Category Archives: WRITE TO RECOVER

Write to recover.

Crown me

Own your crown like it is your temple- for the crown you choose to wear will define your silhouette to others and your temple reveals the boundaries that form the foundations of your character.These are my words for today.

Can I have a sugar daddy?

Aaaaaaaaargh! I have been putting off this post for a while. I mean the one guy

You were the first real man I knew  not some boy but a real man.

I tell myself I have dealt with the indifference. Yet, as soon as I find a way to make contact again. I let all my pride go and open my heart and soul to you. I do it publicly on social media websites. I end up looking pathetic but I don’t care.

I post things like:

I hope you will forgive me  one day so  we can build up a better relationship

or I  tag you hoping you will comment back.

I am looking after your queen. I won’t let you down. 

 I comment on those silly quizzes you do  that pop up on Facebook, like

WHAT NATIONALITY SHOULD YOU BE? –

 ME: You got you look like a Spaniard – haha!  funny I got I should be  American (silence)

New comment from a friend:  I got Portuguese 

You to friend : you look Portuguese

I don’t want anything from you . Okay that is a lie. I only want a bit of your time, a few words once a few years.

She warned me not to go there again. I wasn’t prepared to have my heart  broken again.Well, not broken but pumping with less voracity than before.

I know I wasn’t the most affable of characters all those years back. I mean what did I know at 12, 15 years old? 24 years old ?  Not much.

Yet, that was when you first turned your back on me.

I know I have mental health issues and to you it’s all just,

DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA

 A heads up? It’s not been a fucking picnic or tropical island holiday for me either.

Do you ever think about me?

What do you feel when you look at a picture of me? Do you look at pictures of me?

Are you so distant with everyone?  We’ve been drunk and stoned together and you are a legend at Karaoke . Over the years, I  have seen how you make everyone laugh…

Why don’t you talk to me when I Skype? I know I fall way down the bottom of  the  hierarchy chain of the many  girls in your life.

 To have a slice of your heart…

Well, of what is left to give. Is that what it is? You haven’t got any more heart to give?

I don’t want much… a few words, a phone call – no maybe that is too much..

Okay ,what about a teeny tiny interest in my life on social media perhaps… You live so far away  and it’s my only source of contact.

Why do you reply to other peoples comments on what you post but not mine?

Why don’t you reply to my emails?

I’m  not bad. I’m actually a fucking awesome person. Why can’t the past stay where it is.

Don’t judge me.

I don’t judge you.

I thought I had closed the door on ever having a chance with you again. I opened it again three months ago,, feeling we were in a more equal position. Me being older and you being older – wiser they say..

Never mind, I have  googled the meaning for indifference again and read it out loud,to  remind myself.

I can’t make you love me or want to contact me. I know you are going through hard times – if you must know-

we all do .

Maybe if you decided to chat properly with me I could make you laugh. We may find out we have more in common than you think.

Done with this post.  Finally got it out of my head. I can move on again.

No blame.

Never blame.

I am an adult and I choose to be happy.

I don’t resent you.

I am curious to know you.

am sure if you let me closer, you would find I actually like you and love you- unconditionally.

But it is cool.

You are over there and I am over here.

Living our lives.

Your blood runs through my veins.

 Nothings changed and that is cool too.

Indifference it is then, dad.

The queen of my mind.

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Yes, it exposes my vulnerability. I am merely human. I have bad days and good days. This letter is to the so-called friend I’ve kept as consul for most of my life.

Dear Anorexia and all the other secondary mental illnesses

I always seem to put this post off. I usually come out with all these things I have to say to you at the wrong times. Like when I am having a bath.

Erm…inappropriate.

Okay, I sought you out. I did.

I begged you to be my friend and you eventually became the only friend I had. I didn’t want to lose everything. So, despite how I felt or how much pain I was in when I hurt myself, I did it. We had a strong bond. Bonds are not easily broken. Not even now, when I don’t want to be friends any more.

I thought you might be a bit more understanding if you understood what you took from me and what I allowed you to take.

You took most of my life experiences and made me put on a pair of your glasses so that I could only see life through your perspective.I didn’t have strong vision to begin with so I accepted your gift and I still wear them every now and then. I don’t know why you want me to hurt myself,

Life: everything I have ever seen and experienced has been through a filter of your making. You have had the final decision before I get to see anything, so I can then process it and carry on.

You encouraged me to self harm in so many other ways Drugs, cutting, taking chances, impulsive behaviour, getting into trouble. I don’t know if friends should really do that but I only had you. What did I know

You are jealous. I became your reflection..

Your reflection.

I had no life in me for many years. I was merely a toy- puppet of yours. Attached to strings to dance to your cacophonous melody. Sometimes I still feel you, hear you. Pulling me up. Making me go in a direction I don’t want to go in.

Every interest I had, be it watching a movie or reading or going to a rave and dancing or talking to people to try and make friends- you stole that from me.

I allowed it. I only see now, how awesome I can be without you. Fucking cool bananas.

You told me I was peculiar , not like other people, special, different.

You did a remarkable job of making me think that nobody understood the words, I spoke so I stopped talking. I let your talk for me- everyday, every living moment. Every tick of the clock. Your voice. Sounds so soft to others- barely audible- Invisible. To me it sounds more like a constant shriek in my mind, I feel anything but invisible – I feel I take up too much space.

Figure that one out? I can’t.

I lost my family. People thought I had an ego and thought that I was up my own fucking arse.

I only wanted to like myself.

I just wanted to feel good about myself. I thought you could help. If I was attractive to others people would get me and see all my awesome qualities and my true personality. You couldn’t stop at that.

You needed to coerce me into changing one small thing , then another small thing. You helped chip away everything that made me ME until I was lost and abandoned in the dark.

