*HeadDesk*

Just spoke to my gp and she was surprised when I said that reception refuse to book me appointments by telephone despite her having told me to book that way. This very issue was one of the two things I spoke to her about just last week. The main thing I discussed with her last week. Somwthing that she apologised for and sounded surprised by. Saying that she would put a note on my records saying that I am to be allowed to book by phone for mental health appointments, at any time, whether there’s appointments available online or not (which there rarely are). I know that GPs ‘see’ a lot of people, that I can’t expect her to remember every single thing we discus. But… When it’s something we’ve discussed multiple times, something that she suggested, something that I complained about a week ago and something that she offer a ‘solution’ for. And now she’s once again clueless….

This is why I don’t trust her. Well, past of why. This is why they’re infuriating, stress inducing and incompetent. This is why I need a new gp.

Hopefully now that things are easing up I’ll be able to change surgery. Fingers crossed

I feel like I should be happy with this call, it’s for my GIC referral. But I just can’t help worrying that she’s somehow going to fuck it up.

Why I rarely say good morning

Because most mornings start with me wanting to burn the world. Every morning I wake up, usually through the neighbours noise. Having been kept awake by other neighbours throughout the night, it’s always too early. It takes a second or two to go from the dreaming to awake and it’s always painful when being dragged out backwards by external sounds. And I blink open eternally tired eyes, momentarily lost between sleep and wake. On the days I don’t instantly go into a rage at whatever shit my neighbours are doing that day, like repeatedly slamming the door. Then those micro seconds of prewake are peaceful and free from the weight of the world, or my dreams. Most days those moments are piecered by a sense of dread. A wave of fear, anxiety and sadness floods through my entire body. The depression has reclaimed its empire, anger, frustration and fear taking their posts. And I’m looking over my shoulder before Ive even got out of bed, starting another day the way it always goes smothered in shame. Through a doorway of dread, obscured by clouds dripping with self loathing and a sense of absolute failure.

Why bother waking up when the day is ruined before I’m even fully awake? I wish I could stop it happening.

LETTER TO ME

I wrote this back in february as a way of trying to process some crap around my lapse last year, not sure if I’d ever publish or even read it again. Just saw it while looking for something else. It was never finished, I’m not going to try finishing it now, that would feel disrespectful, but with my latest lapse into alcohol and plans to do stuff…it feels relevant. As with everything in my life this is unfinished work and it feels it. The struggle is real, the fight never ends.

Dear [Me]

I am writing to try and make peace with us, I hope not to be antagonistic, that is not my intention and I wish to help both you and I feel more settled and less agonised about certain things.

Firstly I would like, if you will accept it, to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the things I have done to you. I’m sorry for the things I should have done but didn’t. And I’m sorry for the pain and confusion I have caused. I’d love to be able to say I mean no harm but I know that’s no true and for that I am remorseful. I have knowingly and willingly hurt you, even setting out to do so deliberately on many occasions. Apologising will never take away what happened or the pain I caused, but I hope that my apology will go some way to easing it and hopefully allowing you to heal and move on. To become someone bigger and stronger than I could ever be. You have no obligation to accept or forgive, and I feel too much shame to believe that I deserve to be forgiven. I’ve tried to forgive myself but I can never truly do that, I have done too much with intent to be able to accept forgiveness and all that it implies. I tried too to forgive mother and though it’s felt like it’s taken on a couple of occasions it has never stuck, I carry too much rage and eventually something triggers a memory and it all comes flooding back. ItS when that happens that I’ve treated you the worst. I’ve lashed out at you and used you as a target for my anger because I didn’t want to hurt anybody else, for various reasons I never included you in that category and thus you became a prime target. And I am so so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt anybody even when I did want to hurt people it was because I was blinded by my life education, I was a fool, an angry scared child in a growing body locked into battle with the world because I thought the world hated me. So I hated back. And in doing so I hated you. Your kindness and devotion made me uncomfortable, I didn’t know how to handle it. You were and still are a loving, loyal and intensely caring person with a wonderful curiosity, a drive to learn and a want to improve yourself and the lot of those around you. Your ability to keep focused on making yourself into something else, something you saw as better, less destructive, despite everything going on around you has had me bewildered on many an occasion. How you keep going, where you find the strength, the ways you do things are inspiring and genuinely a mystery to me.

I wish I had listened to you more, I wish to listen to you much more going forward. You have so much you can show me, I have much to learn from you. Like the compassion you show to others, compassion that I should have shown you.

