Saturday, 27 December 2008
This is the second rubber duck I have been bought, and I'm feeling a collection coming on. Pirate duck and Lulu Guiness Love-Hate duck are the beginning of something new...
I hope everyone else is bearing up ok, and I will provide duck pictures soon.
Friday, 19 December 2008
Preferably with a bottle of vodka, but some cereal and a fag might serve as a suitable replacement.
Dr. Bill Oddie tomorrow, and back to work on Monday. Eeeek.
I am much better than I was. I just hope I'm not tempting fate by trying to cram my placement in before March - I haven't got a choice though. Otherwise I have to find the money to support myself for 6 months and rejoin the course in September.
Hopefully that can still be a fallback plan if I right royally fuck it up.
Hmmm. That fag won't roll itself.
Monday, 15 December 2008
Rather, it is hurled at you repeatedly by "life" until you find yourself up to your neck in the stuff. Sometimes, if you're lucky, some kind soul will help you dig your way out, but to be honest what is the point?
Why do I constantly swim against an unforgiving tide, where every ounce of energy is sucked out of me, just to keep my head above water.
I'm not a survivor. If I was in a zombie scenario, I'd take that gun and shoot myself in the head. I don't have the physical or mental strength to keep fighting it. I also don't have the strength to end it. I meander on through life, not really going anywhere or acheiving anything, yet not I'm ill enough to be blissfully ignorant. Instead I'm tormented by my own failures, I'm bitter, cynical and unkind. If I'm in a bad mood, I reserve the right to take it out on anyone who dares to be cheerful.
I am not a nice person. I am not interesting or intelligent. I am not a beautiful unique snowflake. I am a nasty girl who holds grudges and wallows in self pity, and no amount of medication is going to change that.
I tell you what I want. I want a home that is mine, that isn't going to be taken away from me, and where people don't turn the heat up on the tumbledryer and shrink my favourite jumper. I want to curl up with a book in the evenings without my housemates piercing laughter or the sound of the latest Akon CD pumping through my head. I want to do what I like, and sometimes it would be nice to leave a coffee cup on the side without complaints. I want to interact with people that I like on my days off, instead of people I have to live with, and I want my housemate to stop shoving his latest culinary work of art under my nose. I want more space than my 9 x 7 foot room, and I want to do something in my life which I enjoy, and hiding under the duvet is not a very fulfilling hobby.
I want my Nan home for Christmas.
I want to know that if I have a baby, I won't relapse and have it taken away from me. I want to know that I could be a good mother, and I want to believe that just because the world is so materialistic, I don't have to be. Time to grow my own food, make my own living, and the space in which to do so.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
AbsentUncle has taken over the selling of Nan's house, and is keen for her to go into residential care. I think that is the best route too. I think. I've done a bit of care home searching, hopefully we can get her into one near my Mum's in Basildon.
This is a huge relief, and I need to stop being a paranoid bitch, and finding elements of "ain't-I-the-martyr" in his voice. I'm really not a very nice person right now.
Right. Clear head, get uni over and done with, then shimmy over to the hospital to see Nan. Perfect. Sorted. Done.
What's life going to throw at me next?
Shall we have a poll, or just throw some random answers out there?
I'm voting on developing an allergy to yogurt, leaving me without my main safe food. Now there's an unthinkable disaster just waiting to happen. I might actually be more scared of this than I am of someone dying on top of me during sex. Yes. That freaks me out, ok?
Monday, 8 December 2008
This was a comment for the inspiring Seaneen (Secret Life of a Manic Depressive), but it reminded me of how my comments are often better written than my actual posts, as there is a much higher chance of someone reading them, and they are more focused on a subject or point. I thought I'd post this here as a reminder of how I would like my writing to be, as opposed to the usual distressed venting.
Oh, the joys of Christmas, the great eating festival. As an agnostic I find the whole event extremely annoying, but I try to pull on the Pagan and Norse parts of this time of year. My Christmas presents are also awful (”Make your own!” says counsellor. Huh? Really? From under the duvet?), and my Nan, who brought me up, is in hospital and barely recognises me. I’d give anything to skip the whole thing.
On the subject of privilege, your post pretty much reflects on how I beat myself around the head with the “Come on, it could be worse” baton. I, like you, have a roof over my head, and food in the cupboard. Things are tight, but when I’m well-ish, I can manage, and my Connexions PA helps me sort out the backlog from when I’m very unwell. To be honest though, we aren’t really living on our respective pitance. We are surviving. Shrink suggests I take up swimming again. He doesn’t understand that there is no money to spare, unless I give up eating altogether.
This is become rather a rambling comment, but f*ck it.
The worst part of Christmas? Visiting my Dad. Going out for a meal or two, and watching a month’s rent being blown on food and drink. Sometimes they tip more than I have to spend on food in a week. I’m proud to be independant, but sometimes I wish he could see how I live compared to him. I want him to appreciate how privileged he actually is, but also that I’d rather have more time when I am well, than any amount of money.
Cause and effect.
Insert another theory here, then remember that they are only that.
Boyfriend is unhappy. He is unhappy with uni, unsure about whether to continue, unconvinced that the next five months will be enough to gain a degree which will reflect the work he has done. I don't know what to say, except that I love him just as he is. Whatever he wants to do, I fully support him in that, and will sacrifice whatever we have to so that he can be happy. Making him happy is one of the few things that makes me happy, and if something makes him sad then I want to fight it, tooth and claw, for daring to hurt him.
Sometimes I wonder why I can't love myself as much as I love him. Why can't I apply the same way of thinking to me? My counsellor says this to me - it's a bit "inner child" centered for my liking but she has a point. If I met a 10 year old girl who had been beaten up by her classmates, I would want to protect her, help her, give her a big hug and let her cry on my shoulder. Yet, I spend most of my time hurling abuse at myself as a 10 year old for not standing up and fighting. For being weak, pathetic, a loser. For lying down and taking it.
I'm trying to be a bit nicer to my "inner child". I don't like that word. I don't know how else to describe her right now, but as much as I hate to admit it, that stage of my life is still a big part of how I am now. I can't just wallpaper over the cracks and pretend it never happened. I'm also concerned that me being so low may have put extra stress onto Boyfriend, as well as his workload.
Boyfriend's concern over his degree is making me think about mine. I love my work placements, although I do find the social situation of university and also in working as part of a nursing team quite stressful. I find it hard to let anyone get too close. The more they know, the more they have to use against you.
I just spoke to my Dad. There's a nice big puddle forming on my keyboard, and I'm so angry. I hate this. I had to tell him my Nan is ill, and that I might be leaving uni for a while to go and look after her. He says I shouldn't have to deal with it, but if I don't then who else will? I can't trust anyone to look after her properly, and she can't care for herself now. I can't afford to pay for a decent residential care home, and the current property market has made it almost impossible to sell her house.
I want to bury my head in the sand, but there's a distinct lack of beaches in Dagenham, and the idea of a small child finding my corpse in their sandpit makes me cringe and giggle simultaneously. F*cking morbid, eh?
Sunday, 7 December 2008
She was much more "with it" when I visited yesterday, seemed brighter but still quite confused. Apparently she threatened to hit my mum when I snuck out for a fag though, and between stifling giggles I had this big flashing DEMENTIA sign illuminating my tired brain with all the colours of the rainbow.
The second-to-last thing I want to do is go back to Bleakness-On-Sea and live in the ghost town of bungalows again. They haven't got a pub.
The last thing I want to do is leave Nan on her own.
I'm not even sure that I could look after her. It would just be until we could sell her house and get her into residential care, but with the current housing market, plus having to take a gap from uni, and then find a new place to live afterwards.... Fuck it. Mainly, I don't want to watch her deteriorate.
I've been restricting less this week, and I haven't purged in about a month. I say restricting less, I think it just seems like that because now I have a mini-binge once a day instead of thinly spreading out the calories.