A vacant spot in a vast pool of darkness.A world of black and white. If people tried to talk to me you turned up the white noise. I sat there motionless.

Every person who spoke to me or who tried to be a friend to me -you would whisper they were lying to us, they don’t like us.

Always

be on your guard.

Your motto.

You taught me that. I was and I am still on guard.

You know what?

Fuck this ..I’m not wallowing in the past.

What I really want you to know is I don’t want you in my life at all.

I was wrong and made a mistake.

I know better now.

I have a choice – it is my choice who will be in my life. Yes, you are powerful enough to try and come between everyone I love. I won’t let you.

I won’t.

You want to be friends with my daughter.

NEVER WILL I ALLOW THAT.

I know your true face. There is nothing behind that mask. I rip it off and before I can see the true you you dissolve right before my eyes. You need me more than I need you,mate.

You still try to convince me that our friendship is a blessing – that you give me strength to live.

I’m pretty convinced if I could find the cord that links me to you, I would be brave enough to cut it and I would finally start breathing properly again. I would learn how to breathe again. I would succeed.

How many times am I going to have to evict you from my mind?

Why don’t you get it?

I’m done with trying to kill myself.

You have taught me one thing – I am not at your mercy to live or die. You don’t get to choose because : I. won’t. let. you.

You crept back into my life last year.

So cunning, so sly……

Look at you smirking -so sure, so smug.

Like a snake, you slithered and curled around my whole body. I remember the familiarity of your touch -cold. Cold means thin. This means I’m winning. Your charm nearly disarmed me again.

In what seemed like mere seconds,your entire body had coiled itself around my neck -suffocating me. I nearly lost my mind for you again. A couple more months and I could have been back in the hospital.

I’m not some new friend of yours that has to be emaciated to believe I have earned your undying friendship. Today, I live in a body and a mind I have created.

To try and cast you out. Of course you weren’t going anywhere. How naive I still can be after all these years.

Why would you go somewhere else when you have everything you need in me.

Today,

I am healthy.

You tell me I’m fat.

I’m not fat.

I eat and you tell me to pinch my skin, you tell me to loathe it. You yell at me , telling me to grip my bones.

You tell me the bones have been lost in my womanly body.

How dare I grow up?

How dare I start having periods again?

How dare I have a child?

How dare I put her first ?

How dare I empower myself……

Now,you listen to me. You can make me cry- you know you can.

You know that every living moment I know you are with me, in me.

You won’t even let me be touched and loved by my own husband.

I flinch when he touches me because you have convinced me that my body is wrong.

It has taken four years to get to the place where I am with my husband. You don’t want me to enjoy being loved.

You don’t like affection.

Affection means a chance to be loved.

Your kind of love is like boiling water and third degree burns – plastic melting and merging with my skin -never letting go ;forever scarred and deformed.

All this to make sure you have me forever. You feed on my thoughts.

Why won’t you let me watch a fucking movie with my partner without making me aware of my body?

You are sick. Contagious. A reoccurring infection.

I don’t want to be sick. I know I can’t just get rid of you. For a time I was able to shut you out and started living.

Oh, what a jealous friend you have been. You plotted and planned – ready for your comeback .

Always had to be the one who has to take the lead part.

You can’t have the lead part in my life any more. My life is my stage. I am a producer,editor, stagehand, actor, writer, graphics producer , costume designer, light technician . Your dear friend has been made redundant.

See ,The terms and conditions of our contract?

See this lighter in my hand? Flame jumps from container to paper – it can’t lick up the paper quick enough.

I’m the one who says what goes in the script and what doesn’t

No, I know you don’t like this. You are laughing in my face. What was that?

I have no confidence,

I’m needy, lazy, a failure.

You are right,I’m not fucking perfect. How many times have I nearly died doing your bidding?

I want to be happy.

No, not your idea of happiness.

I want to forget about being aware of how you want me to feel about my body. I want to enjoy each moment away from the knowledge that my body is just there.

Today, I respect my body. You don’t need a mask to cover up the fact you have no idea what that word means.

I had so many things I had in my head …. to say to you…

I feel you still don’t get it.

I know I eat.

I have to eat . Don’t put the guilt trip on me if I feel hungry.

Yes,I do. I love food. There are so many more types of food I want to try and I am still afraid to try . I am learning though.

Every book or film or conversation I have ever had was drowned out by your voice or because I couldn’t stand to hear your voice again , I drugged myself, tried to take my life

– oh so many times.

Yet, I still stand..

You won’t go because you love a challenge. you enjoy the struggle.

How boring would it be for me to just give up.

Oh don’t get me wrong, love.

I have nearly died for you and you happily appeared to allow it. We both know you became my friend because you knew I would fight you.

Still now, twenty odd years later I fight you.

No – you can’t have increasingly lower digits. I have set the bar for what weight I can live with. I’m not going to stop eating if I go over that weight threshold. – I will cope. I will get back to my safe weight.

You hate the fact I exercise to keep fit and on track-to focus -to keep me rational – I have found out the secret you have hidden from me for so long.

I’m not going to binge or take laxatives again. It fucking hurts. 100 laxatives a day for how many years. I’m not buying into that abuse any longer.

You are having so much fun with me at this moment. Forever toying…..

The scales have gone up. I should know I’ve only been there with you over 50 fucking times today on that scale. Willing that 1.5 kilo of weight to go down.

I am not having fun.

I am a woman not a child. My spirit is not a newborn. You can’t corrupt it like you did all those years ago.

I get periods. There is a lot of ‘I don’t want’ that comes with the power to create life.

Fluid retention is one of them. You want me to think that these laws of a woman’s body don’t apply to me. Your arrogance never fails to catch me off guard.

You want me to think I have lost control…….

I see all this and I hate you with every thought, every emotion, everything.