I came to the decision to write to you recently after being faced with the consequences of something I did to you. I ruined something you had fought so hard for and I’m sorry. I hurt you and I regret it. You spent ten years battling an addiction, you survived because that’s what you do, through years of pain and cravings to escape back to that sweet oblivion of being high. Fighting the desire to get away from the memories and overwhelming emotions that came up through therapy and life in general. Feelings that would have made me go straight to the easy fix, the temporary release from the truth that is our shared history. Running away from my responsibilities to care for myself and for you. Running away from my duty to protect you and my duty to be open to listening to you and your needs. Instead I pushed you away, I lashed out at you and trapped you in an ongoing nightmare of repeated traumas, forcing you to relive self inflicted and inflicted pains. Making you remember over and over things that hurt me, hurt us, forcing you to remain stuck in a horribly dark and treacherous place, that engulfed you in agony so deep that I never would have thought you’d be able to escape it. But you did, and I am proud of you for that. I’m also envious and, for my shame, bitter that I could not do that. And to spite you I wrecked your nearly ten years of staggeringly hard work by giving in to the want to destroy everything I’ve ever achieved, the want to destroy what you had achieved. You kept yourself away from crack even through stuff that overwhelmed me, you even kept me safe from it despite everything I’ve done to do. My response was to try and break you by giving in to the craving so close to making it ten years without. And I went through with it. In your friends house, while you had the responsibility of caring for their animals and home, while you were in what was a safe space away from our prison, in the home of someone who had shown me so much care and love when I’d had a breakdown and needed a trip to the hospital. She took me there, she sat with me in A&E and she cared for me after when I convinced them not to admit me. Your friend cares for you in a way that mother never could and I shamed you by making you smoke crack in her house. And now, you’re there again looking after things while she’s away and I am wracked with guilt whenever I look over at the spot where I ruined all your hard work. I am realising just now that this letter is very much about me and my guilt, I’m trying to alleviate my bad feelings but I am really sorry. I hope that by admitting what I did and saying sorry maybe you’ll be able to sleep at night and not wake up to my pain at what I did. Because my pain is holding you back, my pain and anger are still ruling your life and it’s not fair. It’s not fair on you and never had been, it’s not fair that you have had to manage my pain for your whole life. It’s not fair that you are still deeply constrained by me.

Pick your words (weapons)

CW/ abuse/ rape/mention of murder/ mention of a lot of crap

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

Possibly one of the biggest lies I repeated as a child. Admittedly in those days, facing up to school bullies, it was a sign of my defiance in the face of those that would have me believe horrible things about myself, or who were just trying (and ususally suceeding) to hurt me. However, it’s bullshit. Words do hurt. I would go home from that to the biggest bully who every day poisoned me with her words of hate and fear, so bad that school bullies although horrid were a relief from home life. I’ve learned how much words can be used to cause massive harm, to control people, manipulate and keep people down.

Recently I dared to stand up for sex workers against someone famous. I knew it was a risky move in terms of keeping myself safe and protected, but…. It felt like a thing that needed to be clarified. They weren’t being deliberately or forcefully offensive, i don’t believe they even intended to be offensive. It’s a case of phrasing, of what doesn’t get said, of context and of societal beliefs and expectations. Because of their fame there’s the potential for others to take on board those words and missuse them. To be honest I had less people hitting out at me than I feared (so far) and of course it’s mostly people choosing to miss understand what I said. Which was my problem to begin with, the potential for misunderstanding or judgement by subconsious assumption. Society is so primed with whorephobic, slut shaming and misogynistic language, its so pervasive that unless we stop to think about it we don’t even realise that we too are being harmful with our words. Case in point I’ve just this moment seen a conversation about the use of specific words and how they are associated with antisemitic and racist overtones and undertones. This stuff is EVERYWHERE. But back to the whorephobia.

Of course some people embrace that language because they’ve internalised the most popular attitudes. In this case the patriarchal hate that deliberately seeks to keep women in their place and use bullying, shame and threats to force them to ‘behave decently’. Expecting women to fit into society as a ‘respectable and decent person’ but what they mean by that is compliant and obedient. The language that spins up around this becomes derogatory on the most basic levels, to the point where we don’t even realise.

