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Why do people never believe you when you say you’re crazy?

 

I’m allowed to say I’m crazy. You’re not. Lets start with that.

I keep being told that “you seem so normal” and “you don’t act like there is anything wrong with you”. Obviously, not out of the blue; that would be weird. And kind of offensive. But in the parameters of a conversation whereupon it is acceptable to make that kind of comment.

But the thing is, I am legitimately crazy. And people trying to rationalise my crazy with well meant, but ill informed, intentions with follow up comments such as “but everyone feels like that sometimes” pisses me off….because that’s the difference, everyone feels like it sometimes, but I feel like it all of the time.

I visited with my psychiatrist this week, for the first time in…too long to be frank. I’ve had the odd telephone conversation, where I’ve requested to come off of the antidepressant. Or where they’ve checked in with me because other, unrelated medication, has been added to my concoction. But I’ve not had a sit down, face to face appointment in too long. But last week I reached out and said, I’m not okay. 

Because, I wasn’t. And I am crazy.

In terms of life, I’ve had a hard, so hard, last 12 months. Half of it has been my doing, a quarter down to other people, and the other quarter, well that’s how life works isn’t it. I’m not saying I’ve had it harder than anyone else, not for one second. But for me, as I wrote ages ago, I’ve had my coping mechanisms tested, and some failed. The waltzers were getting faster, and I had no point of reference.  I had no sense of control. I had nothing but the pervasive feeling of dread and fear. I was running to stand still, but running through knee deep mud in the process.

My thoughts were, at best, haphazard, disjointed and never stopping. I couldn’t breathe. I knew everyone was going to see through the facade and to the fraud I am. I had no belief in myself, no confidence. I was paranoid that people that make decisions that affect my life, were lying to me about the decisions they were making, and indeed lying about how they were going to proceed with the decisions they’ve made. I’ve been insecure, in my looks and my personality. I’ve been convinced that everything around me is just stained glass and it’s all going to come shattering down, in the most beautiful but devastating way.

And I’ve had to go to work, family and friends, and have to convince everyone that I’m okay. Clearly, it was succeeding. No one could see the fact I couldn’t use language effectively, in fact just writing this has taken 14 attempts (it tells you when you hover over “status”). No one could see the obsessive thoughts starting. No one else could taste the metallic taste of fear on my tongue. No one else was witnessing the debilitating panic attacks. No one could see my brain calculating all possible exits, real and metaphorical.

And by no one, I include myself in most of that.

But then, in a rare moment of clarity, it did become clear to me. As I peered into a magnification mirror, pen in hand, ready to circle every flaw that was thrown up at me. It dawned on me. I wasn’t okay.  So it wasn’t the obsessing over the washing up (which was noticed and commented on) or the return to nightmares, or the failing of my Everest that prompted me into action. It was one, red biro pen.

And I fucking cried, I cried until my eyes were so sore it felt like I was blinking over sandpaper, my fingers itching to start nipping the tops of my arms until they bruised, my heart breaking because I’d failed. Me. The person who claims to control her illness, was being brought back into the fold by the devil and hadn’t even realised.

Thanks to all that is holy, that a passing cult leader didn’t notice me…..

 

Anyway.

 

I didn’t self harm. What I did was. I made a plan. I stopped avoiding. I called my psychiatrist and booked the appointment. I told my husband. I spoke to uni. I told a friend. I took my own advice and I reached out.

So now, here I sit. Re-referred to talking therapy. So much for 28 and all talked out. Self care plans back in place. Mindfulness being employed again (it’s a way of life and I forgot that).

I had to admit to the shrink, that I had failed. That me, the one who was determined to beat the statistics, had been so cruelly claimed by them. That my personal journey had taken me almost full circle.

And as I sat there, and told the good doctor about the last 12 months. As I poured my heart out, all the dirtiest secrets, my deepest shame….as he wrote it down, to keep forever in my ever growing file…two things happened.

I realised I was a goddamn hypocrite.

And the good doctor pointed out, that some things I was describing, that wasn’t even my illness, it was just me being a twat.

Both helped.

was being a hypocrite. I know what is wrong with me is incurable. I know that was is wrong with me means I need help and support. It means I have to be brave and strong even when I’m scared and weak. I know everything I have to do. I preach it. I breathe it. I live it.

