I’ve promised myself that I’m going to be more positive in this blog. It’s not good to keep ranting and raving and going on because I’m miserable. I’m going to focus on the positives in life and I’m going to use Tony Robbins to do it! Only because I can get free videos on YouTube and his talks usually last as long as my journey home. Bonus. See how positive I am?!
I was reading an interview with Executive Producer and Writer, Bob Lowry. He stated that he had been in therapy a lot over the years and that one therapist once said to him ‘Most people don’t wake up until they know they’re going to die.’ Ok, so this isn’t taking the cheery turn I had hoped for but I’m going to try hard to save this blog. Bear with me. Well what Tony says is similar to that way of thinking but he applies a little more to it. He states that not taking the opportunity to make the right choices for you can lead to depression and people wanting to end it all, because they’re miserable.
I think both of these statements are true. In one statement the results of impending doom can lead to a more positive outlook. In the other, positive changes early on can help to avoid a negative outcome. I expect most of us sleepwalk through life. I know I do and I put that down to the fact I wasn’t medicated for bipolar until 2 years ago. I have achieved a lot in those 2 years now that I have some clarity in my head but I know that I could have achieved more if things had gone differently. For others illness isn’t a factor but normal, everyday things can be. How many of you are putting off living your dreams while you raise your children, which could potentially take 20 years away from you while you wait. How many of us go to work every day and dream of being something else? Have you signed up to a course so you can start that degree or is money holding you back? Let’s face it, none of us ever have enough time or money and we use these obstacles as a reason for not moving forward with our dreams and desires.
Since I started this blog I’ve been reliving my dreams from my teen years of becoming a professional writer. The fact that I don’t know where to start, how to approach newspapers, can’t finish a novel to save my life, struggle with storylines in scripts and have major problems with tenses (you’ve probably noticed) isn’t going to stop me! I have a plan. I’m going to research tense and really try hard to perfect that as it affects every aspect of my writing. Then I’m going to send any articles and blog links to various appropriate papers, magazines and forums for review. It’s not a glamorous start but it’s a realistic one. And on top of it all it gives me a goal to work towards and a positive outlook on my future, which has helped with my depression a little.
https://www.facebook.com/myfamilyandjanice?ref=hl#!/AForayIntoPsychology/photos/a.252429588193012.38575.178422632260375/436848546417781/?type=1&theater
As Tony says, the key to starting to resolve issues in your life and feeling as if you’re taking some control is to take a problem and keep it realistic. We are all capable of dramatizing and catastrophising which blows our problems out of all proportions. An example of this, say you’re overweight. You may feel there’s nothing you can do about this. You justify that by saying ‘I’m big boned.’ Think about this reasoning for remaining unhappy with your weight. You’ve basically said there is nothing you can do about your situation. You can’t change your bone structure, size or weight, so you’re NEVER going to be happy about it. A better way of looking at your situation is to be realistic. You eat badly, but you don’t’ know how to change that. That’s understandable. I had no education in nutrition and a bad upbringing which left me with anxiety about hoarding food and overeating. I know changing these aspects of your life is not easy. But making a doctor’s appointment is easy. Speaking to the doctor and admitting that you just don’t know what to do to change this and would like some dietary advice is a small step in the right direction, and suddenly you’ve taken some control. This is a basic example but it does show how we over-think things and put obstacles in our own way at times.
Please let me know your thoughts.
Showing posts with label blogger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogger. Show all posts
Saturday, 20 September 2014
Saturday, 6 September 2014
30. Pretending To Be Me
More and more lately I’ve been feeling the effects of depression in between the moments of feeling nothing at all. I’m acting a little bit like a pregnant woman right now. I can go from nought to snot inducing crying phase in sixty seconds. And in those moments that’s when the world turns into a dark place. All my fears come rising to the surface, all my pain comes to call and my mind throws things at me which make me feel entirely worthless.