I can't think straight.
Monday, 1 December 2008
I forgot what an excellent release they actually are. The council tax office couldn't talk to me and Connexions PA, because they're computer system was down. Therefore, Connexions PA wrote a very official letter, which basically boiled down to "stop harassing GG, you bastards". She is great, really. She helps me with all the forms and bills that I've been hiding under my bed for the last few months. Actually, there are a lot of things which have been building up since the fire. I just can't deal with it all.
She also agrees with my opinion that Shrink is hopeless. I've seen my medical records [advice: don't leave the projector on, Shrink. It puts all my notes onto your magnolia walls in large print easy to read letters. Yes, mentals can read too!], and they are very basic. They miss out a lot of key stuff, and if I left notes like that, I'd be in deep sh*t. Plus, even though I've been under his care for nearly a year, I first saw him 4 months ago. In this time he has never adjusted or even discussed my medication, contacted my GP, or arranged a referral to Psychotherapies or any other service, despite saying he would.
Basically, my medications are managed solely by my GP, who luckily has been on anti-depressants and is relatively knowledgeable, compared to your average Doc. Counsellor looks after my mind, checks out my suicidality [is that a word???], and makes sure I'm not slitting my wrists or starving myself to death. Connexions PA keeps my finances afloat and the bailiff-wolves at bay.
I'm pretty well at the moment. My drinking has increased, but so has my eating, I'm pretty clean and this evening I cooked. I've been to both my exams so far, and today I almost finished my Christmas shopping. I'm in a right muddle at the moment because the impulse-buy wrapping paper doesn't match the gift bags, but I've found the perfect one, so I'm going to pop into Poundland after I see Counsellor tomorrow, and negotiate an exchange.
The gift bags are gorgeous, and will hopefully make up for the budget pressies.
I found the perfect card for Boyfriend, and a gorgeous pressie for a friend of mine. I think she needs some cheering up at the moment, and she looked after me last week when I was down. She bought me a toy kitty-cat :)
I might go back and get a couple of bits I saw for my two nieces, I'd like to be able to get them something so if I'm careful with the food budget I should be able to get them a little pressie each.
I <3>Venlafaxine. Please, please don't desert me like Fluoxetine did.
At least most of the Christmas shopping is done now, I just need to work out what to buy for my step dad. Oh, and whether to make my own Christmas cards, or just buy them?
I'm tormenting myself over whether or not to look at some cheap studio flats, or just stay put until Boyfriend comes home in May. I think that's a better idea...
I have to talk to the council tax office again today, but the chances of me handling this calmly and rationally are pretty low. Cue GG effing and blinding down the phone at a quivering call centre employee.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Uggghhhhhh. I feel awful.
I downed a bottle of wine to get through the mammoth meal, and I hate the way she points out how thin I am, when inside I'm screaming that I'M NOT I'M NOT I'M NOT.
I've gained weight again, I'm sure of it. I want the scales, but I can't weigh myself until the morning. I was standing in Topshop yesterday, trying on some ridiculously flamboyant high waisted shimmery gold trousers, size 6, eyeing myself up in the unforgiving changing room mirrors. They weren't hanging off my hipbones. I wanted to cry. I drank two bottles of wine yesterday night, and didn't eat today until the meal this evening.
I'm working on my Shrink to refer me to Mind or another organisation, to see if I can get a free membership to the gym or swimming pool. If I'm doing more exercise, then I'll be more likely to eat little and often. I might even manage breakfast, lunch and dinner for more than two days in a row! My eating habits are ridiculous at the moment, I go from consuming stupid quantities at my Mum's or Boyfriend's house to appear "okay", then I'll starve for a day or so, then it's back to 400 calories of low fat yogurt and cereal, occasionally throwing in some soup or vegetable chilli. Oh, and my drinking is definitely increasing, even though a pint of cider gets me bladdered. The two bottles of wine had a serious effect on Saturday.
It sickens me that the 26 inch jeans I was so proud of squeezing into are now hanging off me, where they once clung in all the right places. I can grab handfuls of material round the bum, and they are so baggy around my calves. I'm dreading my next work placement because nothing is going to fit.
Friday, 28 November 2008
The written questions weren't too bad, I just wrote down whatever I could vaguely relate to the topic, and attempted to stay on the topic. Multiple choice is really not a good idea for me right now. I can spend hours in Sainsburys debating over whether I should buy chickpeas or lentils. I can't pick between two flavours of soup, and don't even get me started on buying things like shampoo. They all promise so much!
The exam was a bit disasterous - I was desperate for a cigarette, and being given 4 slight variations of essentially the same answer was confusing and frustrating. I kept getting stuck on words, going round and round until I couldn't tell you which one I originally thought was most probable.
The worst part was that itchy feeling, the one I get when I desperately need to make a list. Pre-exam, list making isn't really an option. I ended up being escorted to the bathrooms, where I proceeded to scrawl some meaningless crap about plucking my eyebrows on my inner calf.
I'm supposed to be going to my Mum's to do some Christmas shopping. It's cold and horrible outside, and I want to get back into bed. I also need to eat the cottage pie I defrosted, but I know that she'll force me to eat again tonight.
On the plus side, my curtain rail decided to fall down on me at 3am. How fun!
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Moving swiftly on, I've been shedding weight in another way. I decided to collect together all of the paperwork, final demand letters and correspondence which has made me want to slit my wrists in the past year, and dispose of it. I've had to keep a few necessities, until the council tax have stopped trying to take the clothes off my back, but other than that I'm throwing it all out. I hate being scared of the post, of the debts, of the bailiffs.
This is one way which mental illness breaks you. It steals your dignity, your self respect, puts you in situations which you couldn't deal with normally, let alone when getting dressed is the equivalent of climbing Everest. For example, have you seen the size and complexity of the average housing benefit form? I couldn't fill one of those out when I was well, let alone navigate it since I've been on the brink of f*cked. I am living on the breadline, because I can't fill out the forms, gather all the evidence, sit for hours in the waiting room surrounded by screaming children and their oblivious teenage mothers.
I've been spending a fortune on medications, and burying my head in the sand when it comes to my bills. Bills have a nasty habit of becoming final demand letters, and court orders. I guess that since July I've been spending at least £20 a month on prescriptions for various medications, and it doesn't sound like much, but that is basically all I have left after I've paid for rent and food. I've been keeping my receipts, and trying to get a HC1 form [for help with prescription costs] for months, but to be honest that was pretty low on my priority list. I've got the form, and now it turns out that my carefully hoarded receipts are worthless. You need a special receipt, signed and stamped by the pharmacist, which you can only get on request and at the time of collecting your prescription. Therefore, the NHS handily avoids paying out to any of us who don't know the complete ins-and-outs of the system. Once again.
I've never been in debt before. I've always paid everything up front, been extra careful so I had a bit of money behind me. I had quite a tidy sum when I moved out of my Nan's, from working and saving EMA payments. That paid for the deposit on my house and the first months rent, leaving me a little bit just in case. Becoming ill again and getting fired soon used up that. Then my lovely ex-housemates leaving all the bills to me, plus the house in a state, resulted in me losing a lot of money. Would I have let myself be walked all over if I was well? No. I would have done something about it. At the time, I couldn't do anything about it. The direct debits just kept going out, and the rent money stopped coming in.
The problem is, you see, that when I was well-ish, I thought I could do everything. I could, most of the time. i handled all the money, because I soon discovered that they were both pretty much incapable. When the bills arrived, they stuck them under the sofa. No joke.
I take everything upon myself, because depending on others generally means that nothing will get done. At least if you do it yourself then you know who to blame. I'm ashamed of the financial mess I've got myself in. I can't even show my Connexions PA most of it because I don't want to admit that, deep breath, "I can't manage".