But I’d stopped. I’d gotten so secure and so sure of myself, I’d stopped taking my own advice. I’d stopped being as honest as I had to be.

So here I am, dealing with the thing I hate most. The feeling of failure.

But, to fail, means we’ve succeeded before and we can do again.  So three days past appointment, I might be back at square one. But that’s fine. I know I can get out of this again. This is just a relapse. I will be okay.

And the other thing? It’s always good to be told you’re acting like a twat and you have no excuse, snaps you into being a better person.

 

So here I am. Terrified, tired, mind spinning, unable to utilize language correctly. Dreaming of the worst of the worse. Paranoid that at any minute I’m going to be exposed. Feeling like a fraud.

 

But, as with all things, this too shall pass.

So, here goes battle…..battle god knows what. But it’s still not beaten me.

 

Mental health illness is a cunt of the highest order. And fuck me I’m sick of it. But it’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.

 

And with that, I’m out. Remember, the first step to being okay, is admitting when you’re not.

 

 

 

 

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Can I have a do-over?

Or at least that’s what I text my friend the other day.

These last….six months have been relentless. I haven’t been able to catch my breath from one moment to the next. And that has been exhausting.

For someone who requires stability and routine in order to function from one day to the next….the last few months have left me spinning. My very own waltzers have been increasing in momentum….my homing beacon isn’t only just switched off…it’s in a different universe from what I can tell…my swans wings have been flapping almost as hard as my feet have been paddling and still…..the war of attrition has sucked me back in.

I’ve changed jobs, to one that whilst…requires less hours…it requires much more head space and much more mask wearing. I’m on my own for great swathes of the day. That’s a long time to be with my own thoughts.

My very own Everest has beaten me for now. I could see the summit…and then I slipped back too far to reach it this year.

Childcare has been a nightmare, I get that having kids and going to work was my choice. And I did it for all the right reasons. But its a minefield. And mines are detonating everywhere I turn.

There’s been a bereavement…which I found out about…by accident it would appear. Actually there is no appear about it. That’s exactly how I found out.

I’ve had to meet loads of new people. In fact its a prerequisite of my job – forming relationships. The irony of someone like me having to form and build relationships for a job. That’s hilarious.

And perhaps most concerning….I’ve come off my antidepressant.

Not my anti psychotic. We increased the dose of that and removed the antidepressant. At first it was accidentally. In the maelstrom of changing jobs and all the drama that ensued with the big green kitchen company….I forgot to take it. My sleep didn’t change, I woke up in a good mood….so I ran with it…..

The first month was amazing. Everything was fantastic. No withdrawal….no sleep issues…I was happier and more content…awesome right?

Then the second month happened…the nightmares came back, the insomnia came back. I was so tired I cried in a car park because someone snapped at me…I felt physically ill with exhaustion. My bones hurt. I was so tired….but I just couldn’t sleep….and when I did sleep….back to the beginning…back to the violence of past relationships, back to seeing my girls die before my eyes….back to waking up screaming and drenched in sweat…there was just no respite.

Then the third month came….the nightmares are less. I still dream. I still have exhausting dreams, but the antipsychs are keeping me….well sane I guess. My sleep pattern is some bizarre version of fucked up. I’ll sleep for 10 hours one night and not at all two nights later. I’m assuming it’s just my body trying to work out its own thing….I’ll ride it out. I don’t want to go back on the anti depressants.

Not because I have anything against them….but because…the benefits of not being on them are now outweighing the benefits of taking them. And thats part of taking control of my own health….learning when I need the boost and when I can manage on my own….

But in saying this….it’s not been all bad.

It’s kept me on my voyage of learning who I am.

I swapped jobs to another role within an international company…and I love it. It pushes me, it engages me…this could be a career. So I’m passionate about it….the big green company job is another post entirely. And one I will be writing, and one I will tag them in. Because that was a soulless,destroying company and hell will rain down on the heads of the management before I’m through with them…..

I’ve maintained some good relationships with people I thought I’d lose over the natural course of time. But now it’s like, because we don’t have work binding us together…we have to make the effort….and that’s nice. It’s reinforcing the lack of scarlet in me at the moment.

The bereavement…I genuinely…I don’t care. And thats not my BPD. It sounds horrible, but the woman who died….she hadn’t engaged with me for years prior to that, and her son – my father, well he was no better. So finding out by accident was a bit cruel, but hey….so what?