It’s at times like these that I wonder whether I can keep going with all this bipolar nonsense. It’s not as if having an understanding of this condition makes it any easier to live with. It’s not as if talking provides a cure. I’ve come to the realisation lately that there has never been a true moment of clarity in my entire life where I’ve known that the decisions I’m making are mine and mine alone and that I’ll stick with them. I’ve never been happy because from one week to the next something inside me keeps changing the rules. It’s like playing a game that you’re never going to win. And not a cool game like Super Mario or, during the speedier times, Sonic. No, it’s like playing Monopoly over and over again. Or as my husband calls it, Monotony. There is no winning. There’s just hard choices and times when you’re functional and have money and property then times when you can’t function and find you’ve lost everything. But just like the pieces on that board, you’re pretty much alone the whole time.
And the loneliness. Oh how I love that feeling. Not being able to connect to others because you can’t even bring yourself to like what you are. Well thanks for that one, Universe! And what’s the alternative? A ten minute session once every 3-6 months with a trainee psychiatrist, carrying on as best you can, pretending that you are the person you present to everyone, or giving in to it and becoming the insane, vibrating, paranoid, debilitated by OCD fruitcake who needs around the clock care that you know lives just a centimetre or so beneath your skin. There have been so many times in my life when I’ve thought about giving in to that but I’m not sure that giving up would be any better. It seems to me it would take less work to give up than to keep going and from what I understand there are drugs like Diazepam on tap in hospital, which is an incentive, but I’m not sure there’s any coming back from that state. No coming back and no way out.
So I live the lie. The one in which I work to the best of my ability, the one in which I embrace my fate, take my pills every day, wonder quietly about whether I will ever actually make a decision I can live with forever and tell people that I wish there was a cure for bipolar. But even that’s a lie. I don’t wish there was a cure. I wish there was a way to balance the chemicals in my brain so that I was always productive, creative, full of energy and able to do everything in life with ease. I want to be in a permanent state of hypo-mania. Sometimes I wonder whether my constant desire to have the things I can’t reach is born of those times when I’m in a hypo-manic state.
I’m reminded of Tennyson’s poem, ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’ in which he states ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’. And in contrast, Hunter S. Thompson’s quote ‘You can’t miss what you never had.’ That is my life all over, it seems. The polarity of these two statements mirrors the polarity of my entire existence.
Let me explain.
Tis better to have loved and lost. Tis better to have experienced a period of hypomanic behaviour during which you were productive, creative, happy, wild and carefree than never to have experienced one at all. Then, when you lose that feeling, despite feeling as if your wings have been clipped and the ensuing depression which takes over and the reminder that you once had a hell of a lot more control over your life, this is still a better state to be in, than to NEVER have experienced this state.
You can’t miss what you never had. You never experience hypo-mania, you never know that there is any other way of feeling than the normal range of emotions you go through. Your life is generally calm and collected with no dire need for excitement, no possibility of hallucinations and no desire to leave your life as it is and start a new one in a commune in LA.
So you can see which statement I feel more of an affinity with. Because let’s face it, it really IS worse to have experienced something amazing and then have it taken away from you, despite the fact that state also comes with hallucinations and other such novelties.
So will I ever be happy? Will I ever be content with my lot in life? It would appear this is something I should put to the latest trainee psychiatrist and see what they think. I’m sure they’ll have the answer I seek!
It’s at times like these that I wonder whether I can keep going with all this bipolar nonsense. It’s not as if having an understanding of this condition makes it any easier to live with. It’s not as if talking provides a cure. I’ve come to the realisation lately that there has never been a true moment of clarity in my entire life where I’ve known that the decisions I’m making are mine and mine alone and that I’ll stick with them. I’ve never been happy because from one week to the next something inside me keeps changing the rules. It’s like playing a game that you’re never going to win. And not a cool game like Super Mario or, during the speedier times, Sonic. No, it’s like playing Monopoly over and over again. Or as my husband calls it, Monotony. There is no winning. There’s just hard choices and times when you’re functional and have money and property then times when you can’t function and find you’ve lost everything. But just like the pieces on that board, you’re pretty much alone the whole time.
And the loneliness. Oh how I love that feeling. Not being able to connect to others because you can’t even bring yourself to like what you are. Well thanks for that one, Universe! And what’s the alternative? A ten minute session once every 3-6 months with a trainee psychiatrist, carrying on as best you can, pretending that you are the person you present to everyone, or giving in to it and becoming the insane, vibrating, paranoid, debilitated by OCD fruitcake who needs around the clock care that you know lives just a centimetre or so beneath your skin. There have been so many times in my life when I’ve thought about giving in to that but I’m not sure that giving up would be any better. It seems to me it would take less work to give up than to keep going and from what I understand there are drugs like Diazepam on tap in hospital, which is an incentive, but I’m not sure there’s any coming back from that state. No coming back and no way out.
