Thursday, July 26, 2007

Day 337

I am so confused.

I called the emergency hotline number for the Crisis Team a few hours ago to speak to someone because my head was all over the place – I needed to clear something up. I had said to the Crisis Team yesterday that I had written letters when I made my plan and I didn’t (I had a plan, I did all the preparation, but no letters) so I wrote them today. I forced myself to, to make it real. I also bought a will, until I realised I had nothing to leave. In writing, I realised I don’t want to hurt my family – I just want to hurt myself. So I can’t write any “goodbye” letters because that would be a premeditated crime. What I feel is more immediate, it swoops in, snowballs after a bout of self-harming, or just hits from nowhere – no time to put pen to paper, no time for thinking.

I can’t really remember the week of making the plan and having to talk about something so private is distressing and confusing. It’s hard to keep correcting people when they make mistakes – for example, when asked what my hobbies were/are at my assessment, one of the Charlie’s Angels (the ladies from the Crisis Team look like something off a film set, complete with Angel flicks. They wear black trousers and high heels, but look like they could Karate Kid you in a heartbeat) replied on my behalf saying: “dressmaking”. I don’t do dressmaking, but I didn’t contradict her. Was I just too tired of the people at the Biscuit Centre getting it wrong? Too tired to keep explaining the truth? I had never mentioned dressmaking, no, not once.

I just wanted to scream at them to leave. Well, not scream exactly just ask them politely to leave. I’d had enough of the sympathetic voices and the probing questions about my “Suicidal Ideation”(?). “It’s PRIVATE. GODDAMIT, it’s private”. I suddenly wanted to say, “Hey ladies, I appreciate your coming, but there has been some mistake. I don’t need help, there is nothing wrong with me.” Then we were talking about letters. I am sitting here thinking: “why did I make that part up?” I remember thinking I need to get my affairs in order, to write lists for my Mum so she knew what was what, but no actual goodbye letters. I think I remember thinking about it, one sad morning while sitting on the toilet. But there I was saying I had written letters. So today I forced myself to write letters. I did. And then nothing made sense, so I called the number.

It all came out in a bumbling mess of words and the woman on the end of the phone sounded grumpy so I felt stupid. I stumbled through the following: “I’m confused, I don’t want to hurt my family - I just want to hurt myself. I wrote the letters and it feels wrong. I told the women I wrote letters and I don’t think I did, I think I just said goodbye in my head.” There is no explanation for what I think about and no way to say goodbye. So she said: “So I take it you won’t be seeing the Crisis Team anymore/It’s good you don’t want to kill yourself/Have you got anything to do tonight/Will you be OK ‘till Monday?” She sounded frustrated. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I feel like a fool, I feel like I’ve wasted your time”. “Not at all” came the reply. “Did you just need someone to talk to?” Did she think I was saying I'd made the whole thing up? Because I wasn't, just the letters.

What is going on – what is fact? If I made up the letters, does that mean I’m making all of this up? Maybe I just want attention. The thought of that makes me want to vomit myself inside out. If that is true, am I just sick (in the head)?

The Angels said yesterday that they thought I needed help and that I wasn’t wasting anyone’s time and that they would come and visit me three to four times a week. They tried to make me promise that I wouldn’t kill myself. I kind of snorted/smiled/I don’t know what I did, but I said, “I’ll do my best”. We talked about hospitalisation. They said, "For the quiet ones, like you, it doesn't make much difference and then you are no further forward when you come home". Am I a "quiet one?"

I keep thinking I should be able to snap out of this, to make myself better, but that doesn’t seem to work. Do I just “like” being “sick”?

I said that to my Friday Counsellor once, she told me no one would waste the time and energy on me if there was any doubt something was wrong…Maybe they’re just placating me?

Maybe they all know – everyone is in on it and the jokes on me? I suddenly feel 15 again, saying I was sick when it was probably just stress/confusion. I ended up getting my appendix out then. I didn't have appendicitis. What will happen now?

