tosh.
Then I got so sick the other weekend that I gave myself the flu. I missed five straight days - just under 10,000 words worth - of writing. I fell utterly behind, managing only about 500 words in those days. I came very close to giving up. I was looking at the graph thinking I am meant to be at 35,000 words and I've written just over 20k. I can't pick myself up from there, surely?
But, largely out of not having anything better to do - and the secret fact that, if I can get through all of the things that annoy me like my fear of failure and the fact that typing for too long gives me this funny feeling in my fingers that makes me want to shake and punch things, I rather enjoy writing - I continued. And then I realised that I was catching up, bit by bit, writing 2,500 words a day instead of 1,666. Then I realised, two days ago, that I was at 45,000 - I was nearly there.
Then yesterday I wrote up to my 47,000 target...realised that I was right near the end of the story, and I pushed on. And I finished. Properly finished, this time - a whole novel, a whole story, 103k words.
What this reminded me of and what I wanted to say, other than to celebrate, is the following:
Depressed people can have ambitions too.
We play life on a higher difficulty setting and have less mana to cast spells with. It's like running the same race as everyone else, but carrying a huge rucksack with you. Our ambitions might not strike as high (or they might aim too high, and that's half the issue), and the things that fill us with the glory of achievement might seem trivial to some people.
But I don't think any achievement, even if it's just getting out of bed - or leaving the house for the first time in a week and a half like I did this morning - is trivial or petty. And even if I can't say that I'm proud* of myself, I can at least say that I did something and there is proof and evidence and even my fucked up psyche cannot deny what I have done and achieved.
So that's what my novel means to me. Victory. Victory through massive adversity.
* Regarding the P-word: this word when spoken to me by anyone makes me instantaneously burst into tears. Following this post I have now discovered that such reactions also apply if I write it about myself.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Powering Through Fear
For many years I've gone with the theory that if I avoid social activities, I will never get into the situation where I feel awful about things I've said, done, or looked like. That if I just don't go out, there's nothing to worry about, because I'm not going out and I'm not thinking about having gone out, or having to go out. For a long time, not only did this work, but it was what was best for me.
Of course the issue with only ever staying at home is that you don't get any positive reinforcement - and since I'm now getting to the point where I can even get my brain to hear the positive reinforcement (not quite at the point where it always goes in and doesn't go out the other ear yet), it's started to mean that going out is better for me than staying in. I'm wholly ready to accept that it's been good for me for a lot longer than I've been able to admit; but that's the nature of being depressed. I don't think I'm capable of things.
Now, however, I've a whole new kettle of fish to fry. Finally I've got to the point where - and there are many caveats here, so bear with me - in a (familiar) social situation with people (who I know and have known for ages, who know about my condition), with the freedom to come and go as I please (now that I'm not too scared to take taxis), I'm able to attend and enjoy social activities such as going to the pub, taking part in LRP, or other things that previously did nothing but strike fear into my heart.
The thing is, the fear is still there - only now in my determination to get better (largely focused around not being a useless and irritating pain in the arse to everyone silly enough to care about me), I sometimes ignore it. I charge in, head on, powered by adrenaline and my determination to prove to myself and other people that I'm still a person.
That doesn't mean I don't get scared.
In fact I would say I actually have worse reactions to doing social things now than I did when I just didn't do them at all. When I didn't go, I felt guilty, a bit useless, but fundamentally placated myself with 'it's okay, you're just not ready yet'. Now I know I can do it, and I know I can do it even when I'm otherwise feeling awful. It's not the motivation I should be using on myself, but to be honest some of the motivations I've use to get myself out of bed aren't ideal but at that point I had to do something otherwise I never would. I keep myself from self-harming by pointing out that it would hurt my mum too much and that I'd be an awful, hideous daughter. Never mind the fact that it used to release some of the hurt in my head and help me.
Anyway, the point is that these days I get nervous before doing things, but during them I'm generally okay. The time that hurts is afterwards. The best way to explain it is to use an example and since the need for catharsis is partly why I'm writing this post, I'll use this weekend as one. On Saturday I played an LRP event, where I was in charge of everyone and telling them what to do. I was comfortable with this until a large part of the story was all about me. I freaked, realised suddenly that I was being horribly arrogant and taking up all of the focus for the event, that I was making it all about me when really I should shut up and get to the back because no one wants to listen to my utterly idiotic drivel.
(You get the no holds barred version of my mental monologue, I'm afraid).
Somehow I got through and finished the dungeon. Then it was time for an in-character party. For my birthday this year my wonderful and amazing boyfriend bought me a gown. It's perhaps the most stereotypically feminine thing I've ever owned. It's silver and purple and absolutely beautiful. I was determined to wear it, no matter how scared I felt that everyone was going to be staring at me because I'm fat, ugly, and so short the dress trailed along the ground. Now there are two versions of how I feel about the party itself. Here's the first, more literal one:
I had some interesting IC discussions with people, including getting to produce some of the aspects of my character that don't usually come up when you're being chased by goblins/zombies/whatever, including a long political debate with someone my character hates, and generally I didn't make a fool of myself. I drank wine, but not so much that I was doing more than relaxing. I helped save one of my friends when she fainted (corset too tight) by carrying her out of the venue and making sure she was okay. I know I helped because her husband hugged me and said thank you (this is proof, my brain requires proof).
So that's the first version. Here's the other.
I turned up in that dress which everyone complimented me on because frankly it did say that everyone needed to be looking at me, and I have no idea why I did that because I know I hate being looked at because I am fat and ugly. I drank alcohol which I know makes me feel awful the next day and makes me act like a childish imbecile. The fact that I put certain aspects of my character across is irrelevant because everyone thinks my character concept is stupid anyway, in fact by staying 'faithful' to it I probably made it worse. I was loud, obnoxious, and generally an idiot. The only remotely good thing I did was helping my friend when she fainted, and frankly I should've just buggered off and left her other half to help her instead of assuming it was okay for me to do so. Oh, and on the way home I dropped my mobile phone which got run over because I'm an idiot and even though I noticed that it hadn't gone into my bag properly I didn't stop and check which meant the man that found it phoned loads of people from it who I would never ever dare to call because they don't want to be bothered by me.
That would be the second version. They're slightly at odds, only in my head they're equally loud. They are why yesterday I spent the whole day in bed, only ate when someone put a plate of food in front of me, and did a mixture of trying to sleep it off and staring at the ceiling not answering my boyfriend's questions about how I was.
Today, I've got an awful cold - largely due to not sleeping properly or looking after myself yesterday - and I'm still feeling pretty awful, apart from the times where I stop feeling anything at all (which are the ones that scare me - I'm rather used to feeling awful these days). More than anything now I feel guilty for whining and complaining because there are billions of people in the world and most of them don't become utterly pointless and useless sacks of meat the moment something bad happens to them (and even in this case when nothing bad has happened at all).
So that in summary is why right now I don't want to do anything social for a while, and why powering through fear is not necessarily a good thing. Hopefully it's managed to come across without two much self-targeted vitriol (bar the paragraphs which were made entirely of it as a demonstration), because right now I'm struggling to think anything else. I just wanted to write this now in the hope that it would make me feel better (I think right now it's just made me hate myself more), and in the hope that I could explain in a way that people would understand (I have no idea if I did or not).
Of course the issue with only ever staying at home is that you don't get any positive reinforcement - and since I'm now getting to the point where I can even get my brain to hear the positive reinforcement (not quite at the point where it always goes in and doesn't go out the other ear yet), it's started to mean that going out is better for me than staying in. I'm wholly ready to accept that it's been good for me for a lot longer than I've been able to admit; but that's the nature of being depressed. I don't think I'm capable of things.
Now, however, I've a whole new kettle of fish to fry. Finally I've got to the point where - and there are many caveats here, so bear with me - in a (familiar) social situation with people (who I know and have known for ages, who know about my condition), with the freedom to come and go as I please (now that I'm not too scared to take taxis), I'm able to attend and enjoy social activities such as going to the pub, taking part in LRP, or other things that previously did nothing but strike fear into my heart.
The thing is, the fear is still there - only now in my determination to get better (largely focused around not being a useless and irritating pain in the arse to everyone silly enough to care about me), I sometimes ignore it. I charge in, head on, powered by adrenaline and my determination to prove to myself and other people that I'm still a person.
That doesn't mean I don't get scared.