So I live the lie. The one in which I work to the best of my ability, the one in which I embrace my fate, take my pills every day, wonder quietly about whether I will ever actually make a decision I can live with forever and tell people that I wish there was a cure for bipolar. But even that’s a lie. I don’t wish there was a cure. I wish there was a way to balance the chemicals in my brain so that I was always productive, creative, full of energy and able to do everything in life with ease. I want to be in a permanent state of hypo-mania. Sometimes I wonder whether my constant desire to have the things I can’t reach is born of those times when I’m in a hypo-manic state.
I’m reminded of Tennyson’s poem, ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’ in which he states ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’. And in contrast, Hunter S. Thompson’s quote ‘You can’t miss what you never had.’ That is my life all over, it seems. The polarity of these two statements mirrors the polarity of my entire existence.
Let me explain.
Tis better to have loved and lost. Tis better to have experienced a period of hypomanic behaviour during which you were productive, creative, happy, wild and carefree than never to have experienced one at all. Then, when you lose that feeling, despite feeling as if your wings have been clipped and the ensuing depression which takes over and the reminder that you once had a hell of a lot more control over your life, this is still a better state to be in, than to NEVER have experienced this state.
You can’t miss what you never had. You never experience hypo-mania, you never know that there is any other way of feeling than the normal range of emotions you go through. Your life is generally calm and collected with no dire need for excitement, no possibility of hallucinations and no desire to leave your life as it is and start a new one in a commune in LA.
So you can see which statement I feel more of an affinity with. Because let’s face it, it really IS worse to have experienced something amazing and then have it taken away from you, despite the fact that state also comes with hallucinations and other such novelties.
So will I ever be happy? Will I ever be content with my lot in life? It would appear this is something I should put to the latest trainee psychiatrist and see what they think. I’m sure they’ll have the answer I seek!
Saturday, 2 August 2014
25. What’s Wrong With Wiping Your Nose On A Nun?
A few people have mentioned to me now how lithium has affected their weight and that they find it harder to lose that weight once it’s on. I don’t know if this is because the medication affects metabolism or perhaps makes you crave certain foods. I know I have recently been told my entire diet revolves around eating sugar. It’s in everything I drink, eat, snort… just kidding. You can’t snort Smarties. I’ve tried. And the doctor has put me on a really strict diet to help reduce my risk of diabetes and other nasty symptoms.
Oh believe me, I fought it. I argued that I get enough exercise jigging about during my manic episodes and that I suffer from rapid cycling, which sounds far too close to a form of exercise for me to want to take part voluntarily.
But I lost that argument. So I’m sitting here typing next to a bowl of something green (that can’t be natural, surely) and the prospect of a dinner of aromatic lentils which even the cat wouldn’t go near the last time I prepared them. I’ll let you know if I actually lose any weight. I’ve been on the diet for nearly 2 weeks now and I complained to my colleague yesterday that I’m sick of eating tasteless salads. He told me that dieting is a journey of discovery. That I should look at it as a way of enhancing my self-discipline (how can you enhance something you never had in the first place?). As far as a journey of discovery goes, I’m quite looking forward to discovering just how many chins nature intended for me to have.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2602630/I-pooped-like-freaking-clockwork-What-happened-one-family-went-sugar-free-diet-one-year.html - Check out this article on how one family managed to get through a year on a sugar-free diet.
I’ve also started writing a bit more lately, which is nice. I think. I’ve actually found that when I try to write from the heart I usually end up writing about childhood. I had a rough time as a kid, as do a lot of people. But it would seem that if I start to dig deep it’s always that time that pops up and grabs the pen.
It’s been emotional writing about events I had hoped I’d put behind me but in some ways the fact that I’m an emotional wreck (crying on the train, in the supermarket, on that nun, etc) is good because this time I have a reason for it. You know what it’s like, right? Being down, crying for no reason, feeling like life is just too hard sometimes. And usually that’s all down to the chemicals in your brain. So when you have a REASON for reacting that way, it’s almost comforting! I’ll let you know how it goes. It may be my big break into writing and this time next year I’ll be collecting my BAFTA (I’ve already written my speech. Hey, writer’s write).
