The lying domino.

“The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies”  has come to be a quote I have moved into my moto island.
My paranoia and Schitzotypal scores on the ipde are high ( along with others, possible blog inspiration), in defence of this I would like to say… No BLOODY WONDER! I suspect my high scores are a reflection of everyone I have had a relationship with.

Betrayal,lying,deception,dishonesty, deceit, cheating, keeping hold of the truth, behaving in ways you cannot speak of to those you love the very most. It is all the same. I have lived a life full of this from one person or another and I cannot claim to be innocent either.
There are of course acceptable lies “noooo your ass does not look big” acceptable. Lying for good is always okay, especially where children are concerned, santa is totally real right?!  But deceit for own gain and gratification without a sense of the other makes any reason void. Without the sense of the other in your life your actions become detrimental to that person and eventually yourself. It’s the rule of sod, a whole level away from your bread landing butter side down. To do this knowing that your lack of honesty will really mess with someone’s already poor mental health makes you a true ( no lies)  absolute nunney.

This has been the situation for me for what would seem to have been two years. Two years of believing I was important, respected, understood, cared for, loved,  gone in the pop of a rain cloud. I have few boundaries for others and almost none for myself,  the one I have for my other is simple and stated from the get go.  I have suspected, asked, begged, cared for the truth only to be met with lies upon lies,deceit, huge dishonesty drenched in theatrics, and the lowest method..  Making out it was me,making me feel it was my paranoia, my schitzotypal, my schizoid, resulting in me believing not only was I struggling I was getting worse. I felt I would ruin something amazing, a future, I would deny a loving relationship for us both. I would destroy it all with my ways. If only it ended there..  Then I question myself, I hate myself, I tolerate more and more things that are not healthy and are not acceptable because I no longer trust my mind and I no longer like myself enough to think I am worth it anyway.
I now doubt every single thing in our time together, not one memory is without tarnish, not one thing said to me I can believe, because if it had have been true I would not be in the situation I am now.
Lies have a huge domino effect and it is easy to believe that the first one falls when the truth comes to light, it is not then. The first domino falls the second you lie, or keep it away from the ones you love. You flick that first one, you flick the chain of the fallen, you end up with the mess and you end up alone picking it up. If the belief is that the lie will keep your relationship then you are wrong, because you have flicked, there is only one outcome. Because choosing to keep it in or continue the betrayal undoes anything and everything you have. It turns to tarnish, to a window view in to something that was real.

So what now? After the flick? The flicker hates the mess, maybe expected the fallen or sits in astonishment as to how easily and quickly the rest fall. The dominos are the ones that feel the pain of the bump. Not only their own pain, they know the pain about to be felt by the one behind them and behind them. The domino can sense each ones anticipation of the pain, the disappointment of the flicker, the fear of the fall. When a flicker stacks they do with care, precision, thought, admiration, and pride. Why would a domino suspect that first flick?

So I live in now avoidant, dependant, antisocial fear. I am desperate to untangle it.  My brain tells me to leave the pile of domino’s and the flicker on the floor. I am not responsible for anything but my own heart and my own mind. My heart loves him, so very much, it feels sad for him. The realistic rational me knows he flicked, he made his choice knowing the implications and the consequences,this fact alone speaks through a megaphone clearly. Also how is there a future when the past has been destroyed? When who I thought he was has been destroyed? When who I thought I was to him has been destroyed?

He claims to seek help, two weeks now and no help taken, no attempt to gain. More domino rows?
To know that the result would have an immense impact on my mental health, something I fight so hard to correct is the most questionable and telling of character.

It would seem people do what ever it takes to meet their own needs and gain their own singular gratification at the cost of anyone and even those who are of importance to them. As domino’s what can we do? Escape the box? Fall before hit? Fall sideways?

Moto island says ” a lie keeps you in the past and the truth takes you to the future”.

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The love affair of the artisan and the mad.

Artisans and mental health have had a long relationship, one that would tick the “it’s complicated box”.

