I haven’t done sharpie Sunday for ages, so this is sharpie Wednesday :P….a quickie doodle before I sleep….
Night lovelies X
Life is currently uncomfortable. It always is, to some degree, at least some of the time. Sometimes it is really uncomfortable all of the time, and other times it is mildly uncomfortable, bits of the time.
Happiness is nothing else but a temporary escape from the discomfort of life and living. Suicide is something contemplated by people when life is too hard for too long.
I am someone who experiences a wide range of moods and emotions in their rawest acutest purest undiluted and strongest form, and they change almost all the time, or sometimes they resistantly stay in a particular groove, not of my choosing. That isn’t just a blogger’s claim. It is true. Hence my official psychiatric diagnosis of ’emotionally unstable PD’.
I am a human spirit in it’s purest form.
There is no tonic to water down my personality. I am just gin.
There is no coke; I am just neat vodka amidst a national shortage of ice cubes.
There is no watering down. No mixers. No ice. But life sure gives lots of lemons.
I am citrus splashes. I am eye wateringly fruit-infused and carry an acidic punch.
I am as sour as I am sweet.
I am bitter, yep. But not in a cloudy bitter lemon, lemonade mixer way, but in an angry way. There is no disguising my true feelings on metaphors.
I am crystal clear and say what I feel and voice my thoughts.
My thoughts right now are that life is horrible. Life is hard. Life really HURTS….a lot. I am weary of this thing called life, that I am ‘supposed’ to be grateful for.
I was not caught up in the Manchester terror attacks. That meant I felt grateful initially. But a few days on, I feel trapped by life yet again. I feel clamped into an uncomfortable position. Life is so bloody difficult. Yet I’m aware I am supposedly lucky to be alive.
I am lucky I am here to raise my children. They need me and I need them. I am lucky to share my life with my soulmate, confidante and best friend, my husband.
The challenges don’t let up though. My pain does NOT lessen. It just fades a little, sometimes, usually when I am immersed in something with my whole mind, body, and soul.
Lately I have escaped from the difficult thoughts I want to escape from via excessive busy-ness. I have made sure I have been incredibly productive and incredibly caught up in focussed tasks that require lot of physical effort and mental concentration, also creativity and problem solving. I have basically spent THREE whole days dismantling everything in the house in terms of possessions, and decluttering and reorganising and shifting and blitzing and cleaning. This is what I tend to do when I have troublesome thoughts that just sit there and refuse to budge. I still haven’t finished these tasks where my ultimate aim is perfection and nothing less, but I am taking a mini break today, as my exhaustion has be listened to, I guess.
The depression sets in as soon as my activity stops though.
I am trying to push bad feelings away. I know what they are, but I am not especially keen on acknowledging them or writing about them or talking about them, because they are feelings I am not happy to admit to. I know that’s ‘wrong’ and it is out of character for me, but sometimes (especially when the kids are off on half-term holidays from school), I HAVE to put my difficult feelings on a mental shelf to be dealt with. that shelf is labelled “some other time”.
These feeling are for the “some other time” shelf.
The “some other time” is going to arrive tomorrow and the day after.
Tomorrow is therapy, and the day after that is the last time probably ever that I’ll see my psychiatrist. Two emotionally intense experiences coming up that are going to be testing emotionally, given how I’m feeling. I want to cry at the mere thought of them to be honest. But I will attend and I will cry, and maybe/hopefully talk a bit of sense inbetween the tears.
I’m just not in a good place. But I say that so often, that I wonder whether the good place I’m searching for exists? I know I have two main modes in life, “in a good place”, and “not in a good place” because I have described myself at being ‘at them’ at various points throughout my life.
Maybe the good place is to do with the relative ratio of lemons to my human spirit. My human spirit is contaminated by too many biting lemons inviting my attention all at once, at times when I’m not in a good place, and the ‘in a good place’ ratio is minimal lemons, and the only ones being present, being the old mellow ones, not new fresh life lemons of acute sourness.
Right now, there are lots of lemons, and my lemonade production line is functioning a bit awry.
Hopefully the therapy and psychiatrist double bill will help fix the current malfunctioning on the factory floor of my lemonade-producing production line and I’ll soon be making lemonade to rival Britvik’s finest. But tonight, I have a notable excess of lemons.
My sharpie doodles are random, spontaneous, and determined by whatever random idea pops into my head. Here they are…. It began with the standard “drawing of a flamingo warm-up”, just get my nimble fingers warmed up and my creative brain engaged 😊
Then I attempted to draw a most unusual looking dog….
Then I drew my food craving, which at this moment in time is Jammy Dodger biscuits 😛
And finally….a put down I wish I’d have said to a twat who reprimended me recently in boots the chemist for pushing in the queue, when I had in actual fact left my prescription with the chemist twenty minutes earlier and been casually loitering by the moisturisers until my name was called. Twat. This is what I wish I’d have said…..