Oh believe me, I fought it. I argued that I get enough exercise jigging about during my manic episodes and that I suffer from rapid cycling, which sounds far too close to a form of exercise for me to want to take part voluntarily.
But I lost that argument. So I’m sitting here typing next to a bowl of something green (that can’t be natural, surely) and the prospect of a dinner of aromatic lentils which even the cat wouldn’t go near the last time I prepared them. I’ll let you know if I actually lose any weight. I’ve been on the diet for nearly 2 weeks now and I complained to my colleague yesterday that I’m sick of eating tasteless salads. He told me that dieting is a journey of discovery. That I should look at it as a way of enhancing my self-discipline (how can you enhance something you never had in the first place?). As far as a journey of discovery goes, I’m quite looking forward to discovering just how many chins nature intended for me to have.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2602630/I-pooped-like-freaking-clockwork-What-happened-one-family-went-sugar-free-diet-one-year.html - Check out this article on how one family managed to get through a year on a sugar-free diet.
I’ve also started writing a bit more lately, which is nice. I think. I’ve actually found that when I try to write from the heart I usually end up writing about childhood. I had a rough time as a kid, as do a lot of people. But it would seem that if I start to dig deep it’s always that time that pops up and grabs the pen.
It’s been emotional writing about events I had hoped I’d put behind me but in some ways the fact that I’m an emotional wreck (crying on the train, in the supermarket, on that nun, etc) is good because this time I have a reason for it. You know what it’s like, right? Being down, crying for no reason, feeling like life is just too hard sometimes. And usually that’s all down to the chemicals in your brain. So when you have a REASON for reacting that way, it’s almost comforting! I’ll let you know how it goes. It may be my big break into writing and this time next year I’ll be collecting my BAFTA (I’ve already written my speech. Hey, writer’s write).
Saturday, 5 July 2014
21. Over The Bills And Dales
Wandering into Lynmouth the next day we were still smarting a little from the bill we’d received from the art gallery trying desperately to justify it by reminding ourselves that we haven’t had a holiday or weekend off in over a year.
On our way down the hill from our hotel we noticed a sign for another hotel, tucked away in the woods like a little fairy-tale cottage. It looked lovely so I suggested we walk down the long, winding, tree-lined road to the hotel and check it out for our next visit. Half way down the lane it turned cold under the shadow of the leafy trees and it started to feel as though we’d walked out of our own space and time and into a creepy fairy tale. To get to the cottage you had to follow a path which descended into the woods and the closer you got to the building the more it loomed above you. It was looking less like a cottage and more like a small castle by the time we reached it. Turrets strutted out from its rooftops and inside we could see grandly decorated veneered fireplaces surrounded by plush high backed chairs and shelves of old books.
We wandered to the front of the building where a balcony overlooked the hillside down to the sea and that’s when it happened. The large door to the castle opened slowly and with a loud and ominous creek. Both my hubby and I turned to see someone peering at us through the dark crack in the door.
‘You rang?’
I swear to God that’s what he said!
‘I’m sorry?’ I asked.
‘You rang for cream teas?’
‘Oh. No, we’re just looking around,’ I said and we both stood in silence as the large door creaked to a close again.
My husband turned to me and said ‘Welcoming.’
We practically ran back up the road to civilisation, all the way joking that the man’s mother would have asked him to invite the nice people in and put them up in the guest wing but that she’d turn out to be just a voice in his head because she’d actually died 50 years ago. And not like the nice voices in my head that encourage me to buy ice creams and giggle when people trip. She’d be the kind that makes him feel bad about standing over your bed at night watching you sleep, as he tries to hold himself back from touching you!
When we made it back to our own century we eventually happened across a small combined pottery studio and artists workshop. We went inside, weary from our short walk down a bit of a hill (what? We’re on holiday). And inside were some more beautiful things! Paintings of spitfires, boats, landscapes, animals. A whole variety all in different styles and then I realised that a picture of a hare with the most amazing expression on its face was one I recognised from the gallery we’d been in the day before. In fact it was probably the ONLY picture I didn’t buy, even though I wanted to.