 

So overall, no I don’t want a do over. I’ve learnt lots about myself in the last 6 months. I’ve learnt how resillient I am. How strong I am. How I can adapt as needed.

I’ve learnt that actually, I really am in control of my BPD. And that, that’s amazing. Thats real progress. I really love some aspects of my mental health illness… I still love the empathy I have because of it. I really love how it means I can help people. I love the way I see sounds and taste words. I’m fascinated by the way my mind works.

 

I hate the way I don’t have that much control over my emotions. So I’ve taught myself to control how I react to my emotions. Thats a life skill, even neurotypical people struggle with.

 

So fuck it, overall…I’m still winning this battle. Or at least…I’m keeping from being overthrown. And for now. That’ll do.

This kid’s not alright.

So young. Sat on a bench, her short legs just hanging there listlessly, unable to reach the ground. But without engergy enough to swing. Her scuffed shoes just there. 

All encompassing, pervading every facet of my being. Darker than the blackest black. The stuff emo kids can only dream off. So thick it’s a relative forcefield around me. Ironically the one thing keeping me together was the same thing that was destroying me.

Loneliness.

Not the kind that a text from a friend, or a smile from a stranger can help stave off. But the kind where you know you’ll never be free of it. The type where you’re surrounded by people, quite literally, but no one can reach you and, most crucially, you can’t reach any one.

It’s only now, in my stronger self, with my new learnt techniques and medication, that I can look back on my darker times and start pinpointing what the emotions I had were.  I can identify fear well now, that was an emotion I only really felt in my mid to late teens, other periods of my  life seem to be conspicuous in the absence of fear. Sadness, I was never sad, I was always…..melancholy. Sad implies a cause and therefore a solution. Acceptance, not from people, or even myself, but acceptance of the way I was/am (interchangeable at times). Etcetera…I felt happy at times…like on journeys with my step dad to watch the football, or getting a good mark on a piece of work I’d really worked on, or when I completed prose that I felt told the story….

I’m painting the picture of a very unhappy child, but I wasn’t. I was certainly grumpy or crabby or mardy. Now it’s pretty obvious that actually it could have all been avoided pretty easily.

No, I wasn’t unhappy. That darkness I was speaking of? That’s loneliness.

It is only with time and hindsight I have learnt that. It’s still something I battle with now. Which is tedious given the fact from the minute I wake til the minute I sleep I’m with people. And even when asleep, I’m not alone. I’ve got the good old night mares to keep me company.

We all know my back story, I’m 27, had 5 different psychiatrists, 6 different counsellors, 3 psychologists, 2 overdoses, 5 different anti-depressants, 2 anti-anxiety drugs, and now a lovely cocktail of happy pills and none crazy pills, 4 diagnosis’ (Depression, General Anxiety Disorder, Chronic  Anxiety and now Borderline Personality disorder with an addition of dissociative and schizophrenia behaviours thrown in for good measure).

So what does that have to do with the price of fish?

Simple really. As a child, I couldn’t name my emotions. I didn’t understand them. Even now as an adult, I have to focus to see what the cause behind the emotion is. I mean, happiness is easy to determine, as is melancholy. But anything beyond those two, well thats harder. I feel anger, immense anger. But only temporarily, very fleetingly. The only emotions that seem to take hold and stay are loneliness and melancholy.

But admitting to that, isn’t allowed. How can I be lonely when I’m married and surrounded by friends?

Well I’ve figured it out now.

How can you not be lonely, when you don’t like being alone?

Which sounds absurd, because I love alone time. But never silence. I can’t sit in silence. Which is difficult, because too much noise overstimulates me and makes me cranky. But when I’m alone, I have to have music. Always music. It acts as a dampener to my thoughts. I can’t think too much when I’m concentrating on lyrics can I?

I know I’m not the only one who struggles with this. Loads of people can identify with the feeling of being alone when at a party.

My problem is, I can’t take being alone for what it is.

I have to over analyse. I have to over think. The ball of neuroris that is my brain can’t tolerate too long without input from other sources. Otherwise it takes off at a tangent and colours everything green.

Remember, everything has a taste, colour or sound. Thursdays taste of bacon, my teeth itch, lonliness is green.