In fact I would say I actually have worse reactions to doing social things now than I did when I just didn't do them at all. When I didn't go, I felt guilty, a bit useless, but fundamentally placated myself with 'it's okay, you're just not ready yet'. Now I know I can do it, and I know I can do it even when I'm otherwise feeling awful. It's not the motivation I should be using on myself, but to be honest some of the motivations I've use to get myself out of bed aren't ideal but at that point I had to do something otherwise I never would. I keep myself from self-harming by pointing out that it would hurt my mum too much and that I'd be an awful, hideous daughter. Never mind the fact that it used to release some of the hurt in my head and help me.
Anyway, the point is that these days I get nervous before doing things, but during them I'm generally okay. The time that hurts is afterwards. The best way to explain it is to use an example and since the need for catharsis is partly why I'm writing this post, I'll use this weekend as one. On Saturday I played an LRP event, where I was in charge of everyone and telling them what to do. I was comfortable with this until a large part of the story was all about me. I freaked, realised suddenly that I was being horribly arrogant and taking up all of the focus for the event, that I was making it all about me when really I should shut up and get to the back because no one wants to listen to my utterly idiotic drivel.
(You get the no holds barred version of my mental monologue, I'm afraid).
Somehow I got through and finished the dungeon. Then it was time for an in-character party. For my birthday this year my wonderful and amazing boyfriend bought me a gown. It's perhaps the most stereotypically feminine thing I've ever owned. It's silver and purple and absolutely beautiful. I was determined to wear it, no matter how scared I felt that everyone was going to be staring at me because I'm fat, ugly, and so short the dress trailed along the ground. Now there are two versions of how I feel about the party itself. Here's the first, more literal one:
I had some interesting IC discussions with people, including getting to produce some of the aspects of my character that don't usually come up when you're being chased by goblins/zombies/whatever, including a long political debate with someone my character hates, and generally I didn't make a fool of myself. I drank wine, but not so much that I was doing more than relaxing. I helped save one of my friends when she fainted (corset too tight) by carrying her out of the venue and making sure she was okay. I know I helped because her husband hugged me and said thank you (this is proof, my brain requires proof).
So that's the first version. Here's the other.
I turned up in that dress which everyone complimented me on because frankly it did say that everyone needed to be looking at me, and I have no idea why I did that because I know I hate being looked at because I am fat and ugly. I drank alcohol which I know makes me feel awful the next day and makes me act like a childish imbecile. The fact that I put certain aspects of my character across is irrelevant because everyone thinks my character concept is stupid anyway, in fact by staying 'faithful' to it I probably made it worse. I was loud, obnoxious, and generally an idiot. The only remotely good thing I did was helping my friend when she fainted, and frankly I should've just buggered off and left her other half to help her instead of assuming it was okay for me to do so. Oh, and on the way home I dropped my mobile phone which got run over because I'm an idiot and even though I noticed that it hadn't gone into my bag properly I didn't stop and check which meant the man that found it phoned loads of people from it who I would never ever dare to call because they don't want to be bothered by me.
That would be the second version. They're slightly at odds, only in my head they're equally loud. They are why yesterday I spent the whole day in bed, only ate when someone put a plate of food in front of me, and did a mixture of trying to sleep it off and staring at the ceiling not answering my boyfriend's questions about how I was.
Today, I've got an awful cold - largely due to not sleeping properly or looking after myself yesterday - and I'm still feeling pretty awful, apart from the times where I stop feeling anything at all (which are the ones that scare me - I'm rather used to feeling awful these days). More than anything now I feel guilty for whining and complaining because there are billions of people in the world and most of them don't become utterly pointless and useless sacks of meat the moment something bad happens to them (and even in this case when nothing bad has happened at all).
So that in summary is why right now I don't want to do anything social for a while, and why powering through fear is not necessarily a good thing. Hopefully it's managed to come across without two much self-targeted vitriol (bar the paragraphs which were made entirely of it as a demonstration), because right now I'm struggling to think anything else. I just wanted to write this now in the hope that it would make me feel better (I think right now it's just made me hate myself more), and in the hope that I could explain in a way that people would understand (I have no idea if I did or not).
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Blogging Through Depression
In the past months since I last updated this blog, more than a few things have happened. This would be normal for most people; it's normal for me too. A lot of the things that have happened to me are, however, not normal.
In the past months, I moved in with my boyfriend, stopped taking anti-depressant medication, managed several months without therapy, started group therapy, watched my family fall apart when my dad left, watched those of us who remained knit ourselves back together as a new unit, told my grandparents about my illness, went to the gym every week for two months, then stopped going to the gym because my back was hurting, started playing MMORPGs again, went back into London to see friends from uni for the first time in years, went on impromptu trips to things like the Proms, and generally had a whole world of up down and sideways feelings.
A lot of stuff happened, and when lots of stuff happens I get overwhelmed. I both need to and cannot talk and vent about it. Recently though I've started writing again (thank you Nanowrimo) and it's gotten me back into that bug. Poetry has even happened, which is usually reserved for brief bouts of artistic interest that grip me for a week or so every few years. Although it's very hard to talk about things I can see that I've gotten to a point where I need to talk about things.
But it's not just that, there is something more to it that I've never felt quite the same way before. I need people to read it. I want to tell people what it's like to live with this disability and these illnesses and I want to show people that it's possible to recover enough to live a happy life - even though I'm nowhere near that at the moment. I want people to read things I say and feel heartened by them, feel like they're not alone. More than anything, group therapy has taught me that there is a huge amount of strength in unity and solidarity and recognising that whatever you have felt there is at least one other person in the world who understands - and in fact, it's a hell of a lot more than just one person.
I have no idea how one goes about getting people to read and frankly, I'm terrified of the idea of it - but I need this, it will be good for me, so here you go. Bear with me on this, it'll be a bumpy ride and doubtless quite slow, but we'll get there.
In the past months, I moved in with my boyfriend, stopped taking anti-depressant medication, managed several months without therapy, started group therapy, watched my family fall apart when my dad left, watched those of us who remained knit ourselves back together as a new unit, told my grandparents about my illness, went to the gym every week for two months, then stopped going to the gym because my back was hurting, started playing MMORPGs again, went back into London to see friends from uni for the first time in years, went on impromptu trips to things like the Proms, and generally had a whole world of up down and sideways feelings.
A lot of stuff happened, and when lots of stuff happens I get overwhelmed. I both need to and cannot talk and vent about it. Recently though I've started writing again (thank you Nanowrimo) and it's gotten me back into that bug. Poetry has even happened, which is usually reserved for brief bouts of artistic interest that grip me for a week or so every few years. Although it's very hard to talk about things I can see that I've gotten to a point where I need to talk about things.
But it's not just that, there is something more to it that I've never felt quite the same way before. I need people to read it. I want to tell people what it's like to live with this disability and these illnesses and I want to show people that it's possible to recover enough to live a happy life - even though I'm nowhere near that at the moment. I want people to read things I say and feel heartened by them, feel like they're not alone. More than anything, group therapy has taught me that there is a huge amount of strength in unity and solidarity and recognising that whatever you have felt there is at least one other person in the world who understands - and in fact, it's a hell of a lot more than just one person.
I have no idea how one goes about getting people to read and frankly, I'm terrified of the idea of it - but I need this, it will be good for me, so here you go. Bear with me on this, it'll be a bumpy ride and doubtless quite slow, but we'll get there.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
My Therapist
I have four more sessions with my psychotherapist.
Four more blocks of fifty minutes where I can say anything, anything at all and know that I'm not being judged. Four more times when I can be nudged gently towards the deepest, darkest parts of myself and get the catharsis that is the wretched, painful sobs of realising just how acutely I feel the pain that I do. Four more times that I can see the face of my therapist who is not just a therapist but a friend and know that she will never, ever think badly of me. That she will tell me when I am exaggerating and not, when I am reading things wrong, when it's okay to say good things about myself and that it's important to be able to say the bad.
She can see through the loud and energetic persona that I put on to hide the other me, the shy and soft-spoken and terrified little mouse, and she can bring out the real me which is a combination of all those other things that I am. She will never push me to do things that I cannot do or do not want to, but will help me to push myself towards the life that I dearly and truly want. There is no person more understanding or trustworthy in the world than this woman.
And in four weeks she's being taken away from me because the NHS will only give a year of one-to-one psychotherapy to people like me, regardless of whether I need more time to heal or not. This woman is one of the single most important people in my entire life and she is being taken away from me. She is so important and yet I know hardly anything about her at all, while she knows absolutely everything that I am and never ever speaks badly of me.