Yet, you still won’ t go away

You may be having fun but I’m not having fun and I don’t want to play.

You have brought many foes to my door- snuck them in. Bipolar ,a so-called personality disorder, the list goes on and on. All free loaders.

Remember when I was at the height of my career? You wouldn’t let me become more successful. It wasn’t your definition of success so you took it from me.

Remember when I tried to better myself and go to college?

You fucked with my head then too.

Yes, I got my degree, eventually. I nearly died getting it.

I nearly died getting my daughter back too.

You like the fighters. The ones that put up a struggle. The more I struggled the more obstacles you put in my way- one of your finest tricks was the abusive relationship act.

I finally see you are indeed a one trick pony.

Well done, a round of applause.

You are not the master of my mind any more.

You are a bully- deranged.

YOU CAN’T HAVE ME!

I’m getting married and you can’t stop that. Yes, I know I’m vulnerable because I need to fit into my wedding dress.

Guess what?

I am going to have another child and I won’t let you stop me. I am going to nourish life, nurture it like I should have done the first time.

I will be free of the medication I take to stop you from having the upper hand all the time . I don’t think you have realised,

the fight you have with me, does not just end with me alone any more. You continue to take me on -you are now taking me and my family on.

You are a threat to my life- no not a pathetic one,but one full of joy and love and respect. You hate it. I don’t know why you won’t allow me to love.

Where did you come from ? and what made you so malicious?

I can’t be your therapist and provider.

Yes, we are back to fighting again;

I don’t need tarot cards to know the ending to this.

I’m winning.

Yes, I am.

You are strong, I will give you that but I have had four years of some kind of freedom from you –

You ,dear friend, let your guard down .

Thank you, because you gave me another reason to live and want to be alive. The devil I know or the glimpses of joy I have found in living ?

you lose,

check mate!

I will continue to rise as the queen of my mind and your whole kingdom built on flimsy lies is going to come toppling down.

If you are going to throw a punch – don’t let your guard down.

Practice what you preach.

 

These voices

These voices in my head gossip it’s a constant source of bedlam.

They never stop,

They never leave.

Their constant trolling,

There incessant banter

Sparks a hell-raising fire

Until I kick out from cracking up from all of their heckling.

I imagine a dark horse rescues me so I can canter away, breathe in the ocean air.

Keep up this distraction forever.

These voices make me pull at my hair, I see I have a few grey hairs now.

Droopy disproportionate boobs.

I fear the larger breast a whole 2 cup sizes bigger needs to be stabbed, squeezed, cleansed from the infected fat.

If only this would quell these voices in my homely self made asylum.

Perhaps my patients would snap back into reality

Snap out of their various maladies.

Even when my glass house shatters

These voices know I’ll glue back each piece bit by bit in an attempt to make myself better.

These voices know they can always come back.

Rent-free

The foods on me.

Feeding on the folds of my imperfect flaws.

That emotion I can only describe as fatness.

A feeling, a thought, a moment, an eternity, a sense of a loss of control.

It comes and it goes

It takes a second glance

Catches me off guard.

I have to take pictures to believe I am not hallucinating. Pictures lie.

They do and then a second glance and they don’t.

They do and they don’t.

They do and they don’t.

They do and they don’t.

This is what these voices chant.

That fatness comes

That fatness goes with a second glance.

Another thought pulls through for me

One second glance

One more chance to be lucid.

To survive another day

To survive another day

Only for these bastard critters to gorge on my mind.

Make all their fears mine.

These voices, they scream at me.

They yell at me.

They tell me to go away.

Often when I wish to disappear I dissociate

Have a rest

Go on autopilot.

Leave the carnival of freaks to cast me out.

I want to process what I hear, what I watch, what I read, what I see without them humming their filth in my head.

I want to be present

Tune into my world

Reality.

where it truly matters.

I don’t want to miss connecting with my loved ones.

These mouthpieces…

I have nothing left to say.

Last night I called Samaratins

I’ve always been skeptical about accessing services such as Samaratins however since I’ve been actively trying to help myself become mentally well again, I reached out via email to find uot more about Samaratins.org and what services they can offer me – I thought I had to be suicidal to get in touch with them. 

I’m currently building up a post crisis plan and contingency plan with the Mental health team – my psychiatrist, my Psychiatrist community nurse and support worker and other services in my community to get back on track. I thought I would share my experience on my website  blog.  This is how it went.

I emailed Jo ( all volunteers are trained and called Jo) to ask for further information. Jo got back to me to ask me for a bit more background and gave me a link to the samaratins.org website.This is what I had to say. 

Hi Daisy
It sounds like you and your CPN are doing great work together.
Samaritans is a 24/7 listening service. We are currently available on the phone, email and by letter. Can I suggest for a more detailed definition of our service you visit our website www.samaritans.org.

Is there anything you would like to talk about tonight, is there anything worrying you or is there something you would like to share with us about how you are feeling?

Hi Jo

Erm… well, I have been a long time service user with lengthy inpatient and outpatient stays in the hospital for bipolar, EUPD and chronic anorexia.
I tend to go in a cycle with how I escape from my thoughts and emotions instead of regulating them.


I’m in that place where I’m highly
Motivated to get to the place I was in from 2013- 2017
I achieved more in those few years than in my entire lifetime,
Apart from my career in travel.
I have a lot I want to do with my life and pass on what I’ve found out to help others.


I’ve volunteered my heart out up until 2016 because I was studying my BA at the time. I fought social services, my family and my 9-year-old daughter’s paternal father in court for 16 months. On the 05 may 2015 I addressed the judge myself and she was and is discharged into my care with full parental responsibility & she is a phenomenal child. I can’t believe she is my child.


I was never going to get married nor have children until I hit my 30′ s. Both just seemed ” to happen”. Many traumas and bad relationships, abortion and boom! By the age of 36 married and one 6-year-old.