Back to that kid. That young girl on the bench in her playground. She was eight. Eight. One year younger than my eldest is now. I still remember it. Clearly. As if it was frozen in time, an image I get to replay every day. That young kid. She wanted it all to stop. All to go away.  Her heart hurt, her brain hurt. All she wanted was for it to stop. To stop and end for ever ever.

See, I’ve been battling this for longer than I can’t remember.

I’m okay now. But acutely aware of the fact I’m still in this war of attrition. Knowing that I’m only okay because my medication stop me being anything else. Knowing that too long without the tablets and it all comes back. Knowing that I still don’t have the energy to fight it again. Not yet. I don’t think I ever will.

I don’t have the energy to fight and still be a good mother. To fight and still be a good friend. A good wife. A good person.

But that’s fine. At least I’m honest about my crutch. I’m honest that I need the pills. I’m all talked out. All lessons learnt. All opposing thoughts done. I’ve done the years of therapy, and psychiatry. Time served. I’ve spent over half my life in therapy. Therapy can’t change who I am.

And I am that neurotic mess who hides behind a face of makeup, hard walls, sarcasm and apathy. I am that person who will say something cutting just because she can. I am that person who will always be there for my friends. I am that person who will burst into tears because her hot bread has been toasted too much. I am that person who will learn, learn and learn some more. I will set myself unachievable targets and hate myself for failing. I will always be my harshest critic. I will always be battling my own brain.

Because I have no choice. I can’t be anything but who I am. I can’t be that happy, easy going person I want to be. I can’t wake up in a good mood when I’m coming round from a drug induced sleep. I can’t be that person who always has a kind word. I can’t be that person that other people gravitate to, because she makes them feel good.

 

I’ll forever be that person, that makes most people feel slightly uncomfortable, despite them not even knowing why. I’ll forever be that person who’s more spikey than cuddly. I’ll always be that person, who people think is joking because no one can be that mean.

But, I’ll also always be that person, who is the first to help. The first to offer solace and comfort. The first to empathise. The first, and last, to stop caring.

Me and my resting bitch face, may be unapproachable. We may make people feel uncomfortable.

 

But, something I’ve learnt over the years? That’s usually because in me, they see parts of themselves they don’t like. They see in me, the chance of the battle they will have to face. And no one likes that. No one wants to admit that mental health illness can, and will, attack anyone. They want to think its only the weak. It’s only the lazy.

.

And in me, they see that unfortunately, its indiscriminate. It will take anyone it desires. It will render even the strongest, warmest, move loving of people. And turn them into a shell. It will make them feel that lonliness I live with. It will make them feel like no one around them wants them or needs them. It will twist your own brain so much you can’t trust it. So by extension, you don’t trust anyone.

 

 

Oh. And I’m a total bitch…..

BPD and me…my new realisations.

I appear to be writing more frequently about my BPD at the minute. I’m not having a relapse, but I am acutely aware of it at the moment.

I’m tentatively telling people about it again. Mainly because I’ve been seeing flashes of the scarlet me coming through. But also, because every so often I gain a new level of insight. It’s like all the time my subconscious is working on it, trying to unravel the thread and help me. Help me to know just exactly what is going on inside my head.

Recently I became aware of how even missing a single dose of quetiapine will spark my absurd behaviours and brain whimsy.

My BPD causes me to suffer with dissociation. This means that I have a constant “out of body” experience on my life. Like I’m looking down on whats going on, but I’m not really there. The quetiapine and mirtazpine mean that for the last 18 months that hasn’t happened. Well. Not as bad as it was. See, I have great swathes of my life that I don’t really remember. The mundane things, the day trips to castles, the grocery shopping, passing my driving test….these things happened through a curtain. I could see, smell and taste. But I couldn’t engage properly. It means my recollection of these things is hazy. It’s why I’m in the habit of documenting life through photographs.

My grasp on what I actually look like hasn’t improved. I’m still surprised when I look in the mirror. I still see my self as that ugly sewer rat. I’m sure other people do too. I know, logically, that I’m perfectly average looking. But I can’t believe that. So I cover up the insecurity and low self esteem with makeup and bravado. It’s a tool in my armoury that gets me through.

My paranoia is at an all time low. Unless I miss a dose of the Quetiapine. Luckily, I have a close friend I can rely on to give it to me straight. She soon tells me if my reaction to a situation is within normal parameters or not.