It’s the same with anything, language and the way we use it informs and forms the way we think about a thing. If every day I tell myself that I’m an idiot whenever something doesn’t go exactly right then I’ll believe it. If others around me use similar language, like calling me a fool when I mess up, that reinforces my belief. Even if they don’t mean to be malicious, and they don’t want to cause any harm, even if they were only being half serious it still repeats what I keep telling myself and therfore confirming those words. If other people are saying the same things about me that I’ve been saying then it must be true. why I’ve been saying those things in the first place comes from what I’ve been taught growing up, if my peers and caregivers provide an environment where its normal to call oneself, or others, stupid, it sets me up for a lifetime of believing that to be the normal truth of life. That’s only a basic example, it can be very complicated and with deep and twisted roots. And we don’t even realise we’re doing it, or when we’re being influenced by shit like propaganda from governments and media outlets. They know full well what they’re doing when they use certain words or techniques, it’s what they’ve been doing for centuries, they know that if you repeat something enough people will begin to belive it. Its insidious, the key words and ways things are presented,  manipulating the masses to incite fear, control, pacify… To make sure that we behave. That language is pervasive and becomes a part of us, of how we think about things whether we realise it or not. We internalise stuff that is harmful to us, and then self regulate based on that, with others policing us if we start to stray and think for ourselves. Then those others pile on at the opportunity to signal to everyone how ‘right’ and virtuous they are. Governments rely on this self policing behaviour, the patriarchy relies on it, racism relies on it.

When enough people refuse to buy in, those that set the rules get nervous and you end up with things like Portland. When everyone buys into it you get horrendous INCELs murdering people out of fear and anger AND then the media paints them in a generous light, saying they were “a good guy” having a bad time, that somebody else (usually a woman) did something to ‘make them snap’. We end up with sickening videos of young girls being raped, her life is potentially ruined, definitely scarred. she’s called a slut, she’s questioned endlessly, shunned, abused and she is blamed for the disgusting behaviour of those that chose to rape her. While those rapists are forgiven for their behaviour, they, the rapists, are given freedom to carry on as normal because their lives have ‘so much potential’, they are just young boys who made a mistake, they have such promise for the future… While their victim must spend the rest of her life suffering, being reminded how little society values her life. Constantly reminded of their trauma through the actions and language of those around her. When people use patriarchal slurs such as bitch, cow, slut, hag, crone, cat lady etc it’s a reminder that women are considered lesser, considered to be offensive or made into the punchline…. “Oh you old bag” “don’t be such a moaning mirtle” “you stupid bitch” “don’t be a girl” “man up” All derogatory against women, all making the assumption that women are lesser, are something to be avoided, or feared, are inherently worthless, mouthy, disobedient and on.

When somebody chooses to leave the adult industry and no longer be a sex worker saying that they have a new found respect for themself without any further clarification or qualifiers, the unspoken and unintended implication of that statement is that other SWs who choose to remain inherently don’t have any self respect. And when that happens people who hate SWs can pick up those words and run with them, using them to harm and attack others, because it confirms their belief. And there’s no better embodiment of a thing than someone reformed. Someone who can be used as an example, whether they want it or not, to teach the poor misfortunates how the rhetoric was right all along.

So like that small child in the school playground, standing up to their bully, saying “I will not believe what you tell me to believe just because you have a gang behind you” I don’t think it’s fair if I don’t at least try to make others aware of how potentially damaging their words might be, intended or not we hurt others when we use common language that was designed by someone with ‘power’ to be derogatory or is assumed to be the norm and thus becomes exclusionary or offensive (such as calling a mixed group of people guys). We may not realise it but we’re buying into the status quo, internalising and perpetrating the harmful language. I’ve certainly been pulled up on things and had to rethink how I talk about stuff and in what context I use words. I’ve rightfully had to do a lot of consideration of the things I grew up believeing because of the language that was used around me as a child and teenager. A lot of that language hurt me directly, and fuck did it hurt. I am mentally and physically scarred by the words used to mould and control me as a child, words used to put me in my place, to make sure I understood the rules. Words used to remind me that I was powerless, worthless, less than, weak, stupid, evil, decietful, untrustworthy, a slut and a whore, a fucking tease, a prude, a cunt, ugly, fat, useless…..All while I worked harder than any boy or man around me and ‘threatened’ them with my actual intelligence, individualism and independance and my ability to show them up at everything they do because I’ve actually put the work in and proven myself capable. But then that makes me an arrogant, unlovable, undignified whore. All these words have become so entrenched within society to keep people down. Words that people dont even consider, its just what you say, its just how it is…

Well it’s that way because arseholes said it is. It is not the truth. and we really need to rethink and restructure our language, our insults, our genuine comments and feedback, and in the way we talk about ourselves. Even if I must insult myself and be horrible to me, I must try to not take others down with me, especially when they dont deserve it! And as stressful and nervewracking as it is to speak out. WE ALL NEED TO SPEAK OUT AND RAISE ISSUES IN AS PEACEFUL A WAY AS WE CAN. EXCEPT WHERE PEACE IS A LONG PAST OPTION.

