Sunday, September 17, 2006

Day 28.1

I’m sprawled here after a weird day of headaches and stomach aches, pondering over the last few days of detox. Here are my ramblings…

My mum arrived on Thursday evening just like Marry Poppins arriving with her magical carpet bag. She sang constantly and pulled out vast quantities of calm as if it were a magically telescopic lampshade; invisible spoons of sugar and maternal medicine followed. Friday involved counseling appointments, visiting the Housing Department and a 5 weekly visit to my Jobcentre mentor.

While my mum drank coffee and leafed through a local college prospectus - I was offloading to my Friday counsellor. Trying again to decide whether to take the medication prescribed to me on Tuesday by my doctor or fly solo, we moved through different scenarios, always returning to my gut instinct that I didn’t like the thought of now going back onto meds. It feels like a backward step – although my ‘team’ keep telling me it’s not.

We also discussed my latest desire to flee the city and to move toward the crofting lifestyle, complete with a couple of hounds trailing my heels and a large rifle to wage war on those who trespassed onto my land.

Oh what to do. Oh what should I do? This ‘should’ word seems to be a bit of a theme. My counsellor gently asks me who I feel is behind the ‘should’? Apart from ‘society’, my family is a large pressure. Unbeknownst to them the need to achieve, to be the best I can possibly be and make them proud is a large factor in all of this. Never quite feeling good enough and lying under the shadow of an older, more successful sibling, leads me to the generous conclusion that I am, a fuck up.

I remember fucking up as a child and telling lies at school that I had been attacked and was pregnant. This situation, as one might think, may have caused great concern and misunderstanding in the adult world but it only filtered through to my classmates. At aged 10, misdemeanors such as this sparked nothing but bullying - stones thrown at me across the school playground, name-calling and ostracisation – all the wrong kinds of attention. Eventually it all got so bad I had to move schools. Cause and effect: I did a bad thing and then I was punished.

I often thought in later years that coming up against boys that didn’t know the meaning of ‘no’ and getting pregnant at barely 16 were my punishments for the lies I told as a child. As I grew older I figured that I continued to screw up – making choices that were none too clever. The result of all this is my belief that I am inherently, a bad person. I still hold a lot of guilt about my behaviour as a child and this has stuck by me like glue through adulthood. I think, “if only they knew – they wouldn’t speak to me or want to know me”. In my line of thinking this inability to make good choices means that I obviously cannot make good decisions either. A tricky place to be in when life is full of choices.

I look at other kids at the age I was when I said what I did, and I think God, there’re just kids, what do they know? I remember telling a girl at my secondary school that if she knew what I’d done at my primary school she would hate me. All she said was that she understood why I did what I did. That I just needed attention. She told me she came from ‘broken home’ too and that she knew how I felt. Her generosity just made me feel even more guilty and I could not accept her absolution. I wanted to so badly, but I daren’t believe that she could possibly understand and that I could/should be forgiven such sins, so the monsters in my head just kept screaming. I can pinpoint this time in my life when things rapidly started to go downhill. At aged 15, I was self-harming and ‘drinking’, aged 16, I was pregnant, a few months later I refused to leave the family home for a period of many months. I refused to venture out further than the front steps. I finished school early and sat my exams at home. I was going out of my mind. “I can’t”, I said. Sound familiar?

At the end of our Friday session, I think I ended up deciding that maybe the city I’m in ‘ain’t so bad and that I need to take each day as it come medicine wise…My counsellor passed me her mobile number as our session ended to call in cases of emergency.

At the Housing Benefit centre things were a little more ‘peachy’. We finally got my housing claim sorted, (fingers crossed and touch wood) and hopefully the money will be in my account at the end of next week. I’m not holding my breath - it's only six months later after all.

My appointment at the Jobcentre was a little less encouraging. By the time I went to see the bloke allocated to my ‘case’, I had lost the will to live and stringing simple words together was proving all the more difficult. This is what happens after prolonged periods of concentration, such as the counselling. I think I told him I wanted to be an interior designer and would apply for an appropriate course forthwith.

Even though a tough day, Friday, due to the achievements I made, was yellow/green.

Saturday, rather more familiarly, hit me like being shot out of a cannon at a thousand miles an hour. Within an hour of getting up I was back in bed, weeping and hiding under my duvet clutching a teddy like a small child. Jesus. I blame hormones, although more likely to be symptoms of withdrawal considering I am on day 3, sans medication. After chatting with my mum – she came to dig me out of the pit of doom and to wipe away the tears - I started to put my house back together after the ‘deconstruction’ last week during a very bad day when nothing fit.

Saturday: probably yellow with a smidge of black.

Today, i.e. Sunday, was quite grey. Jesus a gradient. The weather, my mood and my thumping headache, all grey. I dragged my ass into town and I think managed to contaminate my mate with my darkening mood. Sorry lovey.

Bring back the singing lady with magical healing powers.

Note to self: Find out how to change spell check from bloody US spelling.

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