What makes you anxious? – the cocoon asked .
Immediate response ?
I want to run away .
The cotton wool opportunity of turning into some thing I’ve never been fills me a desire to run.
I’ve always wanted to fly!
Darwinite if it means i can feel fire
In my belly
Leave behind the sycophants of past.
Presented with the discomfort before the freedom installs a stony face
I finally replied: I want to run from your question because the master of my own fate made me question why I didn’t say I’m the master of my destiny
I sat on the toilet waiting for an answer
A brainwave to collide with my why.
Loss of control
Increased numerical equation
Detract from the value of self-worth.
Aspirations snipped loose by an unearthly, scale driven puppet master
Reduces an entire psyche to a chemical embarrassment.
Good mood desires nourishment
the live to eat philosophy
A heavy burden the beast bears herded in.
restricted to forage on cashing out a societal life policy.
A one manned island
to its hunger
- a unique take on world suicide prevention day *
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 t
hat 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.
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.
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 E
lysium and let me die with dignity.
Information on the dying dignity campaign http://www.dignityindying.org.uk
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.
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 and made me put on a pair of your glasses so that I could only see life through your perspective.I didn’t have strng 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..
I had no life in me for many years. I was an 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 fiends- 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 no body 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 me.
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.
be on your guard.
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.
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 bod. I remember the familiarity of your touch -cold. Cold means thin. Thin 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 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 some where else when you have everything you need in me.
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 at 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 to be.
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 I am with my husband to be. 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 come back .
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 producer,editor, stage hand, actor, writer, graphics producer , costume designer, light technician . You dear friend have 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 thresh hold. – 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 new born. You can’t corrupt it like you did all those years ago.
I get periods. There is a lot of ‘I don’t wants’ that comes with the power to create life.
Fluid retention is one of them. You want me to think that these laws of a women’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.
I am going to have another child and I won’t let your 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.
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 ?
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.
I want to stop stuffing my mouth with food
To allow the words I swallow tumble out my own truth .
I want my voice not to sound happy
I want it to be happy.
I want to eat meals without guilt.
I don’t want to be over weight.
I want anorexia to stop carving every single slice of edible part until there is nothing but my skeletal soul
Nothing but the debris of littered thoughts
Discarded remnants of self love.
Pleading for just one match to light up my black holed life
The abyss that taunts
I want to publish a book of my words
One solarity book to place on my bookshelf
I want to feel sexy without thinking that being curvy is criminal.
I want to feel pretty
Confident that I can eat sushi tonight when my daughter has a McDonald’s happy meal.
I’ve scoured the Just Eat.com menu
The thoughts become lairy loud
It becomes easier to take a valium or a drink
Awash myself clean against the accusations
My thighs touch
My breasts are disproportionately imperfect
I don’t want to blame it on Some tasteless comment some child made when I was 12 years old.
My collar bones are disappearing
My butt is bigger
Im not disappearing
I’m not smaller
I want a worthwhile exsistance
I want to claim my happiness
Perhaps my words are my winning ticket to recovery .
Perhaps I need to buy enough ink and paper to print off 6 years of documented writings, poems, plays, stories and musings
I want my body to understand what it needs
I need my mind
What it wants.
I got caught in the rain again.
I let it drizzle down on me.
Eventually it started to gently pelt my face.
I didn’t run for shelter this time.. I just stood there
next to that tree.
I gazed up to the sky and smiled up.
I’m the defiant one who knows my place in nature.
I knew I was still winning. ‘Fake it until I make it ‘
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
These are slogans I told myself to believe I wasn’t drowning. Inebriated by the sobriety of our existence . Is that an oxymoron of life ?
How could you disguise that face smothered in disgrace
By attempting to console me with that condescending utterance: I could have held the EHA behind your back.
The SS goose stepping all sloppy like they were in an Augustan rain parade.
The Gods mercifully laugh at the man below who believes he’s a Demi
Demon suckling off the maleficent mede milk of Zeus’s pseudo mother’s
Others like you Bongaard with your safe guarding a half littered candle of conscience.
