Worth it

Am in a lot of pain and very stiff, would absolutely love a massage and several hours in a hot tub. I wonder how long it’s going to be before I get either of those. For now, it was worth it. Someone came round a couple of days ago and helped me sort through a load of stuff. Shifting heavy boxes, getting the old chair out of the house. I didn’t get rid of much sadly but we did tidy away lots of things. And now I can reach other stuff. I intend to slowly keep going over things periodically and putting stuff into charity donations. I don’t want this much stuff clogging up my life. For the moment A LOT more of the floor is clear! Which is great.

Of course there’s still a lot to do and there’s a load of things for me to sort, or repair or finish or sell etc but… I now have some space back in the front room. Space to do things. Space to breathe. And it’s thanks to help from a friend.

Another friend brought me lunch yesterday. A yummy salmon pasta thing. We’ve started meeting once a week in the park. It gets us both out of the house, gives her a break away from work and the laptop for an hour and gives me a real life in the flesh person to talk to once a week. And it was much needed after my counselling session where I went through in detail what happened in Egypt, which was really upsetting and has left me feeling unsettled and unsafe. I hope it will have been worth it though, right now I don’t feel good. If only I could get my bike out of the house I could go meet that friend, and others, but then I’d struggle to get the bike back inside. It’s a goal though. Especially as I fucking hate using buses now. I still wouldn’t be able to cycle up hills and would need to be careful of medication use and side effects. But fuck me I miss cycling places. I miss a lot of things.

I was genuinely considering getting help to get the bike down from the balcony, getting it fixed and cycling the fuck out of town with a sleeping bag and tarp. It would be rough, I don’t do well on the ground am super unfit and can’t manage hills well. But it would get me away from here without risking public transport. Its a terrible idea, particularly with the weather on the turn, but I’m not putting it down yet. I mean, considering I am messed up and barely able to move from one day of tidying I am, I doubt I’d last long. But the romance of the idea is nice.

If I could get a massage without a long time on buses it’d be worth it. Unless we get shut down again I’ll be travelling to a friend’s for Christmas (I know, I already have plans for Christmas, shocking) it’ll be worth it. I start singing lessons tomorrow, will have to spend a lot of spoons on walking and then book taxis to avoid buses and hope they turn up (thanks crappy taxicard) and its going to be massively anxiety provoking going back to a big place with lots of people. I hope it’ll be worth it though. They have made lots of changes, there’s no socialising or communal areas now. Classes are spaced out, deviders are up. Lots of things aren’t being brought back including what I was doing before. Though I can finally pick up my project, and with the new space at home actually be able to work on it potentially. But yeah, I’m instead going to do a 12 week 1:2:1 singing course. More chance to see an actually in the flesh person, I just wonder if I can keep the anxiety down enough to attend…!

I have a million emails that have to be dealt with, plus so many issues and I have just remembered that I have a call booked this afternoon with the mental health nurse, yuk. Note, the psych STILL hasn’t contacted me. And I have to get my head into gear to run a game tonight, last week was a real struggle. And I need to get the fuck up and make some breakfast. I wish I’d managed to take painkillers when I got up earlier, but too much pain fog to do so. I’ll do it now, I’m so hungry I have to move. And I can go eat it in the breathing space 🙂

One day I failed

CW: suicidal ideation/attempt

The waking up thing, it’s been an issue for a long time. Probably started as in intermittent thing around 8-9 years old when the night terrors started, getting more pernicious and insidious as the years went by until one day it was every day. I don’t know when it just was, a thing that never went away.