The name of the artist was Dale Bowen and looking over at the artist at the workbench I said ‘I love this guy. We just bought some of his work in Linton.’
The artist mumbled something I didn’t really hear and so I carried on, as I do.
‘I like his pictures of rams in spaceships.’ What? I do! Art is subjective, people.
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he mumbled a bit more clearly this time.
‘Say what now?’
‘That’s me. I’m Dale.’
… silence… awe… shock…
And then it was like meeting three people all in one body. He was Billy Connelly, mixed with some bloke from Stoke on Trent mixed with Michael MacIntyre. He wasn’t just A character, he was several characters. All of whom were very nice guys.
He showed us his work from when he was working for Wedgewood and when we told him we have family in Portsmouth he proceeded to tell us about the time he was asked to make and decorate a plaque for the Battle of Trafalgar 200 years celebrations at Portsmouth Naval Museum. The plaque was to be presented to her Majesty The Queen onboard HMS Victory. He was allowed to bring the plaque in and set it but was then escorted off the base by two burly sailors. The rest of the story mostly involved being in the pub while he waited for his train and being bought pints by all the nice people he met there.
Once my hubby told him he’d owned a bike shop they were both happy as Larry comparing bikes and stories of riding trips. It was, all in all, a very pleasant afternoon and I was sad to leave. Of course I did buy the hare picture and Dale kindly signed a card for me which had his ‘Through The Treetops’ picture on the front. He even drew a pom pom fuzzy creature on it for me. I was chuffed.
Meeting Dale made my entire weekend. I know, it was a close call between him and Mr No Pants, but I think Dale just inched it… euw, I think I’m going to rethink that line.
On our way down the hill from our hotel we noticed a sign for another hotel, tucked away in the woods like a little fairy-tale cottage. It looked lovely so I suggested we walk down the long, winding, tree-lined road to the hotel and check it out for our next visit. Half way down the lane it turned cold under the shadow of the leafy trees and it started to feel as though we’d walked out of our own space and time and into a creepy fairy tale. To get to the cottage you had to follow a path which descended into the woods and the closer you got to the building the more it loomed above you. It was looking less like a cottage and more like a small castle by the time we reached it. Turrets strutted out from its rooftops and inside we could see grandly decorated veneered fireplaces surrounded by plush high backed chairs and shelves of old books.
We wandered to the front of the building where a balcony overlooked the hillside down to the sea and that’s when it happened. The large door to the castle opened slowly and with a loud and ominous creek. Both my hubby and I turned to see someone peering at us through the dark crack in the door.
‘You rang?’
I swear to God that’s what he said!
‘I’m sorry?’ I asked.
‘You rang for cream teas?’
‘Oh. No, we’re just looking around,’ I said and we both stood in silence as the large door creaked to a close again.
My husband turned to me and said ‘Welcoming.’
We practically ran back up the road to civilisation, all the way joking that the man’s mother would have asked him to invite the nice people in and put them up in the guest wing but that she’d turn out to be just a voice in his head because she’d actually died 50 years ago. And not like the nice voices in my head that encourage me to buy ice creams and giggle when people trip. She’d be the kind that makes him feel bad about standing over your bed at night watching you sleep, as he tries to hold himself back from touching you!
When we made it back to our own century we eventually happened across a small combined pottery studio and artists workshop. We went inside, weary from our short walk down a bit of a hill (what? We’re on holiday). And inside were some more beautiful things! Paintings of spitfires, boats, landscapes, animals. A whole variety all in different styles and then I realised that a picture of a hare with the most amazing expression on its face was one I recognised from the gallery we’d been in the day before. In fact it was probably the ONLY picture I didn’t buy, even though I wanted to.
The name of the artist was Dale Bowen and looking over at the artist at the workbench I said ‘I love this guy. We just bought some of his work in Linton.’
The artist mumbled something I didn’t really hear and so I carried on, as I do.
‘I like his pictures of rams in spaceships.’ What? I do! Art is subjective, people.
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he mumbled a bit more clearly this time.
‘Say what now?’
‘That’s me. I’m Dale.’
… silence… awe… shock…
And then it was like meeting three people all in one body. He was Billy Connelly, mixed with some bloke from Stoke on Trent mixed with Michael MacIntyre. He wasn’t just A character, he was several characters. All of whom were very nice guys.
