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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

resumption_by_jorgeremmy-d3drxy2.png

Maxine Priest Music Review

Today’s collaboration is narrated by British actress, Maxine Peake ( from T.V. seriesShameless) and  (former guitarist for Morrissey & co-songwriter for the band ‘The Smiths’ ) Johnny Marr.

The video & lyrics were inspired by former BIG ISSUE, Jo Gallagher’s (magazine vendor/seller )own experiences of being homeless in Edinburgh from 2105 until he went on to find full-time employment.

I discovered this brilliant spoken word, experimental soundscape, kitchen sink noir mash-up when I was editing  Act two for a stage play script I wrote about covering themes of Homelessness, relationships, legal highs & the state of the nation today in the U.K.

It appeals to me as it is raw & humorous. I am a firm believer in using my sense of humour in life to get me through dark moments.

It gives a bigger perspective of the idea that homeless people are just addicted or lazy people who don’t want to work.

If anyone has read the book by (pen name) George Orwell or Eric Blair  ‘Downtown in Paris and London’ – a biographical  account of Orwell’s own decision to turn away from his privileged lifestyle & live rough as a “tramp”, in a passionate attempt to be taken seriously as a writer in his lifetime. He was a radical.

We can see how our views in over a century about “tramps” are seriously misunderstood in a social, cultural & Historical Context

Like Orwell’s book ‘ The priest’ uses a common writing technique by adopting the register of the characters narrated about in the video.

Here is a bit of context

A few months ago I was on my way to see my doctor & I was standing at the traffic lights waiting to cross the road. A (homeless)  couple had made a sign stating

WE ARE HOMELESS -We will wash your car for money or food. We want to work.

When I was homeless (couch) I used my last bit of money and bought a one-way ticket to go and live with my (now deceased) Aunt in Barcelona for 3 months.

Homelessness doesn’t have to mean you are on the streets. Homelessness is also about couch surfing, temporary accommodation, hostels.

It is not easy getting off the streets. Trust me. I have done the research. Red tape issues are huge obstacles ( to name but one).

 

Ginger nuts parasite

This was the first piece of fictional writing I ever wrote. It was also graded and then I had to adapt it into a different genre.

 ‘Miss Sainte!’ the travel consultant’s hands twitch like a bees feelers, ‘let me get your tickets for London.’ and she is off. I’ve always found it amusing how people assume that your life is more exciting than theirs. My life had taken on the acrid taste of bourbon. Hard decisions require liquor. There I was bobbing up and down like a buoy in a sea of bitter. Disconnected from all sources of life. Waves of nausea threatened to bury me, deep, in an unrefined grave. This was my existence until I sobered up.

The hairs on my arms prick up like ears on stalks, straining to confirm what they’ve heard. Shivers rush down my spine. Impulsively my hand goes to feel the smooth outline of the documents in my handbag, confirming that the surgery will go ahead. I look up from the tropical brochure and nearly fall headfirst into a pair of dung coloured eyes. She’s that close. I quickly murmur my thanks and bolt out the door, the wind slamming the door for me

My life tends to go from one oblivious moment to the next. One ginger bastard is all it takes for the state of my jagged ignorance to be shattered. Now all I can see is my former ignorance smirking everywhere. All of a sudden its: Ginger beer, Gingerbread, Ginger cats, Ginger biscuits, Gingernuts, Ginger pubes, Ginger! Ginger! Everywhere! I’ve reasoned that it’s not too avaricious to want more than ‘current-girlfriend’ status. Why would a heathen (his -word) such as myself, all tits hanging loose, wild hair and barefoot, want certainty and commitment? Why indeed?! Every time it’s the same watery twaddle:

 ‘I’m a married man… A Catholic!’ –with a bellyful of 24-hour bargain booze. It’s all driftwood. I’m Odyssey’s ‘Scylla ‘or ‘Charybdis’. If he wants to treat me as a necessary evil then instinctively I will lure him to my grotto and devour him.  Men have this habit of changing anything they see as mystifying into the female form.

                                                            *

Yesterday his spinal support kicked in and he decides to call me. It went something like this:

‘Babe, things are … complicated. I’m here for you.’ he said.

Then, that familiar feeling, the tightening jerk on my vocal chords, taut like a gymnast’s rope. Panic. The struggle to gulp in air. My throat is blitzed with grainy, arid sand. The beat. The beat in my heart starts clanging cacophonously and belches up into my throat. My instincts are shrill. Screeching: Caution! Do Not Proceed. This is what his voice does to me.

‘Babe, we’ve been through so much?’ Smelly feet. All I can smell is pongy feet; His feet! I’d rather go collecting cacti with my teeth than screw you. Yerr screw: That’s what I should have said.