I found a ridiculously cheap one bedroom flat to let today, and realised with a bit of belt-tightening, I could afford it. Think about that - no more living with strangers, sharing the bathroom with unknown men, and having to make polite conversation when all you can think about is the kitchen knife he is holding. Back to the good old days of, shock horror, having your friends over a couple of nights a week, getting back to having a social life even when you have absolutely no money, even just having Boyfriend over for more than one night. Leaving the washing up on the side until the morning. Eating somewhere other than in bed, because nobody is watching anymore. Hogging the bathroom, dyeing your hair, waxing your legs, whatever reason, just because you can. Only having safe foods in the house, rather than staring longingly at the block of cheese or packet of Jaffa Cakes that your inconsiderate housemate left on the side.
The downside? I'd be in even more of a mess. I can't remember to buy loo roll, let alone pay the gas bill. By the time Boyfriend gets back from uni in May and moves in with me, I'll be living in a bare flat hugging my eviction notice.
All I can think of is me and Boyfriend snuggled up on the beanbags in our humble little flat, ignoring the threadbare carpets and dodgy shower, and just having our own space. Oh, and the added bonus of having some money for once, seeing as this little apartment is £20 a month LESS than my little room. I know I'd have bills on top, but I don't pay council tax 'cos I'm a student, and who needs heating anyway? Being cold just means I'll burn off more calories.
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
I'm also extremely on edge, as the council tax c*nts have sent me a lovely letter informing me that, whoop-de-doo, the bailiffs are coming for my meager possesions. Good luck flogging my battered books, oversized dreamcatcher and graffitied rubber duck. Touch my laptop and I'll bite your f*cking hand off. I'm mental, donchanooooo???
Grrr. I'm a student. They told me I had been removed from the council tax list. Chase my ex-housemates for the £53.43 that we apparently owe you. I've lost so much money over that sodding house, not to mention been fired, and had a severe relapse of depression. I can't take any more of this shit. Hence, my Connexions PA got a rather incoherant text begging her to sort it out. She is rather useful. Otherwise, I think I would have gone on a bulk-buying mission of paracetemol and vodka. Bye bye liver!
My Nan has decided she is dying. I'm not very impressed.
She has heart failure, and they are giving her lots of medications which seem to interact badly, and also slow her pulse. I checked it before she took the pills, and it was under 50 bpm. This, coupled with her hallucinating ["there's little furry weasels running around the living room", apparently] meant that I've lost faith in Middle-Of-Nowhere's medical team.
I blame myself. I do that with everything, but especially this. Since I moved back to London 18 months ago, she has gone from independant to housebound. I can't believe how much her health and spirit have declined. This was a woman who would go to Alice Cooper concerts with me, and the only alcohol she touched was straight vodka.
I'm also angry. How dare you threaten to die on me? You're my Nan, you practically brought me up, and I still need you. You ain't going nowhere, missy.
Mainly, I keep crying. I can't even phone her, because we both end up sobbing down the phone.
Argh. Apologies for the disjointed post.
Shrink was his usual self, eg. asked a few questions and did absolutely nothing. Oh, and he said he'll transfer me to another Shrink, because I've moved. He said that in August too.
Right, I need to wash my hair, because my new fringe is greasing itself to my forehead. Uggghhhhh. I am rather gross right now. My guinea pig Paddi left me with some lovely scratches on my chest, because it rained when she was in the garden, and she hates being soggy. I must bath tonight. I have clean bedsheets, so if I don't bath, I'm sleeping on the floor.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Going to see Boyfriend's band practice tonight, have the "other girlfriends" to chill with, and a bottle of rose wine, which could prove to be my downfall. Must make sure Ladders & MissRockabilly outdrink me....
Love to all
Friday, 21 November 2008
How many actual quotations could I remember & reference? Zero*. Zilch. Big Bad Nothing.
However, I think I babbled as much as possible, plus I didn't fall asleep. Actually, some of my stuff on attitudes might drag me over the 40% pass mark. It sounded academic-ish.
On the plus side, I got 90-something% on the Mathematical Calculations test, and I just found out that my pathetic attempt at the Critical Incident Exam got me a fantastical 50%. The pass mark was 40%, and I only wrote 1300 words out of the required 2000, so I'm pretty chuffed.
Pat on the back, GG.
*Same size as the jeans I'm wearing. Pfffft. I'm useless at the willpower thing. £5 in Asda? I don't need a litre of Ben&Jerrys, I'll have the jeans instead!
Thursday, 20 November 2008
GG, for fuck's sake EAT SOMETHING. Um, no. I don't need food. It's a government conspiracy to make us all fat, haven't you all worked that out yet? The re-education of my mind is proving rather hard.
I tried reading some psychology stuff, things which usually would have caught my interest, but none of the important information is sticking. Maybe if I ingest some Pritt-Stik?
I think I should just give up and get some speed. Me and my friend Ladders used to talk all the time about getting some speed and spring-cleaning the house. Maybe that would work with studying? However, the horrific comedown would not help with the examination itself.
I'm wondering how I'm going to be awake enough for a 9.30am test anyway, considering that I haven't managed to surface since I started the Venlafaxine. No doubt, my mood has definitely improved, and the late afternoon-early evening has proved relatively productive, as far as bathing and washing bedsheets goes. I even treated myself to a bit of Russell Brand last night. I just need to get through the exam without falling asleep, or being in a general zombie-like state.
On a lighter note, my guinea pigs have been in the garden since 11am, I just put them back in the hutch and Paddy was very displeased. She was squealing at me in her pissed-off tone, like she does if Guinness steals her food. I've got an appointment with the counsellor soon, and I was going to leave them out until I leave at 4pm, but next-door's cat is taking a keen interest in them, and I don't trust it. It sits on the fence pretending to ignore them, then when it thinks I'm not looking it stares intently at them, licking it's lips. I can imagine it prowling around their run, singing "I'm gonna eat ya little guineas, I'm gonna eat ya little pigs...". Think "The Cat" from Red Dwarf with the robotic goldfish.
I try to make myself relatively presentable when I leave the house, and this also applies to going to see the counsellor. I'm not to bothered when I go to Dr Oddie's, as it's a 10 minute walk, but the counsellor is in town, right by the pub, and to be honest a bra, deodorant and brushed hair are kind of required if I'm going somewhere where I'm quite likely to see friends, and to avoid abuse on the bus.
I have a Shrink appointment next week, Connexions PA is attending to make sure that we actually discuss certain issues and to see if she can help with anything. I think I'm being referred to my new area, but I'm not sure. This is a bit of a conundrum, because Connexions PA usually sees me when I'm not-overly-repulsive, and I made an effort the last time I saw Shrink. This approach has got me nowhere, so I'm considering welcoming them to my world, eg. the one where I don't spend the whole day pulling myself together to get ready for the appointment, and just show up in whatever was lying on my bedroom floor. Maybe I should take my duvet?
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
I had a bit of a habit of cut/shaving chunks out of my hair whenever I thought that I'd go much to far if I self harmed
I gave myself an all over number 1, pure skinhead chic, when the Citalopram decided it just wouldn't work. I grew to quite like it, but at that point I liked anything which screamed "for fuck's sake just HELP ME".
I'm quite glad I have hair now, and that I've managed to make it look quite, well, pretty.
I also succeeded in eating some noodles today, which have been a banned food for about 6 months, so I'm quite proud of that as well.
I just read Lola Snow's post on TIDYING, and I've been there a few times. Today, however, when I got stressed over revision, I organised my notes - it gave me something to do when I needed something, and tomorrow my revision will be easier.
See. I can find positives. I can be positive.
Hmmm. Fag break!
Pass it on to five other bloggers, and tell them to open the nearest book to page 56. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. The CLOSEST BOOK, NOT YOUR FAVORITE, OR MOST INTELLECTUAL!