Amongst my therapy days sat in deep painful thought I like to escape into the question of,  why are they all so bloody gifted?  followed by,  what’s my gift?International artists, actors, writers, poets, musicians. You name it and we have it. Not even the mediocre type, the ones that have you wondering if their life was not being sucked out by therapy, would they be famous? But what came first? Did their creativity drive them insane or did the insanity trigger their creative genius? Lastly.. Either I am not mad enough to be gifted or I was never gifted enough to be mad. Which leads me to question if that is correct, does it confirm that everyone around me is the problem and not me? If it were me I would be an artisan. So to be gifted do you have to be crazy?
My comfort is maybe my ability to escape into such ponders alone may mean I have some glitter sprinkles of creativeness.

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The evidence throughout history regarding the creative genius is all there. The best were batshit.

🎼 Beethoven. Bipolar
🎼Mozart. Depressive episodes, hypomania (questionable bipolar)
🎼 Elvis. Some serious addiction and eating issues.
📖 Charles Dickens. Depression with a history of childhood trauma and poverty.
📖 Tim Burton. Let’s just look at his darkness.
📖 Roald Dahl. Every characters based on a child that becomes truimphet after a truama or darkness. Much has been said about the authors own life and insight.
💡 Issac Newton. Indications of bipolar.
💡 Abraham Lincoln. Depression.
✒ Shakespeare. Dude wrote way to much on characters with some serious mental health and with a clear insight.

Then of course there are all the premature deaths and questions and non questions over many other celebrities. Amy Winehouse, Johnny Cash, Marilyn Monroe, Micheal Jackson, Whitney Houston and Britney Murphy.
We also have the celebrities we all question how long they will survive for, whilst society salivates watching their public mental health struggles. Britney Spears, Pete Doherty, Johnny Depp and of course I know I’m not alone in questioning Quentin Tarrantino.
It has all become just an acceptable norm that the famous are mad, so normal and expected that our bookies will run odds as to who is most likely to die in the coming year.
My own dysfunctional family have a death poll we run, I of course utilise my own mental health and pick the celebrities with the mental health and an addiction to medication.

So what does all this actually mean? The correlation is there but why is there no clear explanation? I have many theories I have concocted whilst escaping the therapy.
I wonder if the fact we are all of middle to upper class has any bearing. Whilst there were clear failings growing up maybe the class gave opportunity. There for your not actually born gifted you just had the opportunity to develop skill amongst the shit that was the rest of your life. Hugely indicative that I did not even have a rich shit life. It was a poor shit life. Double blow, story of my life.
Another theory is that when you are young and the mind is struggling to cope the brain cleverly takes you out of the situation. Dissociation and detachment. Where does it go? Does it sink into the wonders of music, musicals, endless timeless classics of films? Does it find that page in the book you loved and suddenly you are Alice singing with the flowers? or Dorothy on the adventurous brick Road? From here the development of an ear for music, or an imaginative mind can flourish and bloom.
Could it be that life just cannot see you and you cannot communicate your inner troubles and pain? An outlet has to be acquired. Could it be that you can escape and equally communicate by putting words into stories and poems. Can you draw your ass right out of the abuse? Placing it all over the paper in what ever method you find your hand doing first. Does the hand pick up that instrument and pluck or hit away until you have become that Opera House genius that can’t read music?

It cannot be the most serendipitous love affair,as much sense as this would make if it were only applicable to the odd view. Or can it? Is it that actually we do not give thought to the many artisans that seem to have balanced, normal, non batshit minds. For the hundreds in time we can name crazy what about the millions that we cannot. Are they just hiding it well? Maybe those drugs are still working? Maybe being rich hides you into a class much less willing to speak.

Art therapy has long been used within mental health institutions, it doesn’t just involve getting the paintbrushes out. It can be a psychodrama, mirror work, sculpts. It can be what ever you want or need it to be. That is the point of art. So this demonstrates its outlets are something effective.  Is it appealing to the artisan mind or is the artisan method guiding the crazy?