My worst fear is that I am a liar.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Day 336

"H-appy Anniversary to me, Happy Anniversary to me, Happy Anniversary to me-ee, Ha-a-a-ppy Aaanniversary to meeeee."

Yup. Two years ago today I 'crashed' and in a salute to "Top Gun" pilots, I am still burning. And how am I celebrating it? By waiting for the Crisis Intervention Team to arrive - I tell not a word of a lie.

I went for another review at the Biscuit Centre at 10am this morning (after my “complaint” yesterday) and the very helpful lady I spoke to pressed the proverbial "PANIC" button minutes after my interview started and now it's all action stations. I'm not sure how I am feeling right now - somewhere in between a very surreal place of curiosity...and terror. I sort of want to laugh because I haven't changed what I am saying at all. I am saying the same thing I have been saying for forever it seems, over and over, but this time, someone actually heard it and at the moment that seems really funny. Until I think about being sectioned and then no, not so funny.

So now I am at home, waiting for the cavalry and all I can think of is that I missed the postman while I was out, and therefore missed my delivery of DVD's from the DVD library. Very annoying. I was so looking forward to Hugh keeping me company tonight.

Note: Attacked arm last night and now have large bandage over holes. Now I wasn't doing that two years ago today. I might write a list later of all the other things I do now, that I didn't do then.

Also is it appropriate or indeed relevant for a CPN to ask you how your libido is?

“…Ha-a-a-ppy Aaanniversary to meeeee..."

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Day 335

Things that are horrible, but you have to do them - part one:
I had to call the new “Biscuit Centre” this morning to voice my concerns regarding my appointment yesterday. The person they wanted me to talk to wasn't there, so I am waiting for a call back. I am shaking and tired. And scared. I feel like I am complaining and I hate complaining. I am also terrified they will tell me to “fuck off” and that I can accept what I’m given or ‘sling me hook’.

Things that are horrible, but you have to do them - part two:
I also called my old CPN to see if she knew the best way to handle "this" or if she knew anyone from that centre that she could recommend I talk to – she was in a meeting so I have to wait for her to call me back. I also need to make an appointment to see my GP to explain to her what happened yesterday and that I am not “happy” to come off the Diazepam as her locum suggested in his letter to the new place – the surgery was closed.

I say all this under the guise of “having to”. I spoke to my (step)Dad this morning and asked his advice, him being a retired medical professional and all. His rather sage advice was to do all of the above. I say, “have to”, because I don’t want to, nobody is making e do it, but “I have to” or nothing will change. What is the point in making all the effort to try to talk to these people if you can’t trust them, plus I’d rather not have someone mock me about suicide when I do so? ( I think that was my thought?) Ah, bless all those in the mental health, caring position. I nod sagely at you, as you are supposed to at me?

Things that are horrible, but you have to do them - part three:
Later, I have to call the Council about my latest bill that has magically transformed itself from £0.00 to £130.00 odd. Apparently Council Tax bills are more magical than a Harry Potter book.

“Me, stressed. Are you kidding? The epitome of calm I am, serene and relaxed…”

Day 334


I was summoned by my new CPN today. He was half an hour late for our appointment so I sat alone, scratching and pinching my arms and hands in the new waiting room as buckled patients stumbled past in battered trainers, eating chocolate biscuits.

Our appointment, that was to last one hour, lasted two. I was tired and scared. He got my back up by being medically unprofessional and telling me about all his other “cases”. He seemed unfocussed and put words in my mouth, obviously trying to fill out his blessed forms ASAP. He joked about suicide and self-harming being one and the same thing. He was also an arsehole. Flippancy is not a good trait to exhibit near a suicidal person. Nor is slagging off the patient’s abusive ex partner or father – regardless of what the patient may think of them. Nor is mocking the accent of the patient’s Chinese doctor. He thought it helpful to tell me that my (previously) heavy grass smoking was the reason that I feel this way, while simultaneously telling me about the amount of people that have “made themselves psychotic by smoking weed”. “Why were you on anti psychotics?” followed. And then, “Would you like to tell me about your suicide plans?”. “Not really”, I said, my eyes brimming. He cajoled: “Go on, you know you want to…”

I completely shut down. He looked surprised when I asked what to do when I felt I was a danger to myself.