The nearest book to me is Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel
Page 56 is the end of a chapter, so this isn't going to be very long.
"Lizzy, everyone likes you fine just the way you are, she says, because that's what people say in these situations.
I sit there with my face in my hands as if to catch my head, to keep it from falling off and rolling across girls' campus like a soccer ball that someone might kick by accident."
I still want to know what fuzzy creature would be on Page 56 of Lola's Pets with Tourettes book, if the author had made it longer...
Um... And I tag the next 5 people who happen to come across this, and you have to copy your answers as a comment so I know when 5 people have actually done it!!!
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
This sentance shocked, saddened and angered me, but unfortunately, the man has a point. The social stigma attached to a diagnosis of schizophrenia is terrible.
It seriously saddened me, because of a young man I knew. He had spent most of the past 6 years as an inpatient, and the lack of effect of every medication and treatment I saw him try was another kick in the stomach. I can't bear to think of him, so full of promise and potential, losing his family and friend's because of an illness which he can't control.
At least with cancer people don't cross the street, because they read The Sun, and think that schizophrenia = murderer.
The Poppets were compulsive. We have a box of 36 packs on the kitchen tables, and all I want to do is cram the whole lot down my throat.
I'm back to the point of having almost no proper food left, just some tinned soup.
I have some sauces, pasta and rice, but they aren't allowed.
Poppets are though?!?
I don't even like the toffee flavour ones, yet that is what I'm eating.
I have an exam on Friday, and I just looked at some past paper questions and have absolutely no clue. No surprising, as my attendance is awful. My counsellor keeps saying I shouldn't be doing this course, but her idea of the alternative is to go and get a job. I can't make it to lectures a couple of days a week, how am I going to work enough to live? How am I going to hold down a job, concentrate and be productive? I lost my last job after missing two weeks of work following the A&E incident, but I'd been a complete mess for quite a while prior to that.
I'm reasonably functional at the moment, I'm out of bed by midday and I washed some clothes this afternoon. I'm dressed, I need a shower but I'm not filthy, I can't cook but I should be able to microwave some soup later. I'm drowsy and a bit lightheaded, but I haven't collapsed.
However, I'm aggressive and agitated by the smallest thing, and I am not usually that sort of person. Every little thing winds me up, particularly human company. I'm snapping at people, I'm increasingly sarcastic, patronising and short tempered. All I want to do is turn round and say "for fucks sake, can you just fucking LEAVE ME ALONE???".
I want to make something of myself. I want to make people proud. I don't want to be like this.
I've wanted to do this City & Guilds Corsetry qualification for ages, thought I could make time to do it once I'd qualified and then maybe sell some handmade corsets and lingerie online, as a hobby at first but see where it leads. Now, I'm too scared to do it because how can you run a business, and complete your orders correctly and on time, when you can't look after yourself? Sometimes I just want to crash and burn, so that people around me will understand the effect this actually has on me, on my life, so they can understand some of the things I've done and the mistakes I've made. I'm not trying to rid myself of all blame, but some things are related to my illness or my medication.
I have this image of myself in years to come, where I'm happy. Socializing in a club with friends and acquaintances, handing my card to the girl in the toilets who compliments my corset, measuring eager Suicide girl look-a-likes in the back of my boyfriend's record store, sewing perfect seams on frozen winter evenings while he plays guitar, and we are both so happy. I don't spend days in bed, I don't push him away or hold onto him too tightly, instead we can both be ourselves, but better. A day when I don't longingly gaze at pots of turquoise hair dye or lust over piercings and tattoos which aren't suitable for my work.
I love what I do, but now I wonder if it isn't much too close to home. After all, I am a little bit jealous of people I see who get an inpatient admission and leave us with support, fixed. I know that's probably not true, and most cases are much more ongoing, but sometimes.... Well, at least they get taken seriously and not as attention seeking, pessimistic, moaning GG, 19 years old and still can't stand on her own two New Rock clad feet.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
The name "Dollhouse" is perfect, everything in perfect miniature, the way I sat for hours arranging the tiny beds and chairs in mine as a child. Sitting in the spare room at my Grandmother's house, rain pattering against the window, perfecting the contents of my Grampie's labour of love. The wallpaper was remnants from the house, so it was a perfect miniature, until the cat decided that she liked to squeeze through the impossible small window and sleep amongst the matchstick furnishings, tail curling out of the front door.
I got into them. However my large high hipbones gave the impression of FAT. Now, I know that if I out on a stone, I would have curvy hips, an hourglass figure. I know that what I perceive as "overhang" is just my hipbones sticking out over the low rise waistband, and not FAT. However, it still looks too big. Fleeting thoughts of "hip surgery", ways of fixing them, if I wear a corset constantly could I force my hipbones further in? Have a bit sanded off the bone? Is there fat cushioning the sockets, and if so by losing more weight will that knock off that extra half inch?
This is sickening. Mum grimaced as the size 6 dress slid down my depleted chest, and she spent the rest of the day coaxing me to eat. I eat around her, just to stop the fights. I only have to do it once in a while, I make up for it over the next few days, and at the time I push it to the back of my mind. There are ways to get rid of a few extra calories, and I use them. My cat is very useful, and little brother can polish off my dessert.
The worst bit is, I'm not even that small.
I weigh myself first thing in the morning, on the same scales, on the same floor tiles. I weighed myself a while ago, which I know I shouldn't have done, as it was 9pm and I wouldn't get a "true" weight. With my dinner inside me, I appear to have gained 6 pounds since Friday. I know this is probably mainly water weight, food and a small gain, but I feel like a failure.
I know I can be down to a beautiful, previously unreached weight before Christmas, and I might go back and buy those jeans as my motivation.
Then again, that's the exact same reason I left them on the rail.
Friday, 14 November 2008
Unfortunately, a diagnosis doesn't come about in one session or meeting. Originally it was an "Adjustment Disorder", but sometimes it takes time to assess an illness. My psychiatrist and various GP's have written a whole variety of different things on assessments and sick notes.
Personally, I'm pretty neurotic about BPAD. I have a strong family history of BPAD on my maternal Grandfather's side, and depression on my Father's. I didn't know any of this until after my 4th depressive episode [except about my Grandad, that was after my 2nd], so I do not count myself as "self fulfilling prophecy" in terms of Depression at least.
I do worry about BPAD, purposely inform my Doctor of the family history as I know some medications have a greater likelihood of triggering a manic episode, and I do worry more now because most of my BPAD family members had their first manic episode in their late teens/early twenties [I'm 19].
Sometimes, I hate being more like my Grandad. His siblings had a diagnosis of BPAD and in terms of medications etc were managed relatively "consistently".
My Grandad was the least understood, I still don't know his official diagnosis as they just weren't sure. I suppose the closest they came to it was again, Severe Depressive Illness. Cue a long stream of anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, good old Lithium and countless other treatments. Chuck in a load of inpatient admissions and you'd think they'd have an answer by now.
I know that if I became full blown manic, I would probably be unable to see anything wrong. I'd be in complete denial. It's a mixed state that I'm more concerned about.
My Grandad' siblings have an alarming habit of what I presume to be mixed states. Either that, or they like blood when they are high as a kite. There's a lot of slashy-slashy going on just when they seem to be out of the Depression. The mood lifts, you think they're fine, then you find out Aunty-So-and-So is back on life support or has giving herself some interesting arm decorations.
Grandad himself... A mystery and yet the person who understood me best? I don't know. He would be so low for so long, then be irritable, argumentative, then decide we had to go to the Millennium Dome. Again. Suddenly this need to go to a museum, where he'd refuse the wheelchair until he couldn't walk any further, which usually meant he would use it like a Zimmer frame whilst pushing me around in it. Art galleries, where he would get so excited.
Yet, somehow, he was never as manic as, well, manic. He seemed to gain this "zest for life", but I don't know if that was part of his personality or his illness, because by the time I arrived he had been ill for many years.
