I'm crashing and fast.
There is something so seductive about the crash. It's like someone has come along and given you permission to fall down and to stop holding in the dark. You can let it go and watch as it all spills out. It sounds bizarre but there is a strange beauty in it.
I should be happy. Should. Such a powerful world. I am lucky and incredibly blessed with a wonderful life. But, that doesn't stop this pain in my chest. It doesn't stop me from thinking what if. What if I stayed? What if I jumped? What if I said no? What if I said yes? What if I let you...
It's a bit of a paradox, the crash. You hate and love it at the same time. It's almost as if you like the idea of falling but haven't considered what it's like to hit the ground. Basically it hurts like hell.
I guess the question is what to do during the crash. Drink? Get high? Have sex? Cut.... But I don't do that anymore. I am no longer that girl. The problem is that it still hurts the same. It still fucking aches. But now I have no quick fix. I have to stay, and actually feel it. What is it the classical irony that in order to heal you have to hurt?
Just reallised that this entry has no point to it. I'm not trying to convey any meaning. More I'm just trying to decipher random thoughts and feelings running through my brain. So as always the case it becomes a series of disjointed snippets as opposed to linear thoughts.
I want to be held. I don't feel safe.
I want to be held.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Blah
Haven't posted in awhile. Haven't really felt like writing. There are a few reasons for this:
1) I came home last week to a typed formal letter on my desk, informing me that I need to move out in 4 weeks. Shit. Did I mention that I've only been here a month?! Seriously I hate the world sometimes. So now I am super stressed and for the hundreth time searching for somewhere to live. Seriously not enjoying it.
2) I often feel my writing is somewhat craptacular. Which is a shame. Because writing used to be my passion. Words used to flow from my pen so easily. Effortless. Now it's a struggle. I seemed to have lost my creativity recently. Where did it go? Writing used to be my thing. And now in the age of blogs and twitter it seems to be everyone's thing. Alas I am no longer special. Nor particularly talented. Even now it's difficult to find the right words. It pisses me off. So I'm going to leave it there with this pointless entry and come back at another time.
farewell.
1) I came home last week to a typed formal letter on my desk, informing me that I need to move out in 4 weeks. Shit. Did I mention that I've only been here a month?! Seriously I hate the world sometimes. So now I am super stressed and for the hundreth time searching for somewhere to live. Seriously not enjoying it.
2) I often feel my writing is somewhat craptacular. Which is a shame. Because writing used to be my passion. Words used to flow from my pen so easily. Effortless. Now it's a struggle. I seemed to have lost my creativity recently. Where did it go? Writing used to be my thing. And now in the age of blogs and twitter it seems to be everyone's thing. Alas I am no longer special. Nor particularly talented. Even now it's difficult to find the right words. It pisses me off. So I'm going to leave it there with this pointless entry and come back at another time.
farewell.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Today
Today I feel bettter.
I feel alive.
I feel awake.
I feel like laughing.
I feel like anything is possible.
I feel like there is never enough time.
I feel alive.
I feel awake.
I feel like laughing.
I feel like anything is possible.
I feel like there is never enough time.
I have been here before and every time I feel the same thing; grateful and hugely pathetic.
I didn't go home last night. I was so exhausted I just didn't know how I could handle anything.
My employer, (mother of whose children I babysit), had dropped me off at the station after my shift so I could catch the train home. It was only after I got out of the car and she drove off that I realised she had forgot to pay me. This normally would have been fine, apart from the fact that I didn't have enough money to then get home. That's right people, I am THAT poor.
So in fit of panic I ran to the bus stop, hopped on, (I had $1 in my wallet. Lucky me!) and headed to the primary school where her daughter was currently having a music lesson. Did I mention by this poing that I was crying?
By the time I found her and told her I needed to be paid, she promptly sat me in the car, turned the heater on and told me she was kidnapping me for the night. She then proceeded to take me back to hers, feed me, clothe me and sent me straight to a warm comfortable bed. Oh I should also mention that I have been horribly sick for weeks and am still not well.
I am incredibly grateful to her and her husband for reaching out when I needed it. But the other part of me does not know how to deal with such kindness. It makes me feel slightly pathetic that I need to be taken care of. That despite my best efforts, I am not superhuman and that I do in fact need to be ...loved. There I said it.
What bothers me the most is that I have been in this situation far too many times before. Unable to cope anymore and relying on strangers/friends/aquaintances to care for me. It saddens me that I don't have that place called home, where my parents still live and where I can pop in anytime and say, "I'm sick, take care of me, here is my washing." It's not that I don't have parents who love me, I do. I just don't have that familiar place to return to.
But in the meantime I am thankful, for the warm bed, soft pajamas and a good feed.
I didn't go home last night. I was so exhausted I just didn't know how I could handle anything.
My employer, (mother of whose children I babysit), had dropped me off at the station after my shift so I could catch the train home. It was only after I got out of the car and she drove off that I realised she had forgot to pay me. This normally would have been fine, apart from the fact that I didn't have enough money to then get home. That's right people, I am THAT poor.
So in fit of panic I ran to the bus stop, hopped on, (I had $1 in my wallet. Lucky me!) and headed to the primary school where her daughter was currently having a music lesson. Did I mention by this poing that I was crying?
By the time I found her and told her I needed to be paid, she promptly sat me in the car, turned the heater on and told me she was kidnapping me for the night. She then proceeded to take me back to hers, feed me, clothe me and sent me straight to a warm comfortable bed. Oh I should also mention that I have been horribly sick for weeks and am still not well.