That’s it 😂 I hope you liked my sharpie doodles of randomness. More coming to your screens soon.😘😘
These doodles totes make me laugh. Am I supposed to giggle at my own drawings? I’m a rule breaker 😇😆
Today is a part-sharpie/part-prose post. Today is therapy day, which means I [very predictably] have a thumping headache and feel absolutely drained. Today was really hard, really really hard, and really really emotional and really really intense. There are not enough ‘reallys’ to do it justice. The only true achievement of the day that I can cite is this………..
I AM FANTASTIC AT CRYING; WHAT CAN I SAY, IT’S A LIFE SKILL
Some therapy days there are more things to cry about than others. Today was a maxer outer in terms of the imagined bulge of my inner sadness. Topics for discussion were plentiful, so we scratched the surface of every one but didn’t have time to delve into anything properly.
The therapy appointment today was one of my (what I call) shopping list ones. I list, in a very desperate tone of voice, all the stuff that I am massively struggling with in life emotionally speaking right now…shitty situations, shitty people, shitty thoughts, shitty feelings, shitty decisions, shitty actions, shitty memories, and if I’m lucky, potential solutions to the overriding shitness that is my life.
It was a challenging sesh in terms of the infamous “therapeutic relationship” between her and me. I’m not saying there was conflict, but there was underlying tension. I had emailed her when I’d got home telling her I was unhappy she hadn’t responded to my desperate pleas for brief reassuring contact when I’d got in touch with her while I was poorly, and in France [AKA. another bloody country.] And then we had a conversation about “boundaries” and the importance (in her clinical view) of maintaining them. I like to resist boundaries and ask for more, and she is firmly boundaried. Her boundaries are fairly impenetrable actually. I want more, she gives less…in my best interests?
I know she is like this with everyone, but how I interpret that is she is MEAN to everyone. Every explanation she gave me I would listen to and respond…..yeah, but why?
I could NOT get my head around how someone can NOT respond to someone vulnerable expressing despair. All the usual rules of civilization seemingly do NOT apply with a therapist, when not actually in the therapy chair. It seems that they care for you for their allotted NHS time, and then they stop caring. That is a gross oversimplification, and probably unfair on them, but that is how it sometimes feels, to me, the sufferer and patient who is unwell and trying to get fixed.
I went through a long phase of feeling secure that my therapist thought I was an alright human being and didn’t feel any active dislike of me, but this sitch where I challenged her on her boundaries has bought out some frustration and resentment and hurt feelings, and also some silly paranoia that she doesn’t like me. She said it was ok to hate her if I liked, and I could feel anything towards her. I replied that I don’t hate her, I just felt a bit put out. I am also far more worried that she dislikes me, than any resentment/disappointment towards her.
It’s a funny old game. This therapy lark.
There were a few brighter moments, but crying and despair was the general theme of today.
Because I was in an arsey mood today (pre-menstral EEK), I had a few light digs at her. Sometimes I am amazed at how I can come up with quite cutting, direct, and rude-ish comments so spontaneously when I am hurting. I surprise myself what comes out of my mouth. I become impulsive, flippant, and spontaneous.
I speak to work through my feelings, but I sometimes destroy rapport in conversational blows after blow, just from what I say.
I often say things I don’t mean, things for impact, things for a reaction…but all in subtle ways, not like the obvious out of order stuff, just the subtle snide things.
I am trying to work out my annoyance that I feel so fucking emotionally dependant on a therapist, when I’d really rather cope without. People who don’t have psychological therapy are sometimes inclined to think therapy and counselling is self-indulgent, when in reality it is often quite brutal and very very unenjoyable.
Therapy involves me going into my coffin of doom. It is a place where I am challenged (I hate that). It is a place I get upset (I hate that). It is a place I admit to myself and another person my raw and true and horrible feelings. I do that on my blog too of course, but saying the things out loud, to an actual person is far harder than writing to an audience who (unless they leave comments) remain largely invisible to me.
When I blog, I DO NOT think of who is reading. I just blog, because I like writing. Even if I didn’t publish these posts, my blog content would be the same, maybe just with a tad more bluntness and directness and more swearing, I suppose.
But when I talk in the therapy room, to someone sat a short distance away, who is listening intently to everything I say and responding with her psychological reflections and all round wizardry, it is a very different ballgame.
If I typed, and WordPress invented an e-therapist, who responded like an archetypal therapist would to every damn point I make and every damn feeling, I would come off WordPress! I could not stand the interactive therapeutic response thing if it were part of blogging as well as real-life therapy.