Whatever

CW: self harm/cutting

Just spoke to mental health health nurse. It was frustrating as usual. Though maybe something positive will come out of it, if she actually does the things we discussed. If she’s like the previous one then she won’t, the previous one who hadn’t even written into my care plan something that we discussed nearly a year ago. Something that she was supposed to investigate while I spent a LOT OF TIME doing my part researching stuff for her… Well I did my part. She didn’t even make a note of her side of the agreement so it’s no surprise she never did it. Which leaves me, once again starting over from the beginning with something that could have been put into place last year. And despite her being a mental health nurse I can’t actually talk to her about what’s going on. I mean I can but she’s only interested in specific details, statistics, severity… ticking boxes and making statements that end up essentially ranking how ‘ill’ I am against other people and determining how much help I get, what priority I am given. Like asking me me “how bad is it?” in relation to self harm/cutting specifically. I told her I’d started drinking again… “oh so you drink” NO, that’s not what I said, but it’s irrelevant to her because she’s not done her research on Me, alcoholism or relapse. And whether it’s cutting, drinking or anything else. How ‘bad’ it is is relative. What’s bad to me is nothing to someone else, what’s bad to many people I won’t think twice about. Have I been regularly hospitalised for cutting? No. Because I stitch and care for it myself so that I don’t have to go there and deal with them and their dismissive patronising bullshit. I very occasionally end up there, usually as a way of trying to get psychiatric help. But as we know that’s fucking futile. As is apparently telling the MH Nurse stuff for anything other than ticking boxes. It does not help me feel better, it nearly always leaves me feeling worse. They poke and intrude and ask deeply personal or insensitive questions then send you on your way.

So who am I supposed to talk to? I can’t talk to the counsellor because my stupid brain won’t verbalise the nightmare images in my head. And the people I’m more comfortable with don’t want to hear it. And I get it, they’re also not my therapist and therefore neither trained nor obliged to listen to it. So I’m stuck in a brain thats being tortured by memories and self hate. A brain that tortures me day and night, giving me horrid nightmares. Leaving me drained and removed of all motivation. I spend entire days doing nothing other than feel bad and wishing I could get up and go do something about it. Either sorting the crap, doing something (anything) creative, just fucking killing myself… But I’m stuck, lethargic, unable to make myself do something… anything. And I just get more stressed, not doing anything, not able to sleep, not eating properly, not cleaning or caring, just sad and hating myself.

I try to fake it. Try to be in touch with people. But I’m trying to paper over the cracks and cheer myself up and they aren’t there to cheer me up. So I get frustrated or angry and give up. Then spend my time very alone, in pain, not being seen or noticed. Because hardly anyone reads this hardly anyone is aware of what’s going on with me. They’re just waiting for the fake happy posts on facebook which aren’t going to come, so I slip out of people’s minds and they don’t know/don’t care what has been happening. Blogs are not everyones cup of tea to be fair, ans I do this in part because of bullying from people who don’t like seeing honesty and ‘negativity’ on Facebook. This way they don’t “have to see it” and I don’t have to put up with bitchy condescending messages from people who are concerned only for their own comfort. Y’all want to know the gory details of horrific acts and experiences but don’t reach out, don’t comment, don’t care*. I put something happy here and people ‘like’ it, they comment, they want to read it.

*not everyone before you get upset

I’ll keep going because it’s all I know how to do. And it’s not fucking brave or any other bullshit. It’s survival, it’s ptsd. It’s all I know

I wish, constantly, that I could break out of that. I’ve made some pathetic failed attempts, spent years pretending to be functional , pretending to not be messed up, lying to myself about how well I can cope. And it’s been horrendous, it will remain horrendous possibly forever as far as I can see. I’m so tired of it, I’m tired of the dips and black-dog days/weeks/months. I’m tired of the nightmares, flashbacks, mood swings, self hate, depressions, deep loneliness, confusion, apathy, shame… I’m just tired.

small steps

Content warning; Self harm / mention of blood / drugs

What the fuck am I doing? Why am I doing….this?