I am incredibly grateful to her and her husband for reaching out when I needed it. But the other part of me does not know how to deal with such kindness. It makes me feel slightly pathetic that I need to be taken care of. That despite my best efforts, I am not superhuman and that I do in fact need to be ...loved. There I said it.
What bothers me the most is that I have been in this situation far too many times before. Unable to cope anymore and relying on strangers/friends/aquaintances to care for me. It saddens me that I don't have that place called home, where my parents still live and where I can pop in anytime and say, "I'm sick, take care of me, here is my washing." It's not that I don't have parents who love me, I do. I just don't have that familiar place to return to.
But in the meantime I am thankful, for the warm bed, soft pajamas and a good feed.
Monday, August 3, 2009
I hate Mondays.
It's going to be one of those weeks...
I know this because it's only Monday and already I am exhausted. I feel like I have run a marathon. My spirit is weak. I feel like someone has died. But of course no one has. No crisis has occurred. The world is not ending. But of course my brain does not seem to know this.
Why is it everything has to come along in massive waves?
I can handle a little bit of stress, but then things go wrong all at once which would be bad enough but to add to the situation my head decides to a 180 and dive into straight into madness. I find myself saying far too often, "Seriously? Seriously!"
I wish it were Friday.
I know this because it's only Monday and already I am exhausted. I feel like I have run a marathon. My spirit is weak. I feel like someone has died. But of course no one has. No crisis has occurred. The world is not ending. But of course my brain does not seem to know this.
Why is it everything has to come along in massive waves?
I can handle a little bit of stress, but then things go wrong all at once which would be bad enough but to add to the situation my head decides to a 180 and dive into straight into madness. I find myself saying far too often, "Seriously? Seriously!"
I wish it were Friday.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Please Note*
I have to apologise to my readers, (all 3 of you,) for my gradual and disappointing decline in correct spelling and grammer.
It appears that I have forgotten all I learns in high school English and as such my writing has suffered greatly. So please forgive my atrocious, (is that how you spell it?) spelling and poorly constructed sentences, (ances?).
Perhaps I should consult my old English teacher for help...
Oh how disappointing!
It appears that I have forgotten all I learns in high school English and as such my writing has suffered greatly. So please forgive my atrocious, (is that how you spell it?) spelling and poorly constructed sentences, (ances?).
Perhaps I should consult my old English teacher for help...
Oh how disappointing!
What day is it?
I have these huge gaps in my memory. For example I can't remember most of my life until I was 16/17. I remember bits, Various postcards over time.
Watching tv on the living room floor on a Saturday morning with my brothers. I was about 12. Reading under my sheets late into the night at 10 years old. My first crush. Playing cricket in the driveway. The rest is a blur.
People ask me astonished how it's possible that I can't remember most of my life. The simple answer is that I wasn't there. My body was present. But my mind had learned to disconnect itself.
I remember a few years ago (I cannot specify dates/times) visiting my brother in Melbourne. I was reading a book. I had caught the train to the airport, collected my ticket, handed in my baggage and boarded the plane. It was not until not until the flight attendant asked me if I would like a drink that I realised I was in the air. For a moment I forgot where I was and what I was doing. I knew in my head that I had caught the train etc etc but I did not experience it. I may as well have been back home on the couch, reading my book and not have moved.
I do not, for example remember much of my HSC year. Or the year following graduation and during my hospitalisation. There is no clear cut timeline. All I have are snippets of my life.
The memories I have are powerful and detailed. For instance I can remember every inch of what my childhood home looked like, the smell of hospital sheets, the feel of someone's hand on my cheek. These memories play out like movies, in full technicolour with high defintion sound.
It is interesting to me which memories stick out. There is a photo of me as a 10yr old girl, healthy and happy at an afternoon bbq in my new two-piece swim suit. I am smiling widely, my arm around the person next to me, happy healthy normal. At 22 I still remember thinking then that I should suck my stomache in so no one would notice how fat I was. I was not a fat child. I was perfectly sized for my age and height. Yet 12 yrs later this memory burns in my mind and that concerns me. Strange what things we choose to remember and what we choose to forget.
I don't remember much.
Watching tv on the living room floor on a Saturday morning with my brothers. I was about 12. Reading under my sheets late into the night at 10 years old. My first crush. Playing cricket in the driveway. The rest is a blur.
People ask me astonished how it's possible that I can't remember most of my life. The simple answer is that I wasn't there. My body was present. But my mind had learned to disconnect itself.
I remember a few years ago (I cannot specify dates/times) visiting my brother in Melbourne. I was reading a book. I had caught the train to the airport, collected my ticket, handed in my baggage and boarded the plane. It was not until not until the flight attendant asked me if I would like a drink that I realised I was in the air. For a moment I forgot where I was and what I was doing. I knew in my head that I had caught the train etc etc but I did not experience it. I may as well have been back home on the couch, reading my book and not have moved.
I do not, for example remember much of my HSC year. Or the year following graduation and during my hospitalisation. There is no clear cut timeline. All I have are snippets of my life.
The memories I have are powerful and detailed. For instance I can remember every inch of what my childhood home looked like, the smell of hospital sheets, the feel of someone's hand on my cheek. These memories play out like movies, in full technicolour with high defintion sound.
It is interesting to me which memories stick out. There is a photo of me as a 10yr old girl, healthy and happy at an afternoon bbq in my new two-piece swim suit. I am smiling widely, my arm around the person next to me, happy healthy normal. At 22 I still remember thinking then that I should suck my stomache in so no one would notice how fat I was. I was not a fat child. I was perfectly sized for my age and height. Yet 12 yrs later this memory burns in my mind and that concerns me. Strange what things we choose to remember and what we choose to forget.
I don't remember much.
I wish I were a box.