Then, one day, he took to his bed and stayed there for 8 months. I couldn't bear to see him like that, partly because of my family's reaction to it, and partly because I would do the same thing when depressed. My Nan went out for an hour to get some shopping, and he took every prescription medication in the house.
They wouldn't let me see him. My Nan said he wouldn't have known I was there, "better to remember him how he was". I regret that so much. Two long weeks of tremors, fits, coma... Then he died.
I'm 19, I'm on my 3rd antidepressant, I'm messing up my life and all I want to do is stand at the weekend of Walton Pier where the lifeguards scattered Grandad's ashes, and cry and cry and scream and cry. I want all the pain and anger to wash away with the tide, and if it doesn't then I might as well throw myself of the f*cking pier rather than struggle for another 55 years before topping myself in a similar fashion.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
I have enough trouble trying to ignore working out how much my vegetarian chili contains, let alone adding another mystery-calorie food to my diet.
Obviously, there is no logic to eating disorders. One minute I'm crying over the increase in calories of my usual soup, the next I could be binging on whatever unsafe foods I can get my hands on.
Currently, I only eat 3 different meals. Low fat yogurt and muesli for breakfast, although I've resisted weighing the muesli so far, I do use individual 100-cal yogurt pots so I know how much I'm eating.
Depending on how I am, I may have lunch. That's where the soup comes in, with one or two slices of wholemeal super-seedy bread. Nasty fact, but this is to avoid constipation, which is a bitch. No laxatives allowed in the house, I am not going down that road again.
Dinner is the veggie chili, onion, pepper and mushrooms with a variety of beans, pulses, lentils and tinned tomatoes. The beans and lentils contain Tryptophan, which is used to make Serotonin, and then I chuck in lots of chili powder, because apparently spicy food ups your metabolism?
I haven't got a clue how many calories are in a portion of that. Honest. Ok. I lie. I refuse to work it out properly, but probably around 250?
If I'm feeling extra good [or extra faint!] I chuck in some mozzarella cheese. Once it's melted, it's hard to pick back out, see?
Throw in the occasional binge, and the mandatory "see, I eat normally" meals at my Mum's or Boyfriend's house, and you have it.
I originally dropped 20 pounds by just, well, not eating. Now I'm on this, not purging [much], and not using laxatives and diuretics, I feel a lot better.
I gained back 6 pounds in the first week [ouch!] but I've lost 4 of them. I think I was just on starvation mode, plus water weight...
So. I'm now a size 6.
I was fine with being an 8. I don't like double figures, but an 8 was nice and comfy. Now I'm a 6, all I can think about is dropping to a 4.
That little voice, pointing out the size 4 little black dress in Adsa, "Look GG, you could be in that by Christmas. Make sure you've got a bit of room though, you don't want to look like you've squeezed into it. Fat bitch."
*When they stuck me on Prozac and everything got a bit sparkly, not only did I start my nursing course, I also got some books out of the library. I don't remember this, but I received a £200 fine last week, and found the offending literature under my bed. I think I still have to pay £75, but we'll see if they take pity on the mentally f*cked. What interests me is how I packed and unpacked them whilst moving house, and still didn't realise?
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
Anyone else hate being an in-between?
Not mentalistic enough for inpatient or intensive treatment, but just f*cked enough in the ol' brain department to scare yourself?
I was sitting in the kitchen, half-watching Scrubs whilst attempting not to consume the contents of my cupboard.
Enter my housemate. Early-forties, mature student, irritatingly cheerful. Wants to share every little giggle with me, and doesn't really pick up hints.
I mean, I'm sitting here, answering your constant spew of absolute drivel with occasional grunts, with absolutely no interest in having a conversation, and yet you just keep trying to make me join in. You're just making me feel guilty for being "mean" to you, not joining in your enthusiasm over a psychotic cat on Youtube.
I had to get out.
I took a trip into town to meet a couple of friends, and although I was dreading it and nearly cancelled, his arrival meant I was keen to get out. Queue GG, sitting in a pub garden, with a pint of lukewarm water, smoking like a chimney. Oh, and shaking like a leaf of course.
I can hear this tap-tap-tap, and I realise it's my right leg, with a mind of it's own, knocking against the bench. I firmly plant my tootsies on the ground, problem solved, right? Nah. Now it's my hand, then my little finger just won't stay still.
I'm sitting there, feeling like I'm levitating and about to float off at any moment, and my friends arrive. Hmmmm.
Act normal, GG. You aren't mentally interesting. You are mentally concerning.
I managed to hold out for quite a while, although I alternated between laughing hysterically and fighting back tears in the loo.
Walking home from the bus stop was a nightmare. I don't exactly live in the best area, but it's the best of a bad lot, if you get my drift.
I was petrified. Every shadow, dark doorway, and parked car was hiding a multitude of sadist rapist monsters who fancied ripping me limb from limb. I was scared shitless, walking right down the centre of the road, with the local paper headlines for the next week whizzing through my head.
"Local Teen Raped and Beaten"
"Girl Commits Suicide After Assault"
"Body Found In Bin"
There's a little selection for you all.
Why am I such a bundle of nerves?
Hmmm. This Venlafaxine stuff had better improve.
I'm all for sticking it out but I'd rather be the beast-from-under-the-duvet than crazy-girl-attacking-imaginary-foes-in-the-street.
However, the price was a small amount of self harm.
Nothing serious, just some superficial cuts on my leg.
I hate the way I did it some calmly, so detached.
In a way it was more conrolled, but at the same time... not in my control?
I don't know.
I'm stuck on the essay, need to find at least 600 words and some references.
I keep looking through my books and coming up with NOTHING.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
I am attempting to relax at the moment, but I am extremely restless. I attempted to watch a film earlier, as a break from numerous attempts at completing my essay. I paused it at least 8 times, not for toilet or tea breaks, but just to do RANDOM CRAP. I got up and moved all my DVDs from a shelf to a storage box under my bed. I sorted out the rest of my fire damaged items. I keep finding things to wash. I went to town earlier, and spent ages in the supermarket, almost in tears, because my 3 usual flavours of soup have been replaced, and there are only 2 new ones with low enough calories. I then ate a packet of biscuits, because I couldn't stop. I was just trying to be normal, have a biscuit with my tea, squeeze in a few more calories to make up for my erratic eating. Last night I tried to go to bed at 10pm, gave up after an hour, went back to bed at 1am, was up at 3am, 4.30am, 6.15am, 7.45am, 8.50am, 9.45am, then dragged myself up at 10.30am. over 12 hours of attempted sleep. I'm sitting here, typing this, constantly alternating clenching my buttocks, because for some reason that is something I have to do whilst sitting down. My bum hurts. I can't have a bath, because at the moment if I get a slashy-slashy impulse I'm pretty sure I'd act on it. I keep opening files on my computer, or grabbing a notebook and pen, then wondering what it was that I so desperately had to write down. I don't think I'm manic, I managed to cook a chili earlier without burning the house down [that way I have food for the next few days, I just have to microwave it]. I'm not myself though. Normally I'm pretty happy to curl up on my beanbag with a movie or a book, but today I'm not. I'm really irritable. My housemate was laughing in his room whilst watching a program on BBC2 about people with mental health problems. I wanted to rip his head off and spit down his throat. instead I just snapped at him to close his door next time he wants to laugh at other people's expense. I mean for f*uck's sake I'm a trainee mental health nurse, does he really think that I'm going to appreciate his ignorant jokes?
When I see my psychiatrist in two weeks, I am going to beg for support getting council accommodation. I can't live with other people when I'm like this, I'm a nightmare and then I just feel so guilty. I'm trying to be civil and "normal", and yet I want to tell them to F*CK OFF!
This is from the girl who turns everything inwards. I can't even do that now. Hiding self harm scars isn't fun, and I promised Boyfriend I wouldn't shave my head again.