Drinking and smoking, wishing I had crack. Choosing to fall down into the gutter, stepping down, with purpose. Wanting to reach out. Not doing so. Wishing for physical contact other than my own sour touch. I’m finishing off the alcohol I bought for my birthday, bought because I had a traumatic experience, tried to reach out and wasnt able to get ahold of someone. Two days of drinking and I experienced my first hangover in 12 years. Combined with just 3hrs sleep that was a rough day, on the plus side it wasnt a bad hangover and once I finally ate something i felt much better. The next day I slept ALL day, which I havent done before like that. I hadnt take the qutiapine and yet I still just slept. And I was still tired the next day.

I dont understand this week. I’ve begun getting messages from people who are recieveing their postcards. I’ve been playing roleplay games online with my new friends, finding my place with them, even started running my own game. Which I am in part regretting and in part thrilled about.

The prospect of moving has finally arisen, it wont likely happen this time, theres several ahead of me in the priority list but I’ll try to go to the viewing to get used to the process. But with the thought of getting out of here suddenly becomming a reality I am all to aware of how un-ready I am to move. i have done virtually no clearing during lockdown, it just wasnt possible unless i wanted to put everything in the rubbish and send it to be incinerated, forever gone, forever useless.

The landlord wants to replace the windows, finally. Thats going to be tricky. I’ll need to have a week or three in between each room so that I can make space and clear out enough room for them each time. I also need to go dig up as many plants from the garden as possible to save them from being trampled and crushed by the window fitters and scaffolders. I’m going to get out of here ‘soon’ and they’re finally doing the fucking windows 20+ years of these rotten drafty things and now they get around to it.

Friends have said they want to post me stuff/continue writing. Which is nice.

Last night there were 2 parties here, one at the front of the house and one at the back, and the next door nieghbours were being noisy. As soon as the music started, at around 11pm, I instantly went into some sort of panicmode, knowing what was ahead of me for the night. And it strangled me with stress and rage at all the things I hate about living here. It actually used to be queit around here, when it was a dump with burned out cars, dealers on the corner, the pubs down the road (now lux flats) and all the degenerates myself included. Sometimes thered be unbearably loud music but that was always during the day, and sometimes it was coming from my place! But now, there’s so many parties and raves and the council just allow them to keep happening. Lockdown had given us a break from that for a while… I guess the peace is over now. And I once again can get out of here quick enough.

But, even if I did try for this other place, and I somehow got it. I’m not ready to move and do not want to be rushing and just shoving everything into boxes because i dont have the time to sort as I go. i dont want to take it all with me. And I dont have the spoons to sort, pack, repair, clean and do everything else on my own in a couple of weeks.

Things have suddenly got busy. i guess most medical services are “returning to normal” after months of almost nothing. I suddenly have 5 appointments next week. And I am freaking out. Even though some are by phone so I dont have to go out, its still a lot to suddendly go from nothing to multiple different people making appoinments for/with me. Its as though they all feel like theres no danger anymore, while symultainiously preaching about distancing, masks etc…. they’re not making sense. I guess its good to have some medical services back, if only it was the ones I want.

I have in the last couple of weeks done a tiny bit of sorting and cleaning, and did some more today. Every time I do I am crushed by just how much there is and how small of a dent i make. I end up paralised by the thoughts of how I want it to be without the actions of making it happen. Many time I sit, staring, not knowing what to do with a thing. And then I give up.

The body hate is still growing and its hurting me. I hear the gyms are to open soon…… I’d laugh if I could. Seriously, they think its going to be safe to have a load of people panting and heavy breathing in enclosed spaces, using shared equipment and facilities. People who have a tendency to go to the gym even when they feel a bit off because it normally makes them feel better. People who are likely to not report or not even register C19 symptoms. Mixing with others who are vulnerable, disabled, immune compromised, asthmatic and so on. Again, in enclosed spaces with shared equipment and facilities. Even if i did go (which to be honest has a fairly high chance because like everyone else I’ve been missing it) do I dare use the shower there? The shower that I have reported multiple times for being disgustingly dirty….[but its just the accessible one so why would they bother to keep it clean?!] I dont have a shower here, so I’d have to make do with a wipe down and never get properly clean until I can manage a bath. Which aint happening after going to the gym, if I ever got out again I’d like slip and fall again.

It suddenly feels like I’m expected to be functional again, After being abandoned by services and left to fend without help from most places. After most of this year spent locked away at home, alone. I suddenly have to deal with lots of people and situations. And of course I’m not able to have the support I would have previously had because I dont have anyone that can come with me, unless they stand 2 meters away. Not much help if I need physical assistance or just a reassuring hug. And I am getting rather burned out on zoom and phone. I’m barely managing to attend classes, in fact I’ve not managed to attend classes. And now I have to do so much more by phone, with people who just dont understand or even try to understand when I tell them its too much for me.