Artisans are known for their sideways thinking, the creativity of wonder, their ability to wear things in a way that just works, their ability to see the world in a different colour and a different way. They can cast their minds into eras long gone, drapped in vintage. They will be the ones asking questions about life no one has ever asked you. The ones making up stories and believing in fairytales. You will find them reading endlessly or with blisters from the pens. They will be unreachable through the sounds of music. You will find them dramatic with hand gestures or performing like a jester. All there and yet somewhat unreachable. Maybe in the moments of unreachable they escape back to the pain they started in, but stay and love the artisan because soon that very same pain will have them return into the creative genius.

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I have reached no further conclusion to the forever asked link. There is not one to be had, for me it is as much as a riddle as the ” which came first the chicken or the egg” question. I always say the egg would never have been if the chicken didn’t “come”  but few miss the humour in my perverse retort. What I do know is I am still awaiting for my own gift to land, I shall assume I am not mad enough until then. When it does eventually come my way, because it outta, I hope it pours. Until then the family will continue to hear my out of tune singing, attempt to read my unreadable writing, look at my badly painted walls and stomach my undesirable attire.

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The Teaches of Thailand

An overdue blog, I had not known what to write about his return because I had yet to know what to feel about it.
I am not even sure if I can honestly say I know what they are now, I do seem to be having thoughts and feelings I am responding to. Not healthily either.
I was not as okay as I had liked to have thought about him going. The relationship for me was already beginning to show cracks, but because I was the only one to have seen them I distrusted my judgement. I have spoken about these in the blogs whilst he was away so without rehashing and as a quick reminder we had,  grief, needs, looking after ones self and worth. Plus a whole lot of splitting.
Now when I look back on that month I can see it for much more than it was,not for him but for me. Yes I struggled at times, again more so with myself, and yes it brought up the obvious, but actually….  My skin was gorgeous after a week, my eating was the healthiest it has been in a long time, my children were calmer, as a family we worked. I worked. My friendships grew and I saw people, I made support calls, my therapy I gave my all, I worked my ass off, I saw so much of my family. I laughed alot and I found time for me.  I also did not drink during the week or have the need to.

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The niggles with him remain. He will not openly offer up information on things that bothered me before he went. He will allow a friend to take the brunt of my suspicion despite claiming I am incorrect. He still stands by his ” it’s different for me” rules. My needs are still my own and unsupported. I pretty much feel like I set myself on fire to keep him warm.

Since he has returned, I feel I am back under a cloud. His moods ripple out, he has attempted to become a dictator to my family ( unsuccessfully because of my fiercely protective parenting), he spends any time with me mostly on his phone. Every night he goes out for a while, or has something to do, every weekend with no children I make plans with out him for one night because I know otherwise I will sit within the four walls that incarcerate me, we don’t have fun together. Apparently my old drinking habits that he experienced twice put him off of nights out with me (most of his friends are mash heads and he loves being out with them. Again. I’m different). Weekends with all of our children are just something I gawp at.
He will arrange himself and child as pleases, this means car is doing as he wants, so I don’t know what I can or can’t do with my own children. Dinners I don’t know what I am doing, I get no help tidying or clearing it feels. A little. But why am I constant?  He wants to take his child swimming and mine hear this. Obviously we don’t go. I am poor because I am funding all of them eating and heating and washing, I am the one
unable to do things and buy my children things. Yet he can and does because I am supporting him. His need to save, his need to pay for things, his need to have money to do things.
Last night,  a Saturday,  he took himself to bed at ten, I stayed up lonely drinking wine and watching tv.

He laughed at something yesterday and I realised we rarely laugh together. He will laugh at things he says that are cruel or humiliating, but together little. Both of us actually have a witty humour but between us it’s dying nor do either of us talk about our deeper selves to each other. I learned before Thailand this was the case for him and after his return and continuing need to keep his life, his life, I gave up. It feels like one person is always talking, or trying to interest the other, one person mentions going away together, one person holds it all,and themselves, and the children.