I came home, shaking, and went straight to bed.

I think he thought I was fine.

Friday, July 20, 2007

Day 330

Lets pretend it's still Thursday. I'm not ready for Friday yet.

Today I went forward and then backwards. And now I am off my face on drugs. My jaw is slack-assed and I am determined to post, because I need to post every day so I don't forget. "Shhh" I tried to go forwards all day and did things like ordered my food for the week, spoke to my beloved friend from London (for two hours), walked to B&Q and bought a pin board from Woolworth’s.

Then I tried to do a nice craft project and went dippety-doo. (My hand was just doing the "dippety-doo" action, but you can't see that, of course. It was like going down a slide after going up a little bit at the start. Up-and-then-down.) Then I got twitchy.

You try, try to go forwards and your head says, "NO! You shall stay in the dark." "Shhhh" And so I fell down and got back up again, and did some more, and then I fell down again, and got back up and did some more. What is a sucker punch? Feels like I was sucker punched. Like a big sucker that was punched. And then I got up again and now I need to sleep. "Tra-la-la-la-la, I dance in your face sucker punch. Me and my pills, they sucker punch you back."

Fight, fight, fight. So tired of fight, fight, fight. But 'we' must keep fighting, because then 'it' will go away. Or at least 'it' will be too scared to come back for a bit. Maybe 'it' will just put on a hoodie and walk away, far away...maybe she'll walk into the sea and drown.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Day 329.1

And now I have Bruce Willis instead of Harrison Ford on TV. Is there no end to one woman's suffering? There is a BIG difference between Mr Ford and Silly Willis. Stupid Goddamn TV guide. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Day 329

Bloody weird people sending me emails wanting to be my friend. Are they stupid? I want them to be my friend as much as I want a "24 hour erection", or "nasty big balls". Just as much as I want ex, ex boyfriends calling me in the middle of the night and then hanging up when I answer; calling the next day with elaborate lies about their "pockets calling me" and sending me emails on their fucking 'buddy' lists asking me to sign up as a friend on MySpace. Are you KIDDING me?

Got prescription filled, went to local charity shops, took some photos and did some future planning and then got very, very, very irritable. Well, it started as panic and has now become full on, rage. Rage big enough to smash windows, throw laptops and burn down buildings.

I am so sick of..."OH, FUCK OFF".

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Day 328

"Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed. Had a little drink about an hour ago (I wish...) and it's gone right to my head". Sing that in a ghostly voice, like you might find in a horror film where the slightly disturbed, main (lonely, single, girl/lady) character hears dead people whispering in her mind, and you’ll have some idea of what it sounds like in my head right now. Dark and twisty like carnivals and bearded ladies and merry-go-rounds and clowns. Nothing is scarier than a clown. Well, maybe “Mr Wimpy” is, or anything in a costume, or a mask…

The reason for this sudden onset of trauma between the ears is that I had a couple of hours over a “power nap” before tea (annoying headache wouldn’t go away) and had a horrible and weirdly recurring nightmare about starving puppies in a house with skeletons in the attic and a mass murderer with a very sharp knife, behind every door. I was having quite a nice day until that point. Up, down, up, down, up, down...there goes my mood.

Today I went to Ikea. On the bus. All on my own. (I did a triumphant air punch when I got back in the house). Although, I couldn't help but try to reconcile the thoughts of trying to end one's life with going shopping to fill it up with nice things. Or maybe I should just stop thinking and stroke my new Breton style, stripy rug that cost six British pounds. And kill a few moths. Apparently we have Primark and their £30 cashmere cardigans to blame for their sudden up rising: more woolly things, more moths. Hand me a cedar ball please.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Day 327

I woke up feeling shitty (quelle suprise) until my sister and I started emailing each other (well, she was emailing my hamster - her Hamphew, I replied on behalf of my hamster):

My dear Hamphew,

I hope this finds you well.