He showed us his work from when he was working for Wedgewood and when we told him we have family in Portsmouth he proceeded to tell us about the time he was asked to make and decorate a plaque for the Battle of Trafalgar 200 years celebrations at Portsmouth Naval Museum. The plaque was to be presented to her Majesty The Queen onboard HMS Victory. He was allowed to bring the plaque in and set it but was then escorted off the base by two burly sailors. The rest of the story mostly involved being in the pub while he waited for his train and being bought pints by all the nice people he met there.
Once my hubby told him he’d owned a bike shop they were both happy as Larry comparing bikes and stories of riding trips. It was, all in all, a very pleasant afternoon and I was sad to leave. Of course I did buy the hare picture and Dale kindly signed a card for me which had his ‘Through The Treetops’ picture on the front. He even drew a pom pom fuzzy creature on it for me. I was chuffed.
Meeting Dale made my entire weekend. I know, it was a close call between him and Mr No Pants, but I think Dale just inched it… euw, I think I’m going to rethink that line.
Saturday, 28 June 2014
20. Mr Starey And The Case Of The Missing Pants
My hubby has decided that we need a break (a holiday break, not an ‘I’m leaving and I’m taking the hamster’ break) and so he has booked a weekend away for us in Devon. Now I’m quite geographically challenged so if the place I describe sounds more like Weymouth, don’t be surprised.
We decided that Linton was the place for us. We’ve been before, about twelve years ago and loved it, partly because it’s sleepy and relaxing out of season and partly because it has a fantastic art gallery which very kindly takes lots of money off of us in exchange for beautiful things which would be pointless in a flood. Not sure why that’s relevant but my thinking is that sometimes you have to have beautiful things in your life, even if using them for kindling in an apocalyptic situation might break your heart. I guess it’s them or the cat and I’m not sure the cat would make good kindling. If you ate a cat would it taste like Whiskas? Just a thought.
Anyway, Linton is a great place. It’s a secret St Ives in my opinion. Years ago St Ives was a place artistic types could go to be inspired by the sea, make pottery and remain drunk or stoned throughout high season with everyone else being far too busy to notice. I’d say that between 50-75% of the business owners, artists and residents that we met in Linton fell within the category ‘child of the sixties’. I’m not sure I had an entirely sensible conversation with a single one of them.
The hotel played awful fifties music at breakfast which was, thankfully, the only time we were there to endure it. I honestly believe that songs with the words ‘Gee’ and ‘Whizz’ should probably be reclassified as offensive and never played again except by old people, in their own kitchens, at home. If grandkids call round there must be a strong cease and desist policy lest they be charged with child abuse and if the neighbours can hear it because the oldies have their back door ajar, a complaint should be sent to the council and the couple considered for immediate eviction.
It was worse than when we went to Bulgaria around 10 years ago. There they played Eminem morning noon and night. Eminem at breakfast. Eminem at dinner. Eminem in the lifts. Eminem in the public loo. I’m not sure if he was paying them or they were paying him but there was some sort of underhanded deal going on.
We quickly found the gallery we love and decided, as you do, that we were only going to look this time and if we bought something it would be one picture at a sensible price. Two hours later we found ourselves shoe-horning 4 extremely large pictures into my Toyota Aygo which has a boot the size of a postage stamp. We considered we may have to leave the suitcases behind but I can buy clothes anywhere. This is ART!
The first evening there we booked into a Spanish restaurant which had about 7 tables squeezed into it. The buzz of the place was nice but when you’re sitting elbow to elbow with people you’ve got to hope they’ll be nice, normal folks.
To my left I had a man who wouldn’t stop staring at me the entire night. I don’t think he was looking at anything in particular, he just seemed to want to peer into my soul and choke it to death with his cold, dead eyes - that’s all.
To my right was a man wearing flesh coloured trousers and a red jumper, which was equally as disturbing as Mr Starey simply because whenever I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, it looked as if he was wearing nothing BUT a red jumper. I kept wanting him to get up so I could wipe the seat down.
As the night went on Mr Starey proceeded to develop a cold or perhaps an allergy to sanity and sneezed loudly into his own hand on several occasions. This wasn’t so bad because it did mean he had to take his eyes off me while he wiped said hand on his khakis. Relief from one awful habit was followed only by the taste of my own sick as another revealed itself.