‘I’m on my way.’ C’mon you don’t wanna be loved? So instead he gets his way and I’m running like an Olympic sprinter to get to my car.

There I am sitting in the car about to gear it up. Panic. With my palms, I start slamming the steering wheel. You stupid bitch. SLAM! Greedy stupid bitch.  SLAM!  Blasted tears form. I look into the rear-view mirror and with a fingernail, I press down hard, scraping my cheek- only satisfied when I see the offensive, black line of soggy mascara tarnishing it .Ugly Bitch! I pound the rearview mirror-over and over.

                                                                        *

I can feel the gamut of my emotions and thoughts losing form. So fragile. One knock. One tiny crack is all it takes. When he opens the door all the innards of my mind start to scramble.

‘Neck this’, he says. He plays his part well. He picks me up like I’m a delicate fawn and gently lowers me onto his sofa. He waves a bag of coke in front of my face. My fucking dopamine receptors are giving you a standing ovation, mate! Trust an ex-army cadet to bring out the Bolivian marching powder. Several hours later, we’re both wading deep in overconsumption. Billie Holliday is playing, her voice becomes the beat in my heart.

‘Love. Love her voice… so raw….so pure…but damaged like… Know what I mean?’

He just sits there, shakes his head mindlessly, not even one cobweb is disturbed. Great bulging eyes leer out at me. I might as well have a pair of fucking rabbit ears and a hat on with electrodes attached to my head.  One eye hanging precariously out of its socket. It is torture what he does to me. I want to scream: Why do you look at my pain? Consider it. Consider me! And then decide this bitch needs sterilizing?

He’s suddenly up and real close. His odour arrests my breath, it’s like taking in a whiff of a Parisian fish market at the end of a hot rough day. The hairs stand up on my body betraying my true feelings. Then he demands me to laugh.

‘Laugh. ‘He roars. Followed by frenzied laughter – Shit what’s he gonna do? He’s just laughing. Standing over me and laughing at me. Kick him in the gonads, quick!  He stops. Breathe. He moves up close again, our faces touching.

‘Boo! He whispers, slapping his hands together with glee, he grabs my arse –roughly. I’m smiling. My mind severs itself form my body. It too plays its part well. He then begins to undo his jeans.

                                                              *

A bloated smiling face. The receptionist takes my documents. The ballooned smiling face points us in the direction of the waiting area.

‘Whoa!  They must have known we were arriving, all the chairs are set up, ready for a blessed sermon. Wanna do the honours?’ What am I saying? I watch his fat turnip- shaped face go red. Blood red. He is simmering away like a stew but someone forgot to put the meat in. Jesus why the hell did I agree to this? The walls expand and shrink like I’m sucking on a plastic bag.  Panic. I’m in Plato’s allegorical cave. His shadow torments me, I’m convinced that Mother Nature has given him rights over oxygen.

            ‘Hope Sainte?’ a nurse’s voice booms. Jumped up like a leapfrog. Crap joke but I got spooked. The nurse looks up at me, she raises her eyebrows which make her glasses slant downwards. He heaves his body upwards. I feel his skulking bristling my nerves. The Nurse ushers me into a cubicle.

‘Change into this then hop on a bed’ she gestures to a bed. I touch the blue gown and put my fingers to my nose. Tainted, I gag. How can I put it? It’s like, I’m inhaling water. Panic has dropped her anchor.

 Lying horizontally I turn my head to the left and I look up into a pair of nostrils. It’s the Surgeon. His lips are moving like that singing bass fish that was all the rage in the nineties. I can’t hear jack shit- the porter wheels me into the theatre.

                                                            *

 I open my eyes.  I exhale, the cubicle expands. He enters, drops his head. Doesn’t even bother to look at me. He stands in a corner and folds his arms He just stands in that corner reminding me of a scarecrow. All stiff and glacial. Hours slither by, the silence hissing mercilessly. A hug. I want a hug. The silence is pierced. It’s me. I’m screaming. Little critters are scratching away at my insides. The attack is stabbing and sharp. The pain throbs with intent. Panic.

‘What the hell is happening?’ I look over and he’s fiddling with his fucking phone like he’s re-arranging his balls. Strap on cock-face! He turns around to face me. Did I say that out loud? He looks demonical enough.

‘Erm… well derr!’ He slaps my forehead, ‘you’re giving birth to our baby! Look at the state of ya!’ I follow his eyes. They settle on my well-formed bump.

‘You stupid murdering bitch!’ He then spits in my face and turns to leave.

‘Hey, where you going- we agreed on this?’ Panic. There’s more screaming.