I have a lot of friends around…digitally. And on the damn phone. I’ve not checked facebook in a long time, and theres going to be another cull when i do finally have the spoons to deal with that place. Though I di dfinally relent and add messenger to my phone because my old table can no longer cope and keep crashing and I need to stay in touch with my friends across the pond. They’re there, Theres a lot of friends there, Friends who stay in touch without being prompted. Friends who reach out to me too. Friends who I know care, if I just reached out…

But I cant touch them. So I pull away even more and nobody sees me hurting, slowly dying inside.

I’ve been sat here wondering why I am choosing self destruction. Why I am doing these things. Breaking my rules. Drinking alone. Smoking. Playing with blades. The alcohol makes the blood run wonderfully. Wondering why I dont just end it all now. Why am I doing this. Am I waiting for someone else to come running in to fucking save me? Thats rediculous. No, I’m not. If I cant do this on my own then I cant do it. Am I making a mess of my skin to make a point? Its not like I go around showing anyone. I have to be aware of what I’m wearing outsite to make sure its not visable. And if the gym were open I wouldnt be able to go swimming for a while, I dont like the judgy stares. So WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING? I’m letting stuff out, to what end though. I’m going down the rabbit hole of potential relapse knowing what lays ahead if I keep going. I’m still stuck, here, in my prison. No chance of even temporary escape. I was chatting on discord earlier about fantasising about having a big cuddle puddle. But its just that, a fantasy. I cant even get a hug of a single person without both of us putting our and other peoples lives at risk. If it was just my life I’d take that risk now despite knowing the severity of it. Maybe thats why I’m craving oblivion. Or maybe I’m just a fat cunt loser with no clue what they’re doing. I rekon its probably that.

Horay for postal services

Recently a bunch of us on discord made a penpals club and have started writing to each other the old fashioned way. I had for some time been thinking of getting some custom postcards printed for when I went on holiday, and for just randomly writing to people. When discussing sending each other postcards that spurred me on to get my ones printed, and to reach out to a bunch of other people and ask if they’d like to recieve a postcard (in other words could I please have their address!) I love getting postcards and am one of thoese people that still likes to send actual physical post to people, even if it is taxing/painful to write. Its worth it.

In the last couple of weeks I have written and sent 21 postcards! and still have a couple more i want to write. And I have so far recieved 3 🙂 More accurately, 2 cards and a letter. And they have all made me FEEEEEEL. In an uncomfortable but welcome way. People are being so lovely and kind and its making me both wishing I could give then all hugs and that they’re in a way here with me. I’ve recived 2 from the penpal club, people who I’ve not known long and who have only really been friends for a couple of months. But they are friends and they’re delightful, caring, annoyingly positive* and really very nice people. And they made me cry….. because they’re meanies!!* 😉

I just picked up my post today and theres the 3rd card. From one of my friends across the pond. One of the one’s I befriended via that MMO game I got into when fresh into recovery** and who over the years has become a dear friend. We’ve even met, in the flesh!!! I was looking forward to seeing her again soon-ish, though for obvious reasons thats going to be on hold indefintely. Even though I have not managed to email her for 2 years because brain/life stuff. I have thought about her often and still take photos of things to share with her even though I never get around to writing that email. But I care deeply about her and her health and happiness, and I look forward to having the spoons and mental capacity back to return to emailing photos of foxes and flowers! Well she said she’d like to write to me too so I gave her my address and it arrived today. And my heart is melting…I appear to have something in my eye.

My found family is the family I need.

*I’m being sarcastic!

**I am currently suffering my first hangover in i think 12 years……Not good, obviously and things are clearly going wrong, I need to do something about it as I clearly cant be trusted at the moment. But as I so often say, thats a tale for another post.

Please Hold

CW Physical examination / gynecology / medical mysoginy/ rape / assault / self harm

For the first time I managed to press the call button on the samaritans. After 2 mins of  holding I gave up. Couldn’t even get ahold of them. Trying not to go into a “I’m such a failure” spiral right now.

Can’t even get someone at the samaritans to talk to me

I was having an emergency. Contacted everyone that I know is comfortable on the phone and would be okay to talk me down and that I am comfortable with during a situation and that have some knowledge of my history. Not massive list of people. All were understandably busy it being the middle of the afternoon. And some offered to chat later. But I needed someone NOW. So I actually tried the samaritans.