Not an elaborate, overly decorated box with an enormous bow on the top. But just a regular box.
Or rather I wish I could fit my life into a box.
Most people hate being labelled, marginalised. I long for it.
You see nothing makes sense in my world. I do not meet the criteria to fit into any catagory. I am a maelstrom of contradictions.
I am quiet and introverted. Lound and uncontrollably wild. Passionate and passive. Raging and numb. I am happy. I am angry. I am lonely. I am excited. I am afraid. I am confused. All at the same time.
I wish I were a box.
Not an elaborate, overly decorated box with an enormous bow on the top. But just a regular box.
Or rather I wish I could fit my life into a box.
Most people hate being labelled, marginalised. I long for it.
You see nothing makes sense in my world. I do not meet the criteria to fit into any catagory. I am a maelstrom of contradictions.
I am quiet and introverted. Lound and uncontrollably wild. Passionate and passive. Raging and numb. I am happy. I am angry. I am lonely. I am excited. I am afraid. I am confused. All at the same time.
I wish I were a box.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Bliss
I press it firm against my skin. It stings suddenly and then densely aches. The pain travels up my arm to my shoulder, tingling as it goes. I breathe in deeply and wait a few seconds. And then it hits. A sudden rush fills my boy from toe to head. The endorphins feel like warm bliss, dizzying and wonderful. My head sways as my muscles relax. This sublime feeling is like nothing I've ever experienced. It is pure joy, ecstasy. The world around me fades until it no longer exists. I no longer exist. It is here, in this in between world, this brief beautiful moment that I am free.
Brought To You By The Letter F
Fly Flee Fend Frighten.
Further Faster Forward.
Forgive Forget. Forever Fall.
Freedom Find. Familiar Force.
First Foremost. Finally Free...
Further Faster Forward.
Forgive Forget. Forever Fall.
Freedom Find. Familiar Force.
First Foremost. Finally Free...
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Beer, Broken Bones and a Bathroom
I awoke unpleasantly. Carefully and with trepidation I examined my surroundings.
The first thing I noticed as my eyes reluctantly opened, was the cold, porcelain toilet directly next to my head. I then realised that I was lying on my bathroom floor, (relieved to find it was not someone elses), and that I had indeed slept there most of the night, complete with a pillow and winter duna to off-set the cold bathroom tiles.
It's at this point in conciousness that you start to wonder what the fuck were you doing last night.
We all know that alcohol is a depressant, but to be honest I've chosen to ignore this fact for many many a drunken year. See I think we ignore this fact because indeed alcohol makes us feel so good. For awhile at least. You have a few drinks, get to that happy tipsy slightly louder than usual stage, and we think that everything is fine. And then we contine....cauz we're drunk and that's what you do when you're drunk, you drink more!
It's after about the 6th or 7th drink that things start to turn. People lose their inhabitions. They lose their guard, they become nasty and people take things to heart. Depression here I am, please come and take hold of my mind, I don't mind being suicidal, beer will protect me!
So, when I woke up on this sunny morning, feeling not so sunny, I began to feel the horrible pain of regret in the form of a hangover and a bruised hand. That night I was feeling miserable and very much alone, and instead of ignoring it like normal I decided to drink. Alone. Why is it when we know something is a very bad idea we decide to do it anyway? I'm inclined to think as people we are growing dumber by the minute. Maybe it's all the alcohol... So naturally I got very drunk very fast, which did not make me happy but rather angry. At what? I don't remember. But in my anger I thought that punching my bedroom wall 20 or so times would help. It didn't really. Just made my hand very very sore.
It was then that my lovely, and very patient boyfriend came over and put me to bed next to the toilet because I was afraid of puking everywhere. Not my finest moment...
That was a couple of weeks ago. I haven't had a drink since then. Life is less dramatic. What makes me sad about all of this is how much I'm struggling not to drink. It seems that drinking is everywhere! At home having dinner, everyone is drinking. Out at the pub, (well I can't really complain about that one), dinner at a mates, parties etc etc. When I ask certain friends to hang out, they suggest getting pissed. Why is it we have such a strong culture of drinking? And if you're not getting drunk with the rest of the crowd, how do you fit in?
The first thing I noticed as my eyes reluctantly opened, was the cold, porcelain toilet directly next to my head. I then realised that I was lying on my bathroom floor, (relieved to find it was not someone elses), and that I had indeed slept there most of the night, complete with a pillow and winter duna to off-set the cold bathroom tiles.
It's at this point in conciousness that you start to wonder what the fuck were you doing last night.
We all know that alcohol is a depressant, but to be honest I've chosen to ignore this fact for many many a drunken year. See I think we ignore this fact because indeed alcohol makes us feel so good. For awhile at least. You have a few drinks, get to that happy tipsy slightly louder than usual stage, and we think that everything is fine. And then we contine....cauz we're drunk and that's what you do when you're drunk, you drink more!
It's after about the 6th or 7th drink that things start to turn. People lose their inhabitions. They lose their guard, they become nasty and people take things to heart. Depression here I am, please come and take hold of my mind, I don't mind being suicidal, beer will protect me!
So, when I woke up on this sunny morning, feeling not so sunny, I began to feel the horrible pain of regret in the form of a hangover and a bruised hand. That night I was feeling miserable and very much alone, and instead of ignoring it like normal I decided to drink. Alone. Why is it when we know something is a very bad idea we decide to do it anyway? I'm inclined to think as people we are growing dumber by the minute. Maybe it's all the alcohol... So naturally I got very drunk very fast, which did not make me happy but rather angry. At what? I don't remember. But in my anger I thought that punching my bedroom wall 20 or so times would help. It didn't really. Just made my hand very very sore.