My skin is a frigging mess and I ache all the time. I do not want to go into therapy because I give up. I am stuck in my choices. To go to mania to get this shit into oblivion, to medicate, to harm, to go, so here I am in the place I know best. So so still. Still but bubbling.
He asks me what is wrong and I just think either a) fuck off or b) stop projecting your own shit.
Which I know you will all be sat thinking…. Girl admits she isn’t ok?!  Typical female. It isn’t. I am with a plank. Who is so stuck in grief and self absorbed wallowing,  him him him.  I do not want to give him anything left of me or anymore of what I have.

Today I just feel like… Go back to Thailand. Because clearly it worked. We lived separate lives and had someone to say “I love you” to. It was not what happened so much whilst he was away, it is more, seeing what happened on his return. I have fresh eyes.

The trouble is I can feel myself frizzing. I can feel myself wanting to become a nasty manic crazy person, I feel itchy and ocd, my eyes want to pop out of their sockets, I am so anxious my heart is going to escape through my throat. So how can I trust any of my thoughts or feelings when I actually don’t feel very well. It’s a chicken and egg scenario. What comes first?

I would love to have someone to laugh with, until my sides split laugh, to go out with, to dance with, to holiday with. Or at least have someone who wants these things with me. He will say he does but it never amounts to anything. I don’t have a dick or the word friend associated so I don’t meet the tick box.
I am going away next weekend with my friend for my birthday. We don’t spend new years together, birthdays. Christmas we did once and he got drunk and went out and came home when the children were in bed. He even had the audacity to say yesterday  ” someone asked why you go places without me”  IS HE SHITTING ME?!
Bastard only got a passport to go away for a month. He did not want one before. I have asked for holidays with and without children. He is the one with excuses. He is the one who never makes it a priority, or help make it materialise. So now I just do my own thing and that is not okay either.

I give up. This is not a relationship. This is not even two people living their lives coming together. This is one person for ever crutching the other.
I feel like an arsehole because today is an anniversary date for him, for someone so important to him that is no longer here. I can’t help him. I have always helped him. Today I do not want him near me. Do not talk to me. Do not touch me. I am trying to do it with a smile and normality. He has gone out done his thing,spent twenty minutes sat on a sofa whilst I kill myself in the garden, so I justify it with ” he doesn’t want to be near you either”.

I watched hancock with my children today. I chuckled at the similarities I have in relationships to those Hancock had with his built partner Mary. Cannot be apart due to some force of the universe, yet destroying each other when together too long. I need to be back in my “he is in Thailand” state. How? Think and do as I did then? Get myself in order because then that ripple is the biggest one? Just live life like it is me and the children and he is whatever?

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At what point do I hang up the lingerie and think it’s me?Of course it’s always me. When do I realise I want something impossible? Or did I throw my chances away? Am I going to repeat history? What is this?
All the while I wish he was back in Thailand and I’m pretty sure he wishes he was back in Thailand. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder, what it does is give you the opportunity to see like you should have done the first time.

Crazy attracts crazy

I have often pondered why it is that nearly all of my friends are somewhat mad. Half should have a diagnosis and a quarter do, the other quarter are apparently normal ( whispers” their the worst” behind their backs).
Recent events have had me struggling to understand friendship and question why it is that I become that ” bad influence friend”.  The saying “if you fly with the crows then you get shot with the crows” is true sadly for friends. Crows are one of three species that form an army and go to war, so I find it fitting to apply this idiom. Fuck with one girl and you will be up against her sister army.
There are of course girl codes. These are simple. Do not ever have romantic or sexual relations with anyone your chum is with, been with, wants to be with, has ever looked at or has accepted a drink from. Never ever break secrets and confidentiality, no matter if you argue, don’t agree on things or fall out, to the death you take these things, no exceptions. The other is to love and care for one another, through it all,even when their children or manhubs are unbearable. You tell them nothing that they will find hurtful, or struggle with,unless your a million times sure it’s with love from the truest form. You love your girl unconditionally. The last one is a bit grey to most, you love their flaws more than their good bits, so if you need to talk about it you can. But ain’t no other bitch allowed. Because whilst it may sound like you are talking about her behind her back, you and next girlwife know it’s actually with an annoying love and endearment.