There is nothing left to CUT.
The sad clown photos were taken by a friend of mine as part of her photography project. I love those pictures, I loved dressing up and messing around with make up and clingfilm and stockings for my friend's photographs. Two of my friends have asked me to pose for them, one for an underwear shoot and the other for a burlesque style piece using a chaise lounge. I really want to do them, but since this photo was taken a few months ago, I've not been very nice to my body. I lost 20 pounds, I've gained back about 6 pounds now because I kept collapsing, but my breasts are ruined. To put it bluntly, they look deflated. My thighs are still large and scarred, and I haven't got a nice toned stomach because I don't have the energy to work out.
I look at that clown photo, and I miss my body when it was just a little bit fat. It had potential, I should have just toned it up rather than starved it. I miss those little dimples on my arms, and the way my body wasn't covered in bruises just from sitting in the bath or crossing my legs. I'm in limbo, and part of me says that if I've ruined it this much, I might as well resume the restricting and exercise, and get THIN. Right now I just look beaten, run down and all I can see is the fat creeping back on. I need to stop hiding in bed and get out there, walk, swim, run. Stop mindlessly eating crap and pay attention to my food. I have to eat [apparently!] so I should ensure that it's the best food, to improve my skin, hair, nails. I need to get back on the multivitamins and drink more water. I'm aiming for healthy and toned.
Monday, 10 November 2008
On a lighter note, I'm definately much better today. I was up at 10am, despite waking up loads during the night, and bathed and dressed appropriately by 1pm. I know that 3 hours sounds like ages, but it's amazing for me! I actually feel happy with my appearence today, and I've eaten a can of sweetcorn soup and two slices of very seedy wholemeal bread, plus a cereal bar that wasn't even low calorie.
I've been drinking loads of green tea because my mouth seems quite dry, but I don't feel 3 feet to the left of life. I feel a bit more sorted. I can think [!] and I just whacked out 800 words of my essay. I've been alternating between consuming my fingernails, lying under the duvet and just plain avoiding it for weeks, because of this huge mental block, but now I can write.
I'm not great, I'm not 100%, but I'm certainly better than I've been in ages. Possibly the best I've been in over a year. I finally sorted out my "Fire Box", which contained all the fire damaged sentimental objects, photos, everything that I managed to salvage after the fire we had last year. All the important things, the things on display, on the wall, on the shelf, were just coated in thick black smoke. Today I've washed quite a few things, including my MONKEY:
Ha! My monkey is so getting a pirate costume now!
Well. I'm sure you can tell I'm rather brighter... [don't be manic, don't be manic...]
Back to the essay tomorrow morning, for now I think another cuppa, some monkey snuggles and possibly a film before I get an early night.
I need to go and buy more soup tomorrow, so I'm planning to be up and dressed bright and early-ish to go into town. I might even pop into Peacocks and see if they've got any corset-ish-belt-thingies left...
Sunday, 9 November 2008
I took my first dose of Venlafaxine, and maybe it was because I was nervous about it, but I had some very odd dreams/delusions.
I'm siding with the "it was a dream" idea at the moment, but I'm pretty sure I was awake, or almost. However I managed to convince myself that there was a man in my bed [to the point I nearly called Boyfriend to apologise for cheating], that I had spoken to my friend when I got home that evening, and that my housemate had woke me at 7am for a fry up. I've been in a huff with him all day, and can't exactly explain that the reason is that I'm a bit nuts.
I'm thinking it was just dreams, my over-active mind, but the medication leaflet says that less than 1 in 10 will experience abnormal dreams, and less than 1 in 10,000 will experience delirium.
I'm going to take my second dose now, so hopefully this will settle down. While I'm experiencing it, there is to be no watching horror movies or reading serial killer books before bed time!
Saturday, 8 November 2008
That is, quite possibly the cheapest advert ever. Three camera shots, and nothing moves!
Yeah. I've been drinking again, because honestly, the idea of a night without Boyfriend to curl up with was unbearable.
I think I might get Miss Bending, a lovely singleton-ish mate of mine, to come for sleepovers, just so I'm not so lonely.
Maybe my friends are right. If I come off the meds, and don't think about everything, then I'll be okay? Fixed? Normal?
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Now, they do have a valid point in saying that, but giving yourself Brownie Points for every little positive step just seems a bit like cheating. After all, the positive isn't important, it isn't what people remember you for. It's always the negative stuff they pounce on, using it to rip you to shreds, whereas the positive stuff is so easily ignored.
Lets try listing "good stuff" since returning from 'Oop North.
Here goes nothing.
Kudos for going to Connexions session, counselling and Doctor's appointments this week.
Double Points for doing my jobs on the cleaning rota.
Smiley Face for making (and eating!) a veggie chilli, and for going food shopping.
Gold Star for bathing, washing hair and de-fuzzing legs without any slashy-slashy business.
I want a Papillon dog. Papillon means "butterfly" in French, on account of the big ears and symmetrical markings.
Dogs give unconditional love, even if you haven't washed your hair in over a week and you've been eating dry pasta because cooking it takes too long.
They don't stare at you when you're taking an assortment of pills for breakfast, and they certainly don't tell you to pull your socks up, take life by the horns and for God's sake smile.
I've wanted a dog for ages.
Now, I just need to hold out until Boyfriend or I have qualified and obtained some form of employment, then we can get our own place rather than renting rooms 200 miles apart, and I can get a dog.
I really need my own place, or maybe a place with Boyfriend. I've been renting rooms and staying with relatives since Mum threw me out over 3 years ago, and I want a place to call "Home".
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
I don't think the void is my stomach, but I can't work out what it is that I need.
I want Boyfriend to love me, want me, keep me safe, but I'm becoming even more of a clingy emotional moody cow every day, and I'm so paranoid that he can't put up with me, he's going to dump me, which just makes me even more needy.
I'm working so hard to keep my disordered eating tendancies at bay, when half the time I want to embrace them, let them become who I am because surely that will be better than the inner turmoil. I can't be taken seriously as having disordered eating, because my BMI isn't low enough, I don't purge enough and sometimes I manage "normal" eating patterns because at work or with family, I don't want them to suspect, or to accuse me of attention seeking.
Remember. It's all my head. I'm just like everyone else, and if I really wanted to be happy, I would be.
Dr Bill Oddie apparently used Venlafaxine for a while. He described it as "very strange, feeling like you're three feet to the left of life". Hmmm. Not instilling much confidence, but that "three feet" maybe put me slap-bang in the middle of real life, and I'm ready to try anything. I have exams in a few weeks, and an essay due, so I need my brain to start working. Pronto.
Boyfriend's bolthole 'Oop North was just what I needed. TLC, lots of hugs, encouragement to eat/shower/get out of bed. Slight moan though - I told boyfriend that I keep a blog, for venting etc, and he thought that it was a really bad idea, and would just encourage me to dwell on my problems.
Not sure whether he has a valid point - I think it comes back to the lesser of two evils concept. When I would normally binge, purge, self harm or drink myself to oblivion, I blog. It may be a web page devoted to my endless whining, but this doesn't involve scars or throwing up blood. Also, how come I'm training to be a mental health nurse, I suffer from a globally acknowledged condition and yet so many people still believe that if I really wanted to be happy, I would just snap out of it, pull my socks up, THINK POSITIVE.
Maybe it is "all in my head", in which case, I want to get out of my head.
Pass the horse tranquilizers.
Ah. Crap. You gave that all up with the heavy drinking, remember? F*ck it. I'm at least having a fag.
Friday, 31 October 2008
I'm not going Trick or Treating*, but I am getting dressed up for a party tonight. I made my mask all by myself, and I'm very proud. I'm going as a leopard. So, every leopard print item of clothing I own, plus my very fit mask and a tail [from Topshop!?!].
