This one’s a keeper

After years, most of my life, spent collecting things, acquiring stuff, getting great bargains and skip diving/picking up stuff others throw out.
Alongside having annual clear outs, fulling several huge bags every year, and donating to charity. Plus a couple times each year cleaning up where I can and throwing away bags and bags of rubbish & recycling.

Though it never made any difference. I carried on buying things I don’t really need while hyper and insomniac, people continue to give me their stuff that they don’t want any more and there is always something laying discarded on the street…. That I just have to investigate.

For many years I have been desperately trying to manage what I call my organised chaos. I asked for help, asking the wrong people. I tried asking the right people for help, I used the wrong words.
All the time my home got worse, becoming a prison of despair. social invites stopped as I became increasingly ashamed (there are other factors in play here too) and I, in the pit of depression, would often become overwhelmed and fantasise about setting fire to it and walking away. People rarely believed I was serious about that. I’m not sure I was either but I was serious about how badly the situation was affecting me.

It’s been not only an external representation of the inside of my mind, also a chain around my feet binding me to a lifetime of memories constantly tripping me up, holding me down, getting in the way of what I want to do and how I want to life MY life.

Just writing this down is an extremely emotional experience, triggering urges  to ‘fix’ these feelings by buying something or  eating even though I’m not hungry.

Worry not though as this story (hopefully) has a happy ending.

I finally asked the right people the right questions. Earlier this year I finally realised and accepted that this is, that I, am out of control. And that if I really wanted to fix this I had to seek out the right person. Which I did 🙂 so via my OT at the pain clinic, I got referred to a charity that specialises in this sort of thing.

This week they visited to do an assessment, before she had seen the whole flat I had been accepted. Shortly after I was declared as suffering with Hoarder Syndrome and given tasks to do before treatment begins.

It was a highly emotional day, bitter sweet in being recognised as in need of experienced help, whilst being Officially labelled as something I have known for most of my life but always told myself that I could handle it.
Emotionally I have been thrown back to the moment I realized that I had lost control of my crack addiction, that I was an addict and needed help. The helplessness of not being able to do it by myself, that I had to accept and admit a self perceived weakness at my inability to be independent. A heavy blow to the gut.
This new move and reach for help, this external recognition of my desperate need for guidance, this personal acceptance of all this.

I am a Hoarder and I need help

To pee or not to pee

I had a delivery of some medical aids this week! Including a raised stool and toilet frame (WOOOOO no more getting stuck on the toilet!)

Upon seeing them installed my first thought was “can I paint them?” they really are ugly and seeing their stark medical whiteness made me feel both of and broken (which I am but I don’t like anything that reminds me or reinforces that)

My second thought was “it doesn’t have a lid. How the fuck am I supposed to flush the toilet with no lid???” for anyone who isn’t bothered by lid up or down issues, all you need to know is that this is a big deal for me!

So, I come to you for help.
Does anyone out there have a practical solution?
So far we’ve e thought of a plastic covering resembling either a giant shower cap! Or just a flat sheet that clips over the frame!
I’m not allowed to make any structural changes annoyingly.

End of a drought

Sex with random strangers!!

Not great or particularly safe but fun 😄

and the end of a long dry spell in terms of PIV, about 2 years, shockingly. That marks a significant change in my behaviour and attitudes, in a positive way. Have actually been looking after Me somewhat, combined with the cessation of alcohol consumption, that leaves little time for seducing men!

Sleepless in the city

When will I learn (be able to break the trained reflex behaviour) that if I happen to fall asleep in the evening then I should let it happen and just sleep?!

Not force myself awake.

If I am actually falling asleep that’s great

If I am essentially passing out then I clearly need to sleep

Worrying about then waking up at 3am is ridiculous

So is forcing myself awake, thinking I’ll go back to sleep a bit later and wake up at a more sensible time.

IT NEVER HAPPENS THAT WAY!

Instead I lay in bed (exhausted but mentally bouncing all over the place) until around 2-3am then fed up and feeling the tendrils of mania touching my body and mind, I get out of bed.
At the same time I was originally trying to avoid. Only now, instead of a few hours of much needed sleep I’ve had none.

And then begins the cleaning, and looking for things (basically the opposite of cleaning with less chance of a favorable result)

It is a life long habit, being asleep was always risky business in my life, it left me vulnerable and opens the floodgates of hell. More commonly know as my dreams.

I have enormous trouble relaxing and especially sleeping anywhere public or unfamiliar, even familiar places are a struggle. It meant I was always the last to fall asleep and the first to wake up.