My control over my emotions…well. I’m there. I’ve grasped it sort of. I know how to present a neutral face. I’m still the swan paddling furiously, serene to everyone but hectic underneath, and I still don’t have a homing beacon. But I’ve learnt to put a facade on. “If it’s not okay, it’s not the end”. I get described as “cold”. Which I’m fine with. I’m not. I’m about the most loving, spirited person I know. I’m legitimately batshit mental, I laugh so hard I cry, I get so angry I can’t see, I love so hard my heart hurts. But each, and every single time. “Are you ok” or variations there of, always, without fail get answered with “yeah I’m good thanks”. Because, not only do people not want the legitimate answer, but I don’t know how to give it. How do you respond to “are you ok” with “I’m seeing and tasting words, my thoughts are too loud and I’m over stimulated” which is what my “Im good thanks” translates to. You can’t. You can’t give people that answer.

Which brings me nicely to … yes, I still see words. I still taste them. I see sounds…not in the cool way with colours, but in shapes and patterns. Remember old alacetel phones? The ring tones on them were little red cuboids with rounded corners. Thursday still tastes of bacon.

My self esteem is largely the same. I still use bluff and bluster to get me through most situations. I have a telephone voice I use with nearly everyone. I still ignore most phonecalls. And most social situations. Unless it’s a random spur of the thing. I just can’t handle it.

So have I really come that far in two years? If I still avoid situations? If I still wake up screaming in the night? If I still feel like I’m on the waltzers and want to get off? If I still question everything…why did they say that, why did they look at me like that, are they laughing at me, what do they want from me? I still lie in bed and feel like the words in my thoughts are too loud  and too bright…like I’m hurtling head first into the back of a truck.

I have. I’ve come a long way. I’ve had a job for the last 18months, I’ve maintained a couple of friendships, I’ve helped people. I’ve been good and kind, just because I can. Not because I know it’s the normal thing to do. I’ve stopped getting stuck in the memories that I wish I could rip out of my mind and pour bleach onto.

But I’ve also become quite numb. Things that should devastate me…well I can switch off to them. That’s brilliant. I don’t obsess over the negative now. I’ve learnt that my emotions are fleeting. And something that hurts in that second, well, in the next second I’ll probably have moved on from it. Because thats what I do. Ultimately, afterall, BPD is defined by being unable to regulate emotions. Now I’ve learnt thats why I can’t…I’ve stopped hating myself for it. And instead I’ve educated myself on suitable responses to normal , everyday situations.

Have I forgiven the people that have contributed to making me this way? No. I never will. Have I forgotten them? No. Does it consume me still? No.

 

And thats that. That’s why whilst it doesn’t seem like I’ve come far…I have. I’ve come miles. I’m still on a journey with no destination….but now the journey isn’t horrible

 

 

If it’s not the dreams it’s the reality.

Screams rent the stillness of the night. Blackness surrounds, a crushing weight lays on her chest. Wrapped in a prison of sheets, her legs kick as the sweat trickles down her back. The screams stop, the panting begins….on her feet looking for her nearest exit…her mouth tastes of pre-vomit acid, her stomach roiling against the images her mind conjures for her. Memories, half embellished, half true to life…horror movies playing relentlessly whenever she sleeps.
At night, the fears and anxieties she manages to gloss over during the day: they fight back. Whilst she lies sleeping, her conscious mind switches off….none of her defences are there. The armed guards have stood down for the duration. The deflective humour, the scathing sarcasm, the self-deprecation…is all gone. All that is left is her imagination…an imagination that appears to be determined to do what her illness couldn’t: send her insane.
For her dreams, some: they’re just memories. 1080P HD images of her worst times, on an endless loop. Other times; well they’re tricks her own brain plays on her. Her own brain becomes her tormentor (not unlike it is during the day). It plays terrifying fiction videos of half buried bodies down the side of the mountain, each face being someone she loves…Pup 1 …Pup 2….Mum….Sister…and on and on….all the way to the bottom where she’s greeted by a masked man ….. or sometimes, perhaps worse…the dreams….they’re so real she can taste them…and it’s just fear after fear being realised. How many times must she watch her children die?
See, even when I’m sleeping my BPD is against me. Right now, surrounded by trigger after trigger….I’m wondering how I manage to get through it. How I manage to stay one step ahead of the battle and one step ahead of my own mind that is working tirelessly, relentlessly against me. It’s like I’m in a whole other world where I can smell the food….but can’t touch the silver wear.
I fight all the time, especially at the moment…the weather…work…university…everything seems like an uphill fight. I’ll win. I always do. But I can see my behaviours starting to manifest again…keeping exits to my back, or standing in the corner, making hot drinks just for something to occupy my hands, black humour, procrastination…all my little coping mechanisms. And sure they make me odd…but they do something to stem the tide of noise and sensory overload.
Do you know what it’s like to lay in bed with your eyes closed, waiting for sleep and suddenly feel dizzyingly sick as in your mind’s eye your rushing into the back of an articulated lorry and you’ve no way to stop? An adrenaline rush as I lay there doing nothing more than practising mindfulness?
It’s funny really. All my plates are still spinning, yet I can hear them crashing to the ground. The panic is raw in my throat, the blood pounding in my ears…yet still…I’m fine. I’m always fine. Like a swan gliding effortlessly on the surface, beneath it…my feet are paddling madly and my internal GPS system is switched off. I have no homing beacon, so I’ll keep paddling away aimlessly until I happen upon where I’m meant to be. And when I reach there; I’ll take a breath. I’ll stop. I’ll stop to smell the roses.
But in the meantime, my resting bitch face is in situe, I’ll be quiet around people I don’t know, and exuberant with people I do. But all the while my mind is like the waltzers that have been spinning too long and too fast. I’m dizzy and I want to get off.
But as ever this is a journey I’ll never finish, an end I’ll never see. And whilst most of the time, it’s fun and exciting, because hey! Who doesn’t like to be surprised by themselves? At the moment, I’m wading through mud in flip flops.