I love her. I love her so acutely and painfully that while writing this I have sobbed hopelessly and with abandon, not tempering my tears like I usually would. And the thing that makes me cry the most is that I cannot express in words the immense gratitude and veritable awe that I have for her, for this woman who has stood besides me as I lay in the pits of despair and said 'It's alright. It hurts, but together we can build you a ladder, and you can start to see the sky'.
No one that I have loved, no one in my family whilst I have lived, has died - but I think I am beginning to know what it is like to be bereaved.
Four more blocks of fifty minutes where I can say anything, anything at all and know that I'm not being judged. Four more times when I can be nudged gently towards the deepest, darkest parts of myself and get the catharsis that is the wretched, painful sobs of realising just how acutely I feel the pain that I do. Four more times that I can see the face of my therapist who is not just a therapist but a friend and know that she will never, ever think badly of me. That she will tell me when I am exaggerating and not, when I am reading things wrong, when it's okay to say good things about myself and that it's important to be able to say the bad.
She can see through the loud and energetic persona that I put on to hide the other me, the shy and soft-spoken and terrified little mouse, and she can bring out the real me which is a combination of all those other things that I am. She will never push me to do things that I cannot do or do not want to, but will help me to push myself towards the life that I dearly and truly want. There is no person more understanding or trustworthy in the world than this woman.
And in four weeks she's being taken away from me because the NHS will only give a year of one-to-one psychotherapy to people like me, regardless of whether I need more time to heal or not. This woman is one of the single most important people in my entire life and she is being taken away from me. She is so important and yet I know hardly anything about her at all, while she knows absolutely everything that I am and never ever speaks badly of me.
I love her. I love her so acutely and painfully that while writing this I have sobbed hopelessly and with abandon, not tempering my tears like I usually would. And the thing that makes me cry the most is that I cannot express in words the immense gratitude and veritable awe that I have for her, for this woman who has stood besides me as I lay in the pits of despair and said 'It's alright. It hurts, but together we can build you a ladder, and you can start to see the sky'.
No one that I have loved, no one in my family whilst I have lived, has died - but I think I am beginning to know what it is like to be bereaved.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Progress
Often I will think of things that I could do that would help me get better. For example, this week I had to start a diet consisting purely of soluble fibres - to find out what food intolerances I have that are causing my IBS. Unfortunately I'd just been shopping a couple of days before, so I was left with a fridge full of perishables that I couldn't eat. Luckily this is not a hugely painful point financially (as I just got basically all of January's money that I should've had then in one go...), so I didn't have to eat it anyway because there was nothing else to do.
I thought to myself, well I don't really want to throw this all out - I did pay money for it, after all. In the end I came up with the idea of cooking dinner for all of my friends with it. Usually at that point I'd consider the idea, maybe put one or two steps towards doing it; but fundamentally I'd probably bottle out of it, especially if it involved other people.
This time I didn't. Last night I went over to my friends' house and cooked dinner for them and left them the spare food. Whilst today went kind of badly in several ways, it makes it much easier to bear knowing that not only are my friends pretty awesome, but I'm doing well enough to have actually done something. Hooray.
I thought to myself, well I don't really want to throw this all out - I did pay money for it, after all. In the end I came up with the idea of cooking dinner for all of my friends with it. Usually at that point I'd consider the idea, maybe put one or two steps towards doing it; but fundamentally I'd probably bottle out of it, especially if it involved other people.
This time I didn't. Last night I went over to my friends' house and cooked dinner for them and left them the spare food. Whilst today went kind of badly in several ways, it makes it much easier to bear knowing that not only are my friends pretty awesome, but I'm doing well enough to have actually done something. Hooray.
Friday, 11 February 2011
Complaining
As I've written before I've had some issues with the flat above me being obnoxiously loud and putting offensive notes through my door. I promised myself when it happened that I'd make a formal complaint if it happened again - with a single incident I didn't deem it worth the fear that I'd feel as a response of 'telling on them'. Doubtless it harks back to telling the teachers when I was bullied at school, but any time I complain about someone to an official body - even anonymously - I get absolutely terrified that the person I'm complaining about is going to find out that it was me that made the complaint and come and shout at me.
The night before last my boyfriend was here, and whilst we were in bed there were three loud knocks on the ceiling - or the floor, to the person that did it. We weren't being loud at all; my bed creaks a bit because there's no carpet in there (which is not my fault) and because, you know, beds creak - and as my support worker put it earlier, 'unless your boyfriend is some sort of stallion or you like literally screaming then it's not a nuisance'. Which amused me. Despite not being at all embarrassed about my sexual activity, there's something a bit difficult about saying that someone's getting upset because my boyfriend comes over once a week. I end up sort of sheepishly shuffling and going "umm I'm not noisy, honest...we do our best to be quiet and considerate".
But frankly, I have to live in this building too, and I will not extend my consideration to stopping doing something that I enjoy quite a lot and am already trying to be considerate about. It's not like it's waking people up or at obscene times of night either. If I systematically hoovered my entire flat at 3am on a weekday morning then I'd understand the complaint. I wouldn't mind so much but whoever it is that lives there is hugely hypocritical; because most days they've got their music on so loud that my living room literally vibrates. They've had parties there, not frequently but sometimes. I don't mind hearing noise; we live in a block of flats, we are going to hear noise - but there's a level of consideration that needs to happen.
So when those three loud knocks came onto my ceiling, I had a panic attack. I burst into tears and I am so, so glad my boyfriend was there because I felt absolutely terrified. I still do now, though in a more controlled way. It's like discovering that your armour has a potentially fatal crack in it. All I can keep thinking is that I am not safe, I am not alone, I can't escape the people who want to bully and harass me. Obviously I'm fully aware that a lot of this is exaggerated by my condition and lack of logic, but anyone would be distressed by it.
Originally I wasn't going to complain. But my support worker came over and I just...I needed to do it. I needed to hold in the acute terror of being caught telling, of confrontation. I need to accept that it's okay to be annoyed with people who aren't being considerate towards you or are harassing you - like hey, putting threatening and offensive letters through someone's door! Delivered by hand, just to add that extra degree of threat. Every time I hear a door go in the building I freeze. Every time I hear voices I feel like running and hiding, like turning all the lights off so that no one knows I'm here.
I hate it here. I cannot leave soon enough - but I shouldn't let people walk all over me whilst I'm waiting to escape.
The night before last my boyfriend was here, and whilst we were in bed there were three loud knocks on the ceiling - or the floor, to the person that did it. We weren't being loud at all; my bed creaks a bit because there's no carpet in there (which is not my fault) and because, you know, beds creak - and as my support worker put it earlier, 'unless your boyfriend is some sort of stallion or you like literally screaming then it's not a nuisance'. Which amused me. Despite not being at all embarrassed about my sexual activity, there's something a bit difficult about saying that someone's getting upset because my boyfriend comes over once a week. I end up sort of sheepishly shuffling and going "umm I'm not noisy, honest...we do our best to be quiet and considerate".
But frankly, I have to live in this building too, and I will not extend my consideration to stopping doing something that I enjoy quite a lot and am already trying to be considerate about. It's not like it's waking people up or at obscene times of night either. If I systematically hoovered my entire flat at 3am on a weekday morning then I'd understand the complaint. I wouldn't mind so much but whoever it is that lives there is hugely hypocritical; because most days they've got their music on so loud that my living room literally vibrates. They've had parties there, not frequently but sometimes. I don't mind hearing noise; we live in a block of flats, we are going to hear noise - but there's a level of consideration that needs to happen.
So when those three loud knocks came onto my ceiling, I had a panic attack. I burst into tears and I am so, so glad my boyfriend was there because I felt absolutely terrified. I still do now, though in a more controlled way. It's like discovering that your armour has a potentially fatal crack in it. All I can keep thinking is that I am not safe, I am not alone, I can't escape the people who want to bully and harass me. Obviously I'm fully aware that a lot of this is exaggerated by my condition and lack of logic, but anyone would be distressed by it.
Originally I wasn't going to complain. But my support worker came over and I just...I needed to do it. I needed to hold in the acute terror of being caught telling, of confrontation. I need to accept that it's okay to be annoyed with people who aren't being considerate towards you or are harassing you - like hey, putting threatening and offensive letters through someone's door! Delivered by hand, just to add that extra degree of threat. Every time I hear a door go in the building I freeze. Every time I hear voices I feel like running and hiding, like turning all the lights off so that no one knows I'm here.