It was then that my lovely, and very patient boyfriend came over and put me to bed next to the toilet because I was afraid of puking everywhere. Not my finest moment...
That was a couple of weeks ago. I haven't had a drink since then. Life is less dramatic. What makes me sad about all of this is how much I'm struggling not to drink. It seems that drinking is everywhere! At home having dinner, everyone is drinking. Out at the pub, (well I can't really complain about that one), dinner at a mates, parties etc etc. When I ask certain friends to hang out, they suggest getting pissed. Why is it we have such a strong culture of drinking? And if you're not getting drunk with the rest of the crowd, how do you fit in?
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Ramblings- warning, it's a little dark
I have this urge, this intense desire which overwhelms me. I have a need I can’t seem to fill. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s there. I can feel it. It’s this great big gaping hole in my stomache. Sometimes it grows until I feel like there is nothing inside of me. I am hollow. My organs are gone and all that is left is emtpiness. Maybe I was born this way. Maybe I’ll go the doctor one day and have a scan and watch their shock as they realise there is nothing inside of me.
The outisde is but a tainted shell, weathered and worn by years of the ocean beating on its back. It no longer recalls the beauty of that ocean. Just the bleak endlessness of the horizon.
I’m so tired I can’t speak. Besides, what’s the point. Everyday I wake up to the same thing. Nothing ever seems to change. I go forward for awhile, make progress, people are proud. And then I fall, tumble down to the depths of my despair. What makes a person this way? I’ve resigned myself to believing that this is just how it is. This is my life. Up and down and then down again. Everything seems so utterly pointless. I take pleasure in nothing. I am not who I once was. I cannot remember…
I have little clue as to who this person is in the mirror. Our conversations run in circles. I do not recognise her freckles, the shape of her brow or those eyes staring back at me. They are not mine. They must belong to somebody else. I am no longer here.
The best way to die would be to evaporate. To slowly disappear into a vast nothingness. No violence, no drastic measures. Just to fade away and at last be at peace. People would not miss me, for after awhile they will no longer notice I am there. I will start to disappear even before I am gone. They will forget they knew me. I will forget I knew me.
It takes great strength to take one’s own life, to force yourself to that very last breath and not fear…to not regret. I wonder if most people do. Do they get to those last few seconds and suddenly a fearful clarity becomes them? I wonder.
I am not strong. I have never been strong. Most believe that to be strong is to endure. Anyone can endure. Our minds take us far away and the dosociation protects us. To be strong is to move forward. But how can we? How do we leave that dark place which is so familiar to us? The place we have known for so long? The place we call home…
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Physical Pain vs Emotional Pain
There is no denying that there is a stigma in our society that emotional pain is not real pain. I hate it with a passion. I
f someone falls over and breaks their leg, everyone sympathises and understands that there is a need to take time off, and look after yourse. Physical pain is an acceptable type of pain. Yet if someone has depression and is suffering intense emotional pain it is considered weak and invalid. This shits me. And I sadly wonder why that with all the information and education out there about mental illness it is still not accepted as genuine.
I have come across many people in my life who have thought, either secretly or publicly that depression, (and other personality disorders) is not a real illness and that one should simply 'snap out of it.' It hurts me to think that despite all efforts to educate people, our tolerance and understanding of such illness is still lacking.
The fact of the matter that depression is real. It is not just a 'phase' and something that one can simply get over. Ever heard the expression, I just couldn't get out of bed? That isn't an exaggeration. It comes to a point where there is nothing left in you and the most simple of tasks seem impossible. I've heard so many people say you should just get up! Just get out of bed. It's not that hard. It is. I remember these days clearly. Having no energy left to face the world, I became unable to do normal things, like eat, shower, dress or brush my teeth. You simply stop existing.
f someone falls over and breaks their leg, everyone sympathises and understands that there is a need to take time off, and look after yourse. Physical pain is an acceptable type of pain. Yet if someone has depression and is suffering intense emotional pain it is considered weak and invalid. This shits me. And I sadly wonder why that with all the information and education out there about mental illness it is still not accepted as genuine.
I have come across many people in my life who have thought, either secretly or publicly that depression, (and other personality disorders) is not a real illness and that one should simply 'snap out of it.' It hurts me to think that despite all efforts to educate people, our tolerance and understanding of such illness is still lacking.
The fact of the matter that depression is real. It is not just a 'phase' and something that one can simply get over. Ever heard the expression, I just couldn't get out of bed? That isn't an exaggeration. It comes to a point where there is nothing left in you and the most simple of tasks seem impossible. I've heard so many people say you should just get up! Just get out of bed. It's not that hard. It is. I remember these days clearly. Having no energy left to face the world, I became unable to do normal things, like eat, shower, dress or brush my teeth. You simply stop existing.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Panic Attack
So what does a panic attack actually feel like? Read on. Most of my panic attacks happen when I really want to hurt myself but try and resist this. I wrote this entry whilst being in the psych ward after one of my biggest panic attacks. I was sitting by the locked doors to the outside and sobbing, giant heaving sobs where you can no longer breathe and I truly felt like my life was never going to get better. I believed I was always going to feel this way, and I couldn't take that anymore.