‘Why? Why? Why?’ Each “why” growing in expectation and volume. Sobbing, through my tears, I can just about make out a figure of the porter. Everything starts to slow down. No. Retardation is setting in, slowing me down. Panic. The surgeon appears again. It’s like I’m in a macabre pantomime

‘Now, please, count backward from ten, please.’ he smiles down at me.

‘I can hear you!’ I dribble out. The surgeon smiles and nods his head like one of those Chinese paw-waving cats.

‘Hey! Listen can you hear that?’ they’re playing music!  What kind of sick set up is this? Beethoven’s, ‘Moonlight sonata’ is playing in the background. I touch it. The bump. I’m pretty sure this has got to breach my human rights.

A voice punctuates the air. It’s mine.

‘Number one. Gotta look after number one!’ That’s what my Mum always used to say… “If ya can’t put yourself first, you’ll never be able to put ya, child, first. From now on I swear it. I’ll make each moment in my life count! Maybe one day I will be worth being called a mum….sorry.’

My eyes close, a tear rolls down my cheek as I’m wheeled into theatre.

What are your views on Abortion?

thoughts about the crazy girl

*REPOSTED THIS-I had only been blogging for a couple of months when I published this.  (19/09/2015)

WOAH! Okay. So not only am I co-facilitating an Anti-stigma mental health workshop in October but I have agreed to stand up-publicly-not behind the comfy boundary of my room and blog. I have been asked to speak about my own issues related to mental health and any discrimination I may have felt. I  expected to have thousands of examples on this topic.

I couldn’t stop asking myself the question throughout my day to day activities today. I actually had to lie down (so dramatic) for an hour. I decided I have felt it happen to me.  When I have thoughts fired at me by myself and I can’t get anything constructive done in my day to day life, I usually exercise, do some cleaning, get out, spend time with my daughter, read or sleep. Sleep helps the thoughts to give me a break and some mindful silence.

Here we go. I am using this post as a soundboard.

I don’t have a presentation to give, all organised and ready at a click of a button. That is not my style. So, on that note, I’m just gonna talk and talk and see what comes out.

 Okay so, I was born in South Africa. I had a colourful upbringing. Lots of drama. I have done a lot of talking therapy and going to psychologists to not go too deep into my past. I have dealt with a lot of my issues from my upbringing. What I would like to point out is: I was always insecure. I had a lot of tantrums as a toddler and crazy dreams. Arguments and conflict are themes that stand out. The smell of  Mandrax, weed  and alcohol is always part of every experience. My Mom and Dad divorced when I was 2 years old.

My mom got remarried to an ex-boyfriend who had just come out of doing his conscription. My Dad got remarried to his current wife — my step Mom. I don’t recall seeing my dad and stepmom until I was about 8-10 years old. I’m not sure why and I don’t hold a grudge.

My Mom struggled with her mental health for years and years. I don’t think her being in violent abusive situations helped ease the stress. When I was about 5 years old my mother found  blood on my underwear. I think my ex step father sexually  used me. We left him and our cat Muffet, in the middle of the night to go and live with my Aunt. My Mom was desperate to give me a secure home and we finally found a two bedroom apartment to live in.

Things  and people I remember from that time

  • I remember coming home from school one day and not being allowed in the apartment.

  • I remember a letter I had written to the caretaker of the flats. Something along the lines of ‘please don’t make us homeless’ . I’m a pretty shitty persuader haha…

  •  Me always walking home on my own because my nanny was late

  •  Eating SMASH and loads of ketchup

  • My annoying cousin/brother who was exactly the adjective I described. He was a total pain in the arse!

  • I remember Mom suntanning in the complex swimming pool.

We went to live in my Gran’s home and I was intolerable. I wouldn’t go to school. I was always throwing tantrums. I lived outside my own boundaries. I connected with no-one but my Mom. My Mom’s mental health was getting worse and my Gran had her own issues to deal with. There was a phone call and a few words exchanged. A car drive. Headlights,  me half asleep under a duvet.  Destination: Nan’s house.

Woohoo! Nan = party time.

Mom was crying the entire weekend. What on earth was going on? On a Sunday Mom came into Nan’s room. She said some words. ‘I love you’ was threaded and sewn into the sentence many times.  I looked into her eyes and saw my own fear. My Nan was designated distracter of the day. I put two and two together and I ran to the window and saw my Mom’s car bonnet driving down the cobblestones.

I spoke regularly with my Mom. There are a lot of gaps in my memory of this time.

Travelling and living in Miami back and forth-back and forth. I went back and forth to andfrom Mom’s home to my  Nan’s home. Two people who love me making the best out of a shitty situation.