I hate it here. I cannot leave soon enough - but I shouldn't let people walk all over me whilst I'm waiting to escape.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Polymathy
I can't remember a time when I wasn't interested in absolutely everything. I mean everything - I might not like, for example, football: but I know a reasonable amount about it. Not knowing things upsets me, and not being good at things does too. It just so happens that I'm pretty much good at anything I try.
I think what depression has taken from me is the trying. I still find things interesting, it's just more...peripherally. If I put on a documentary about something scientific I'll sit there engrossed and find it exceptionally interesting. But rarely will I find myself actually wanting to put that programme on, if that makes sense. I know that I absolutely adore fantasy fiction, but sometimes I'll have a book I really want to read and know I'd enjoy sitting there and I don't start it.
To go from wanting to do everything, and actually doing so much...I mean whilst I was at school, whilst I suffered the worst of the bullying and abuse, I also did - three types of dance lessons, ran online communities, played sports, played in just about every music club there was, acted in plays, did extracurricular work, was an active part of my family and generally in the school community even though it treated me so badly.
These days I'm ecstatic if I manage to pick up a book I've always wanted to read, and that hurts. It makes me feel useless, stupid, and pointless. Take this blog for instance; I know it's cathartic and helpful, but how often do I actually write here?
It spirals off into other things as well, where I don't just fail to do things but I then lose touch with what's going on. The past few weeks, I've felt almost detached from things sometimes. Lying in bed with my boyfriend last night, I just kept on thinking thank you so much for being real. I didn't say it, because how do you explain something like that? But I get up and all that I do is wait for the day to end. I wait for things to happen because I don't make them happen. Even on the days that I get things done - like today I went to an appointment and hang the washing out to dry and got some online things done. I still feel like the day's been utterly empty.
It's like I'm functioning, but my mind's hovering above watching it all happen.
I think what depression has taken from me is the trying. I still find things interesting, it's just more...peripherally. If I put on a documentary about something scientific I'll sit there engrossed and find it exceptionally interesting. But rarely will I find myself actually wanting to put that programme on, if that makes sense. I know that I absolutely adore fantasy fiction, but sometimes I'll have a book I really want to read and know I'd enjoy sitting there and I don't start it.
To go from wanting to do everything, and actually doing so much...I mean whilst I was at school, whilst I suffered the worst of the bullying and abuse, I also did - three types of dance lessons, ran online communities, played sports, played in just about every music club there was, acted in plays, did extracurricular work, was an active part of my family and generally in the school community even though it treated me so badly.
These days I'm ecstatic if I manage to pick up a book I've always wanted to read, and that hurts. It makes me feel useless, stupid, and pointless. Take this blog for instance; I know it's cathartic and helpful, but how often do I actually write here?
It spirals off into other things as well, where I don't just fail to do things but I then lose touch with what's going on. The past few weeks, I've felt almost detached from things sometimes. Lying in bed with my boyfriend last night, I just kept on thinking thank you so much for being real. I didn't say it, because how do you explain something like that? But I get up and all that I do is wait for the day to end. I wait for things to happen because I don't make them happen. Even on the days that I get things done - like today I went to an appointment and hang the washing out to dry and got some online things done. I still feel like the day's been utterly empty.
It's like I'm functioning, but my mind's hovering above watching it all happen.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Better Days
Thus far today has been significantly better than the past few. I've tidied the flat, and last night I got all the washing up done so it actually feels like I'm not living in some sort of sty. I've been listening to music and I'm generally feeling quite alright, actually.
I am not entirely sure that I have a great deal more to say; but I think I am realising that there's only a certain extent to which I can yank myself out of down days. Sometimes days really are just down. It's definitely, definitely worth trying to get out of them when you're in them - but I think I expect that I ought to be able to. It doesn't work like that really.
My support worker will be over in a bit, and it will be nice to sort some things out with her. Then I have raiding this evening, and tomorrow is free of anything. I'm still sleepy all the time at the moment, which is usually because my energy levels are low thanks to being so depressed.
It's not all down though. Will get there eventually.
I am not entirely sure that I have a great deal more to say; but I think I am realising that there's only a certain extent to which I can yank myself out of down days. Sometimes days really are just down. It's definitely, definitely worth trying to get out of them when you're in them - but I think I expect that I ought to be able to. It doesn't work like that really.
My support worker will be over in a bit, and it will be nice to sort some things out with her. Then I have raiding this evening, and tomorrow is free of anything. I'm still sleepy all the time at the moment, which is usually because my energy levels are low thanks to being so depressed.
It's not all down though. Will get there eventually.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Getting Angry
Last week's psychotherapy session was one of those ones where I left feeling like I'd been twisted inside out and then dragged backwards through a hedge.
One of the things that my therapist said to me during that session was that she was really pleased to see me getting angry. We were talking about - well all manner of things really, benefits and labels and all sorts. I got riled up about things and was swearing and I think I got a bit shouty at one point. It's very difficult for me to do this for a number of reasons. It is my default reaction to blame myself, and that isn't something to get outwardly angry about - I will tend to be frustrated instead. I spend a good deal of my time feeling frustrated actually, because that's what happens when I hide my anger inside instead of venting. I also feel often like I don't have the right to be angry or that no one would want to hear my anger.
So over the past couple of days I've been feeling really quite awful. To the point that I slept for about 20 hours almost straight, and couldn't even bring myself to say how bad I was feeling to other people because I didn't want to be a burden. This relates to something that my therapist and I were talking about, which is that although I have an amazing group of friends I often don't tell them just how awful I'm feeling sometimes. On Sunday I was at LRP and although I was having a nice time, I felt like I was losing control of my head a bit. I was playing a really quite complex character and this might have partially set it off but I don't think it was the sole trigger or anything. I didn't tell anyone, just ignored it and went home when we were done. I pretty much went straight to bed, and that's when I slept for so long.
What happens is that I don't tell people how bad I'm feeling. I mean I tell people I'm feeling down, but not how it feels like someone is crushing my insides and my head won't stop running at a hundred miles an hour. So when I am feeling that bad my friends can't recognise it, and that's not their fault at all. I mean it's not like I've said how bad things are. So why don't I say anything? It's partly not wanting to be a burden, or to get in peoples' way and I worry that they've got more important things to deal with than me. I think it's also because I expect people to not be able to understand. It's a few different things that cause that, including the fact that when I go out into the wider world a lot of people don't understand. Hell, even amongst my friends people don't understand it sometimes.
It's difficult. I feel lonely a lot of the time even when I know I'm not.
One of the things that my therapist said to me during that session was that she was really pleased to see me getting angry. We were talking about - well all manner of things really, benefits and labels and all sorts. I got riled up about things and was swearing and I think I got a bit shouty at one point. It's very difficult for me to do this for a number of reasons. It is my default reaction to blame myself, and that isn't something to get outwardly angry about - I will tend to be frustrated instead. I spend a good deal of my time feeling frustrated actually, because that's what happens when I hide my anger inside instead of venting. I also feel often like I don't have the right to be angry or that no one would want to hear my anger.
So over the past couple of days I've been feeling really quite awful. To the point that I slept for about 20 hours almost straight, and couldn't even bring myself to say how bad I was feeling to other people because I didn't want to be a burden. This relates to something that my therapist and I were talking about, which is that although I have an amazing group of friends I often don't tell them just how awful I'm feeling sometimes. On Sunday I was at LRP and although I was having a nice time, I felt like I was losing control of my head a bit. I was playing a really quite complex character and this might have partially set it off but I don't think it was the sole trigger or anything. I didn't tell anyone, just ignored it and went home when we were done. I pretty much went straight to bed, and that's when I slept for so long.
What happens is that I don't tell people how bad I'm feeling. I mean I tell people I'm feeling down, but not how it feels like someone is crushing my insides and my head won't stop running at a hundred miles an hour. So when I am feeling that bad my friends can't recognise it, and that's not their fault at all. I mean it's not like I've said how bad things are. So why don't I say anything? It's partly not wanting to be a burden, or to get in peoples' way and I worry that they've got more important things to deal with than me. I think it's also because I expect people to not be able to understand. It's a few different things that cause that, including the fact that when I go out into the wider world a lot of people don't understand. Hell, even amongst my friends people don't understand it sometimes.
It's difficult. I feel lonely a lot of the time even when I know I'm not.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Passive Aggressive
This morning upon going out to the doctors, my boyfriend and I found a Christmas card that had been posted crudely through my letterbox. It hadn't come out the other side properly so I hadn't seen it before, but I remembered hearing someone come downstairs and post something through there the night before. Wondering what it could be, I opened it. The envelope wasn't addressed, it just said "Merry Xmas".