For decades it has taken me back to the second time I attempted suicide. I was about 15 I’d been out with my boyfriend and we went back to his, his mother was away so we had the flat to ourselves. I think we’d been out to buy food, we got back and while I was waiting for him to open the door I looked out over the view (not a great one to be honest) and looked down. Down at the concrete and the roof of another part of the building several floors down. Wondering if it was enough of a drop to kill me, just pondering. I slowly leaned forward as if to get a better look. I wondered what position would be best to ensure death, probably head first, makes sense. Wouldn’t want to flip around and land feet first crushing them and paralysing but not killing myself. I slowly shifted my balance, leaning further forward until I was looking directly down, one foot raised off the ground, being held in place by the toes of the other boot. Perfectly balanced, my hands were lose, I was so calm and forgot everything else around me. It was just me and the concrete 4 floors down and we had an appointment. I thought about letting go, I opened my hands the fear of falling nowhere to be felt. I thought about hitting that flat roof below me, I felt peace. I thought about lifting my other foot and tipping the balance, I was ready. Suddenly as if from nowhere there was a gentle hand on my back softly pushing me down. A voice I barely recognised, that sounded like it was a 1000 miles away, kindly asked if I wanted tea. He’d wondered where I was and came back outside to see me leaning over the rail. I didn’t even hear him and he always made noise when he walked. Suddenly he was there stopping me from jumping, or rather falling.

I don’t know when my fear of falling started, but it was in existence before this day. It became worse after. Probably because I now knew that I would do it. Odd that one calm moment of acceptance should lead to a lifetime of anxiety and fear.

Later that day, crushed and miserable that he had stopped me I sank deeper into depression. That evening, despirate and unable to verbalise any of my feelings, I raided his mother’s bathroom cabinet. I took all the paracetamol I could find and a sheet of cocodamol. I’d never had it before then, I knew she needed it so I left her with the remaining sheet, I didn’t want to leave her without. I took all those tablets and swallowed them down with a couple cans of lager and lay down with my boyfriend on his single bed and passed out. I know it was selfish, and I’m glad I didn’t traumatise him by successfully killing myself in his bed. But, obviously, it didn’t work. I forever wonder if that last sheet would have made the difference. Probably not given later failed attempts with way more times that amount and zero effect.

I went from passing out watching TV incredibly depressed. To opening my eyes to a bright peaceful sensation. I was alone, laying somewhere, it was comfortable, the air was still and warm, there was silence. I stared up at the high narrow window, a bright sky outside. Everything was peaceful. I thought I’d done it. I was so happy, it was the best I’d ever felt. I heard a soft noise from beyond the window, maybe a bird maybe a distant car I don’t know or remember just that things were so clear and peaceful that the noise nudged mildly something in me. But still, I was dead 🙂 another noise, this time from another direction… inside the house, in the other room. Inside? Another room? Wait, where was I? I was still at my boyfriends, what did that mean? Where was he? What had happened? Oh yeah, I’d been miserable and taken a load of tablets. Then I was at peace. And now I was slowly realising that I might not have succeeded. My elation was subsiding, the peace beginning to crumble. Another sound, was that a tea spoon tapping as it landed on a table? Still no other sound until I heard something else. A sob. Coming from me. I was crying. I’d failed. In the space of a couple of seconds I went from the happiest I’d ever been to worse than I had been when I took those tablets. I’d been so bad I was willing to fall to my death despite a fear of falling, I was willing to be selfish and die in someone else’s house with no regard to how it might affect them, I was miserable. I’d had a moment of true peace. Now I was back, and it’s still one of the worst moments of my life. I cried quietly staring at the ceiling so angry that it hadn’t worked. Not moving as that would only emphasise the reality. It’s hard to really describe the feelings of that afternoon, after one of the best sleeps of my life ironically, a sleep I didn’t want to wake up from. A sleep I thought for one brief moment had become permanent. Sinking from elated freedom back down to the painful reality.

He’d slept in the other room on his mother’s bed. He said I’d passed out and he tried to move me so he could lay down properly to sleep but I was “dead to the world”. Dead to the world. I wished I was. I have no doubt my face was awash with bitter emotions but being teenagers we had no tools for dealing with it, so we didn’t. I don’t know how much of me leaning over the rail he saw before stopping me. Whether he was watching for a while or just came straight out at that moment and without realising pulled me back into the other reality. I don’t know how much of my severe depression he saw, it was never discussed. Only accusations and victim blaming, and a deep lack of understanding on both sides.