My eating disorder has always been a big problem for me.. I’ve been starving myself or self-medicating for most of my life.

In 2017 my body nor my mind could take on everything I set out to do. I was volunteering 5 days a week 9- 5 pm. I was asked to do my WRAP co-facilitator course to do workshops; I had completed the first year of my MA 60 credits and a post-graduate in the humanities with high merit. I had been married for a year. My gran died a horrible, drawn-out death over 3 days in March 2017. I had to decide to take my aunt off life support because my Mom didn’t know what to do. My aunt died in our arms( at hospital snowed under morphine a few months later). I had to support my mom who is ill at times and be “there” for her.


My weight was getting low and it gave me a huge buzz. It’s the best high ever. No drug compares in my opinion to feel my bones protrude or the scales getting lower or that power I feel.


Unfortunately, I started self-medicating with illicit substances and I ended up doing one of my worst suicide attempts in March 2018. I insisted on carrying on with the final year of my MA. I had split up with my husband ( we are back together), My daughter was more or less living at my mom’s place more than she was in her own home. Most of the time I didn’t want her to see me out of my head, or out of control.


I was a single mom & My mom reported me to social services in 2018 within two weeks and then went to Miami for 5 weeks for a break! I received my lowest mark to date and I decided to end it. My mom had a hunch because that night I didn’t want my daughter at home with me.


Anyway, 9 hours in ICU and my Mom ( who was once part of my daughter’s care support package that I discovered and used as to persuade the judge I could look after my daughter with the help I had my daughter to look after and I carried on self-medicating and I had to go through a core assessment with a social worker’s (alone this time and I reached out my child’s school for support stop my child from being thrown into a highly flawed social care system. Twice in that year. Mom rang them again when my daughter was at her home.

I made an appointment with the doctor and I walked to the surgery. My mom was complaining about taxi fare etc.. I was hyper however the doctor ” made” my mom ring social services again. Back to 2018

My psychiatrist said I was in psychosis and I think the only reason he didn’t section me is that… I don’t know. He has known me for 15 years! I had my child to look after… I’m still not sure why he didn’t section. I think my then C.P.N. stuck up for me and I was put onto fortnightly injections to show compliance. The side effects were terrible. My mom took me to the hospital to take another medication to counteract the side effects before leaving to go abroad.
It was a rough couple of years from March up until 2019.
I was self-medicating daily I’ve (never been on heroin, or crack or ketamine.
I was in toxic relationships.
I didn’t care about my weight then. My nose was falling apart and I was losing my daughter to my mom at a fast rate.
I still wasn’t dead!

I took a really big overdose in Feb 2020. My former care co-coordinator didn’t think my cries for help were serious. My friend kept me awake on the phone. He wanted to call the ambulance. I begged him not to because of my daughter.


I got back with my husband in early 2019.
We had to get an injunction on a guy I allowed into my life. We weren’t good for one another. I seem to attract men who need me for finances or something…
I need them to be assholes to me to make sure that I can never trust my husband. The one man who has never disrespected me in 9 years and I’ve done a lot of shitty things to him
In May 2020 I had had enough.

I had been studying suicide manuals I found on the internet and decided to follow the overdose step by step guide. I ended up in a coma for 5 days and wired to tubes for a further 5 days in ICU.

For 2 months I was on a high. I was self-medicating on my Eating Disorder again. My mom and I have always clashed I was living with her trying to get away from a home with bad energy.
It didn’t work out with my mom and my daughter and my cat and my husband living at our current home. She threw me out in front of my daughter and as an excuse, I don’t know
I became stuck in my old habits. It was that or my eating disorder. My choice. My mom threatened to take me to court over my daughter numerous times for my drug use. I lost a lot of time with her my daughter.
I lost confidence in my mom Abilities again.

I was spending crazy amounts and stopped caring again. I have reached out to every service in my area and say I’m too complicated. My issues are too ” complex”.
I asked for a new care coordinator ( June 2020) and she saw me in crisis mode for 2 months. In Sept 2020
I put on 1 kilo ( in my head or physically. I was self-medicating so I had stopped bothering about scales.
That day I did something I haven’t done since I wad 17 years old.
I’m 39 in November. I stabbed my right-hand breast repeatedly and my inner thighs. Then bought 2 scales.
I then tried to jump off a well-known bridge for suicide attempts the same night.
My psychiatrist sent two psychiatrists to assess me to under the mental health act section 2 1981. .I think.
Earlier that day,
I walked out of his office screaming at my psychiatrist to discharge me from the enhanced team for people with severe Mental health input.
What was the point in taking prescribed tablets alone when I have been knocking on every door for DBT and therapy?


I spoke frankly with the assessment team and I wasn’t detained
I had a massive blow out 6weeks ago..


My mom had taken my girl away 1 day after we had discussed a plan and strategy and the boundaries and goalposts were moved according to my mom’s mood and demands. I decided f *** it. I was in a bad way and then I fought my mom for my daughter. I got her CPN involved, school. I told her secrets to my family. I betrayed her because I wanted my baby girl back.


She’s been home with me for just over 2 weeks &our bond is good. She is back into a good routine. I’m loving our bond, her age, her interests and her love.
I’ve thrown me into various therapy apps to get better, recovery apps, happy apps, registered to do volunteering again. I’m writing on my website again.


I’ve added a music blog to my website -it focuses on music artists I find and interview them on their career, creativity and thoughts on Mental health and their own experiences. My next feature is ready to publish by early Nov.
I’ve signed up to do loads of volunteering skill courses – peers mentoring etc…
I’m redoing my WRAP (Wellness Recovery Action Plan
Learning DBT on my own.
. I haven’t used illicit substances for 8 weeks and I am higher than I have ever felt.
I’m starving myself again. I don’t like it, hunger, the dedication it takes. I do like the highs and my BMI is down to 17.1. I was living at a 19 – 20 BMI from 2018 until now…
. I’m happy because I’m investing my time in my family and buying us things. It feels good.