The achievement is that I kept trying different people. The achievement is that I reached out when needed. The achievement is that I actually called the samaritans. After years of not being able to do that final step I was finally able to do it. But I couldn’t stay on hold indefinitely and I couldn’t just wait for something that was upfront making me feel uncomfortable. So I gave up. Dried the tears and carried on with my day. Pretending I wasn’t freaking out.

And now the difficult bit. I had an appointment with the gp to get my coil switched from the hormonal on back to a copper one. I was finally getting the hormone one removed, which I believe will help improve my mental health. Though I do wonder if things have gone too far now for me to ‘bounce back’ like I would have been able to do had they believed me a couple of years ago. But “women’s issues” are never taken seriously, nearly always dismessed even by some of the best doctors. Not even going anywhere near the misgendering and problems that raises. Anyone with a womb is automatically dismissed within a mysogynistic system that is set up to mistreat, put down and demean ‘Women’. Which is why it took this long and me circumventing my gp to get this thing removed. So, getting it taken out finally is the good thing thats happened today. EDIT; I forgot to mention, my appointment with the gp started with them misgendering me. I pulled her up on it and she kinda apoligised, its something that I’m making an effort to do everytime sombody misgenders me, its hard work. And considering I’ve had to make a written complaint to the surgery about them constantly doing it, its annoying that I still have to remind them. More than annoying, its upsetting. I’m sure that set my head off onto an uncomfortable train of thought and feelings running in the background while I consiously rambled and talked to them about what was going to happen in the appointment.

I figured I’d get a copper replacement implanted at the same time, why not? Other than, I have in the past had problems with them being put in, twice needing to have ultrasound guidance and a Very Experienced hand. Even Very Experienced hands have had problems getting the buggers in, and to stay in. So I knew there might be an issue getting the new one in and there could be a possibility of me leaving there without it. Which would be a bit frustrating but really no massive deal, I’ve been through it before, twice, its more of an annoyance than anything else really. The biggest thing being it forcing me to have to have double the time spent in gynae situations, Which in itself is sometimes an issue. In the past I’ve had psycological problems with gynecalogical situations, With it triggering flashbacks and bad feelings, with the discomfort and pain, with people being dismissive of that pain and discomfort. Because, of course, a person with a womb is not to be believed, cannot be trusted to speak the truth or be accurate, is prone to exaguration or…. hyteria. Blah blah BULLSHIT. I have in the past, twenty something years ago, had a doctor who was performing a colposcopy actively refuse to stop what he was doing when I asked him to. He carried on hurting me while I was strapped up in styrrups, in pain, freaking out. After that appointment I went into shock and collapsed in the street, alone and frightened. 

In the past I have been raped. Where men forced, pushed, coerced…. refused to stop hurting me. Where I have shut down and focused all my energy on keeping myself together long enough to survive until it stopped. Have told myself over and over and over that I just need to keep it together, that they will stop eventually. That if I fight back, if I insist they stop that they will hurt me even more than they already were. That I was in danger if I didnt submit. That I would face so much worse stuff if I made them stop, including social ruin, lies, violent reprimands, removal of whatever limited freedom I had. Just shut up and let it happen…. it’ll be over eventually. Except its NEVER Over. Its internalised and remains Forever. Remains inside, in my mind, in my soul. Waiting to be triggered and reactivated at any point.  Many times its so deeply buried that it could almost not be there. These are not those times. 

I have most of my life been misgendered. I have internalised the hate and shame around my body. I have been forced to live in a body that doesnt fit me. One that represents almost everything I hate about society. That is the actual realisation of all of my mothers self loathing and body hatred. And I have to live in it. Having a womb and vagina is a viceral reminder of all those things that have caused me pain and misery all of my life. Of all those times I have been denied the right to even think that I was something different, that I was in the wrong body. Of all the times that she unleashed her hate and disgust onto me, which was EVERY DAY that I lived with her. The physical prison I have been trapped in and forced into by her and society and then myself. Where I forced myself to live in this horrid prison that does not represent ME. any sensation from there forced me to mentally connect with all of that hate and shame and rage. Pain from there makes it impossible to disconnect and shut down the mental trainride that happens. 