Inside, it said "Buy a fucking new bed. From [building name]".
Obviously it did actually have the name of my building, rather than some weird bracket thing. I just don't really feel like advertising my location on the internet for all and sundry. So anyway, I found this and immediately thought - hm, were the boyfriend and I especially noisy when he was there two nights ago? Both of us didn't remember being especially so - and if there was noise then the source was certainly not the bed. Unlike Kochanski (blast from the TV past here), I do not make noises like a creaky gate. Or indeed a bed.
This upset me. I already don't feel safe in the building and knowing that there's only one locked door between me and a threat is not helpful - previously of course I could count the door on our building too. Now I don't feel that I can. I don't feel bad about the noise; frankly, it's nothing compared to the constantly barking dog, the people that stamp up and down the stairs and the obnoxiously loud music played by the flat above me punctuated by blazing rows.
What gets me is the rudeness, and the fact that it feels like such a big threat to me. I called my housing support worker and spoke to her; she offered to send a formal letter to the rest of the building but I really don't want her to do that. It would make me feel even more unsafe. I have however promised that if a similar incident ever happens then I will tell her and she will do something about it. As it happens she's going to use it to help prove to the homelessness unit that I'm really in need of moving.
But when your housing advisor says to you "you know what, I think the best thing for you to do is to go to your boyfriend's"...you know that really, things aren't quite right. I am now at my boyfriend's and feel a good deal safer, not to mention warmer and less lonely, but the knowledge that eventually I will have to go back to that flat is like a ten-ton weight on my shoulders.
Inside, it said "Buy a fucking new bed. From [building name]".
Obviously it did actually have the name of my building, rather than some weird bracket thing. I just don't really feel like advertising my location on the internet for all and sundry. So anyway, I found this and immediately thought - hm, were the boyfriend and I especially noisy when he was there two nights ago? Both of us didn't remember being especially so - and if there was noise then the source was certainly not the bed. Unlike Kochanski (blast from the TV past here), I do not make noises like a creaky gate. Or indeed a bed.
This upset me. I already don't feel safe in the building and knowing that there's only one locked door between me and a threat is not helpful - previously of course I could count the door on our building too. Now I don't feel that I can. I don't feel bad about the noise; frankly, it's nothing compared to the constantly barking dog, the people that stamp up and down the stairs and the obnoxiously loud music played by the flat above me punctuated by blazing rows.
What gets me is the rudeness, and the fact that it feels like such a big threat to me. I called my housing support worker and spoke to her; she offered to send a formal letter to the rest of the building but I really don't want her to do that. It would make me feel even more unsafe. I have however promised that if a similar incident ever happens then I will tell her and she will do something about it. As it happens she's going to use it to help prove to the homelessness unit that I'm really in need of moving.
But when your housing advisor says to you "you know what, I think the best thing for you to do is to go to your boyfriend's"...you know that really, things aren't quite right. I am now at my boyfriend's and feel a good deal safer, not to mention warmer and less lonely, but the knowledge that eventually I will have to go back to that flat is like a ten-ton weight on my shoulders.
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Before I move onto other things: I think the conclusion from the last post is that venting does indeed help. Especially where it feels like I'm doing it without an audience but with an audience all at the same time.
The past few days have been a bit up and down. I say a bit; quite considerably. Last night I went with some friends to see Tim Minchin which was beyond amazing - not only his performance, but also realising that I was able to sit in an arena with 10,000 people and not feel anxious. The only bit I had trouble with was the crushing crowd as everyone tried to get out at the end - which I think is perfectly normal, all things considered.
However, on Monday I got the bad news that if I moved out of here and into my friends' house, I would lose all of my housing eligibility. It's much more complex than that, but it does come down to 'would not be able to get social housing' - and whilst I love my friends dearly and would enjoy living with them, the location is not where I want to be permanently and so I don't think I'm prepared to move there what would be permanently. I've not made the final decision yet and won't properly do so until after Christmas, but I think I'm leaning towards staying here and working to make it better.
Alternatively I also have the potential option of going into fully supported housing (I have "remote" supported housing at the moment, as it were - my support worker comes over regularly and acts as my contact for everything that goes on with my housing so that I don't have to speak to random strangers all the time). It would be a move from temporary housing to temporary housing though, which the council aren't too keen on doing - plus spaces are quite thin on the ground there. However it would make me feel a lot safer, it's in the place I want to be living and it would give me much much better transport links to my friends' houses - which would I hope make me feel less isolated.
When I found out what the situation was on Monday, I told people and then literally just crawled into bed. I couldn't handle being awake anymore. This morning - er, afternoon really - I also had the same thing. At around half past two I got out of bed and have been moderately productive since, but I have had an underlying lowness for most of the past few days. Barring yesterday evening! Which I am clinging to the memory of because I felt so happy. To me, sharing in peoples' creations and enjoyment of them is basically a spiritual experience. Plus I spent hours laughing, which is always good for me and I should do things like that more often.
For now, time to resume attempting to be productive.
The past few days have been a bit up and down. I say a bit; quite considerably. Last night I went with some friends to see Tim Minchin which was beyond amazing - not only his performance, but also realising that I was able to sit in an arena with 10,000 people and not feel anxious. The only bit I had trouble with was the crushing crowd as everyone tried to get out at the end - which I think is perfectly normal, all things considered.
However, on Monday I got the bad news that if I moved out of here and into my friends' house, I would lose all of my housing eligibility. It's much more complex than that, but it does come down to 'would not be able to get social housing' - and whilst I love my friends dearly and would enjoy living with them, the location is not where I want to be permanently and so I don't think I'm prepared to move there what would be permanently. I've not made the final decision yet and won't properly do so until after Christmas, but I think I'm leaning towards staying here and working to make it better.
Alternatively I also have the potential option of going into fully supported housing (I have "remote" supported housing at the moment, as it were - my support worker comes over regularly and acts as my contact for everything that goes on with my housing so that I don't have to speak to random strangers all the time). It would be a move from temporary housing to temporary housing though, which the council aren't too keen on doing - plus spaces are quite thin on the ground there. However it would make me feel a lot safer, it's in the place I want to be living and it would give me much much better transport links to my friends' houses - which would I hope make me feel less isolated.
When I found out what the situation was on Monday, I told people and then literally just crawled into bed. I couldn't handle being awake anymore. This morning - er, afternoon really - I also had the same thing. At around half past two I got out of bed and have been moderately productive since, but I have had an underlying lowness for most of the past few days. Barring yesterday evening! Which I am clinging to the memory of because I felt so happy. To me, sharing in peoples' creations and enjoyment of them is basically a spiritual experience. Plus I spent hours laughing, which is always good for me and I should do things like that more often.
For now, time to resume attempting to be productive.
Friday, 10 December 2010
Order in Chaos
Right now there are so many things that I'm thinking about, that are burning up inside me and screaming to get out. I could write them all here; I'd be writing for a very long time. Beneath the tumult of thoughts and feelings I know that if I felt like I could talk to people about these things that maybe they wouldn't build up. I know that talking to people helps, that it helps to vent and come to a greater understanding of things by talking it out. Somehow though there's always a catch; I don't want to bother people, I think that the things I am complaining about are too petty, I think that I should just shut up and deal with things myself.
But I can't deal with things on my own. I just can't - and I shouldn't have to, and I know all of these things but that doesn't make it any the less hard to say 'hi, I need help' or 'I can't stop worrying about X, Y and Z'. Often I'll put up a negative tweet or Facebook status, but I'm so hyper-aware of what I'm doing all the time and I don't just see that I need to vent - instead I remember the time that one of my friends let me know that people had been getting annoyed when I complained about benefits/homelessness/mental health on my FB status. For what it's worth, that friend was completely well-meaning and didn't think that I was being out of order at all but that sometimes it was just easier to avoid confrontation. She totally understood the validity and depth of what I was feeling. It was one of those confusingly painful but good conversations.
Anyway. So you know what, maybe I can write everything at once, because if I can think it all at once then surely I can write it all out. It won't make sense and it'll be incoherent and all manner of other things. However, I have the advantage that by writing things here, I'm telling people and I'm not telling people. Because it's in the public domain - but as far as I know no one actually reads this. If I was posting on, say, Livejournal then I'd be aware that people might read it and who those people were. I'd temper things accordingly. Here, I won't. So, here I go: depositing the contents of my brain.