Will attempt to post pictures [stolen from someone who owns a camera].
I'm not going to be around for a few days. I'm going to my boyfriends place 'Oop North for the weekend, but I should be coming back on Sunday or Tuesday, havn't decided yet.
*Small Brother is no longer small enough to use as a cover for my teenage trick or treating. Damn! I used him as my decoy up until last year, but as he has just started secondary school I think he would be, quite frankly, mortified to be seen with his 19 year old sister when she is dressed as a leopard.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
I saw my counsellor today. It's been two weeks since I last saw her, and so I should be more relaxed, less agitated. Instead I'm petrified I'm going to get carted off to MY HOSPITAL. She said I need to go somewhere to be looked after. Not necessarily an inpatient admission, maybe stay with family? Pffffttttt. My family? My mum would hit the roof if she knew I was still on the medication, my father chooses to ignore it, and the only person who really understood me decided to commit suicide. Thanks, Grandad. I NEED YOU.
Well, lets have a quick looksy at the family tree. You have lil GG, Mummy, Daddy. Mummy is rather barking, as was her father and all his siblings - BPAD or recurrent depression, and their kids are almost exclusively BPAD/PD's/addicts/depressives. Mummy hasn't [to my knowledge] been formally diagnosed, but then she believes that mental illness ISN'T REAL. So, I'm training to be a not-a-real-illness nurse. Goody.
Daddy and both his brothers have been on anti-depressants for varying lengths of time. Paternal grandmother has suffered with it for years, and now is "emotionally numb". Her words, not mine, when she called me to warn me not to end up like her.
Her father/step-father [hasn't been clarified, as Great Grandmother really liked getting married] committed suicide when she was a young child. Her older sister found him with his head in the oven.
Confused yet? Yeah, me too.
So how did GG end up in the gutter? I can't sleep, so you might as well get a brief picture. It goes something like;
Bullied at primary school - "Your dad doesn't live with you, you must have done something wrong". Ain't kids nice? Leave school on verge of nervous breakdown, self harming, and find secondary school slightly more pleasant. Well. I used to hide in the library.
Aged 12, stop eating. Starvation is my new form of self harm, but it is quickly stopped when I collapse in school.
Aged 14, have first major depressive episode. Lasts approximately 6 months, and triggered by being evicted from the house I grew up in. Mum throws things at me whenever she gets stressed out. I learn to dodge quickly. Increase the self harm, and discover joys of alcohol to "drown my sorrows".
Aged 15, arguments with Mum, second depressive episode. Self harming is discovered, and the household is subtly changed by the presence of razorblades with little safety bars, and blunt knives. Mum fails to understand that this isn't about her, and continually asks "why are you doing this to me?".
Aged 16, have been thrown out of home and college in quick succession. Have a termination. Third depressive episode. Characterised by lots of drinking, self destructive behaviour, and trying to throw myself under buses. Fortunately I have some very good friends, who tend to pick GG up and carry her kicking and screaming onto aforementioned bus.
Aged 17, bit more sorted, living with my Nan and back at college. Very homesick. Then - BAM! Fourth depressive episode, resulting in me staying in bed for 3 months and promptly failing my exams. Discover that Citalopram is NOT for me.
Aged 18, living in a house with friends, until the dishwasher sets it on fire. Stay with aunt and uncle, hold things together until I snap, spend a night walking on and off of the train tracks, then shimmy on down to A&E. Fifth depressive episode. Declared not suicidal, and sent home with a prescription for Prozac. Go to stay with boyfriend until I'm more "with it". Then have a possibly manic episode, which I remember barely anything of, except that when my mood settled, I had been fired from my job and started training as a Mental Health nurse. Irony!
Since then the Prozac has sufficed, although it's been gradually increased as the effects have decreased. I've had sessions with a psychologist, and I see a counsellor on a weekly basis.
Now, the Prozac has stopped working, and I'm close to how I was when I ended up at A&E. However,I don't have the motivation to get dressed, let alone get dead, so hopefully my mood will improve before my energy levels do?
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
Well. The "no drinking or smoking" plan has not worked out very well.
Lovely Prozac makes alcohol MUCH more effective, so a couple of Vodka and Diet Cokes are having quite an effect.
And I've had two cigarettes.
And a few pulls on a joint.
None of the above is going to have a positive impact on my long-term mental state. However, they've kept me from self harming and purging, for this evening at least.
Lesser of two evils?
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
This is going to be poorly written, but I'm not very "with it" right now.
I went to work yesterday, first time I've gone since Tuesday. And today? I'm back in bed.
I haven't bathed, washed my hair or cooked in over a week.
My laundry bin is overflowing, my guinea pigs are quite frankly being neglected, and I'm living off the occasional forced down bowl of cereal.
Welcome to my world, eh?
So, next time my Connexions PA asks me, how does my illness affect my everyday life, well, I think I'll direct her straight to this post.
I have a splitting headache, I'm dehydrated but that means I have to get out of bed less to use the toilet, so I don't care, and I'm repulsive.
I want to die quietly and apologetically, because this existence isn't helping anyone.
Monday, 20 October 2008
Sunday, 12 October 2008
Work was going very well, I was starting to gain a bit of self confidence. I managed most of last week, and was supposed to work today instead of Friday because I was going to a wedding with Viking. Friday went well, Saturday night I felt like things were falling apart because he was going back to Leeds, and this morning - I couldn't get up for work. I miss him so much. When he isn't here, my reason for getting out of bed, for eating, for breathing, is just gone. I need to live for myself and not for someone else, but I can't do that until I like myself.
I managed to eventually clean out the guinea pigs, chuck in some oven chips and watch some Russell Brand to up the comedy value in my pathetic life. From that, I realised that the answer to my problems is a loyal and sincere addiction to heroin. Sorry. I mean to stop beating myself up?
Friday, 3 October 2008
I was starting to lose faith, but now... I have breathing space. I have a little bit more control over the depression. I have an interest in doing things. Staying in bed isn't quite so appealing.
Knights in shining armour come in all shapes and sizes. This one is special, because it puts me back on my feet, and back in control.
I'm going to the Condom Motorcycle Rally this weekend, on Mersea Island. I've missed the last few rallies, but I'm definitely up for this one. I've done my hair [big chunky dreads - maybe a bit too big but fuck it - they make a good pillow when you're camping]. Boyfriend is in Leeds, so will be going with some friends. I've never pulled at rallies anyway - the idea of one night of very drunk and probably very crap sex in a tent just doesn't appeal.
The weight is coming back on at an alarming rate, but this weekend I aim to dance the night away so I might shift some of it. It's kind of saddening to gain it back so quickly when it was hard work to lose it.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Whether through perseverance, disability benefits or inpatient care, you can "live" with an eating disorder.
However, I don't base my happiness on financial gain. I base it on having time and space. With an eating disorder, all your time is spent calorie counting and fixated on the food you can't eat. You have no personal space, as wherever you are living there are people who are trying to make you eat. And, also, you share all your space with your eating disorder [which takes up a lot of room, while you continually shrink].
You can't enjoy social events, as they tend to involve food, drink, energy... or all three.
You start lying to the people you love, and to yourself.
Today I was honest.
Yes, I'm using diuretics and laxatives.
No, I haven't eaten more than 1000 calories in total over the the past 10 days.
Yes, I'm telling you this because I'm having chest pains, I feel faint, I do faint, I can't get out of bed, let alone go to work. I tried to walk to work yesterday, and I collapsed. Fun, eh?
Dr. Bill Oddie's reply was "for fuck's sake, you stupid fucking girl". He apologised for this explosion but to be honest I think I needed it. The chest pains are because I'm hyperventilating, and my blood sugar levels and blood pressure are very low. My heart sounds ok - for now. The diuretics are making me severely dehydrated, the laxatives aren't very helpful if you aren't eating, and my body is in starvation mode, hence how I put on two pounds by eating half a sandwich. This is because my liver was replacing the starch I forced it to use.