My absolute failure on that day. The sense of relief and peace the next day followed by crushing realisation that I had to continue. That’s what I go back to every morning that I wake up and have 2 seconds of peace before coming to and knowing that I woke up again. The crush of the daily grind gets heavier every day. I cannot feel any gratitude at being alive, only occasional relief from being bitterly aware of the curse that I will wake up again tomorrow.

It’s never a good morning

I don’t sleep well in part because of all the nightmares, or the pain, or anxiety or whatever else is going on, but a big part is I hate waking up.

If I wake naturally (and not from a nightmare or terror) i get a couple seconds of either confusion or peace… Until my consience kicks into gear and I realise who I am, where I am, that I AM, that nothings changed. I get a crushing realisation that I’m still alive, that I have to go through another day of being. The dread sets in, all the things I know I’ll never be, all the things I am. All the things. That second or two of peace I sometimes get is all the peace I usually get. Most of the time I’m so on edge and hyperaware that it’s impossible, not even in yoga can I truly relax. I have those very brief moments of peace, where things are okay, where I don’t know who I am and the world doesn’t hurt. Then it gets swallowed by me and all the things I carry, gone. A memory now so close in time but unreachable.

I go to bed knowing that if I allow myself to go to sleep I am subjecting myself to yet another waking. Yet another dawning of crushing anxiety and disappointment. I often wake up already sad, either because of dreams or because my consience got up before me. I open my eyes to a longing to be somewhere else, to be someone else. I often wake up in pain, or because of the pain, unable to move and trapped body and mind in pergatory. Forced to do it all again.

It’s no wonder I used to take loads of drugs and stay awake for days. The longer I stay awake the better, the less I have to go to sleep, the less I have to wake up again and realise that I’m still alive. That singular moment where I lose everything and gain everything else.

Missing. Last seen?

I was just wondering, when am I going to bounce back? It’s been a while and I don’t feel it coming. In fact I haven’t had a bounce, a proper one, for years. It’s been so long. Maybe I’ll never bounce back again. Maybe I’m stuck here, repeatedly dragging myself back up to get a breather before the next fall.

No wonder everything feels pointless. When I can’t catch a break, when I’m fighting battle after battle with no rest between. When the lows are deeper and darker each time, getting closer together and harder to break out of. What is the point?

I shall continue to hide myself and my shame. Everything’s broken anyway.

No returns

Well I’ve done it, I’ve reached the point of no return. Actually sailed past it way back. Not sure when but I imagine it was sometime last week.

So much, last week was so much. With 3 medical things I’ve been chasing for between 1 and 35 years finally starting to move in the right direction. People finally starting to listen to me, the hear what I’m saying, and not dismiss me immediately. Medical misogyny is a real thing, as is the internalised misogyny that stopped mother from accepting me as anything other than her ideal. Which of course was not only never going to happen but also an impossible standard to attain.

Speaking of family, I finally answered both emails from uncles about grandmother’s memorial thing, it had been a big day why not deal with that. The next morning responses from both and I’m wishing I hadn’t. But I still went in and dealt, one getting friendly one curt. The one I was friendly with quickly tailed off, apparently the way to get them to engage is to deny them attention….makes sense. The one I’m angry with from before I arranged to meet which was stressful but turnes out I’m okay to have that talk now, just not anywhere I was going to feel unsafe. So park it was. Then he cancels, turns out he made the arrangement without checking his diary first *massive side eye* he ways does shit like this it’s why I’m mad with him. So I get all psyched up to meet him and tell him why I’ve not been in touch since he abandoned me, and he cancels. The rage is so strong, and trapped. I can feel it trying to burst through my ribs. The other uncle I wrote, not about me potentially travelling hundreds of miles for a thing but to say that I didn’t remember ever having a direct conversation with with about gender stuff and these are my pronouns, if you have to gender me use x thanks. No response *more side eye* I got the same response when I told father about the referral to the GIC. Nothing. I hate my family. That lack of recognition, a refusal to engage, acknowledge or validate anything that makes them feel a bit off. Ignore it and it’ll go away. Wait till you get drunk then send abusive messages/email/letters. Slag it off behind the person’s back but never mention it to their face. I keep waiting for someone to surprise me and be different. I’m going to be waiting for a long time. When do I finally cut the remaining threads and keep walking? I’ve used those as a tie (amongst other things) to stop me moving away out I’d the country. I should have been braver and just done it decades ago. But I wasn’t, I tied myself here hoping for something impossible.