The food was actually very nice. We had a selection of tapas. Meatballs, lemon prawns, crostini, pork skewers and olives. All of which were lovely. The lemon prawns in particular reminded me of those wipes you used to get in a small metallic wrapper. You take them out, wipe your hands and invariably somehow get the taste of lemon soap in your mouth. Yes, very reminiscent of flights to Amsterdam.
End of day one.
Saturday, 7 June 2014
17. Irrational? Me?! Screw you... Nan!!
They say that both bipolar type 1 and 2 are synonymous with irrational behaviour and feelings. I know the most common feeling I experience which is highly irrational is loneliness. I can be on a crowded train, surrounded by people and feeling happy one minute. The next minute I’ll feel I have to reach out to somebody right now or I might die of the desperate feeling that’s just slammed into me. The loneliness feels as if it’s eating me from the inside out and I know it’s irrational even when it’s happening, even when I’m desperately checking Facebook for the ten thousandth time for a comment or a sign that someone is online to talk to.
Most recently I’ve been chatting via text to a friend of mine every day. We discuss creative things we both like, writing, photography, websites, films etc. This week he told me he was going away for 2 days. He was taking his phone, he could still text but he wasn’t going to be in the place that I always imagine him when he usually texts me, he was going to be miles away. We’ve gone long periods without talking before but once I knew he was going away up North I suddenly felt extremely lonely, when in reality nothing was going to be any different.
I think this is a throw-back to the days when I was constantly depressed. I suffered due to the feeling of loneliness then too. I remember once being at a cocktail party (it wasn’t a posh one, it was one where everyone ended up showing their knickers at the end of the night). At one point I looked around and I wondered if everyone there was pretending too, if the happiness and the smiles were all plastered on, just like mine. And I felt incredibly lonely in that room full of friends.
I think what bothers me is that when I get two seconds of peace from my ever churning and changing emotions I realise that there’s no way I want to be like this. Those moments of peace are like waking from a bad dream in which all irrational feelings and odd behaviours have seemed entirely normal. It’s only upon waking from it that you realise they are far from normal, but by then you’ve probably lost a friend or two or become obsessive to the point you’ve driven someone away.
I wouldn’t mind if the doctors could tell you what’s going on in your own brain. Why it’s backfiring and conspiring against you to make you unsociable and odd to the extreme. But they can’t. They tell me it’s a chemical imbalance but they don’t even know which chemicals are playing see-saw in my brain.
So if pumping 1 in every 100 people full of battery components does the trick most of the time I guess we have to go along with it. I love the lithium and the effect it has on my tired yet busy brain. But just like the symptoms it aims to control, I find I’m totally at its mercy.
I often find I become more than a little fixated on things. I look to Facebook one hundred times a day for someone to reach out to and when I’m met with the standard ‘Like’ in response to my posts I find myself feeling even more desperate and alone.
What I want to write:
“Do you ever hate your life so much you can feel it crushing your chest? Have you ever felt so lonely you think you’re going to drown in sadness? Do you feel as if your insides are empty of everything except liquid pain sloshing about in the gaps between your ribs? No. Me neither (except I do really).”
What I actually write:
(Post a picture of me looking happy with my family).
“You can tell we’re related by the genetic uni-brow.”
I usually try to make the posts I write funny, but at times they hide what I’m really trying to say which is ‘I’m drowning here. I need someone to reach out and save me.’ The funnier the posts, the more frequent, the more I’ll find I’m flailing and the more dependent I become on nothing more than a networking site to quell my loneliness. And so today I wrote this note to Facebook as a way of trying to break my dependency.
“You know what, Facebook? We’ve had some great times together. No, some AMAZING times. Remember the time you posted a picture of a seagull dive-bombing me on the beach in Spain and me and my friends all laughed and laughed? Ahh, good times.
“The trouble is that just lately I keep feeling like our relationship is taking a lot of effort. And I feel as though I’m the one putting in all the work, if I’m honest.
“I hate to tell you this, but I’ve started using Blogger. I’m sorry, I can see the pain on your face… book. The thing is, it just feels so easy. No short, stunted sentences or awkward jokes. I don’t have to hide behind the laughs and I don’t have to check in monotonously. Blogger just lets me talk and talk and be myself and when we’re done I just walk away. Sometimes for days.