Please instruct your mother to sing you the following to the tune of O Tannenbaum:

Oh Edwin-Face, oh Edwin-Face, how lovely are your whiskers!
In your iglooooo, in your food boooowl,
Wherever yooooooou decide to go.
Oh Edwin-Face, oh Edwin-Face, how lovely are your whiskers!

Inside your baaaall, or in your wheel,
Even when eeeeat-ing hamster meal,
Oh Edwin-Face, oh Edwin-Face, how lovely are your whiskers!

The End.

Love and sunflower seeds,

Auntie ____ xxxx

He then replied:

i findit quitee hardly to type you but eye send bak to youa sung

oh aunite __ ___, oh auntie __ ___, how are your furballs?
are you seeeeating are you tyyyyyping?
Are you working veeeery hard?
Oh auntie __ ___, oh aunitie __ ___, how are your fur balls?

and that is all i can fink of becoz my head is veeeery small and holds not so much brain.

love you miss you come and tak me away frum my horrible mother

Who said life was shit? Not eye...

Sunday, July 15, 2007

Day 326

A day similar to yesterday, although today started at 5am with killer sinus attack which sent me into a flat spin. Why do seemingly trivial things take so much out of me and create such mayhem? I have a killer headache, yes, I feel like I've had a stroke down one side of my face, yes - but I'm not dead, and I'm not about to die, but yet it feels like that is likely.

So I spent yet another day in bed. I was too frightened to go out to get some decongestants. How depressing is that? Is it just because I feel vulnerable anyway that the smallest of things send me into a loop that I feel I can't get myself out of?

Sometimes I think I need to get into the best physical shape of my life to beat this bastard. If I am physically on top of my game, would I be able to cope with all that depression brings, and if so, how does one find the motivation/energy to get into the frame of mind needed to exercise? I walk, yes, every day (unless the bogeyman is here). For miles, I walk, but yet still so damn unfit that I feel a feather could knock me down.

All the "Depression" books say exercise, exercise, exercise. I thought I was, but hey - obviously not enough.

Time for more Olbas oil steams and a bath methinks. Oh what a glamorous life I lead…

Still wearing same stinky smoking clothes over PJ’s as yesterday and my hair is now glued to my head like an oil slick. I look so pretty.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Day 325 - Saturday

"A lot of days, my friend, a lot of days" [...have passed since my last post and have passed since this all started].

It is coming up to the anniversary of my meltdown. Two years ago, on the 25th July I sat weeping, trying not to jump out of an upstairs window as my (then) partner walked out of the door and left me rocking. TWO YEARS. It doesn't really feel like that because I was back at work a few weeks later, out of my mind on drugs and worked until the 24th March 2006 before I finally threw in the towel on my job and London, for good. The next day I was on a train heading "home". Ah, those were the days. The days when I got on trains and made decisions. Funny really that you don't see what's coming.

It's been a busy week, counselling has been tough and I have a million things to write, but somehow it all seems to wordy and too much for right now. Too much that it stops me from writing anything, so I might just jot down a few lines about today to get started and write the rest later. If I remember.

Today was pretty dull, because it involved sleeping. All day. My excuse is that I've had a busy week. Which I have, but it was just one of those days when I just couldn't find the energy to do anything. I lay on my bed with my smoking clothes (the clothes I wear to go downstairs to sit on the step and have a fag before I am washed and dressed properly) over my pyjamas, and set the alarm for one hour. Six hours later I hauled my still-dead-to-the-world backside, out of bed. Not entirely sure why, because I wasn't planning on doing anything. Then I had some dinner - salad. Washed the mountain of dishes and watched a bit of a film about La Lopez kicking her bullying ex husbands ass. And now I am in bed listening to suitably melancholy songs, tippety tapping away on my laptop.


"Now, wasn't that worth the wait?" No, I didn't think so...

Thursday, July 05, 2007


The next piece of writing is from when I was away at Mum's. This is probably the hardest and most personal posting to date. I can feel the panic rise like bile into my throat as I type this meagre introduction.