Now for the bit I think has the crazy attracting the crazy. Jargon bargon poopants to the theory it’s because there are similarities and foundational life experiences. It’s because when you are crazy you have little, none or questionable, amounts of self love. No self love is a dangerous game. No worth is an unbearable game. No skills and your screwed no matter your choice of game. So what we do is attract people we know understand that missing bit because they miss it too. Or bits of it. We choose qualities that will compliment, enhance, give, teach and share with us. Or in my case do the job totally for me. In return they get the same. I can totally give to others what I cannot give to myself,I will do my best by them always and unquestionably.  If it means being mean to make sure they have the better outcome so be it. If it requires that I occasionally take their man’s side again so be it. Because I love them and because I love them I love their families and so forth. But it becomes a messy sisterhood when into this mix you throw men. Men who do not understand this missing part friendship filler.

I feel I have taken the fall for various friends behaviours. The reason is that their men believe I formed some crow army. Instead of shooting down their flying bird, it’s easier for them to digest shooting down the one that they believe decides on the battle. The one they don’t love. It’s a given and I understand it, I am just beginning to find it sad. Yes  I am reckless, I have chaotic lifestyles and relationships, it’s not a secret. I love to go out and yes I like to drink, because for me it’s an escape and the safest one I have. It is not a problem within my relationships so I boggle as to why it is a problem for men I am not in a relationship with. Fear that I make your partner do it? Fear my own self hate and destructive behaviours is something i encourage in their partners? What ever their own insecurities are I get placed with some projective fear and confirmation. If there was no insecurity then there would be no displacement. Why on earth would I encourage, stand by or allow, my friend to cause herself harm? Pain?  Tears? Loss?  Never. Not ever. I would crutch their shit and carry them, attempt to build and support with them. Not instead of a partner, not even equal to their partner. But as a friend. Everyone requires, deserves, should have a support network. Not one single person, not only a partner, or only a friend,  because that hazes into something completely dependant, which is a ball game no body wants to put a shirt on to. Trust me.

I feel blessed with my friends. Men have come and gone, my children have days when they hate me and life’s unfair, even within my own relationships I need someone to make me put the shovel down. Ultimately friends truly enhance the areas of my life most precious. They cheer on my achievements, my families achievements, even my man’s achievements. As I do theirs, with the biggest pom poms. If this wasn’t the case, would we be friends? For most, friends become an extension of your family. They pull you up, the tell you off, they guide, love, respect and honour everything. I know how it feels to destroy your self, to destroy life around you, to risk everything, to try and tidy it up and to sometimes manage it and to sometimes not.  I know living with internal pain daily and I most definitely know how to make sure every decision I make to be the wrong one. Would I want anyone I love to feel a pinch of that?

The best thing so far from therapy is the friends it gives me. The ones that totally understand how I got crazy, what feeds it, not because you tell them but because it’s like they where there. They see without glasses. I cannot photo these friends due to confidentiality but this is what I found to be the best portrayal of these friendships

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So embrace your friends. Every one. Their pitfalls you should love,because something needs cherished and you can do that. Love their good. They will help you flourish and your life bloom, as you will do the same for them . As the years go on and your life changes, as things go right and things go wrong, they will always be there.
I have the friends I know are always there, my sex in the city like crew, the ones I speak to every day, the ones that know far too much about my sex life and understand every single tear. These girls have helped me through my worst, my ugly, they see my heart and my mind and I truly hope I offer the same. I love them dearly and whilst I can’t offer them guidance on how to get it right, I can certainly make sure they don’t get it as wrong as I have and do.

