I always write stream of consciousness style, I write as I think; but tonight’s post will be even more streamy and consciousy as I don’t have the intellectual capacity to mentally plan anything. As for what is the point of this post, who knows?!…I don’t, but there doesn’t always have to be a point I guess so I’ll just write.
If I was to say what I really want to say, I’d be scribbling the word ‘FUCK’ over and over on a notepad on black marker pen, making periodic tears on the paper due to the pressure imposed by said pen down my tensed arm. But instead I’m blogging, because I am too tired to move from where I am sat. The paper and pens are elsewhere and I am here and I have PMS and it’s winter and this blanket I’m sat under is so warm and I couldn’t possibly disturb the sleeping dogs snuggling up to me….and…. (insert similar explanations ad nauseum)
….Except…..I got sick of tapping on my phone with the wordpress app, so I moved to the kitchen, fired up the laptop, pushed the ketchup and salt away (still there from dinner), blew away the crumbs and began again.
I NEED to get today out of me. All splurged out. Today has been a very stimulating and overall really positive day, but at 19.32pm I have reached the point where I feel absolutely bloody shit. I have shut the door and nothing can penetrate that door. prays
I need to hide. I need there to not be artificial light bulbs tricking me to believe it’s daytime when I know full well it’s pitch dark outside.
My eyes are scorched. My head carries the sensation of underwater swimming. I see fiery flames dancing around in front of my eyes, but they are not hallucinations because I know there aren’t really flames dancing in front of my eyes.
It’s trauma, hot and burning. I’m a young mess of a girl. Frightened and wide eyed. Terrified.
Flashbacks. Mini ones. Not screaming for your mum in agony ones. Just my mind seeing fragments of it’s memories, and me not being able to prevent it so just sitting back and watching the unfolding spectacle.
On the drive to therapy I was reminded of things- stuff from childhood- threatening stuff that isn’t nice. I didn’t tell my therapist, because I didn’t want to go there, and besides we had two hours worth of stuff to go over anyway, but now tonight I’m left with the residues of it and I have to self-soothe. Self-soothing sucks. I want attention and cuddles and time with my man…the man I love yet have barely seen all week so far because he’s away working. I want to bury my head in his furry chest and feel warm and safe. The trauma chills me right down to the bone so I never ever get properly warm.
Autumn is still difficult, namely because it hasn’t finished yet. For once I am looking forward to frosty mornings and crunchy iced over grass to trudge through on my dawdling dog walks. So glad am I this year to see Christmas things in the shops, purely because I am so relieved Halloween is over and Christmas is the less upsetting seasonal relative to Halloween. I feel Christmassy for the first year in five years. The last five Christmases have been utter S**T, and this coming Christmas I intend to make it the first un-shit one! to buck that trend.
Back to therapy. It was difficult. It always is. Every session is jam packed with emotional extremes. She pushes my emotional buttons so intensely and I react strongly to her. It is all transference in action. Me transferring my feelings about life/the world/people/my past/people who have been significant to me, and reacting to her via those (damaged) filters.
Damaged people can either seek therapy or they can self-medicate in other ways, but I prefer the therapy option personally, however emotionally charged those encounters are and how mentally drained I feel afterwards. Why? because it’s the closest thing I can get to having a parental type caring and nurturing relationship, without ever having had one before when I most deserved it. I have no parents, so I need her. She is the next best thing.
But things are not perfect. She said things that challenged me and I narrowed my eyes, stared at her, then pouted my lips, shaking my head, all the time aware of the moody teenage girl body language signals I was giving out to her loud and clear.
“Are you angry with me?” she said.
“Only angry that you’ve pointed out negative stuff about me that I know is true and accurate”, teenage girl me answered.
“It hurts to have your errors pointed out” I continued.
“But if I agree with everything you say I am not doing my job as a therapist to challenge your thinking… and I am only doing this because your way of thinking is making you sadder, and taking your mood right down to the depths”.
She’s right, and that’s threatening to me. I hate her being right, because if she is right, I therefore must be wrong, and I don’t like being wrong. pouts
She says it isn’t black and white, right and wrong, and she is pointing out different ways I could think that will reduce some of the emotional turmoil and depressed feelings I typically feel.
I know how I think causes misery to myself emotionally, but how on earth can I change my deep rooted ways of responding that have been there since the dawn of time?!
This is threatening. I don’t like it. I still feel like that pouting eye-narrowing moody teenager now, except I am being her at home when I’m supposed to be the adult who doesn’t just push the ketchup away from the laptop but has already washed the dishes and dried and put them away and been the bloody perfect housewife.
I want to scribble the word FUCK over and over, pressing very hard on the page: because I hate being me, in this skin, in this personality, with these memories, having this difficult therapy, taking tablets, almost always casually toying with the idea of a self-cultivated death whilst feeling absolutely 100% aware that suicide is a no go option due to the devastation that would be left behind for those three special people I love.
I am NOT perfect.
I am dysfunctional (at time).
I struggle LOTS, (most of the time).
Chronic illness is boringly and crushingly hard to live with. It wears me down.
I don’t want to keep wanting to cry, but being too knackered to properly let the healing tears flow. Anxiety is blocking me. My anxiety is heightened. I am craving more pills to take even more of the edge off my frayed nerves.
I told my therapist about my plans to stop self harm and stop calling her and emailing her and taking more than the prescribed doses of meds when in crisis. I am determined. But I am still physically and emotionally sore from what has already happened. I am sick of last weeks self harm wounds itching and feeling sore and scabby and looking massively ugly. I HATE what I did to myself, to the point where I don’t ever want to self injure again.
I hate what the crisis team assessment report said about me. I hate being described in those terms. I hate what I am, NHS patient me, and how I am viewed by others looking in. I feel I am perceived as pathological in my manifestation, when my coping responses I know are very logical responses to what I’m going though invisibly and are also very common to many people who have similar traumatic histories to mine. But still I feel like a freak.
I want to do well. I want to be the “good girl” who doesn’t cut herself. I want to be the one who doesn’t need crisis team assessment(s) (even when the last one was a whole year ago which for me is a l.o.n.g time).
I don’t want to be a mentally ill person. But if I wasn’t, and if I hadn’t worked so hard this year I would not be attending the Mind media awards next week (which by the way I will be blogging about and posting extensive pictures of on the blog of course).
I feel awful, because I want my therapist to say I’m doing well. I want to trust that she likes me and doesn’t hate me (as my paranoid fortune teller mind communicates.
I want people to take me seriously as someone who can make a decent contribution. I don’t want to feel second best to the emotionally strong specimens of humanity. I want to feel ok as I am right now, without thinking my labelling of myself as valuable and worthy and ok is dependent and conditional on me getting some place way further ahead of where I am now.
I am sick of that chasing game. Sick of feeling that contentment will arrive if only I can achieve one more thing or have one more memorable and special experience.
I’ll never catch up with my desires because they are always realistically that bit out of my current reach.
I know I am further ahead than 12 months ago, but I am not as far ahead as I hope to be 12 months into the future, and I want to be there, but right NOW! Skip a year? Sounds good! 1 year of recovery and healing could just happen without me having to put in the effort myself. That would be lush. I am sick of effort and I want to drink wine and forget all this and sleep and not have bad dreams tonight and instead heal on the inside, just like my self harm scars are doing on the the outside.
That’s what I think and feel, stream of consciousness.