I’m mindful of how much I drink because of calories and I can’t drink like I did when I was using. I become ill. I have a protein shake usually 2times a day.
. A few microwaved mushrooms, cucumber( not microwaved) and microwaved onions. And celery and herbal tea to snack on.
I’m very active. I love to keep busy.
Mentally and psychically.

That’s a bit about me.
I don’t know what else to say.
I’ve managed to find a charity who let me have 10 zoom conference counselling sessions for survivors of rape, trauma and sexual abuse. My last session ends next Tues I have rescheduled 3 times!
I don’t feel suicidal and haven’t in 3 weeks.

I don’t have time to ruminate or think about self-medicating in an illegal way. People don’t leave me alone for too long and at this point, I don’t feel suicidal. I feel insanely high on my Eating disorder I’m on a high because I am making positive changes & I have had to cut out my family to be the mother that she deserves and I deserve to be.

Best Wishes
Daisy

I received a lengthy reply with positive feedback  back at 3 a.m. this morning.  It was an email that served as a soundboard to affirm what has happened and what I am doing with my life. I found it a positive experience I would urge people to use this service even if  they don’t feel suicidal . 

What is the truth?

There are days I drop words of comfort on myself like falling leaves and remember that it is enough to be taken care of by myself – Brian Andreas

Have you ever tried to be yourself ?

Lost yourself to the one form of self expression that you excel in?

Writing without my vices is my biggest quality.

Proof I don’t need anything but passion & words & emotions to crystllize my thoughts and emotions. To formulate poetry or stories to know that I’m important too.

We all want a bit of self validation at times, don’t we?

Life is rough & tough .

Love the people who have got your back.

Leave those who don’t- even the one’s who claim to love you yet have let you down by your standards and your values – time and time again.

Respect comes with age & patience knowing that wisdom is not solely about your age but also about our unique experiences .

I sometimes think – If you call yourself a writer -then you have to write & type all the time .

I have an inkwell tattooed to my arm.

We shoudln’t define our selves as masters of our creative self expressive outlets if we don’t write or create every day , especially if it is something that we do to try and keep well or find inner peace.

It’s more difficult to achieve if our creative outlets require an income and proof for a resume or career!

I’ve had the privilage ( sometimes to my detriment) of making decisions in my life where I decided what roads I have travelled down. Some roads I had no choice.

That is life.

However or whatever we use our creative outlets and passions for – hobby, recovery, to stay sane, a career.

I have the opinion that it is how open you are to self reflection and the ability to take on healthy critique or even self critique will gauge how effective your work on self development and progression is achieved.

Don’t forget to be compassionate with yourself and I will try to remember that piece of advice too.

I have all these thoughts. The words I’ve just typed are my thoughts.

Interests? I have a lot of interets.

My thoughts get scattered.

I’m not my thoughts though I sometimes believe my thoughts and feelings are the truth.

They are my truth and subject to change.

These are my words.

Making friends living on an Acute psychiatric ward

I remember my first meeting with a mental health charity to collaborate and co-facilitate an anti- Stigma workshop/group that This is what I have been wanting to do for some time and here I am achieving my dreams. When I was back -institutionalized in an Acute ward with Anorexia and Bipolar in 2005. I think that personality trait to help others and organize groups has always been in me.

I was am a nightmare patient.

I always refused bed rest and focused my time on doing things like raffles to raise money for a charity shop connected to the Retreat,in York. I ended up raising over £100 in a matter of days with a BMI of 14.5. so about 41 kilograms. , 90 pounds – I’m nearly 5.8.

In other clinics- I was tube fed and restrained -often by up to four nurses.

That is a whole other story and debate.

I met another man who is/was a barrister and he had a complete breakdown. His wife had been cheating on him. I met an artist who expressed her unarticulated pain by painting. I met a woman who had been fighting Anorexia and OCD all her life and who taught me how to put a Christmas tree up.

I had forgotten.

I didn’t know what life was and what it meant to live.

I met a few ladies, not on my unit -The Acorn unit ( the name pun has not gone over my head). They expressed their pain through cutting and self-harm.

Nobody played games. Although some of us, from time to time would get hold of paracetamol and other shit and overdose to liven the humdrum mundaneness of life in an acute ward. I once got caught out on weigh day with fishing scales attached to my paper gown. The staff was quite taken aback with imaginative ways we would come up with to avoid putting on weight. These girls were hardcore. I met so many people.

I met a girl who terrified me. I could tell she had been in hospitals all her life. Her family could absolve themselves of whatever guilt they felt towards their daughter by puttting her in private clinics and the problem was dusted under the carpet.

I had started the process and recovery of eating again and putting on weight. I couldn’t cope. I developed another way to cope, for at least 4 months my day consisted of:

  • chewing gum

  • making a coffee

  • eating more chewing gum

  • make a cup herbal tea

  • smoke a cig .

I was on this loop for24 hours /7 days a week -for 4 months.

I was driving myself crazy in a way that was unfamiliar to me. The nurses tried to lock me out of the communal kitchens and one night I flipped out when they tried to grab me so I started throwing stuff around.

I wanted them to help me. The girl who initially terrified me came into the kitchen and sat down on the floor with me and held me for over an hour while, I shed tears for everything I can remember.

All the emotions attached to those memories I had pushed aside. None of these people was violent. We were trying to be understood and to understand ourselves.

I met a young girl with schizophrenia -she dressed like a Goth. Always had headphones in her ears. She was trying to silence the voices. She had been coping well up until her Mother passed away and like any normal person she was traumatized by it and her mental health went a bit off balance again. She was trying to make sense that her mother is dead. She was grieving.