Sitting curled up against the wall, those barred windows hardly a glimmer of hope. How can a person be expected to stay locked up in here and not go insane? Coming back is the worst. You experience the smallest piece of freedom only to return to the cage. Last night I was terrified of ending up like them. The real crazies who believe they have the answer to life, Or the ones who sit. God’s waiting room I call it. They merely spend their days sitting, staring in silence, awaiting death. Who knows if they even think? Or perhaps they merely pray for someone to put them out of their misery. I was convinced that they’d never led me free. And then there’s the world outside. It’s all stressing me out so much. And my mind...I just want it to stop. Please let the darkness engulf me. All I wanted to do was die. I felt as if my body was about to explode. I could feel the fire in my chest flaring. A heavy weight crushes against it. I want my heart to burst. My skin crawls and itches. I want to move but sit still. I stretch and pound at the floor. I want to scream but stay silent. It all hurts so much I want to destroy myself. Crush every bone in my body. Please God make it stop. Kill me now. Stop the pain.
If only they knew the truth. That I was so prepared to die, desperately trying to stab at my veins with a blunt earring…Couldn’t get through. It just wouldn’t pierce the skin properly. I wanted it so bad. I imagined them finding me. The blood dripping over the bed and me already gone... Asleep for all time. If I tell them the truth they’ll keep me here forever. I can’t let this place become home. Though as horrible as that is it sometimes feels that way. “Don’t get too comfortable,” (Girl Interrupted.) I guess the definition of irony is watching Dr Phil. whilst being in the mental ward. It’s like a game here. You play by the rules and you win and get out of gaol free card. The nurses say jump and you say how high?
“To wear the gold fitted hat if that move her.”
A Coffin of Hope
Sitting curled up against the wall, those barred windows hardly a glimmer of hope. How can a person be expected to stay locked up in here and not go insane? Coming back is the worst. You experience the smallest piece of freedom only to return to the cage. Last night I was terrified of ending up like them. The real crazies who believe they have the answer to life, Or the ones who sit. God’s waiting room I call it. They merely spend their days sitting, staring in silence, awaiting death. Who knows if they even think? Or perhaps they merely pray for someone to put them out of their misery. I was convinced that they’d never led me free. And then there’s the world outside. It’s all stressing me out so much. And my mind...I just want it to stop. Please let the darkness engulf me. All I wanted to do was die. I felt as if my body was about to explode. I could feel the fire in my chest flaring. A heavy weight crushes against it. I want my heart to burst. My skin crawls and itches. I want to move but sit still. I stretch and pound at the floor. I want to scream but stay silent. It all hurts so much I want to destroy myself. Crush every bone in my body. Please God make it stop. Kill me now. Stop the pain.
If only they knew the truth. That I was so prepared to die, desperately trying to stab at my veins with a blunt earring…Couldn’t get through. It just wouldn’t pierce the skin properly. I wanted it so bad. I imagined them finding me. The blood dripping over the bed and me already gone... Asleep for all time. If I tell them the truth they’ll keep me here forever. I can’t let this place become home. Though as horrible as that is it sometimes feels that way. “Don’t get too comfortable,” (Girl Interrupted.) I guess the definition of irony is watching Dr Phil. whilst being in the mental ward. It’s like a game here. You play by the rules and you win and get out of gaol free card. The nurses say jump and you say how high?
“To wear the gold fitted hat if that move her.”
Friday, February 6, 2009
They took my blades
I want to tear off my skin with my bear hands. I can feel it inside of me, spiders crawling, longing to escape. Is it the real me in there? Somehow telling me...who knows? I sit here, still quiet. But inside I feel like I’m inside a washing machine. I’m screaming so loud my lungs bleed. I can visualise myself thrashing about a room, banging my head against a wall, holes punched through it. I hear all these patients howling through the night. I almost envy them. I wish I could just yell and scream and break everything around me, smash through a window with my bare hand, glass embedded in my knuckles. I felt like that at school. I can remember times when I would sit studious and silent and yet in my mind I was picking up chairs and smashing the glass mirrors of the drama room. I can’t believe that it still hasn’t left me after all this time.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Entry from Hospital Journal
Sounds of the Ward Jan 2005
Tick Tick Tick
Shouts
Cough Cough
Alarm!
Loud Swearing
Doorbell
Crying
Constant Foosteps...
Bad music
Moans
Cries
Weeping
Sobbing
Snoring
Screaming
SMASH!
Silence…
Monday, February 2, 2009
Stranger
Have you ever wondered how you got to a certain point in life? Sometimes I feel like I've just been walking around in circles for the past four years.
I had therapy today, and as much as I love my therapist it pretty much sucks going there sometimes. I woke up this morning and instantly I knew something was wrong. Sometimes I have days like that, where without warning all the darkness suddenly engulfs you. It's like a fog, overwhelming yet intangable. You can't seem to figure out to reason for it but it's just there.
Apparently, (so I've read,) people with Borderline Personality Disorder have a particular lack of self identity- hence the title. Mostly I feel that all people my age have no clue who they are, but apparently in my case it's more severe.
Sitting on the train today I felt like I was melting away...it was as if the hot wind filtered through the window and went straight through me. I'm so lost in the world, in myself that I feel like I don't exist. My therapist asked me today what things do I enjoy doing? Simple question, but for the life of me I couldn't answer. I searched my brain and there was just nothing there. Nothing. Because I am nothing.
Where do we begin to find ourselves? And how can we make it less terrifying?
I had therapy today, and as much as I love my therapist it pretty much sucks going there sometimes. I woke up this morning and instantly I knew something was wrong. Sometimes I have days like that, where without warning all the darkness suddenly engulfs you. It's like a fog, overwhelming yet intangable. You can't seem to figure out to reason for it but it's just there.
Apparently, (so I've read,) people with Borderline Personality Disorder have a particular lack of self identity- hence the title. Mostly I feel that all people my age have no clue who they are, but apparently in my case it's more severe.