Alongside all the intense medical, psychological, family stuff there’s been big changes and non changes in care. One charity that dropped me the week before lockdown and did NOTHING to check on me is finly back in touch, after a different charity contracted them. I have since been to 2 outdoor socials, sat in a lovely garden hidden behind a main road. A beautiful space I’d not been too for a few years. It was nice to sit amongst the trees and talk to flesh people rather than pixel people. Unfortunately yesterday during the social my anxiety started to spike and I wasn’t sure if I was because I was amongst people or because it was a lovely day out, I was actually feeling a sense of enjoyment and starting to relax (first time since January I think) and that I was going to have to leave soon and go home. To yet another zoom meeting. Turned out to definitely be the latter. Got more and more agitated, wasn’t being helped by someone on the group taking the same route back and talking at me. I’m really lucky someone offered to call me to get them off my back! Because I needed talking down from a full blown panic attack in the street. I don’t know how I’m ever going to complete work on this place when just the thought of being here sends me over the edge and actually being here paralyses me into inaction most of the time. I’m getting slightly better about making food, slightly. By no longer forcing myself to have or make breakfast I’m not tormenting myself and find myself more likely to either eat some fruit as a snack or prepare something when I get really hungry. I can spend most of the day hungry it doesn’t matter, if I’m making fresh food and not just eating crisps or chocolate that’s an improvement. But, it takes a lot of time and spoons so that’s most of my energy to do stuff outside of fucking emails, calls etc. There’s not much left for sorting or decluttering.

One of the things that happened last week on that Wednesday of phone calls was a rejection of a grant to help with decluttering. Told to go via social services, the same social services that literally told me to “just tidy up” and complained that I was messy, and refused to give me any help to do so. So that was great news 😦 I’ve been trying to get a new social worker for nearly 2 years and they’ve never explained their decision to cancel my care plan with no word, never answering another email from me ever again. I am dependant on these people for a lot. I’ll never be able to get the right adaptations/accommodation without their cooperation. Something they decided I needed 4 or 5 years ago and then did NOTHING about leaving it to me, not even sending me the right paperwork so I can’t do it on my own spoons or no spoons and no it’s been so long the landlord is demanding a fresh report.

My advocate, who is extremely busy so I have to keep chasing her if I want anything to change, has heard nothing back, of course. But at least she’s trying. The other charity, the one that has been running zoom classes throughout and the only place I’ve been getting emotional support in the form of a routine and access to art tuition. Suddenly announced at the beginning of a class on Friday afternoon “oh BTW this is your last class class for now, there’s no zoom lessons for four weeks” as casual as anything. After the intense week I’d had I couldn’t take it I had to leave the room and get off cam. Then ugly cried for an hour, during which they could probably hear me, before I could calm down enough to go back and sign out. My class ruined. Taken away without warning and zero fucks given on their side. I cried for days. Tried doing my yoga the next day, had to have the cam off, cried through it and didn’t have the strength or focus to do basic moves. So I left before boxing. There’s so much rage and hurt now trapped inside I can barely move at all now.