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There are the friends that I have known for years, the ones I can’t shake off, the fun ones I get pished with as we fill each other in on the six month gap from seeing each other. Each awful moment becoming funnier, each occasion involving children or spouses met with empathetic eyes. Loyal and lasting and with far too much energy. Bitches know I will hide out at yours when I am on the run.

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There are also ones I have lost. Ones I remember with as much fondness as I can. Ones that bring sadness when I cast my mind back to, secrets and knowledge with the same rules forever applied. Lost because they did not know these basic rules. Despite this I made  whispered oaths and I shall still die in the confession box if anyone tried to make me speak. They were friends once and I must always remind myself of why I loved them. Not why I don’t now. What ever their impact they were a big part of my life at some point.

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No one however can beat the friendship of a sister. I feel genuine sadness for girls with no sister. It is the truest form of friendship you will find. I could not be without mine,she definitely knows more than any and has watched me grow and fall and has grown and fallen with me along the way. She is nuts and sensitive and makes for the perfect mix. So far the only person I can be hangry alongside. A best friend given to you, one you share blood with and share memories no one else could ever have been apart of.

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We are nearly done. I adopted family along the way. They blend friendships and family with a tight bind. With the same codes and love families have, wrapped in loyal and honest friendship. Three beautiful, strong and stupidly caring people, their own mother I forced my child like self into the life of. They make me proud, safe and accepted as one. A gift they inherited.

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Oldest friend, I grew up with, I did all the bad shit together with,the one I learned friendship codes with and still stayed together. Who knew about every shitty boyfriend, we where together as our boobs grew and the crewcuts grew out. This one will be forever and years can pass and I know one text and she will chat for hours like no time has passed. This one probably has seen and heard more than any. This one is the one I would still phone first if I lost someone unbearably close.

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Clearly…  I was a heftier girl in this.

And my favourite moment. The friend you raise. The friend you have yet to have. The friend that doesn’t know it yet but will one day possibly and hopefully be your best friend. The one you believe to be the most amazing, the most gorgeous, the funniest, the cleverest, the most talented an wonderful, the one you would die for.

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Set me and all my me’s free

Everyone has moments during their life when it feels so unbearable that suicide becomes a wishy idea. Sometimes the wishy becomes washy and sometimes the washy washes out and sometimes it becomes more of a tidal wave. For most I imagine these wishy washys remain just that. Sometimes it can feel like you are bobbing around with a float for a while yet the sun can be seen rising and setting, those mornings and nights roll into days, then into weeks and then into months and eventually you pick that float up and walk out of the wishy washy sea. Occasionally with a life jacket of medication to make sure in future you use arm bands. This is how I imagine “healthy suicidal depression” to feel. I am not undermining those dark moments. Nor am I actually meaning there is anything healthy about it.. For the love of God always seek help. But for me, for the bpd, for others, we have arm bands, a rubber ring, a ton of stains that don’t come out in the washy and we constantly wobble off of our surf boards on the tidal waves caused by emotional storms. I use the terms wishy and washy because whilst it is a very serious topic it is an extremely individual, private and misunderstood one. So to cover the haze I shall use hazey terms, after all, this is the hazy cloud we live under.

I cast back to my childhood and I can now recognise behaviours that I would find concerning if in my own children. I had horrific eczema and of course that caused torturous itching. Under my pillow I kept sharp pen lids, bluntish knifes and such assortments of tools. I recall my parents calling me up to my room having made the discovery whilst changing my bed. My only reaction to the blood and skin on my mattress protector was to cry and beg for them to let me keep my tools. I would consume things I knew would cause anaphylaxis shock. I would sip at poisonous products (apparently. I can safely say drinking any product from body shop will not kill you), the bathroom cleaner burned a little. I can recall begging god to make me dissappear, I can remember begging for escape. Then I would feel guilty for wetting my baby dolls head with my tears. I also found methods of escape, riding my bike untill my legs hurt not caring for roads or cars, I would climb trees and sit in them for hours singing my wee heart out, and I would walk along the railway track near my home. Music of course as we have covered in previous blog played a huge part.