Sitting on the train today I felt like I was melting away...it was as if the hot wind filtered through the window and went straight through me. I'm so lost in the world, in myself that I feel like I don't exist. My therapist asked me today what things do I enjoy doing? Simple question, but for the life of me I couldn't answer. I searched my brain and there was just nothing there. Nothing. Because I am nothing.
Where do we begin to find ourselves? And how can we make it less terrifying?
Borderline Personality Disorder
An official definition:
Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a serious mental illness characterized by pervasive instability in moods, interpersonal relationships, self-image, and behavior. This instability often disrupts family and work life, long-term planning, and the individual's sense of self-identity. Originally thought to be at the "borderline" of psychosis, people with BPD suffer from a disorder of emotion regulation. While less well known than schizophrenia or bipolar disorder (manic-depressive illness), BPD is more common, affecting 2 percent of adults, mostly young women.1 There is a high rate of self-injury without suicide intent, as well as a significant rate of suicide attempts and completed suicide in severe cases.2,3 Patients often need extensive mental health services, and account for 20 percent of psychiatric hospitalizations.4 Yet, with help, many improve over time and are eventually able to lead productive lives.
Symptoms
While a person with depression or bipolar disorder typically endures the same mood for weeks, a person with BPD may experience intense bouts of anger, depression, and anxiety that may last only hours, or at most a day.5 These may be associated with episodes of impulsive aggression, self-injury, and drug or alcohol abuse. Distortions in cognition and sense of self can lead to frequent changes in long-term goals, career plans, jobs, friendships, gender identity, and values. Sometimes people with BPD view themselves as fundamentally bad, or unworthy. They may feel unfairly misunderstood or mistreated, bored, empty, and have little idea who they are. Such symptoms are most acute when people with BPD feel isolated and lacking in social support, and may result in frantic efforts to avoid being alone.
People with BPD often have highly unstable patterns of social relationships. While they can develop intense but stormy attachments, their attitudes towards family, friends, and loved ones may suddenly shift from idealization (great admiration and love) to devaluation (intense anger and dislike). Thus, they may form an immediate attachment and idealize the other person, but when a slight separation or conflict occurs, they switch unexpectedly to the other extreme and angrily accuse the other person of not caring for them at all. Even with family members, individuals with BPD are highly sensitive to rejection, reacting with anger and distress to such mild separations as a vacation, a business trip, or a sudden change in plans. These fears of abandonment seem to be related to difficulties feeling emotionally connected to important persons when they are physically absent, leaving the individual with BPD feeling lost and perhaps worthless. Suicide threats and attempts may occur along with anger at perceived abandonment and disappointments.
People with BPD exhibit other impulsive behaviors, such as excessive spending, binge eating and risky sex. BPD often occurs together with other psychiatric problems, particularly bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety disorders, substance abuse, and other personality disorders.
This is pretty much me. Basically we are emotional and socially retarded.
http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/borderline-personality-disorder.shtml
Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a serious mental illness characterized by pervasive instability in moods, interpersonal relationships, self-image, and behavior. This instability often disrupts family and work life, long-term planning, and the individual's sense of self-identity. Originally thought to be at the "borderline" of psychosis, people with BPD suffer from a disorder of emotion regulation. While less well known than schizophrenia or bipolar disorder (manic-depressive illness), BPD is more common, affecting 2 percent of adults, mostly young women.1 There is a high rate of self-injury without suicide intent, as well as a significant rate of suicide attempts and completed suicide in severe cases.2,3 Patients often need extensive mental health services, and account for 20 percent of psychiatric hospitalizations.4 Yet, with help, many improve over time and are eventually able to lead productive lives.
Symptoms
While a person with depression or bipolar disorder typically endures the same mood for weeks, a person with BPD may experience intense bouts of anger, depression, and anxiety that may last only hours, or at most a day.5 These may be associated with episodes of impulsive aggression, self-injury, and drug or alcohol abuse. Distortions in cognition and sense of self can lead to frequent changes in long-term goals, career plans, jobs, friendships, gender identity, and values. Sometimes people with BPD view themselves as fundamentally bad, or unworthy. They may feel unfairly misunderstood or mistreated, bored, empty, and have little idea who they are. Such symptoms are most acute when people with BPD feel isolated and lacking in social support, and may result in frantic efforts to avoid being alone.
People with BPD often have highly unstable patterns of social relationships. While they can develop intense but stormy attachments, their attitudes towards family, friends, and loved ones may suddenly shift from idealization (great admiration and love) to devaluation (intense anger and dislike). Thus, they may form an immediate attachment and idealize the other person, but when a slight separation or conflict occurs, they switch unexpectedly to the other extreme and angrily accuse the other person of not caring for them at all. Even with family members, individuals with BPD are highly sensitive to rejection, reacting with anger and distress to such mild separations as a vacation, a business trip, or a sudden change in plans. These fears of abandonment seem to be related to difficulties feeling emotionally connected to important persons when they are physically absent, leaving the individual with BPD feeling lost and perhaps worthless. Suicide threats and attempts may occur along with anger at perceived abandonment and disappointments.
People with BPD exhibit other impulsive behaviors, such as excessive spending, binge eating and risky sex. BPD often occurs together with other psychiatric problems, particularly bipolar disorder, depression, anxiety disorders, substance abuse, and other personality disorders.
This is pretty much me. Basically we are emotional and socially retarded.
http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/borderline-personality-disorder.shtml
Friday, January 30, 2009
My stay in hospital was less then helpful and more, quite traumatising. The reason for admitting me to the psychiatric ward was because the night before I had cut myself pretty badly and they thought it would be a good idea to lock me up.