One night a new guy arrived on the scene. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had that charisma of the kind of guy I always seemed to attract. His eyes were full of spark and mischief. A person you would want on your side. We became friends. We spoke a lot. He did a very Titanic thing and drew a picture of me. Fully clothed. I can’t find the picture to load up. He was still going through the DT’s. I will live with my memory of how the picture looked- possibly very trippy. Ha Ha.

Barry was only staying for 10 days before he went to ‘a dry out clinic further up the coast. I don’t know what happened inside me but I didn’t want him to go.

He was a lot older than me but we did everything together.I got him painting again. I know he had just got out of prison but he was so talented. I begged the nurses and psychiatrists to let him stay.

‘Look! Look! how talented he is! He needs help from you’.

Our last night before we parted ways. We sat in the smoking lounge and watched ‘Pulp fiction’. I know this may make some people reading this go .. erm………what?

I lay my head down in his lap and he played with my hair. For me, the act was more like a father gesture. I suspect for Barry it could have been different.

He wrote loads of letters and planned to come to visit me. The nurses censored my post and turned him away.

I often wonder what happened to him.

I get angry that just because he was an in and out of prison for many reasons- he was denied the rehabilitation that I received. He had issues. I am no innocent.

I feel he could not have benefited from a recovery type community setting rather than prison. It’s not my place to say what he did, I don’t want to remember.

It would have ruined the fact that I found feelings inside me. I could laugh again, I could cry. I was real. I felt like a human being and not some freak with Anorexia. Anorexia took second place and I wanted it to always take second place. I felt real.

So back to the Anti-stigma workshop, I am doing. I can’t wait. I have a passion. I have the drive. This is my new chapter. I did have a beautiful picture Barry drew of a dragonfly but I guess moving around a lot means that I have lost other precious memories. I am finally in a position to help other people. I’m not letting this opportunity getaway.

Mom -living with a Manic Depressive

Who is this lady? She is elderly, yes. A grandma,a mother a sister, an aunt, a great grandmother. I don’t know. I have forgotten. Hang on a minute… Aaah yes there was this one time that I was sat in her house -plush, ‘propre’ , stylish and I couldn’t sleep. I kept on getting up to go to the cupboard on the far right of la cuisine that housed all the gigantic Cadbury’s chocolate. I ate and I ate and I ate some more. I always seemed to be able to eat more.

I didn’t it like it when she bought the dark kind. So bitter. So classy, so not me.

But back to la cuisine. Footsteps pander lightly behind me. I turn and look around and I look into the eyes of a lady with pure class-sans maquillage. This seems to counter my non- class evolved youthfulness.  The lady asks me a question ‘Ca Va?

I’m expected to answer with the same ‘ca va.’ but it is something like 3 am in the morning. Obviously ‘ca va’ is not appropriate for this setting.

I don’t know why I can’t sleep, I confess. I’ve shoved a load of pills down my throat in an effort to be like the one whom I shall refer to as the Manic depressive. The lady sits me down and makes me a Sleepytime tisane – . Good herbal shit. We sit at the kitchen table with our ‘Sleepytime’ tea, I can’t remember what we talked about.

I have a habit of forgetting things, you see. It is so frustrating. I go back to bed feeling cared about. Why didn’t I feel grateful then?

No regrets. Have no regrets. Okay. I try not too.  I wish I had paid more attention, then maybe I wouldn’t forget so much.

I can hear her laughter in that loud roomy part of my brain, it’s threatened me it will become a real auditory sound that knocks me sideways with fright turning me into a paranoid wreck.

I have to remember that laugh. She used to laugh at my jokes. She loved me. She told me she loved me all the time.

She also loved another – another woman-my mom. Angelic looking, graceful, naive and I don’t know – wonderful?  This lady helped me out with the angelic-looking lady. Yes, I remember, one poignant night, the angelic-looking manic depressive and I had a vicious fight. I took a braai fork to her neck. I was fucking going out to drink and get strung out on drugs and Miss Manic Depressive could mope in her stupid illness and fuck right off.

Well, she took that big FU literally. We had this stock of prescription pills that could take our local pharmacy out of business – bad joke- that’s why I rely on comedians for such amusements (Omid Djalili and  Gabriel Iglesias being two of my favourites ). Nothing like a next-day hangover and a shrill ringing phone to make me grab a handful of downers. I’m not ready for the sunshine just yet- maybe not ever. The lady on the other end of the phone wants to know if the manic depressive is okay. Of course, she is ok……

I turn over

…but she isn’t. She is one tunnel turn away from death. I need some Rohypnol and valium and I need that lady on the end of the phone.

She says she is going to get the next one hour flight from JHB airport to Durban and I need to get the manic depressive to a hospital. I don’t have health insurance. I’m 15 years old.

A cocky shit who obviously knows it all but nevertheless in my narked upstate I somehow manage to get the angelic Manic Depressive a space in a run-down public hospital in Africa  – in a- I kid you not – broom closet. Sick people were lying on the floors, covered in congealed blood, in the corridors of this hospital. So I count my blessings that we had some type of room and a bed.

The lady meets me at the hospital. It’s touch and go. We are rooting for survival on this one.  Black tar leaks down out through a tube from some part of the manic depressive’s body.

Hours pass.

She is okay- stable.

She is in a coma.

The Lady transfers her to a more upmarket private hospital. She has the master card. We spend the night next few days at the Oyster Box hotel – in a chalet. She takes on me and my two cats. Lilac and Mocha- and we all sleep in the same bed united by our love for the angelic manic depressive one.