Once philosophers sparked off concubines thesis in riddles.
Ticking off the boxes-she says, Flicking those remnant ticks off her manky teeth whilst she puffs and huffs out the front door.
Who do I talk to when I’m feeling mentally incapacitated ejaculating seems too complex to grasp?
Bongaard can only gasp: Well, me of course, I’m your CPN.
She gestures to her limp, matted ginger vapid soul.
I’ll close the door behind you . Don’t bother I think, Insipid to the core if you can found them in that mass of fleshy ,ginger ,ruddy rotund-she’s invented a new geometric shape-I can’t help but watch her in unbelievable awe
Cos I know she daren’t turn back to gaze at a face that was and could still be hers if she didn’t have a profession to safe guard her. (roll of the eyes — only cos I need to lubricate my contact lenses) .
I’m not going to let her see me cry again.
Every session I hear her garbled muzzled diatribe about her life,
Bongaard, you are paid 24 K a year to do a job — shut your gob or do I have to show you where I hide the flipping cookie dough cream tub?
Find out how your’e gonna help me top help myself. I can’t do it alone I’m on both knees . How many suicide attempts do you have to sit through or read about or eat over with your unintelligible mind-space app and you archaic DBT clod splash therapy How many more gesticulations do I have to avert my perverted gaze because you blatantly cannot see.
The greatest heartache is the tears doubting this won’t be my last breathe my grande plan will find me in a goldie locks bed-wide awake , Paramedic-dejavu -ing that I gulet myself to A&E to get checked out.
Not in this state
I still think that ole Gemma is kind not like Rachel nor bongaard.
Gemma is divinity at the cusp of this dastardly escapade-an epitome of life.
Flashback: Crisis team! trello that treble holler, I’m, feeling suicidal again 7 days coma near to death suicide
You’ll be fine, dearie, I’ll just put the receiver of these words out in the gutter with my ethics.
An outline silhouette frowns ready to break his idle bones
A lingering chapati scent of a glazed woman longing to dance amounts the misfits in her town.
Welcome home-I love that sign — that font so silent so serene.
You don’t care, my better half a Achilles heel screams spittle into the wounds I hold in infested band aids.
For another moment I feel ashamed-eyes don’t know wether to look at that piece of lint on the stairs or raise mine to give him a stand off that he would never attempt to stir the birth of all my misery that I can’t regulate my emotions even if it would stop my heart beat- finally
The fastitious musty gut butt dances in a disorder darned fashion Disintegrates the log piles.
The fire is gone . Yet, I cry for I felt it-a smudge on my morning complexion Yet, I cry for I am half doused by that arrow tic carved matchstick.
the fruit frilled guilt lasts as long as the hem of these petty coated words promoting the warfare of safe guarding our children in a bed ridden world based on a frame of text books.
It’s mental health awareness week in the U.K.
This time last year I was in a coma after trying to take my life-again. I woke up 9 days later on my mom’s birthday. I don’t think I have come to terms with the fact that I am still alive. These past fews days my mental health has been deteriorating and I’m trying my hardest to fight these sodding demons in my head.
I’ve been feeling suicidal again. I have everything to live for.
It doesn’t mean the thoughts go away.
I fight my battles every single day and I reach out even if its to get away from my head for a few minutes.
I can’t have a head transplant or swap my head with some one else for an hour.
Self medicating rarely works or makes me feel good so I push myself to reconnect with life in different ways again.
It’s mental health awareness week and maybe by being in nature , trying to get out of my head may help.
Maybe by just going through the motions even though my thoughts carry on chattering away it doesn’t matter. The act and the intention is what matters.
For a few moments I’m distracted by some other nature that isn’t my own…
Suicide isn’t the answer. I will carry in telling myself this until I believe it.
My story hasn’t ended.. life has a greater purpose, I
#mentalhealth #mentalhealthmatters #mentalhealthawarenessmonth