I have run out of money. The gas and electricity are both about to go into emergency credit and I won't be able to add to them until Tuesday. That might actually happen later because I only just got a new sick note yesterday, so if it doesn't arrive by Monday then they might stop my payment. I sent it off yesterday but the post is horrendous at the moment. Two things that I ordered haven't arrived yet. I really wanted that book and I need those jeans because I don't have enough clothes that fit anymore because I've put on so much weight. I'm not even losing weight by living off 12p packets of dehydrated pasta.
On top of that I have a cold, which is not only debilitating and downright miserable but it's stopped me from doing things I wanted to and had promised to do. I haven't seen anyone since Tuesday morning when my boyfriend went home after staying over. I couldn't go to the cinema with my friends today because I felt so sick, I couldn't go see my psychiatrist today because I felt so sick, and because in both cases I couldn't afford to go anywhere. I can't even afford to buy some damn lemsip so that I could get over this cold a bit sooner. I'm really ungrateful and lazy and totally useless. I have so much going for me but I keep ignoring it and just sitting here feeling awful. Why do I just sit here feeling awful and playing computer games when I could be fixing things. But what else could I be doing? It's not like I can go out and get a job and be 100% fine.
One day I want to go to my GP to get a sick note and not be asked "so you'll be going back to work soon" in a way that really isn't a question. I'm sorry I have a mental illness. It's not my fault. I'm sorry that the concept of work is so terrifying that it makes me freeze up and panic. I'm sorry that I am forced to rely on a welfare system that fundamentally does not care about my welfare or health, only about my ability to "function as a contributing member of society". I didn't make the appointment to get my sick note early enough because every time I called the surgery phone would be busy and I'd either get fed up or forget or worry that phoning would cost too much money.
Can I please, please just go FIVE minutes without thinking about money?
Can I have a life where I have some control over things, and when I do try and take back some control like with moving not have a hundred other things knock me over in my attempt to get up out of this hole I'm living in?
Can I please have just a single moment now and then to stop and appreciate all the amazing, beautiful, wonderful, caring and loving people who are in my life and are the reason I'm alive and can't I just love them back without being terrified that they'll leave me or unable to talk to them because I think they'll hate me just like I hate myself.
I don't want to stop being all the different things that I am, I just want them to stop rubbing up against each other so badly. Can't I be confident and intelligent and creative and loving and all the things that I want to be without feeling guilty and ashamed and embarrassed and ungrateful and ugly and wretched.
(It is too soon to know if this has helped or not. Because it kind of hurts. No not kind of. I feel heavy.)
But I can't deal with things on my own. I just can't - and I shouldn't have to, and I know all of these things but that doesn't make it any the less hard to say 'hi, I need help' or 'I can't stop worrying about X, Y and Z'. Often I'll put up a negative tweet or Facebook status, but I'm so hyper-aware of what I'm doing all the time and I don't just see that I need to vent - instead I remember the time that one of my friends let me know that people had been getting annoyed when I complained about benefits/homelessness/mental health on my FB status. For what it's worth, that friend was completely well-meaning and didn't think that I was being out of order at all but that sometimes it was just easier to avoid confrontation. She totally understood the validity and depth of what I was feeling. It was one of those confusingly painful but good conversations.
Anyway. So you know what, maybe I can write everything at once, because if I can think it all at once then surely I can write it all out. It won't make sense and it'll be incoherent and all manner of other things. However, I have the advantage that by writing things here, I'm telling people and I'm not telling people. Because it's in the public domain - but as far as I know no one actually reads this. If I was posting on, say, Livejournal then I'd be aware that people might read it and who those people were. I'd temper things accordingly. Here, I won't. So, here I go: depositing the contents of my brain.
I have run out of money. The gas and electricity are both about to go into emergency credit and I won't be able to add to them until Tuesday. That might actually happen later because I only just got a new sick note yesterday, so if it doesn't arrive by Monday then they might stop my payment. I sent it off yesterday but the post is horrendous at the moment. Two things that I ordered haven't arrived yet. I really wanted that book and I need those jeans because I don't have enough clothes that fit anymore because I've put on so much weight. I'm not even losing weight by living off 12p packets of dehydrated pasta.
On top of that I have a cold, which is not only debilitating and downright miserable but it's stopped me from doing things I wanted to and had promised to do. I haven't seen anyone since Tuesday morning when my boyfriend went home after staying over. I couldn't go to the cinema with my friends today because I felt so sick, I couldn't go see my psychiatrist today because I felt so sick, and because in both cases I couldn't afford to go anywhere. I can't even afford to buy some damn lemsip so that I could get over this cold a bit sooner. I'm really ungrateful and lazy and totally useless. I have so much going for me but I keep ignoring it and just sitting here feeling awful. Why do I just sit here feeling awful and playing computer games when I could be fixing things. But what else could I be doing? It's not like I can go out and get a job and be 100% fine.
One day I want to go to my GP to get a sick note and not be asked "so you'll be going back to work soon" in a way that really isn't a question. I'm sorry I have a mental illness. It's not my fault. I'm sorry that the concept of work is so terrifying that it makes me freeze up and panic. I'm sorry that I am forced to rely on a welfare system that fundamentally does not care about my welfare or health, only about my ability to "function as a contributing member of society". I didn't make the appointment to get my sick note early enough because every time I called the surgery phone would be busy and I'd either get fed up or forget or worry that phoning would cost too much money.
Can I please, please just go FIVE minutes without thinking about money?
Can I have a life where I have some control over things, and when I do try and take back some control like with moving not have a hundred other things knock me over in my attempt to get up out of this hole I'm living in?
Can I please have just a single moment now and then to stop and appreciate all the amazing, beautiful, wonderful, caring and loving people who are in my life and are the reason I'm alive and can't I just love them back without being terrified that they'll leave me or unable to talk to them because I think they'll hate me just like I hate myself.
I don't want to stop being all the different things that I am, I just want them to stop rubbing up against each other so badly. Can't I be confident and intelligent and creative and loving and all the things that I want to be without feeling guilty and ashamed and embarrassed and ungrateful and ugly and wretched.
(It is too soon to know if this has helped or not. Because it kind of hurts. No not kind of. I feel heavy.)
Thursday, 9 December 2010
A Well-Meaning Hiatus
Uncertain as I am that anyone even reads this, it comes to my attention that it's a good month and a bit since I last posted here. There is a single main reason for this to be honest, and it comes in the form of Nanowrimo. Yes, I took part in the challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days. For me, this was huge for several reasons. Firstly, I have very little (often no) self confidence in my writing ability, but despite this I'm also subconsciously aware that it's one of those things that I'm not just good at - I'm really, really good at. It's my talent, the thing that I just innately have a knack for. Secondly, I'm impatient and terrible at persevering. Projects don't generally get started by me let alone finished, so the idea of producing a novel out of nowhere was a bit terrifying.
I'll be honest; there were a lot of days where I got fed up and angry and frustrated. I started and hated the 5,000 words I'd written so I started again. Most days I made the required 1,667 words - but the weekends, where I was busy with LRP, would go by without a single word being written. However somehow every week I pulled the catching up out of nowhere and kept on track. The most I ever fell behind was 5,000 words and this was always done within a few days of the mark being missed. It became habit to me, sitting down and writing; I'd usually do about half of it when I first got up and then the rest after dinner. I enjoyed it some days, and was hyper critical on others.
Somehow through all that, at the end of the month I had 50,000 words. 50,007 to be exact; and I wasn't even halfway through the plot that had begun spinning around in my head. I haven't touched it since, which is only actually 9 days though it feels like a great deal longer. I know there's a lot of it that's pretty badly written - let's be honest, it's not even a first draft - but despite all my hang ups I've managed to come out of the other side feeling pretty good about what I wrote. When I finished, it didn't quite click with me what I'd done. I sat there slightly stunned. I think it was the next day or maybe the day after that I was telling someone about it and admitted, for the first time, that I was proud of myself. I started crying.
I don't remember ever being proud of myself before.
So much has happened and continues to happen since then, including a series of days where I've felt truly terrible because living on my own is just not something that I can cope with. My loneliness has become not just that but more of an acute, physical ache in the middle of my chest. It actually physically hurts. This, however, is something that I've taken control of and I'm getting out of. I'm absolutely terrified of course, but then who wouldn't be - moving house is a pretty big upheaval. But every time the friends that I'm moving in with do something else that's so incredibly kind and generous, I feel more and more certain that it's where I want to be.