Today was uncomfortable, the speculum was very uncomfortable verging on pain. I could just about breathe my way through it though it was triggering some nasty feelings. I was crying, but the old coil was out at least. I asked her to take it (the speculum) out and she said that she was about to put in the new coil and if she took it out shed have to put it back in again. meaning that I’d have to go through her trying to get it properly lined up again. As she was ready to go I said to carry on. Then there was pain, and more pain, and MORE PAIN. It was hurting more than most times and it was just getting more and more intense, deeper and deeper in. I could feel her pushing further and I was cramping up badly and trying to breathe through it AND trying to not freak out. It felt like being raped. After what felt like forever she said that she could not get the sound in, it was going about 3cm into the cervix but would not go further. Hence the increasing pain and cramps. She gave me two options, she could go get smaller sounds and manually dialate until it was open enough to be able to get the new coil in. or Stop, rebook for another time.

So I could let her keep trying, lay there feeling exposed, feeling like I was being raped and allowing her to slowly dialate me with sounds and then try again, knowing that it might not work and that it would be painful. But, if successful, it would be over and that would be it for 10 years and I wouldnt have to go through it again unles there was in issue or I decided to have to removed. Or, I could get the damn speculum removed and make her stop, but have to come back another time and go through it all again with no guarantee that even with preperation I would be able to cope with it better. I chose the latter. I wanted her to stop, I needed her to stop. And I had the power to make that happen. 

If she noticed my tears she said nothing. She also said nothing about all the cuts on my leg, no big surprise there. And I in my eagerness to get the fuck out of there just held it together, made a new appointment and left. My head spinning. I was properly freaking out. And I needed to talk to someone. To a friend. I tried. I kept trying. They were all busy. I tried the samaritans, they were busy too, I was in the street, hugged up to a fence, crying, trying not to throw up or pass out, flinching any time someone passed me by. I could have screamed, I could have collaped and punched and fought with someone. Instead I fought it, pushed it back inside, pushed it down and tried to pretend I wasnt freaking out. Barely staying in touch with reality and the outside world, taking one step at a time, trying to follow a shopping list and trying to cope with all the people in the supermarket. I should have just gone home but that would have required me having enough mental capacity to make a decision that deviated from the plan and I couldnt do that. So I did my best to do the plan. I have not had my birthday dinner. I have not and will not take care of myself properly today. I did do my therapy session, though struggled to describe what Ive written here and couldnt even do that. If I had some hard drugs here I would take them and relent to the temporary oblivian. I bought lots of alcohol and am going against my rules of not drinking alone, not drinking when i feel like this. But I am doing it. And I’ve just noticed that I am late for a birthday games night that someone kindly arranged for me yesterday so I guess I will go do that. Hopefully it will help bring my mood up.

In silence they screamed

I’ve lost my voice. I don’t mean that I have a sore throat so can’t speak. I mean that whenever I try to talk about anything important my chest pulls inward and becomes so tight that it hurts. Even though I’m still breathing there’s simply no air. My throat warps and the few tiny words I do manage to push out are so quiet that nobody can hear me. My mind falls in upon itself and I either have zero words available to me or there’s all the words at once with no organisation or separation and it feels like if they got out they’d never stop and would rip me apart in the process.

And it’s ALL RAGE. AND IT’S TRAPPED. INSIDE. WHERE I CAN’T GET AWAY FROM IT. And the more it stays the worse things get.

The meds ARE making things worse, or the process of taking them is. And I don’t know why I’m doing it to myself. I’ve done almost nothing for a week and a half. It’s making me more angry. Friends are driving me mad, they’re trying in their way and I shouldn’t be mad at them, but I am. I also need something different, that I’m not getting. That I fear I’ll never get because I surround myself with people who let me down or don’t understand me. Because I never believe I deserve anything that isn’t tainted somehow. And I can’t tell people they’re hurting me because I fear their response. So it continues.. The anniversary of my brother’s death came and went without any family interaction, no surprise there. My gp is a fucking moron and still not being helpful. Ironically sending out text messages telling me to contact them if I’m having any mental health issues [dry laugh] Though I did manage to get an appointment to get this awful hormone coil removed by bypassing the gp and going via reception instead and charming them.  The doctor had twice refused and later sidestepped it saying we could discuss it if I still felt that way in a few months…My gp is shit. Removing it will help improve my mental health especially as it took a slow dive after that thing was put in. It doesn’t matter if the doctors don’t believe me I KNOW. None of this shit touches on the soul crushing pain of what’s stealing my voice. So I return to biting down on the dental guard, eating my feelings and trying to distract myself from self harming. Blood and tears. That’s been my last week.