It’s been mornings of pain and dread, not doing anything because it’s all too much. Eventually getting out of bed and managing either some food prep, a bit of cleaning or just crochet to stop me losing me shit entirely. I’ve been masochistically dealing with emails and trying to write a letter to a friend, hoping to save a friendship while my head is swirling with all this other stuff. I did it, it’s chaotic and long, just like my mind and i somehow got it done within an arbitrary time frame I’d set. Then I spoke to another friend. Another long late night zoom chat, ranting about all sorts and I actually felt a lot better after that. Though they did text after saying they thought the letter a bad idea and that I should do it face to face, which I can’t at the moment hence the letter. But I woke up the next morning full of dread and doubting everything I’ve ever done. And now I can’t send the letter because its shit and I’m shit and I can’t ever do anything right and I’m a shameful failure for being unable to force a face to face conversation when I’m feeling vulnerable. It’s one thing to do the exhausting and scary task of taking on big companies and demanding my rights and needs are met. It’s something else entirely to demand someone I care about meets my needs or at least sees and acknowledges them. And that’s down to her, thanks bitch. My previous therapist would get irritated with me referring to mother as her or the bitch, preferring I name them. And I can see the point, you can really deal with an issue if you can’t name it. But at the same time, I’ve earned the right to be petty and childish. God knows I didn’t get to when I was a child, the universe owes me this one. But it also means that I’m stuck in an immature brain, traumatised and either repeating abuses upon myself or running away from them. The only way I have of protecting myself is to hide. Which means withdrawing, and fulfilling the belief that I am worthless and that nobody would ever wade through hell to come help me. I mean why should they? I’m not even worth it. Also, it’s selfish as fuck to expect anything from anyone. Nobody owes me a thing. So I’m on my own again. Because that’s what I deserve, that’s what I’ve earned.

And I have no reserves at all for anything. Everything feels massive and oppressive. I’m crying every day, that’s not me. The Tourette’s is getting bad, I’m not bathing or doing much past essential housework, I’m drinking daily and so very close to throwing myself into a crack fugue. I have so much I need to get out that I can’t get any of it out. I’ve gone backwards and it hurts. Reject everyone before they reject me, don’t chase up offers of company in case they can’t do it, don’t show my feelings in case they see how vulnerable I am, don’t show weakness, don’t reach out. It’s better that way. I’ll die alone and miserable. Its what I deserve. Because I can’t get over what she did to me.

I try

I try not to hold her responsible for my life and my actions. I try to hold myself to account for what I say and do. Because she taught me by example what it’s like when you don’t. I try to Fix things. I try to patch up the cracks and stitch together tears in my heart and soul. I have tried again and again to make something of myself. I try so hard but she fucked me up good and proper. I wish I’d never been born. I wish I’d been born to someone capable of being a parent. I wish things had been different. I wish everything would just end now.

I try to be something else. I fail.

AAAAAAAAAGH

What a fucking day. Started off rough with disturbed sleep and weird dreams. Jumped in and actually dealt with some emails I’ve been ignoring and a letter I’m trying to write. Counselling was tearful and unsettling. Spent rest of the day on the verge of tears. Yet somehow managed to do another email and a bit more on the letter. Doctor was supposed to phone before counselling but didn’t, she called much later apparently tried to call at the right time but got the answerphone. I didn’t even get a voicemail notification until several hours after that… Useful, well done giffgaff 😏 I’m FIIIIIIINALY getting a referral for an MRI that should have been done a year ago but it took a very good healthcare worker to push the doctor to do it. AND getting a referral for sterilisation, at last, it’s only taken 25 YEARS for someone to agree. I didn’t even get to discuss the reoccurunce of being run-down yet again. But compared to the previous issues that can wait for another appointment. I joined a zoom social thing, late because the doctor phoned me just before it started. And did my normal of not saying anything, I couldn’t get my voice heard today, after therapy and the doctor it was too difficult. Then the damn phone ran again… Now I hate phone calls, unexpected ones more so. Or was bad news from my support worker including that we’re going to have to redo an application that got lost in the system 😦 and was I okay to do that, well not today. I rejoin the social and sit there crocheting and trying to ask a question and failing. Then the fucking phone rings, AGAIN. This time it’s the aforementioned health care worker that pushed the doctor letting me know that she’d spoken to them. We previously spoke only yesterday, this is how good she is! Between yesterday afternoon and this morning she’d spoken to my surgery and made them aware of the need for other investigations. And the doctor mentioned she’d been in touch so I pushed for the MRI THAT SHE SHOULD HAVE REFERRED ME FOR A FUCKING YEAR AGO. Anyway, I finally found the right person who listened to me and immediately said Oh no this ain’t right! Oh and the doctor claimed that the psychiatrist is definitely going to get in touch with me, ateast that’s what he told her 2 weeks ago. Hmmmmm not convinced.