After that fateful Sunday, some 20 days before the date of the entry below, I decided I wanted to die. For the entire week, I cleaned the house and got my affairs in order, I planned the letters I wanted to write and chose my weapon of choice. I made a plan. I told no one.

Then I think I told someone - I can't remember now, because my Mum was suddenly here. The day she was due to arrive I went to the Mental Centre to ask to be admitted to hospital because I knew I wanted to die. They sent me home. I had self-harmed earlier that day, had gashes up my arms, was crying, and numb and telling the smiling faced woman in front of me I wanted to go to hospital "Now". She handed me a relaxation tape. "I don't have a tape player" I said. She just carried on smiling. "I don't think you really want to die", she said, "But I'll tell your CPN you were here today". "Do you think you'll be OK?" she said. "No", I said. She smiled and ushered me out of the room after giving me a couple of cotton balls and a bowl to clean my arm.

Saturday June 30th

The last 3 weeks have been the hardest yet. It started with a small, seemingly insignificant rejection that spiralled into planning my own suicide.

I wandered from room to room in my flat trying to get my things in order so that when I died or ”they” locked me away in an asylum, everything would be in order and Mum would know where everything was.

The thing that kept me alive until my mum finally came down to get me and hauled me up and out and back to safety was the thought that if I died, she wouldn’t know what in the flat belonged to me and what was in the flat when I moved in.

That single thought halted the goodbye letters and the plan until further notice.

I haven’t been able to write as much as I have done previously because I got too far down into the mire of self-loathing to even try to formulate my babbling thoughts into something coherent. I also couldn’t be bothered because…well, why bother when you just want to be dead? Also this stuff felt too personal to “share” immediately.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Day...who knows? I certainly don't.

I've been away. I am now back and have Internet at home. I also have a backlog of postings/"documentation" to do, so "Bear with me, moany pants, I'LL GET TO IT". She is a harsh task master that Guilt, she likes to sit on my shoulder and whinge in my earhole.

Sunday 10th June 2007

“It’s not going to stop until you wise up. It’s not going to stop until you wise up. It’s not going to stop until you wise up. So you might as well give up” (Or words to that effect.)

Tom Cruise sat in a rain soaked car singing that, “Mongolia” (Magnolia) is on the TV. Good point I thought, not Tom singing because that was rather alarming, but the words made sense. Surprisingly backing up the work we did at counselling on Friday.

The principle of banging your head repeatedly against a brick wall is equally as clever. It keeps hurting until you stop banging your head against the wall. Simple. All the actions required to get over things can be reduced to their simplest resolution, it’s the practice that’s hard.

A misplaced kiss (should have been cheek, ended up on the lips – not my doing I might add) the night before last, turned into tears before bedtime last night and was my undoing for the day. “Shut up” The tears flowed rather publicly, the yellow pill was swallowed, I sat in a club toilet cubicle weeping and prayed to anyone listening (“Upstairs” opposed to someone sitting on the next pan) that they would take it all away, the unrequited stuff at least… and now I just feel like a dick - a rejected dick, but ultimately, a dick. “Shut up” A dickhead. I know I am not alone in the squirming agony of rejection, but for all I care right now, I am the only soul on the planet feeling this. “Oh bloody hell, SHUT UP” Rationalisation has never been one of my more favourable attributes. You know they don’t like you in ‘that way’, so you squish all your feelings down until something likes that (kiss) happens and then WHAM! What you don't necessarily bargain for is all that all the other ‘squished down stuff’ that one has accumulated over the years, tends to come back up the drainpipe when tickled (a bit like the famed Corfu Blow-Back). "Oi, Mister - keep your lips to yourself and off mine. Thanks-ever-so-much".

I may "just wallow", but I think I’m allowed. ‘This’ (she rotates her head to encompass the entries that she has written before) may all just be “moaning” as was helpfully pointed out to me, but you know what, I don’t give a shit because this is what it feels like. My black dog.

“Save me. Why don’t you just, save me?” Someone else babbles on, strumming away on a guitar. Bloody Mongolia. I never understood the need for the frogs.