I made a close set of friends and a family who adopted me as one of their own and they provided me with all the normal childhood milestones and experiences.  Skateboarding, inventing stuff to do, getting money to get soft serve ice cream with a flake, body boarding at the beach , movies, music, lots of laughter and lots of love.I never knew how destructive I was until I took a major overdose (12 years old),after a disagreement with my Nan. I ended up overdosing on all her vitamins, so my wee was super colourful for a bit.

I ask myself over and over why did I turn to drugs and starving myself? Who wants that kind of label hanging over them? I turned to drugs and it was social and a laugh to begin with until I craved more and more. My Mom was diagnosed with   “Manic depression” and tried to maintain a full-time job. My Nan was working full time.

My Dad and my step mom and my half sister moved next door to us and worked full time. Why didn’t I move in with him?  We did — once. My Dad with me and my step mom with my step sister and then my half sister. It didn’t work out. I was getting more and more out of control.

The rave scene wasn’t enough. I went through most of my life from 9 years old to 16 years old as blind as a bat.  I needed heavy prescription glasses or contacts. I couldn’t see shit.  I don’t know what people thought. I thought about that a lot. The fact I couldn’t see properly. I decided to make decisions from a different source and those sources were my thoughts and misplaced emotions..

I found myself driven to go down the whole rebellion route. I didn’t stop. My Mom came to live with me in Durban when I was 15 years old.

I had been to 4 rehabs for my eating disorder and drug taking thus far. I had been ordered by the court to‘ the land of the forgotten and damned‘ in ,Magalies  Oord.

There is a story how that came to be but not in this post.  It was in the middle of nowhere. I ended up running away several times.

 One night we waited until ‘lights out’ and we took our mattresses and threw them over the sides of the barbed wire fence and ran to freedom. We nearly boarded a plane to go to Port Saint Johns but we got caught as we were about to board the plane. I was sent back to Magalies Oord for an indefinite time. I got out in three months with a crack habit because the ‘ counsellor’ looking after me( along with three other under 18-year-olds) had got sacked. She in retaliation decided to release us from hell and the fucking daily wars with the peacocks.

They were like Odysseus’ sirens, except you knew from the start you did not want to listen to them because they did drive a person mad. There must be hundreds of Peacock graves n Magalies Oord. That I am sure of.

The recreational drug taker became a 30 pill per day Mandrax addict who only left the house to go and score other drugs. I got myself into a lot of shit. It would take too long to explain. By this stage, I seemed to be following a path with bright blinking arrows pointing the other way in which I  was heading. My friends left. They couldn’t help me.

I met a medley of characters: Dirty cops.

“Privileged” crack users.

Cocaine may be seen as the acceptable drug to take but for them and for me it wasn’t enough. I would go many weeks missing with bizarre people(the road travelled is indeed a fucken trippy one-drug addict or not).  Diamond Smugglers. Mercenaries. I had a few longer stays in rehabs and hospitals. I became not only an illegal drug taker but I had been diagnosed with Anorexia-a bad heart and a Unhealthy mind.

I experienced stigma from my friends and family members.

There were 4 people who still saw some kind of hope in me. My Gran, My Mom, My Grandpa and my Nan. I moved and entered England as disgracefully as possible.  I went cold turkey and had a major seizure. I carried on with the eating disorder – My entire English family had never come across someone like me. They did not and still do not understand me. No loss to me but one to my Nan. I only would make an effort for my Nan.

My grandad was diagnosed with Cancer round about the same time- and My Mom and Gran and then me all moved to France. I was drinking at least one bottle of champagne a day.  I got so drunk I stole some of my Grandads morphine tablets. I lived gutter low morals with a mismatched luxurious lifestyle.  I eventually came back to England and started full-time work.

I had boyfriends and friends but I didn’t let people get too close. The more my mental health deteriorated the more reclusive I became. I ended up resigning from a travel career I loved because I allowed Anorexia to get into my head.

BOOM!

Multiple lengthy stays in Eating Disorder clinics. I tried to be ‘normal’. In 2007  I decided to enrol in a local college and get some kind of stability and life back. I had been out (of an 11-month stint in an ED clinic in York) for less than a week and signed up to a foundation degree in Acting. I didn’t know how to communicate with any of my peers.

I would tremble when I spoke because I hadn’t spoken to people — normally: for so long. I withdrew. I managed one term. I got a distinction for my classical acting and then ended back in hospital again for another 7-month stint in Cheadle.

A few of us girls went for a day out as a privilege to Blackpool for good behaviour and consistent weight gain.   I was  still too ill  but one of the nurses said to me ‘ Ignore them-they are ignorant.’