I might have a bitch of a cold, I might be freezing in a small and lonely flat, I might be living off 12p packets of pasta from Tesco - but you know what, underneath all of that, I've never ever been happier.
I'll be honest; there were a lot of days where I got fed up and angry and frustrated. I started and hated the 5,000 words I'd written so I started again. Most days I made the required 1,667 words - but the weekends, where I was busy with LRP, would go by without a single word being written. However somehow every week I pulled the catching up out of nowhere and kept on track. The most I ever fell behind was 5,000 words and this was always done within a few days of the mark being missed. It became habit to me, sitting down and writing; I'd usually do about half of it when I first got up and then the rest after dinner. I enjoyed it some days, and was hyper critical on others.
Somehow through all that, at the end of the month I had 50,000 words. 50,007 to be exact; and I wasn't even halfway through the plot that had begun spinning around in my head. I haven't touched it since, which is only actually 9 days though it feels like a great deal longer. I know there's a lot of it that's pretty badly written - let's be honest, it's not even a first draft - but despite all my hang ups I've managed to come out of the other side feeling pretty good about what I wrote. When I finished, it didn't quite click with me what I'd done. I sat there slightly stunned. I think it was the next day or maybe the day after that I was telling someone about it and admitted, for the first time, that I was proud of myself. I started crying.
I don't remember ever being proud of myself before.
So much has happened and continues to happen since then, including a series of days where I've felt truly terrible because living on my own is just not something that I can cope with. My loneliness has become not just that but more of an acute, physical ache in the middle of my chest. It actually physically hurts. This, however, is something that I've taken control of and I'm getting out of. I'm absolutely terrified of course, but then who wouldn't be - moving house is a pretty big upheaval. But every time the friends that I'm moving in with do something else that's so incredibly kind and generous, I feel more and more certain that it's where I want to be.
I might have a bitch of a cold, I might be freezing in a small and lonely flat, I might be living off 12p packets of pasta from Tesco - but you know what, underneath all of that, I've never ever been happier.
Friday, 29 October 2010
Little Things...
...that make you want to scream.
A few weeks ago I was at the leisure centre going swimming. Having locked my bags up I made my way towards the poolside. On the door of one of the showers was a sign. I cannot remember what it said verbatim, but here's the gist:
"Dear Ladies. On X date there will be male workmen in this shower."
Fair enough, I understand this and am grateful for the warning. Obviously in an ideal world we'd have a female plumber to come and do this but they're not exactly ten a penny. However, this seemingly innocuous if a little saddening poster had another blow to give:
"Please ensure that you are appropriately covered up whilst they are at work."
Not 'we apologise for the inconvenience' (though it probably said that somewhere as well) - instead we get instructed to not be naked when there are workmen in. There are several levels on which this makes me angry. Firstly, that it makes it sound like the idea of nudity is something that we should not expose the poor, innocent male plumbers to. Secondly is the more disturbing and underlying notion of: we do not trust our contractors not to succumb to primal urges if you display your naked flesh. Thirdly and perhaps most irritatingly the tone seems to suggest that usually, women go parading their naked bodies around the changing room.
There are three individual shower cubicles and one shower room that contains six or so showers. I have seen women in the communal shower who are naked. This didn't bother me, though I personally don't have the confidence in my body to do that, it's nice to see that other women do. On the few rare occasions I have seen this not once have these women been at all lewd or indecent or indeed, parading their bare skin around. They are simply trying to wash the chlorine and whatever chemicals are used to sanitise the water in our public swimming pools from their skin. And who can blame them, really.
On occasions like this I kind of find myself wishing I wasn't so hyper-aware of inequality and discrimination, because not only am I left frustrated and annoyed I somehow find myself feeling like my irritation at what was intended to be a helpful sign left out of courtesy is unjustified and an overreaction.
Oh well.
A few weeks ago I was at the leisure centre going swimming. Having locked my bags up I made my way towards the poolside. On the door of one of the showers was a sign. I cannot remember what it said verbatim, but here's the gist:
"Dear Ladies. On X date there will be male workmen in this shower."
Fair enough, I understand this and am grateful for the warning. Obviously in an ideal world we'd have a female plumber to come and do this but they're not exactly ten a penny. However, this seemingly innocuous if a little saddening poster had another blow to give:
"Please ensure that you are appropriately covered up whilst they are at work."
Not 'we apologise for the inconvenience' (though it probably said that somewhere as well) - instead we get instructed to not be naked when there are workmen in. There are several levels on which this makes me angry. Firstly, that it makes it sound like the idea of nudity is something that we should not expose the poor, innocent male plumbers to. Secondly is the more disturbing and underlying notion of: we do not trust our contractors not to succumb to primal urges if you display your naked flesh. Thirdly and perhaps most irritatingly the tone seems to suggest that usually, women go parading their naked bodies around the changing room.
There are three individual shower cubicles and one shower room that contains six or so showers. I have seen women in the communal shower who are naked. This didn't bother me, though I personally don't have the confidence in my body to do that, it's nice to see that other women do. On the few rare occasions I have seen this not once have these women been at all lewd or indecent or indeed, parading their bare skin around. They are simply trying to wash the chlorine and whatever chemicals are used to sanitise the water in our public swimming pools from their skin. And who can blame them, really.
On occasions like this I kind of find myself wishing I wasn't so hyper-aware of inequality and discrimination, because not only am I left frustrated and annoyed I somehow find myself feeling like my irritation at what was intended to be a helpful sign left out of courtesy is unjustified and an overreaction.
Oh well.
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Standing in a Crowd
As will no doubt be obvious; I am not good with crowds. They make me feel claustrophobic, paranoid, tiny and insignificant, and any manner of other negative things. The dichotomy of being someone who believes passionately in the awesomeness of humankind, whilst also being terrified of said humans, is not lost on me. It's something that every now and then I sit back and laugh at because whilst it makes total sense - the more weight and importance you place on something, the more you will worry and care about it - it is, frankly, also kind of ironic.
So when I booked to go to and be part of just that - a crowd - I was unsurprisingly nervous. The list of things I knew I had to cope with on that day was not small: travelling alone into central London, spending the day alone amongst part of a crowd, taking part in workshops where I could potentially be called upon and have everyone look at me, and above all that trying to have a good time when I know all these things are difficult. Nonetheless I booked and made my way to Feminism in London.
I should add that I wasn't without support entirely - despite knowing no one there, I felt very comfortable in the knowledge that the event organisers had done a great deal to make sure I'd have a good day. Prior to the event I emailed them to find out whether there would be any quieter spaces available that I could retreat to. Not only were there many but if I put down on my registration form what my needs were, they'd direct me to them as soon as I'd arrived (sadly I'd already registered by this point but it turned out there were so many safe spaces for me to retreat to that they could have pointed in every direction).
So when I got there, after a journey that all things considered wasn't too bad especially considering I had to take the tube at 9am on a Saturday morning, I found myself a seat near a door at the back of the main hall and watched the room fill up. And it did - there were a thousand feminists in that room in the end and despite that it still felt quite spacious and, for me, surprisingly comfortable. I wasn't completely at rest of course, but I don't ever expect to be. But there was something about the knowledge that the 999 other people in the room were women (and men) who thought the same things I did, who wanted the world to be the same way I do, made me feel far safer in that crowd than I ever have done.
And so whilst I could spend this blog post talking about the fantastic panels, about how terrifying the statistics on natural births were or about how stunningly awesome Finn Mackay was, for me the single best thing about FIL10 was the crowd. This is such a weird thing for me to be saying I know, but I came out of the day not feeling drained like I expected to but feeling energised. Yes, I struggled through the day and yes, the journey home was horrible and yes, I did have to sit up on my own in the gallery sometimes because it was too noisy downstairs. But despite all those things I stood with 999 other feminists giving a standing ovation to the final panel and I felt safe and at home.
To me, that's worth more than anything - and I can't put into words how grateful I am that the event was so beautiful as to give me that.
So when I booked to go to and be part of just that - a crowd - I was unsurprisingly nervous. The list of things I knew I had to cope with on that day was not small: travelling alone into central London, spending the day alone amongst part of a crowd, taking part in workshops where I could potentially be called upon and have everyone look at me, and above all that trying to have a good time when I know all these things are difficult. Nonetheless I booked and made my way to Feminism in London.
I should add that I wasn't without support entirely - despite knowing no one there, I felt very comfortable in the knowledge that the event organisers had done a great deal to make sure I'd have a good day. Prior to the event I emailed them to find out whether there would be any quieter spaces available that I could retreat to. Not only were there many but if I put down on my registration form what my needs were, they'd direct me to them as soon as I'd arrived (sadly I'd already registered by this point but it turned out there were so many safe spaces for me to retreat to that they could have pointed in every direction).