It was new years eve when it all starting to turn. I had been cutting before that but this time was different. This time was a little more serious. I cut myself on my hand, right between my knuckles and split open a vein. I think I then went into some kind of shock, because I cleaned up, bandaged my hand, got dressed, went to a new years party and got horribly drunk. I also thought it would be a good idea to go swimming with my freshly cut hand, which meant the next day it was infected.
When I decided to go to the emergency room the next day I was completely numb. I remember sitting there reading a book as if nothing was wrong. I could have easily been sitting in my room or a cafe casually watching the world go by. Nine hours passed but it seemed like minutes until they called me in. It was then things really began to crumble. I told them that I had done it myself to which the doctor told me I was stupid. He was pissed off and then made me wait by myself for over an hour while I silently cried, not wanting to disturb anyone.
For some reason whenever you turn up to a doctor after intentionally hurting yourself they ask bluntly if you are doing it simply to get some attention. I guess that's because some people are. But this was not the case for me. Cutting was my secret shame. I didn't want anyone knowing about it. It was my thing, mine, my own, it was what I curled up with at night and I didn't want anyone else being a part of it. When I had to finally tell people, it was as if my whole world fell before me. I was naked in front of a crowd and had no one to hide.
After my patch up in ER, they sent me down to the Psych ward. I remember zoning out not really taking in what was happening to me. I kept a journal the whole time I was there and wrote in it constantly. I'll be posting more of that soon so you can get a better idea of what it's like being locked up.
It was new years eve when it all starting to turn. I had been cutting before that but this time was different. This time was a little more serious. I cut myself on my hand, right between my knuckles and split open a vein. I think I then went into some kind of shock, because I cleaned up, bandaged my hand, got dressed, went to a new years party and got horribly drunk. I also thought it would be a good idea to go swimming with my freshly cut hand, which meant the next day it was infected.
When I decided to go to the emergency room the next day I was completely numb. I remember sitting there reading a book as if nothing was wrong. I could have easily been sitting in my room or a cafe casually watching the world go by. Nine hours passed but it seemed like minutes until they called me in. It was then things really began to crumble. I told them that I had done it myself to which the doctor told me I was stupid. He was pissed off and then made me wait by myself for over an hour while I silently cried, not wanting to disturb anyone.
For some reason whenever you turn up to a doctor after intentionally hurting yourself they ask bluntly if you are doing it simply to get some attention. I guess that's because some people are. But this was not the case for me. Cutting was my secret shame. I didn't want anyone knowing about it. It was my thing, mine, my own, it was what I curled up with at night and I didn't want anyone else being a part of it. When I had to finally tell people, it was as if my whole world fell before me. I was naked in front of a crowd and had no one to hide.
After my patch up in ER, they sent me down to the Psych ward. I remember zoning out not really taking in what was happening to me. I kept a journal the whole time I was there and wrote in it constantly. I'll be posting more of that soon so you can get a better idea of what it's like being locked up.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Journal Entry
1st Night 1/1/06
What is this freakhouse that I’m in? Am I really here? The lights are so bright it’s almost blinding. Yet the hallway remains dark and daunting, like a nasty street at night from a 50’s detective movie.
This place is so strange. It can’t be possible that I’m supposed to belong here. I can hear someone’s heavy breathing; to close, so slow. It feels as if they’re hiding in the bed next to me. How did this person manage to hide so well? How can I learn his secret? This place feels like the setting for a poorly made German horror film. Doors are always open. I can see various bodies lying uncomfortably as I walk the dim corridor. Even in sleep they look as if they’re in pain; agony and grief so deep that even the cover of darkness cannot conceal.
Continued...
That year I became so numb I couldn't see what was happening. I had heard of depression, I knew all the facts and what to look out for but I didn't realise It was happening to me. I couldn't understand why I would cry, deep sobs where you would struggle to breathe for hours on end. I didn't understand why I was so tired and slept 18 hour days. I was afriad to go outside, or even out of my room. I was terrified and I had no idea what was wrong with me.
It was then that I started cutting. I can't tell you how the idea came into my head but something in me told me this is what I needed to do. It became my drug of choice. The relief, (as if high) that I felt was like nothing I have ever experienced. I became addicted. Cutting was my best friend and my worst enemy all at the same time.
Months after I started this secret ritual I ended up in the psychiatric ward of a public hospital. It was then that my story and my struggle for survival really began...
It was then that I started cutting. I can't tell you how the idea came into my head but something in me told me this is what I needed to do. It became my drug of choice. The relief, (as if high) that I felt was like nothing I have ever experienced. I became addicted. Cutting was my best friend and my worst enemy all at the same time.
Months after I started this secret ritual I ended up in the psychiatric ward of a public hospital. It was then that my story and my struggle for survival really began...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Chapter 2
When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that I was different. I never really fit in with friends because I was weird and had a weird family. But it was more than that. It was as if there as something fundementally wrong with me and something in me knew that I wasn't the same as everyone else. It wasn't until years later, that I realised I was right.
My story is probably not that different to anybody else...which is exactly my point really. What took place in my life so far is happening to people everywhere, but for some reason we don't talk about it. It's easier that way and so very comfortable.
I grew up in pretty nice neighbourhood. We had a nice house, (shared with three older brothers), a pool and money to spare. I had some good friends who lived on the same street and each day we found new interesting ways to get up to mischief. Although these times were innocent and fun, when I think back I remember a sense of deep sadness and I wonder where it came from...
My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember much about it and what I do remember I can't trust it to be true. A couple of years later my mother remarried, quite frankly to a horrible man. I remember the anger that seemed to surround him and seep from his skin. He was terrifying. There always seemed to be shouting in the house. Between my mum and her husband, my brothers with each other, me with whoever....it didn't matter. After awhile you forget why you're arguing, but you keep doing it because you're used to it. Life was pretty hectic all round. Two of my brothers had severe ADD and struggled greatly because of it. It was a source of much tension in our house. It would not be until much later in my adult life that I would learn my mother was also suffering from depression and would struggle with it for many years.