We don’t know if she is ever going to walk again. I mean it was an overdose with powerful intent. No, pithy cry for help as some believes a suicide attempt is. The angelic manic depressive has a new name angelic, rapid cycler  Bipolar.lady in The other lady is my grandma- as you probably have figured out. We go and see her every week. She broke her hip back in Feb 2015 and can’t walk anymore.

Okay… so that happens with a lot of old people. Yeah, but this lady, my grandma has been stripped of her dignity, identity, memories, and she can’t remember she can’t walk. She is stuck on a loop – every few moments she tries to get up and screams in frustration when she can’t. This lady sitting in the middle is my relationship with someone I love who has Dementia and Alzheimer’s.

I know I’m not writing something fucking profound but she means something to me and her family. She is living a world with no faces, no colour and the world speaks another language to her. How is she meant to interpret all this shit?! People talking. Loudly?

Other elderly people not moving- crying, shouting, fondling themselves to remember that they too can feel.  My Chronic Anorexia 10 stone self could envy my grandma’s current weight. 5 stone if that. She forgets how to eat. Imagine that?

What type of existence is this?

This is where I get political. Let people die with dignity.

I signed up for the campaign years ago. Who is this lady? She is so much more than she looks. She has had a life people probably can’t even dream  up and a life where people would also be horrified how she survived such heartache, ( love is the answer here, folks) but for today we can’t go back into the past too much without forgetting. I don’t want to forget, not today. Those two memories I can hang and frame in the gallery of my mind. They are mine. No one can take them away from me but Alzheimer’s can. Dementia too. You know what really makes me sick about all this? When a person with these illnesses die, Alzheimer’s and Dementia don’t take the credit. The diagnosis of death is usually a secondary symptom. How twisted and messed up is that?

Does she remember her husband? Where does she go?

I should have been a Neuroscientist or something. I want to know what is going on in her head and fix it. All clichés but they are my clichés for today. Can you believe people are being diagnosed with these maladies at as young as 25 years of age?

I would rather choose to die than have everything taken from me. Would my Grandma say the same? I wish I had asked her.

Me: ‘So Gran, let’s talk about something so morbid as to how you would like to die.. ‘

I’m putting it out there. Me? I don’t want to suffer and I don’t want to feel pain and I don’t want to not be understood. That is not living that is stuck between two perverse worlds. I want my family to pay the ferryman and for him to take the money and take me along the river Styx to Elysium and let me die with dignity.

Information on the dying dignity campaign  http://www.dignityindying.org.uk

Catch 22

Fall – leaves turn shades of browns and greens.

my heart dips and I don’t feel that same sense of summer’s beams.

Alone. I look to my left. Creativity shines- glitter, stilettos- latex, white faux fur coats. All legs.

Like a string of pearls flung across a room,  a musky scent wafts across my midst.

Temptations persist. Glamour. Warmth is all I seek. Summer, why do you have to be so cruel?

I know if I cross over to the other side – I’ll be feeling the warmth – it will be pimped out inbox ring styles – I won’t have time to dodge the fists.

My body will burn up an exotic shade of hues. I will have no rest.

Hell is the other side of Summers gluttonous jazz bassline.

One hit. One vein. Blood – artificial nirvana could infiltrate my being.

I won’t have to think of the biting cold that is ringing in my ears. Muffled will be the ice cone, frozen on the edge of my nose. It doesn’t matter who sees that I have been seen.

Bus shelters full, spikes erect from the corporate underground – I can’t sit down. I know it takes fewer muscles to smile than frown.

Energy is all I have to see me through this cycle of undomesticated abuse. October may be  Domestic abuse awareness month.

If I hadn’t left my keeper, I would still have a roof over my head.

A blanket.

I would still be touched.

 Roughed up.

Better the devil you know – I know every one of his moves. I know when to dissociate –

detach my mind

from my body.

Floating above the marital, martial art stylised bed – I see myself and that devil I married, grabbing folds of my skin. He doesn’t notice the smell of the new conditioner I bought at Asda or how soft the sheets feel now they have been newly spun.

Dryer. I’m dry. He doesn’t notice the lack of moisture. He doesn’t notice that all of that fluid has shot up to my eyeballs. I refuse to let them free flow – I am not her. I’m floating.

Fly on the wall. Caught up in a spiders web. I have to watch. It doesn’t matter if I have a crick in my neck – oh hang on a minute is he choking me?

Leftover food languishing in the sink drain. He switched the waste disposal on to automatic.

Arrested, I am back in bed, under him. Time to vogue with my lips and give him a little pucker.

These white sheets have turned red in his need to let off steam. I come out in blisters hovering underneath his vapour.

Turn my neck – feels like I need a box of throat lozenges for having to get all deep throat.

5 am flashing in stimulant green.

I’m 5 months pregnant. I am going to be late.

Grab the nearest decent clothes. Pull-on my Adidas trainers. Scrape my hair up into a ponytail.

Finally the motivation to go on the run. I don’t have to time myself. I know his schedule well.

An Olympic torch passes into my hand. I’m running for freedom. Liberty is my destination.

I can start over.

Spring – blues, violets, colours in a perfect union – uncompressed. Naturally dressed.

For the first time in months, I feel like I belong. I too am a medley of colours. I blend in.

Natures milkshake collects in my breasts –  4 months to go until I give birth to a miracle of pure life.

Not branded a colour – just innocence – a chance to see a light – work on my soul and tackle it all. This is the only cure.

Vanilla.

I am no Killer.

Life goes in cycles. It passes by fast. There are no traffic jams when you have to pick up your feet and walk.

Eyes cast down, belly protruding.

Christian volunteers crouch down next to me- hand me a card.

Die and be reborn.

They can help me. I just have to give my old life to our saviour. I’ve never met him but he sounds

Forgiving, comforting, caressing- a handwash with extra Aloe vera – calming properties.