So when I got there, after a journey that all things considered wasn't too bad especially considering I had to take the tube at 9am on a Saturday morning, I found myself a seat near a door at the back of the main hall and watched the room fill up. And it did - there were a thousand feminists in that room in the end and despite that it still felt quite spacious and, for me, surprisingly comfortable. I wasn't completely at rest of course, but I don't ever expect to be. But there was something about the knowledge that the 999 other people in the room were women (and men) who thought the same things I did, who wanted the world to be the same way I do, made me feel far safer in that crowd than I ever have done.
And so whilst I could spend this blog post talking about the fantastic panels, about how terrifying the statistics on natural births were or about how stunningly awesome Finn Mackay was, for me the single best thing about FIL10 was the crowd. This is such a weird thing for me to be saying I know, but I came out of the day not feeling drained like I expected to but feeling energised. Yes, I struggled through the day and yes, the journey home was horrible and yes, I did have to sit up on my own in the gallery sometimes because it was too noisy downstairs. But despite all those things I stood with 999 other feminists giving a standing ovation to the final panel and I felt safe and at home.
To me, that's worth more than anything - and I can't put into words how grateful I am that the event was so beautiful as to give me that.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Post-Terror
After writing that last post (whenever it was that I wrote it) I went to my psych appointment and talked to Jill about it. It was one of the hardest sessions I've had - though I seem to always find myself saying that, I wonder if that's a sign that we're getting there - because we had to go quite in depth as to why I have these thoughts. It was actually really interesting to see how things that I experienced in my childhood that seemed perfectly innocuous - or if not completely innocuous, the sort of stuff that happens in your childhood and you learn from it.
So that was good, and since then I've not had too many - or indeed any that come to mind. I have however felt really out of it. The best way I can think of to describe it is that I'm feeling very meta about life - if that makes sense! I feel a bit removed from it. Boyfriend came over yesterday, and whilst I'd thought that would snap me out of it, it didn't straight away and this really threw me. This morning though and for most of today I've felt much better. I've even got loads of stuff done, including amongst other things being angry (hoorah, I managed it) at the government for potentially ruining my income for the next ever.
However a nice vent on the phone with my dad soon helped that along, and since then I've been a buzz of productivity. Unfortunately all I've got left is the kitchen, and for some reason I really hate washing up. There is so much to do as well, since I've been without hot water for so long.
Perhaps it's time to bite the bullet and just do some. It's only the washing up! It's not that scary!
So that was good, and since then I've not had too many - or indeed any that come to mind. I have however felt really out of it. The best way I can think of to describe it is that I'm feeling very meta about life - if that makes sense! I feel a bit removed from it. Boyfriend came over yesterday, and whilst I'd thought that would snap me out of it, it didn't straight away and this really threw me. This morning though and for most of today I've felt much better. I've even got loads of stuff done, including amongst other things being angry (hoorah, I managed it) at the government for potentially ruining my income for the next ever.
However a nice vent on the phone with my dad soon helped that along, and since then I've been a buzz of productivity. Unfortunately all I've got left is the kitchen, and for some reason I really hate washing up. There is so much to do as well, since I've been without hot water for so long.
Perhaps it's time to bite the bullet and just do some. It's only the washing up! It's not that scary!
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Terror Moments
I keep having, recently, what I can only describe as "terror moments". It's moments where I start thinking about the Big Questions and I get stuck, sort of wrapped in this big blanket of fear. I don't know if anyone else gets these. I can be in a perfectly acceptable mood and getting on with things, then all of a sudden the thought pops into my head:
Is there life after death?
Do I just stop existing?
What made me?
What will happen when I'm just...not here.
And so on, with similar questions. It's kind of hard to write this out because talking about it is making me have one of those moments now. But I really want to get over these and I think there will come a point where I just have to face them, even if that isn't already.
I don't know if I can manage to carry on articulating this even. Maybe I will come back to it. Not losing this progress though so will post half a post. But my pulse has picked up and I've got that horrible knot of panic in my chest so I'm going to stop now.
I hope someone somewhere understands what I'm talking about.
Is there life after death?
Do I just stop existing?
What made me?
What will happen when I'm just...not here.
And so on, with similar questions. It's kind of hard to write this out because talking about it is making me have one of those moments now. But I really want to get over these and I think there will come a point where I just have to face them, even if that isn't already.
I don't know if I can manage to carry on articulating this even. Maybe I will come back to it. Not losing this progress though so will post half a post. But my pulse has picked up and I've got that horrible knot of panic in my chest so I'm going to stop now.
I hope someone somewhere understands what I'm talking about.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Sticks and Stones
I'm sick of coming up against prejudice because I have a disability, or because I'm unemployed, or because I'm on benefits. I know people don't always mean to be disrespectful, but sometimes the remarks and quips like "oh, you're one of the people scrounging off my hard earned tax money are you?" really do hurt. Why? Because it implies that I like being like this. I'm not denying that there are people in the country today who are living like this out of laziness or because it's easy. I'm not. By making these jokes, even though they're jokes, you lump me in with people like that. I struggle as it is with the belief that I am not ill, that I am making this up, that I am in fact just lazy and worth nothing. By making those comments all you do is reinforce that belief that I am trying so, so hard to break down.
Not only that, but it means that the focus of my mind for the next while will be the state of my life as it is. I won't focus on the fact that I have a wonderful family, that my boyfriend is incredibly special, that for the first time in my life I have friends and actually believe that they care about me like I do about them. Instead I'll wake up and be overwhelmed by the knowledge that once again, I have nothing to do with my day. Or more accurately, I have nothing that I can do with my day. I'm not saying that I'm never lazy or that I couldn't try harder. I'm sure I could - but in order to actually properly heal, to truly get over the place that my heart and head have been in for the past decade or so, I need to do that at my own pace.
Please, when you want to make a joke, think about the fact that I'm already struggling with the knowledge that the coalition are revamping the benefits system; and if some MPs' attitude to those on disability benefits is anything to go by, I'm not going to do well out of this. Money is horrible. I live in a council flat - in an area where I feel unsafe, where I know that having a roof above my head is totally at the whim of someone else - where I am an hour away from my support network of my friends and boyfriend. I have £200 a month on which to look after myself. Of that, a good deal will go straight on bills. Once I've fed myself, paid bills and all the other sundries that an even barely tolerable life requires, I have no money left. Often I find myself using more than I have.
If that's taken away from me? I will have nothing. I will be forced to destroy the life I have made for myself here, the first beacon of hope that has been in my life, and move back to Norfolk with my parents. My independence, which is very precious to me as a shelf for my self-esteem, will be gone. I don't want to think about how much of this progress I would lose if the world crashed down like that. It makes my stomach churn and my hands shake.
Usually I try and use this blog to be optimistic. Or at the least to express confusion, rather than negativity. But right now? I'm just terrified. I'm sorry that I can't be more than that right now, but I suppose it's all the worse now that I feel like I've actually got something to lose.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Mask of a Thousand Faces
Hunched over, as if trying to curl into themselves, a girl bites nervously at her nails. Her eyes, watery, dart around restlessly as if trying to spot some hidden observer. One of her feet taps nervously and methodically; every now and then the movement is punctuated by a violent kick from each leg, as if she is trying to shake water from them. Her hands shake and she rocks gently, trying not to focus on anything at all.
A smiling, well-presented woman sits comfortably on the edge of a table. Nonchalantly, she swings her legs back and forth. She talks animatedly, perhaps a little too loudly, but with precise articulation. Impatient to be heard, she buts into the dialogue before the other speaker has finished, somehow carrying enough poise and charisma not to offend in the process.
Drone like, the automaton repeats the same motions again and again. Back and forth, it clicks at the keys and points and clicks round in circles. Time passes but not noticeably, as the monotony of the blank expression and unfeeling state continue endlessly.
--
I am many things, of which a great deal are paradoxes. I am confident, happy, cheerful. I am shy, terrified, sullen. I am rude and polite, loud and quiet, hard and soft, powerful and weak. All of these things are me, and I am all of these things. I may be some at times and others anon.
It is exceptionally difficult to reconcile such an infinite number of identities, and understand myself, and be comfortable with it. Sometimes it is like trying to be several people all at once. One day I would like to allow myself to be all of the me there is, however many I might comprise.
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