Why I am who I am and not who I’m not.

It’s been a while since I posted. As ever, life took over. University, work, children….all take over and I get caught playing catch up with little time to think of posting or anything else.

But recently, I’ve felt more and more compelled to. I fought the urge for a while, wanting to be able to define where the desire to write about my mental health was coming from. Now I think I know.

Recently, I’ve watched two close friends struggle with their mental health. Quite run of the mill disorders (not saying they aren’t as bad, just emphasising for a reason). Both of them resisted treatment and help.

As usual my trusted line came out. You’d go to to the doctor for an ear infection, why not a mental health problem? Both of them went. And I’ve full faith that both of them will recover and become well again. I’ve talked with them, one at length, about how important self care is. How we need to put plans in place to help us recover, and remain recovered. Explaining that I see mental health like cancer, you’re in remission, but it’s never truly gone.

My own mental health is holding up strongly. The medication is keeping me nice and even and my moods are stable.

So why am I here now? Because I want to explain why I’m proud of myself. Why I allow my BPD to define me.

 

See, for years I struggled with my illness, before it was diagnosed and after. I felt ashamed. Like I had a big secret, that people would turn against me for. Then I stood up, squared my shoulders and took control.

BPD, causes extreme ranges in emotion, massive insecurity, paranoia, to name but a few things. Without my medication I can’t trust my own brain. I become my own worst enemy, and hurt people around me and systematically and wholly destroy who I am. The scarlet shows through the beige.

So now, every night before bed. I take three little pills. Sleep soundly and know I’m probably going to be crabby when I wake up. A small price to pay to keep me in remission.

 

I’m proud of where I am, of how much I’ve achieved. Even now I still want to cut my losses and run. I want to throw in the towel with university, thinking I’ll expose myself as a fraud. I’m just not intelligent enough for a degree. Thats my biggest thing. It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever attempted. It’s my Everest. I won’t quit. I’ll keep going. Keep plugging away. Keep studying too late, and pushing myself harder and harder until I’ve done it though. It’s becoming integral to my well-being. If I fail at this…..well then I hope my coping mechanisms are strong enough to keep me well…

My BPD is on my shoulder and in my ear though, whispering lunatic ramblings about how I’m not good enough, how I’m just winging it, how everyone is laughing behind their hands at “poor old Beth, thinks she can actually do it”. I ignore her you know. I ignore the bitch on my shoulder.

 

So why do I let it define me? Because it IS me. I don’t know who I am without it. And I don’t want to. Because BPD also brings me empathy, understanding, compassion. It brings me loyalty. Even in my darkest of times she’s been there. Ironically, she’s put me there to begin with after all.

BPD is my longest standing friend and enemy. She colours my thoughts, my tastes, my words. She clouds my outlook, which pushes me to look deeper in to things. Pushes me to further my knowledge.