The fear of being abused, attacked or humiliated is deeply rooted and something that began at around the age of 7 or 8. When I began sleepwalking. I started hearing about my misadventures in the morning from the bitch who took too much pleasure in my embarrassment. I did occasionally wake up, like the time I peed in the kitchen having mistaken it for the toilet. Which was horrifying and provided the bitch and my brother with plenty to laugh about. Though what really put the fear into me was her one day delighting in telling me that she liked my sleepwalking, that she would have conversations with me before putting me back into bed because, in that state I would tell her things that I wouldn’t when I was awake.

I have spent the rest of my life terrified of what I might be doing or saying in my sleep, worried I would embarrass myself or give away something that could be used to manipulate, control or hurt me. I had things that were secret from her because they were my things and I didn’t want her deliberately destroying them. I didn’t want the bitch to know where I was vulnerable or to ever again sit there with that smug expression which told me that she knew something that I was shy about (shyness created by her constant abuse) but she wasn’t going to tell what it was…. Yet

Lend me a spoon?

Please?!

So I can feel something other than unhappy, sad and rejected. I would like to feel something positive, because I have something positive to feel.

You see, I have Good news. Excellent news.

It would be so nice if I could feel the joy and satisfaction that this moment deserves, but I can’t 😦
What I can do is appreciate try to it and be thankful.

To spread some light on this. I have had a visit from the Adult Community Rehab Team (part of the pain clinic) and they can help me, in amazing ways.

I know from bitter experience that there’s a massive gap between promises made and the cold hard reality of promises kept. Though I have a more trusting feeling about this team, probably because I’ve been accessing (and was referred by) their sister service. Who so far have been great.

I hope that on a day where I have more spoons and less sadness I will be able to fully appreciate and feel some positivity. For now I am grateful that they even turned up, unlike the HTT…!

…… But, why?

Why does my BPD trigger my cyclothymia?

Does anybody have any scientific explanation for a link between Borderline and Bipolar?

Or is it something peculiar to me and the combination of my variants of these two conditions?

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Life without spoons

After years of “coming to terms” with multiple disabling conditions, I don’t often get really down as a direct result. I used to, a lot. And it’s been probably the biggest change to my once busy, social and work life. Not something I found easy to accommodate.

This month has been one of those where I have been forced face to face with the reality of a life without spoons. And it got to me.
Badly.

Have been very low, grumpy, introverted, desperately wanting to avoid contact with others (not possible when running a group) sad and even tearful. I’ve felt lonely, alone, excluded and downright fucking angry that my need to pander to these shitty diseases stops me from doing a whole host of things, including fun, social activities. Instead I am forced to retreat into this chaotic mess of a home that I don’t have the resources to clean or maintain. Resentful of my choice to do “the right thing” to listen to the internal screams of my body and go home. Not go out, not see friends, not join in on the fun stuff. Being left out, allowing friends and former social comrades to overlook me again & again.

It’s hard to be grateful in the face of all this, or to think positively. I’m repeatedly catching myself thinking horrible things about me. Getting depressed at bad thoughts that serve only to bully and demean me, able to stop or at least pause them if I notice, but not equipped to rebound from the negative consequences of the abusive words of my personal head demons.

In contrast, I did have a completely fantastic experience recently, something I’ve wanted for years. A daytime rave!! For a while remembering it was able to give me a joyous feeling, it’s definitely one of the highlights of this year.

The happiness that this brought me has no doubt outlined the later feelings of no longer belonging.

It reminded me of just how good things used to be, when they were good.
It reminded me of all the friends I rarely see anymore and miss terribly.
It reminded me of how I’m not included in their lives anymore when it comes to a great many things.
It reminded me that I’m just not capable of doing even a fraction of the things I want to do, virtually none of the enjoyable social activities, even less of the energetic cathartic bliss that I found (find) in things like dancing for hours or pushing myself hard at the gym.
It reminded me that I really REALLY miss dancing for hours.
I miss having the ability to do a million things a minute.
I miss the comparative health that I had.
I miss the body that I regrettably spent my whole life hating, wishing it was different, thinking it was flawed, believing it was less than it was.

I am so sorry body. You are beautiful, you serve me as well as you possibly can even after I abused you for years, you have always been there for me even when I tried to destroy you, you are perfect.

Saying sorry is not going to bring her back. But it’s a start, and there’s always room for improvement.
I still fantasise about what could have been despite knowing it’s not productive or healthy. Living so much in fantasy or the past not only prevents me from moving forwards but also drags me down into despair.
Stuck occasionally in this dark place it is difficult to remember that I AM making changes, I AM slowly improving and I AM doing things to attract new & healthier relationships. I’m yet to make any new friends and at the going rate it’ll be years before I do. Which is part of the problem. Time.
Everything takes so much time, my patience wears thin as does my resilience to being a creature of solitude, of chaos & mess and broken promises.

I retreat back into my cave and hope to return with more cheery news.