So, I now feel FAT. Very fat. My stomach is not flat. I have consumed food, and it will probably go straight onto me as fat. I went to work though. I completed the whole day, and told them I had a stomach upset. That's why my clothes are hanging off me. I feel skeletal, which is repulsive and gorgeous in the same instant. They offer me food, I have some so nobody suspects the vomiting was self-induced, and I think about what Bill Oddie said today.
I asked what my calorie threshold to keep me above starvation mode would be, and he reckoned around 1100.
That's a big fucking jump.
So, the plan for eating now is to remember, my body needs fuel to work. I'll be on my feet for at least 10 hours a day, walking the wards, and travelling to work.
No collapsing in a ditch in Brentwood.
I'm thinking, I'll have a sensible breakfast, like cereal and low fat natural yogurt, some fruit, a green tea or fruit juice. I'll allow myself 350 calories for breakfast.
My "main" meal will be pasta/rice/jacket potato with some fish/lean meat and vegetables or salad. Either midday, or evening if before 6pm. Allow 400 calories for this meal.
Then I'll have a meal, either lunch or if I'm eating after 6pm, like a sandwich with low-cal bread and filling, or a salad. Allow 250 calories for this meal.
That's 1000. Plus a coffee or two at work, say another 100 calories, and at least 4 pints of water.
There. Lets see how it goes. If I draw up a proper meal chart, I'll let you know how it goes.
I'll post about my placement at the end of the week. Too tired now.
Healthy eating - I'm emphasising both those words, because you can't be healthy without eating.
Although to be brutally honest - I want to get better. I just don't want it to involve food.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
I went to where I used to live, and stayed with a friend of my mum's. We were throwing a party for another friend, and I just got home. I was waiting for the bus near my old house and the forest was just calling out to me. I can't resist nature. It takes my breath away that in the outskirts of London there is this place that is so beautiful. I used to skip lessons and go there to get lost. To lose the world, the worries. To lose myself. I lay there in the grass and for those moments the world was beautiful again and I was so overwhelmed.
My eating is becoming a real problem. I told my mum, she doesn't understand. I don't understand. Telling me I have to eat, my body needs food, stop cutting yourself, why do you do these things, don't do anything stupid.
My grandad commited suicide two years ago. I love my grandad. I think he understood me better then anyone else. I was so angry when he died. How could he leave me to face this all alone, I needed him.
I don't think I would kill myself. I keep myself grounded enough. What would happen to my guinea pigs? They need me. There. One reason to keep going.
This is a really bad blog. I have another bad hangover, and I really shouldn't be drinking on my medication. But I had to tell someone about the grass, the sky and how the world is beautiful.
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Maybe not ever.
But right now, it feels like it.
I just woke up next to an almost empty bottle of Tequila, but luckily I didn't binge in my drunken state. I do vaguely remember having a lot of trouble working out how to use the door key though.
However, the marvellous upside is... 7 stone 5 pounds.
I am ecstatic.
While I'm here, I might as well add a quick medicines update. It's 60mg Fluoxetine [Prozac], Cerazette [contraceptive], multivitamins, Boots Diet Pills and the occasional 2mg Diazepam [Valium].
Thursday, 25 September 2008
Monday tends to involve an appointment with Dr Bill Oddie. He is exactly like Bill Oddie. Except slightly more interested in medicine than birds, I hope. It's the last appointment of the evening, plus over an hours waiting time. I'm not sure if I'm developing OCD tendencies or just get bored, but I do tidy the waiting room. A lot. Magazines by type and date, books by size. They look too messy by author. Anyway, Dr Oddie comes out with most amusing quotes like "what did you do that with, a cheese grater?". This of course referred to my last self harming spree, armed with only a blunt razor and the desire to draw blood. The results were numerous but superficial, all though another observation of Dr Oddie's was that it appeared I had "stuck my arm in a blender". I feel this to be rather exaggerated.
Tuesday means a trip to the chemist, handing over another ridiculous sum for the drugs which can't even get me out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately the lady who serves me is a friend's mum, so while I wait for my prescription I nip down the road for some dressings. Collect the meds (cue a pitying look from the pharmacist, or so I imagine), and it's back to Bill Oddie's surgery. His receptionist leaves several hours before I actually see him, so I have to go back to make the next appointment. She knows my name now. It makes me feel a little bit special and rather suspicious. Are my pathetic problems being shared among the other surgery gossip? Am I Mel, Cheese Grater Girl? I leave the surgery, resisting the urge (and it is STRONG) to chastise the children messing up my carefully organised books. Can't that old lady see that the Woman's Weekly does NOT belong in the Glamour magazine pile?
Wednesday involves even more of what I do everyday, which is stay in bed. I have no reason to leave it (except for, of course, the degree I am failing and the friends I am losing), and I don't. Late afternoon is time for "The Binge". This tends to involve large amounts of chocolate Hob Nobs or a whole baguette stuffed with brie. You see, I know I will go to a rather shit "alternative" night with some friends, to keep up the illusion of being okay, and I will drink and I will dance. Neither is a good idea as the former makes me VERY drunk due to the medication and the later makes me look like a twat. But hey, all in the name of burning calories. How does drinking dispose of pesky calories, you may ask? Well, as I am and always will be rather shit at purging, and am aware that laxatives don't do much to help, I drink and then I have a legitimate and easy way to throw up. That girl who rents the room upstairs throwing up in the bathroom a few times a week is suspicious, but someone purging in a club toilet? Totally socially acceptable.
Thursday (which happens, darlings, to be when I am writing this) is counselling day. I spend a lovely afternoon with my lovely counsellor, who gives me big meaningful "now isn't that a silly thing to do" smiles, complete with "and did that solve the problem?" style quotes. Actually, she's rather good. I can actually talk some of these feelings out of me, but I don't have an answer for why I have no motivation anymore, and neither does she. Also, I'm not allowed a cup of tea when I'm there. It always gets my goat a bit, I mean fair enough we can't smoke inside anymore but surely a cup of tea and a chat solves everything? That's the East End girl coming out in me.
Fridays, once again stay in bed until there is some sort of social gathering, which I drag myself too. I have this great little "Happy Mel" mask I can put on, but recently it's really been slipping. This can be another opportunity for a binge and purge, not on such a large scale, but maybe a bag of chips which I can sneakily chuck up later.
The weekends are a mixture - either visiting Mum, Dad, Nan or boyfriend. Boyfriend is a Viking and lives in Leeds for university. He is amazingly talented, and I don't deserve him, or rather he doesn't deserve the crap that comes with dating me. When visiting family or boyfriend, I am still careful with food, and if the opportunity to purge presents itself I will. However, family would hit the roof if they knew and Viking is rather saddened by it. Also, rather odd rule, but as I am a people pleaser I would rather eat at least some of what someone has made me than disappoint them. Visiting Dad is the worst. It's all restaurants and Pizza Express and foods which I can't even begin to count the calories in.
As to my usual dietary intake - the staple diet revolves around low fat yogurt, low calorie soup and lots of apples. I sometimes chuck in the odd sandwich or jacket potato, then laugh secretly to myself, because they don't realise that I can make a sandwich under 150 calories and that a small potato with tuna isn't much more. Any the reason I eat fish? "Oh, it's much better for you than meat". Bullshit. It's because a piece of white fish has around 60 calories in it, and you, ignorant housemate, will never know.
This makes me sound like a conniving bitch, and I probably am - I don't want to gain weight, I want to lose it, and I mess it up enough by binging without you deciding to force feed me. The worst part of all this is, it isn't really me at all. Really, I know that losing a few pounds is not going to sort me and my life out and will probably make things worse. I'm a Student Mental Health Nurse and I should have more sense than this. I really, really should.