 

Also, because it’s lead me to this point. After years of struggling, it’s given me the experience and tools I need to help others. It’s driven me into studying a subject that will get me to be able to professionaly help people. It’s gotten me to a stage where my friends can open up to me.

Which, from my own experience. I know is invaluable. When I needed someone, no one was around that could understand my random witterings, my catastrophising. No one could understand why I woke up screaming in the night. Or why I’d watch the same show or film on repeat for 12 hours at a time.

 

But it allows me to be there for people and to help them in the way I need it.

 

So yes. BPD defines me. It’s a massive part of me. So fuck you to the people that don’t understand me. And to anyone that needs a helping hand, a sympathising ear….I’m here. Help is out there.

 

You’re not alone now, and never will you be.

Is this hell, or is this reality?

The other day I entered the seventh circle of hell.

The journey down was punctuated by ever more irate swearing, near misses and the occasional screams of the young. The further I descended, the hotter it became. The cacophony of noise was enough to make my ears bleed, the screams reaching pitches only dogs can hear, and a writhing mass of bodies strung all around, from objects of torture.

Why did I ever think my actions were a good idea? All of this could have been so easily avoided.

The most bizarre thoughts flew through my brain as I settled in for the long wait, the wait for the final judgment. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this” “My bag doesn’t match this outfit” of all the banalities to be thinking of. Mind you, I figure that’s exactly what hell is. Too much time to think, too loud, too hot and generally an ever expanding state of nothingness. All the while, on my journey to the seventh circle I was making observations.

More women than men seem to be in hell. Some women seem to be enjoying it. Generally the men look as terrorised as I do.  They serve coffee in hell. Not nice coffee, a bitter, burnt affair. Yes, this is definitely hell. Surrounded by knee high people, all screeching, some in pain, some in glee at the torture they are inflicting on others around them. The colours are bright and garish. Making your eyes water with the intensity of them. If you look hard enough you can see random smears of human offerings. Under foot, you can feel a random mess of dirt and destruction.

Time marches ever forward, as it tends to do.  The noise never eases, the heat increases. My clothes start sticking to my body; only heightening my stress levels. This truly is hell. The acrid coffee burns my mouth, as the smells of hundreds of different people assault my nose.

Then blessedly the clock hits 4. So the feeding time has begun. Another experience confirming I am in hell. Tiny sausage rolls, not enough to fill even a mouse, weird cold pizza. Luke warm juice, from weird smelling cups. Little people, in their dozens, flock to the feeding station. The cries of ..joy…increasing in intensity: volume and pitch. My ears bleed a little bit more.

And then mercifully, oh so mercifully; the master that is Time takes pity on me. 430 arrives, I can gather my two little people and leave the hell that is soft play and a children’s party. Now, where did I put that sock? And why exactly do I have wotsits down my bra?

Milani Matte Lipstick: Swatches And Review

Barbieify's Blog

I bought a few lipsticks the day I bought the clothes I wrote about in my haul post, but I wanted to try them out first before writing about them, I love matte lipstick and always buy them whenever my budget allows me to, milani launched some color statement moisture matte lipsticks earlier this year and when I saw them I decided to buy a few shades. There will be swatches and my opinion on them.

MCSM Matte lipstick in Naked: I hate this shade, I believe I got the wrong shade for my tone, it looks ashy on me and kinda makes me look dull, guess I will have to put it to good use by mixing it with other shades.

MCSM Matte lipstick in Confident: I like the way this red looks on me, it not too bright, although I wouldn’t say am in love with it, I…

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Back up…back up…back up

Oh god, I think some one just tore half my memories out and shredded them, then gave them to Jack and Verm to use as bedding. I feel just…aghast at what I’ve done.

15 years of writing, all my favourite ones, that I’ve gone back and edited over the years, that really did just…encompass my youth and teenage years….just gone. All gone. No other copies.

Sat listening to a random mix compiled by nokia based on my music tastes, bit of The Calling warbling away, and I felt the need to go back to them. You know that, nothing else will do feeling? Where the only way of calming your soul is to re-read old musings and see what new perspective they can offer? I had that need…..and then I remembered, we formatted the harddrive….and I’d been that set on making sure I saved all my photos – which have loads of back ups on that there internet, that I forgot an entire file….and it was even titled “writing”…..