All I have to do is offer my unborn child to him and I can enter paradise with the rest of my weary comrades.

Eyes raise up to the bitter sky. I’ve always thought whatever is up there twinkling and winking down at me is having a far better time than me.

My unborn deserves a place in heaven. Earth only promises scars and wild jungle roots to keep it grounded to the spot.

The ultimate sacrifice.

Did I fold in with this cult out of cowardice?

I will drink my poison.

Maybe this winter I will be reunited with the one that let out a sudden cry.

Lead me not into temptation. I lie down, no need to be afraid, child. I close my eyes and sigh.

Hope is my last premise.

* Inspired by domestic violence awareness month*

mainimage_0

OCTOBER 2016 (IMAGE SOURCED FROM GOOGLE)

HERE IS A LINK TO A  POST I WROTE,ON 11TH MAY 2016 , ABOUT MY OWN PERSONAL EXPERIENCES IN A D.V. RELATIONSHIP , TO RAISE DOMESTIC ABUSE AWARENESS IN MY COMMUNITY AND   SOCIETY.

CLICK ON THE PINK HIGHLIGHTED LINK BELOW

THE FREEDOM PROGRAMME

*photo credit Rhode Island Francesca Woodman, Benjamin Moore *

Scars -a bloody unwanted reminder

Writing prompt -Scars

One scar I have is huge – it almost wraps all the way around my upper wrist -it is 2-3 cm wide.  Indented, It reminds me of a dried upriver.

The cause?

Domestic violence.

Before I continue…

Domestic abuse & Toxic relationships

Rape -NO means NO.

I’m going to state the obvious here.

Domestic violence is a relationship fucks about with your mental health, whether you love the person or not.

 

Toxic relationships have usually tipped me over into using shitty coping mechanisms like drinking too much, taking drugs, overdosing and not managing my medication or my eating disorder and Bipolar.

So back to the blood river scar.

One night- no

Another night of heavy drinking and arguing, I found me in a house -not mine- that looked like a slaughterhouse. all dirty browns. There was a rusty scent of blood impossible to ignore.

Every time I inhaled, the scent would drip down the back of my throat like a  tap -I could taste it too.

I  had mixed copious amounts of alcohol with my medication and all I remember is trying to push my ex away with my left hand ( I am left-handed), he grabbed my arm and I struggled back.

BLACKOUT

 

 An image.

An arm.

 

 a massive shard of re-enforced window glass- barbered-   poking out of my right arm.

 

Another image.

the back of my exes legs and back running up the stairs.

PANIC 

BLOOD

DRINK

VODKA

WHERE IS THE ORANGE JUICE?

WHERE IS THE GLASS?

WHERE IS MY EX?

BLOOD 

DRIP

BLOOD 

DRIP

BLOOD 

DRIP

BLOOD 

DRIP

PANIC 

PANIC

An arm coated thick with blood. I wear it like an accessory

Blood makes noise.

I hear screaming.

Mine.

Ex reappears and tries to grab me.

I try to run away.

PANIC 

BLOOD

DRIP

I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE.

Why is my ex naked? 

In the middle of the street?

Rolling on the floor with me- trying to muffle my screams with his hand. Trying to stop me from running away...

BLOOD

MIND FUCKERY at its best.

“Look what you have done…” ex says.

6 hours later – location:  hospital.

The doctor asks to speak with me in private. My ex doesn’t want to leave my side.

I don’t say anythingquack quack! quack quack! quack quack!   the word on a loop…

 

“What happened?”  he wants to know.

“We don’t know. We were drinking. I can’t remember. It was an accident.” my ex speaks for us.

My head bows down,it almost appears as if I am nodding. I can’t quite remember.

What I do remember feels like I have made it up, it is so detached from my mind and emotions. It is about as close to me as Pluto or Saturn.

3 days in hospital my ex never left my side.

Not even to go home to wash or brush his teeth.

I wasn’t alone- my mother was with us too.

I was high on morphine for the pain.

Why didn’t they operate sooner? 

Did they want to monitor me? 

The situation? 

Us? 

three days later…  I’m being wheeled on the hospital bed- away from the stale, coughing ward…

“countback with me from 10,” says the anaesthetist.

10 , 9 ,8 ……

BLACKOUT

 

“1”. my eyes burst open. I gasp a breath. It is  like I’ve been living in a homemade sac filled with half shallow water and half air.

 Disorientated.

What happened?

I look down at the artwork the surgeon has done.

No more blood.

re-stuffed re-patched, recovered,

by a micro surgical  hand.

Discharged.

Back to the carnival freak show.

I enter his home – a massacre.

Dry blood everywhere.

Smell.

Bleach.

Sound.

Scrubbing brushes.

Stubborn blood. 

If only it could serve as a reminder of what actually happened that night.

“I don’t remember” the ex says.

How can he and I not know?

Every time I look at my scar I am reminded of the chaos that was my life for 4 years.

This scar says –

mutilation.

despair.

secrets.

emotions numbed.

detachment.

silence.

silence-1.jpg

This scar reminds me to NEVER be silent in the name of so-called love or a sense of loyalty to one who claimed to love me so much he would do anything to keep me.

http://www.vevo.com/watch/suzanne-vega/blood-makes-noise/USIV20300313

When I left him, I did not take his threats seriously.

 What he did next gave serious competition with the scar I see.

That everyone can see.

Toxic relationships result in a severe loss – sometimes that means your life.

Think carefully about what and who your life may include.

I was reborn again on the 06/05/2015.

The day the court ordered social services out of my life.

The day that my ex turned his back on me,  is the day I realised I had been holding my breath for years.

I had forgotten how to breathe.  I might have been dead- a wanderer.

06/05/2015 -I remembered not only how to breathe again but why.

Life -not just my own but that who is of me.

Life is precious

Life is my responsibility

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