And so back to my social, where I continue to fail to ask one question. Stayed on for chair aerobics, it’s the most I could manage. And I feel so low today. There no enjoyment or satisfaction. Only stress and a sense that there’s so much to do that I’ll never be able to relax. Went and hung up the laundry and was trying to do some tidying when the phone rang yet again. Have I mention just how much I hate phone calls? I think I have muddled the order of these last two calls but never mind. My new network coordinator at Mind called, the Mental Health charity that dumped me in the shit back in March and didn’t contact me again until last week after being asked to do so by another charity. Side note, there’s a lot of charities involved here…. Where’s the state sponsored care? You know, the stuff that my NI contributions pay for?? Increase the NI rate and stop destroying the NHS Boris, you utter dick.

Ummmm, I got distracted. Ooh yeah I am going to a in real life face to face but outdoor and safely distanced social tomorrow… If I don’t have a panic attack in the morning. And I still have endless emails but managed to do a couple more. I even tried to make a call to my bank, but I got put on hold so gave up. Then joined a music jam, one I’d not tried before. Ended up singing solo on cam…. Never done that before. I want to push myself to sing solo publicly, the shame around that is something I might post about one day. But after an initial anxiety I just did it, which is how I end up doing most things. Despite that and the other lovely stuff others were singing I still feel FUCKING STRESSED. Looking out the window afterwards thinking about what to DO next and I noticed it’s raining and I suddenly NEEDED to get outside. My feelings of being trapped are really bad right now. I rushed to get into appropriate clothing, realised that the laundry was still hung outside, bugger. Not too wet though. Thought about getting food for the crows but the nausea was too great. So out I went. Deliberately the hardest route so I could get my heart rate up and burn off some of the AAAAAAAAAGH from today. Am now sat in the rain after my second bout of exercise today and I’m still fucking stressed. Though the music is helping. I need to go dancing. I was imagening myself out dancing during aerobics earlier. Its gotta happen soon. Maybe I’ll join one of the shitty parties that keep happening (if only I wasn’t aging and wanting my bed at night)

As I was getting ready to come out I picked up some money intending to try and acquire some crack, I had another drink the other day, it did fuck all for me barely even tasted good. I want oblivion. I cannot cope. Everything is too much. I put the money back. At the moment there’s still just enough rage at making dealers rich off my suffering and my money. There’s a bit of concern about letting people down/missing classes etc but I know that once I enter into that side of the mirror I’ll just brush it aside. The beautiful release is all that matters in the moment. I know it wouldn’t stay beautiful for long, I’ve been there, I know the routine. But right now. I’d take it.

I expect people would think I’d be proud of myself for putting the money back. I’m not. I have little to no joy or pleasure or satisfaction in anything. Its a thing I did out of rage and pain not because I am “strong” or doing the right thing. Yes the right thing was coming out for a walk, the right thing was putting the money back, the right thing was putting on music and not something else. Praise won’t get me where I need to be, or where I want to be. Don’t do it. It’s getting dark and cold I will have to go home soon, I am wishing I’d brought some money so I could at least buy alcohol. I don’t want to go back there.

Remind me to have a rant about my abelist gym manager. I’ve got a fight on my hands there.

And one day I will open those emails from my uncles about the memorial…