I feel hollow. It’s even harder because so many memories of feelings and emotions were entrenched in them….things I don’t even know how to access any more, times I don’t even really recall…I just remember the writing…all gone….into the ether…..I feel like I’ve lost a friend…I’ve definitley lost part of my soul.

And it hurts. How could I have been so stupid?

This life is more than just a read-through.

Mental health “issues” and what’s being done…is it enough? Is it even right?

One of my biggest bug bears (amongst poor grammar, cold feet, hanger, and people) is proportional representation of people in the media. Or rather the lack thereof. Now, I know I am about to come across as disablist (is that a word?), racist, ageist, peopleist (I know this isn’t but hey ho). But I aren’t…I really aren’t. And eventually I will get back to my opening question.

So proportional representation isn’t the technical term, and I’m sure there is one, but right now my brain is pretty fried (recovering from an acute attack) and it will suffice for what I’m trying to get across. So statistically speaking

  • There are 9.4 million disabled people in England, accounting for 18 per cent of the population

So how come, if they only account for 18% of the population do they seem to account for 75% of news articles, opinion polls and generally everything. Every show has at least one disabled person in it, and thats only accounting for the physically disabled. I aren’t counting mentally “disabled” in that because that will be covered later. I have nothing against disabled people at all, couldn’t care less in fact, but I do hate the way the media seems to portray the amount of disabled people as equal to or more than the people that aren’t. All in the name of equality. THAT ISN’T EQUALITY. IT’S LYING. 

See definition: Equality is ensuring individuals or groups of individuals are treated fairly and equally and no less favourably, specific to their needs, including areas of race, gender, disability, religion or belief, sexual orientation and age.

So why then, are the groups I mentioned above always treated with more…awareness? It seems that if you’re a one armed, black, muslim, gay woman you stand much higher chance of being listened to and having your views and opinions heard than a straight, white, athiest male.

Maybe I’m wrong, I quite frequently am. But I know for where I am in the UK, it’s definitely the case. Every time the local news comes on its about some poor down trodden put against person who the world hates. I just can’t help but feel that we reward those who can’t/won’t and ignore those that do and try.

So how does this tie in to my initial question? Well, why is it, only the …. in vogue…. mental health issues ever portrayed? And usually either in a really patronizing, all hold hands and sing kumbaya aren’t you wonderful and you  fart fucks dripping in gold, or they’re lower than low. They’re never normal people, struggling but doing their best. They’re called invisible disabilities for a reason. Not every one who has a mental health disorder needs their hands holding, or the media to show us as literal crazies, or people that can’t cope, or people that have been amazing an over come diversity. Most of us, are just like John Smith who plods along in his normal life and keeps all the plates spinning.

I for one, don’t have an in vogue mental health issue, it’s relatively unheard of, the only time I’ve ever seen it in the media the character was portrayed as some kind of lunatic, bunny boiling, weak individual. And that is… damaging to all the good work that is being done by other outlets (human resources, people on the street, MIND, etc etc) because what people actually believe about mental health issues is what a]they’ve been taught (so typically most of it is wrong, hurtful, ill informed and dangerous) and what the media portrays (see above). I know many people like me, it’s hard not to with the amount of flaming classes I have to go to (sleep hygiene…what IS that?) , and they’re of much the same opinion as me, the media is damaging peoples beliefs. All these celebreties claiming to have this that or the other….and glamorising so suddenly it’s cool. And they’ve achieved LOADS…..news flash. It’s not and they haven’t. Sure they may have struggled (I know some days I struggle to not cry all day, eat too many carbs, and focus on what it would feel like to pluck all the hair from my body, strand by strand) but that doesn’t make my struggle any more…worthy than anyone elses.

So how does that tie in with my rant about proportional representation ofthe elderly/disabled/coloured? It’s all the same thing. The media need to stop trying to show people how accepting, and understanding and fucking wonderful we should be with these people and those like me. They should just deliver the facts, portray everyone in a statistically accurate way and let us get back to hating people because of bad highlights/shoes/weird teeth whatever we want to. And let us make our own minds up and behaviours accordingly with correct education in schools/factual programmes/books etc. Corrie and the likes need to take a long walk off a short pier in cement bricks with their malligned and flawed attempts at “normalising” everything I’ve talked about.

… Haha and I didn’t even mention my opinion on how they portray the gay.