I asked her what she meant. Apparently, a group of people passed us on the street and were taking the piss out of me and how I looked and being human, I guess. I didn’t let it bother me.

I left Cheadle and went back to college to carry on with my studies and then CRASH BOOM BANG I got involved with ‘he who shall not be named‘-I’m not going into to it too much at this point in time. Long story short. Shitty relationship. Bruises. Overdoses. Alcohol. Concerned people at college and then indifference. I didn’t see what they saw. Hindsight’s a bitch. I suppose I felt discriminated then.I do feel that every time I have felt judged or side carted it has been for a justified reason.

Then I was put through another challenging test of giving birth to a child and having that child taken from me and then having three years of lengthy legal proceedings to get her back.

 THIS WAS WHERE I FELT THE MOST STIGMA.

Professionals need to be aware of mental health. What I saw happening in the courts and in the social service meetings shocks me even to this day. I’m not perfect but I was asking people to help me and my daughter. I did everything possible to get my baby girl back. She was taken from me on the 13/12/2011 at 12 weeks old due to a horrific accusation fuelled by hate and jealousy.

I finally got her back 16 months later under a care order. Social services and I shared parental responsibility. I’ve never felt more helpless and discriminated in a system that professes to help people with troubles.  I cut ties in the relationship with the ex for good.

My anxiety levels came down naturally from being in my own home and feeling safe and I naturally didn’t need to misuse drink anymore. I didn’t need to overdose. I did need to get my baby back. She should have come back to my care much earlier than she did.

They threw Domestic violence at me.

Alcohol misuse. ( I did a hair strand test that came out negative to alcoholism).

Drug use.  Clean.

My past- my family.

One psychiatrist came out with this gem ‘ the past is a great indicator for future behaviour’ .. Doctor, Let me prove you wrong.

I did. They moved the obstacle when and as many times as possible. They did not want to lose this case and take responsibility for where they had gone wrong.

We were one day away from going to a 12-day court hearing and I told my legal team to annihilate them. As it already was they were charged by the court to pay money from their penny fund for their ineptitude in our case.

6/7  social workers and many arguments with the independent reviewing officer and having a black storm cloud over my head we went back to court and the care order was revoked on 6/05/2015.

They sung my praises in court. I was advised by my legal team to address the judge myself. I was more than capable and I didn’t need anyone to speak for me.

This is why I started to use  all my  extra time into mental health charities and working with them on issues like a stigma. This issue within the government and institutions need to change. I want to show parents and carers how they can find a voice and what they can do to gain them some leverage against social services. How to work with them as a team.  I know where to signpost troubled parents. It doesn’t stop there.

I have so many people I am in touch with to work on projects for people with mental health issues in the pipeline. I get to use my creativity and my writing. I’m excited and kind of shitting myself at the same time. I don’t know what I am going to say at this workshop.

I do know one thing if I said no to talking I would have strengthened the stigma barrier for people with mental health issues.

I am not perfect. I still have days when I get it wrong. I do use different coping mechanisms to help me more than the older safer and not so helpful ones. I can finally truly feel what it means to be control of my destiny.

 

The suicidal coward.

I’m feeling suicidal

I can’t deny the concoction of escapism acts help keep me in denial.

Too many people looking out for me

I haven’t  had enough time  or privacy to actively find a sure way to make sure I’m undisturbed  absolute in my effort to be free

My daughter deserves better

I can’t connect with her

I’m not blaming anyone else for my failure to join the dots.

A girl succeeded in jumping off suicide bridge in 2019

I wonder if this morning will have an impact on my odds of survival – washed up in the river. The law doesn’t get I don’t want to be saved.

My calculations are all wrong.

 

I’m not doing this because of an income

9 months later after an ESA inquest assessment

And I’m safe till 2022

thanks for letting me know

Government Orange agent.

 

It doesn’t make me  happy to know that I don’t have to show up & prove I’m ill

Everyone else has a hard time at proving they are  beyond  over the mental /psychical capacity hill

They are sick

Why can’t  I CAN’T KEEP MY MIND STILL?

The odds of taking an overdose tonight getting it right are slim.

 

I need to run a warm bath and make sure I hit an artery

let the blood bad

bad blood leave me

Circulate not from within

I should have this right.

I’m in support of the assisted dying law for those whose  aguish is terminal

a mental psyche destroyed with life’s poison.

 

I still haven’t eaten.

This isn’t poetry

I’m borderline convinced I’ve lost the plot. I  told too many people my plans & now I’m living with the consequences.

Keep my daughter safe from me

She deserves to better. I m certain that better is far away from a mind convoluted by past & insight into the mother I am not.