“So I guess what I’m trying to say is… I think we need some space. I need to get my head straight. Stop looking so hurt. I know you see other people. The evidence is there for all to see, so don’t bother denying it.
“It’s over, ok? I’m sorry, but we’re done. At least until Friday when I’ll undoubtedly weaken after a glass of wine and pine for the length of your timeline like I always do.
“Just know that no matter what happens from here on in, I’ll always love you.”
Most recently I’ve been chatting via text to a friend of mine every day. We discuss creative things we both like, writing, photography, websites, films etc. This week he told me he was going away for 2 days. He was taking his phone, he could still text but he wasn’t going to be in the place that I always imagine him when he usually texts me, he was going to be miles away. We’ve gone long periods without talking before but once I knew he was going away up North I suddenly felt extremely lonely, when in reality nothing was going to be any different.
I think this is a throw-back to the days when I was constantly depressed. I suffered due to the feeling of loneliness then too. I remember once being at a cocktail party (it wasn’t a posh one, it was one where everyone ended up showing their knickers at the end of the night). At one point I looked around and I wondered if everyone there was pretending too, if the happiness and the smiles were all plastered on, just like mine. And I felt incredibly lonely in that room full of friends.
I think what bothers me is that when I get two seconds of peace from my ever churning and changing emotions I realise that there’s no way I want to be like this. Those moments of peace are like waking from a bad dream in which all irrational feelings and odd behaviours have seemed entirely normal. It’s only upon waking from it that you realise they are far from normal, but by then you’ve probably lost a friend or two or become obsessive to the point you’ve driven someone away.
I wouldn’t mind if the doctors could tell you what’s going on in your own brain. Why it’s backfiring and conspiring against you to make you unsociable and odd to the extreme. But they can’t. They tell me it’s a chemical imbalance but they don’t even know which chemicals are playing see-saw in my brain.
So if pumping 1 in every 100 people full of battery components does the trick most of the time I guess we have to go along with it. I love the lithium and the effect it has on my tired yet busy brain. But just like the symptoms it aims to control, I find I’m totally at its mercy.
I often find I become more than a little fixated on things. I look to Facebook one hundred times a day for someone to reach out to and when I’m met with the standard ‘Like’ in response to my posts I find myself feeling even more desperate and alone.
What I want to write:
“Do you ever hate your life so much you can feel it crushing your chest? Have you ever felt so lonely you think you’re going to drown in sadness? Do you feel as if your insides are empty of everything except liquid pain sloshing about in the gaps between your ribs? No. Me neither (except I do really).”
What I actually write:
(Post a picture of me looking happy with my family).
“You can tell we’re related by the genetic uni-brow.”
I usually try to make the posts I write funny, but at times they hide what I’m really trying to say which is ‘I’m drowning here. I need someone to reach out and save me.’ The funnier the posts, the more frequent, the more I’ll find I’m flailing and the more dependent I become on nothing more than a networking site to quell my loneliness. And so today I wrote this note to Facebook as a way of trying to break my dependency.
“You know what, Facebook? We’ve had some great times together. No, some AMAZING times. Remember the time you posted a picture of a seagull dive-bombing me on the beach in Spain and me and my friends all laughed and laughed? Ahh, good times.
“The trouble is that just lately I keep feeling like our relationship is taking a lot of effort. And I feel as though I’m the one putting in all the work, if I’m honest.
“I hate to tell you this, but I’ve started using Blogger. I’m sorry, I can see the pain on your face… book. The thing is, it just feels so easy. No short, stunted sentences or awkward jokes. I don’t have to hide behind the laughs and I don’t have to check in monotonously. Blogger just lets me talk and talk and be myself and when we’re done I just walk away. Sometimes for days.
“So I guess what I’m trying to say is… I think we need some space. I need to get my head straight. Stop looking so hurt. I know you see other people. The evidence is there for all to see, so don’t bother denying it.
“It’s over, ok? I’m sorry, but we’re done. At least until Friday when I’ll undoubtedly weaken after a glass of wine and pine for the length of your timeline like I always do.
“Just know that no matter what happens from here on in, I’ll always love you.”
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