At some point during this time I decided that adults were not to be trusted, that no one in fact could be trusted and I would have to learn to rely on myself. I think I was not the only one who decided this. If there was not shouting in my house, there was silence. Thoughts and emotions were not shared in our house, so we all learnt to keep them to ourselves. It was a house of secrets.
My childhood was not miserable 100% of the time. I cannot lay blame to anyone for how my life turned out. My parents did the best job they could and there were many times of joy. But somewhere deep in the back of my mind, there was always an uncomfortable sadness and a feeling that I was wrong.
My mother, to my great relief divorced her husband when I was about 13. Just before high school. It was soon after she informed us we would be moving. I was devestated. I knew it wasn't that big of a deal but for some reason it felt like the end of the world. We moved almost every year since then, thus forming my constant feeling of displacement. I was lost.
High school was pretty dismal. Not because anything traumatic happened, but just because it was high school. I moved through groups of friends like sand through a river. I was popular, then wasn't. I was the best friend of the most popular girl, the one who dated young and was therefore cool, the advice giver, the loner, the christian geek, teacher's pet and finally I was no body.
Year 12 was possibly the worst year. My mother had hit her lowest point and one day declared she needed to move away and be with her family. This was about 3hours south of my school. So I moved out of home and lived with one of the teachers from my school and her family, who I barely knew. It was a disaster. I became numb. It wasn't until after 4 months after my mother left that I cried. There was just nothing left.
****
My story is probably not that different to anybody else...which is exactly my point really. What took place in my life so far is happening to people everywhere, but for some reason we don't talk about it. It's easier that way and so very comfortable.
I grew up in pretty nice neighbourhood. We had a nice house, (shared with three older brothers), a pool and money to spare. I had some good friends who lived on the same street and each day we found new interesting ways to get up to mischief. Although these times were innocent and fun, when I think back I remember a sense of deep sadness and I wonder where it came from...
My parents divorced when I was four. I don't remember much about it and what I do remember I can't trust it to be true. A couple of years later my mother remarried, quite frankly to a horrible man. I remember the anger that seemed to surround him and seep from his skin. He was terrifying. There always seemed to be shouting in the house. Between my mum and her husband, my brothers with each other, me with whoever....it didn't matter. After awhile you forget why you're arguing, but you keep doing it because you're used to it. Life was pretty hectic all round. Two of my brothers had severe ADD and struggled greatly because of it. It was a source of much tension in our house. It would not be until much later in my adult life that I would learn my mother was also suffering from depression and would struggle with it for many years.
At some point during this time I decided that adults were not to be trusted, that no one in fact could be trusted and I would have to learn to rely on myself. I think I was not the only one who decided this. If there was not shouting in my house, there was silence. Thoughts and emotions were not shared in our house, so we all learnt to keep them to ourselves. It was a house of secrets.
My childhood was not miserable 100% of the time. I cannot lay blame to anyone for how my life turned out. My parents did the best job they could and there were many times of joy. But somewhere deep in the back of my mind, there was always an uncomfortable sadness and a feeling that I was wrong.
My mother, to my great relief divorced her husband when I was about 13. Just before high school. It was soon after she informed us we would be moving. I was devestated. I knew it wasn't that big of a deal but for some reason it felt like the end of the world. We moved almost every year since then, thus forming my constant feeling of displacement. I was lost.
High school was pretty dismal. Not because anything traumatic happened, but just because it was high school. I moved through groups of friends like sand through a river. I was popular, then wasn't. I was the best friend of the most popular girl, the one who dated young and was therefore cool, the advice giver, the loner, the christian geek, teacher's pet and finally I was no body.
Year 12 was possibly the worst year. My mother had hit her lowest point and one day declared she needed to move away and be with her family. This was about 3hours south of my school. So I moved out of home and lived with one of the teachers from my school and her family, who I barely knew. It was a disaster. I became numb. It wasn't until after 4 months after my mother left that I cried. There was just nothing left.
****
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Chapter 1
Once upon a time in a faraway land...
Somehow I don't think that's going to work for this story. I wish I could lay out my life for you in a cleary explained linear fashion with a beginning, middle and end, but I can't. For one thing my life is far too fragmented for that, and for another it hasn't ended yet.
Most of what I'll write about from the past will be taken from my old journals and my own memory, which is very disjointed. Most of my journal entries aren't dated (due to my lack of organisational skills,) and some are months, even years apart.
So I'm afraid you get my mixed lolly bag version of my life. It's all in bits and pieces. Which is a bit like life I suppose. You pick up the pieces and try and get them to fit until you see the whole picture...
Somehow I don't think that's going to work for this story. I wish I could lay out my life for you in a cleary explained linear fashion with a beginning, middle and end, but I can't. For one thing my life is far too fragmented for that, and for another it hasn't ended yet.
Most of what I'll write about from the past will be taken from my old journals and my own memory, which is very disjointed. Most of my journal entries aren't dated (due to my lack of organisational skills,) and some are months, even years apart.
So I'm afraid you get my mixed lolly bag version of my life. It's all in bits and pieces. Which is a bit like life I suppose. You pick up the pieces and try and get them to fit until you see the whole picture...
Prologue
This is basically a blog about my life, my thoughts, things I've seen and what I've experienced. My hope is to share with you my story, my life really so that you might be encouraged or challenged. Please feel free to share this blog with your friends. I hope it stirs things up a bit.
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