I LOVE the fact that WordPress does not argue with me. It does NOT try and challenge my perceptions or interpretations or reactions or the validity of my feelings. I say it straight, as I feel it. No arguments. No alternative ways of thinking pointed out, until afterwards when the comments on a post start to come in.
Therapy is NOT self-indulgent. It is TOUGH. It involves crying. It involves facing up to things about yourself that no person other than your therapist can do is exactly the same way.
Therapy is unique. Therapy hurts. Therapy challenges. I feel drained afterwards, always. I wonder why I put myself through it…but I think the answer is, I know it is helping, albeit slowly, and I also know that without the constant of a therapist in my life at this point in time I’d go absolutely bonkers.
So therapy bonkers is chosen over real scary and unknown un-therapised bonkers.
Therapy bonkers is safe and predictably unpredictable.
Un-therapised bonkers is suicide, self-injury, breaking down and not being able to repair myself, so for now, however challenging and hard it is, I choose therapy bonkers.
I didn’t think I’d be writing this kind of post today. Half asleep and still dozy I was alerted out of my sleepy stupor by a sudden groan of my husband. What. WHAT? I asked urgently. My PTSD brain immediately poised for panic.
“It’s Manchester. A terror attack…………. FFS” he said.
“Fuck” I said.
‘No, not Manchester. Not the city I was in only last Saturday.’ thinks me.
“It’s an Ariana Grande concert, loads of teenage kids there, girls mainly” he said.
“Oh god”. I said.
I lay there in silence, in shock. I thought immediately of my family. ‘They are there, 20 minutes away from Manchester. But I cannot connect with them just because this has happened’. I weigh that up quickly in my logical mind.
My emotion mind says different.
I think then of my girls. They want to go to a concert coming up soon in Newcastle. Their first one. ‘I don’t want them to go’, I scream (in silence, in my head).
‘I don’t want them out of my sight. The world is cruel. People are evil. Trust no-one. Nowhere is safe’. I think.
I am still triggered from watching the harrowing but FANTASTIC BBC programme, Three Girls, about the sex trafficking network in Rotherham. I watched three episodes of that back to back.
The world is evil and people are evil.
Organised crime is on my mind, after my recent [unwanted] trip to the North-West. Networks of powerful people trying to hide their crimes’ are on my mind…..Now the fucking terrorists, advancing North.
It is becoming one of the more pressing problems in society. Attacks like this are happening with increasing severity. The world is corrupt and volatile and unpredictable. What a hostile climate for our children growing up into :(
Since the wars ended, we have got used to living in a relatively civilised way. We are relatively safe. But along came terrorism.
Not only do I know lots of people who live in Manchester, but I was there, days earlier. Triggered. Hating every second of being in that awful place with all those awful memories attached like shitty cheap key-rings you can’t untangle off your house keys.
Not now, Not Manchester.
But that is selfish. I am not affected. I was NOT at the Ariana Grande concert. I am NOT one of the parents trying to find their missing children. I am NOT one of the people waiting on people in critical conditions in the 8 hospitals where people are being treated at. I do not believe I know any of the causalities, or those injured….as far as I am aware.
[My family are not your archetypal Ariana Grande fans. Not her target market.]
The cruelty of TARGETTING children is fucking low brow. The lowest and scummiest of the conceivable low.
Am I angry at the terrorist? yes, of course I’m angry. WE ALL ARE.
“Look for the helpers. Reassure yourself of the wonderful way Manchester pulled together in the aftermath of this attack,” people say.
Yeah, that’s one way to look at it, and definitely something to be celebrated. But does that philosophy make this hurt any less? Does it compensate? No. It doesn’t.
I am not even going to begin to say I can empathise with how the people in Manchester are feeling right now. I am not going to insult anyone by saying I know how the bereaved friends and relatives and injured traumatised people are going to be feeling right now. I can NOT. If I did not know if my child was dead or alive, fuck knows how I would cope.
BUT, I do know trauma. I do know TERROR. I do know evil. I do know corruption. I do know about organised crime networks. I do know fear. I do know panic. I do know rage. I do know what it feels like to live with a broken heart which you believe can never be fixed. I know what it’s like to live with physical and psychological injuries. I do know what it’s like to trust and have that trust broken down. I do know what it feels like to be the victim of injustice. And I do know the intrusive life-altering utter chaos of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I know what it’s like to be scared of a bang. I know what it’s like to run for my life. I know the feeling of heat from a crowd of children moving en masse. I know what it’s like to be around traumatised children as they are being traumatised; traumatised by the very evilest of adults.
I know what it’s like for one person’s life to end, and your pain to just begin.
MANCHESTER. I cannot even begin to comprehend what you are going through, but MY HEART IS WITH YOU.
To the Manchester bomber….