BACKFLIPS are the thing of talent show dance troopes….the visual motions that make the crowd get excited. When applied to mental health recovery, backflips are what I like to call what other people term ‘relapse episodes’, to make them seem a little less shit than mental health relapse episodes really are.
It should come as no surprise to my regular readers that in the last couple of months my recovery has flip reversed it. I haven’t hid it. I haven’t pretended to be anywhere other than where I’m at, and where I’m at is struggling, more and more by the day. I rang the crisis team earlier. Fortunately they helped and apart from some mild self-harm I escaped from that mood episode unscathed.

This year has been marked by five months of progress, until my bubble got burst by a very unfortunate person who I wish had never ever come into my life. If you’re reading this, congrats 👏👏👏 You got what you wanted. Kudos to you…?? 

That had a knock on negative effect on several aspects of my life. The wobbles became tremors, which then became earthquakes, and now I’m just on the cusp of the crumbling, breaking and burning stage of impending doom and catastrophe. What’s more, there are a select handful of people who actively want my MH catastrophe to unfold, as reflected by the kinds of bitter people they are.

Their psychology is attempting to fight with mine. Their projections are in combat with my efforts to protect myself from those I’d happily not associate with. And then there are the one or two innocents caught up in the unfortunate crossfire.

Thank fuck for my husband. Thank fuck for unconditional love. Thank fuck for my children. Thank fuck for my genuine sincere friends who I can trust. 

I have had my fingers burned lately. My life lesson is, in essence, don’t mix with people who are also psychologically unwell themselves, but less evolved and less insightful and less knowledgeable and less “treated and therapised and self aware” than I am.

Many of my friends have mental health difficulties which is why we were initially drawn to each other. 

‘The broken hang out with the broken’, seems to be the rule.

I have many friends who are beautifully broken and fragile and vulnerable. I don’t have an issue with that one bit. I really don’t. What I have an issue with are people who admit to being “socially acceptable broken”…but not admitting honestly to be nearly as broken as they are.

With stigma barriers reducing, so many people now talk of their depression and anxiety in global and generalised terms. Most people don’t understand their depression though, or what fuels their anxiety.  Many people don’t know their issues, triggers, causal factors, maintaining factors, relapse indicators, which are their best coping strategies, and how they can keep themselves well.

The veil of “depression” and “anxiety”….(vague notions that they themselves cannot describe), shroud us, making us all appear to be the same because we are all labelling ourselves the mentally ill and broken same. But we are NOT the same and not all equally broken, equally insightful, equally knowledgeable, and equally empathic.  

I am not socially acceptable levels of ‘depressed’ or ‘anxious’.  I am very un-socially acceptably personality disorder labelled and complex-PTSD diagnosed! I am not down. I am suicidal. I don’t have vague anxiety. I have SRA flashbacks. 

I have complex mental health needs and significant interpersonal and emotional deficits. I don’t even TRY and hide them.

But you know what?….I’d rather be authentically me than inauthentically someone else.

I’d rather have serious MH challenges that I’m an expert on, than vague but no lesser serious problems that I’m in unblissfully in denial about.

I refuse to live in denial, and I will point out when people I know are. People in denial don’t like their denial being pointed out. It threatens them. 

I am absolutely sick to the back teeth of people who have mental health problems that they openly communicate to me about at significant length, but absolutely refuse to seek professional support for. 

I’m not your paid therapist. I’m not on this earth to talk soothingly to you forever while you refuse to get help from professionals.

I get my help. I have done for 4 years solid. That’s why I understand about mental health and can blog the fuck out of it everyday and it (usually at least) makes sense to people who read it.

I cannot sort your problems or be your therapist. Are you paying me by the hour?? No like hell are you!….So don’t expect me to heal you as well as myself.

I’m sick of people who think they’re too damn special and precious to get professional help. 

‘I’m ill…but not I’ll enough to see a doctor. Instead you can be my (unpaid) therapist. I won’t even ask you if you will….that’s just how it’ll work out.

Before I know it I’m resenting you and you’re hating me for distancing myself to protect my own bouyancy. FUCK THAT.

I have backflipped enough to know I can’t be people’s therapist….especially people who absolutely refuse counselling and therapy and doctors appointments and medication and diagnosis. 

If you want to make that choice, don’t expect me to break your fall.

I am NOT the NHS. I am someone trying to deal with my own shit.

It doesn’t matter how nice or not nice a person you are….stop asking for me to be your F.O.C therapist.

I can’t dole out prescriptions. I can’t diagnose you, unless it’s fucking OBVIOUS. eye roll I can’t help you deal with your childhood issues. That’s what therapists and psychiatrists are trained are paid for. Get your own psychiatrist. 

If I backflip and relapse, then me saying NO is absolutely ok. Saying NO MORE is ok. Asserting boundaries is OK. 

I won’t even weighed heavily down by others projections anymore. I’ll cut you loose, get back on my feet and cut those cords of responsibility for anyone beyond my husband, kids, and bestest friends. 

That’s my perogative.