Into adolescence these things evolved. Escape came in the form of alcohol, autistic fantasy and detaching. Consequently causing me to miss most of my school life. Harm evolved into something sinister and abusive, I dare to actually print.. Groomy, violating and exploitive. Yet the same feeling was always there. My doll still got the tears. Tears I have since learned not to have, and if those disgraceful things moisten my face I hide until it stops. Minutes they get at best.

So how did this evolve into my adulthood? Despite many, many years of various bullshit therapies I still walk with a heavy float. Now no armbands of medication ( tc rules)  and the storms just don’t stop. They come in tsunamis, monsoons, tropicals. Every trigger lights every emotion I have ever felt in this place. They link up like electricity. The pain of an adult, a teen, a child, and a toddler. I shall tell you how it feels for me. The weight of the world falling, the words spat into my own head. I feel disgusting, vile, poisonous, ugly, repulsive, contagious, lost, limp, no energy, pain digging into each single cell of my skin and body. I feel worthless, guilt, shame, I feel a bad bad person. The sort of disgusting human others would sentence to death. THEN it switches. Fast and furious. As if somewhere in some instinctive way my mind fights itself. Then I feel sad, broken, I know I am kind, I hate being kind, I know I try and I hate that I try, I fail, even when I do my best look… I feel like my tears start to shake my muscles inside. My throat closes, my body physically starts to get heavy and ache. I cant hear properly, I can look attentive but nothing. I speak and people respond but I question if I even make sense. I frown because the noise is my head is deafening me and I try to decipher the voices. Which one is saying what? I can’t take it.

THEN… This is it. This is when I know I have three choices. Suddenly every bit of air touches my bare skin. Any part. My skin responds, goosebumps, air. My eyes blink more. Close for one second more at each blink. My breathing calms, I nose breath. My muscles all relax, I may appear to smile almost. I feel light, let the air blow me. Take me. I want to go, I have to go, I am bad for people. Even when I try I am bad. My poor  children have a mental health mother. Worse a mental mother pretending not to be mental, how mental?  Impacting on them in the mental and the non mental. Men. I chew at and spit out. I don’t trust them. They don’t care, they don’t love me, they love what I can do for them. They need someone better. I have no friends,  they think I am but I’m not really because I’m not true or honest. So who are they friends with? Its time. Bow gracefully.
Option two. Panick. You feel the need to go. Recognise the danger. No one protect your children like you. I have no one I would let within an inch of their minds. I am sentenced to something worse than death. Run. Now I want the air, more and thicker and faster. I want to run like an athlete (sadly Sarah. Athlete you are not). I shall grab some humour and pass go with alcohol, music, heels and male friend.
Option three. Stay still. So very still. Do not be seen. Do not be heard. Then wallow in the fact no one cares when you go back to option one.

How is this cycle living? This one cycle. The bike of all bikes. Amongst the Amsterdam station bike park of bikes. Imagine if they made a bike of gold and placed it as a rain cover over this bike Park. This is my head. Every day. Even in my sleep I’m haunted. This is what I spend my life fighting against and today I do not feel like I am winning. Today I have no energy to fight. Today I hate my fuckin brain and my fuckin life. Because I did nothing to cause it. I do not deserve it despite any sin. No one does. So today I choose option three. With option two taunting me, a fun option but a bugger to clean up after.

So it is not that I am insensitive to others having periods in their lives that feel this way. I empathise completely, I sympathise for their feelings, I accept maybe theirs being on par but alternative to my own. I will rescue as much as I can and more than most. Yet envy creeps my way and sometimes frustration which presents as anger. I hate that these people attempt to liken it to my own feelings. I hold my hands up to my ignorance if that be what it is. I hate that they will more than likely have this demonic cloud for a period of time. A period. Every day for ever, for as long as I have known I feel this. I live in total fear that it will never ever stop.

Research has shown that around 70% of BPD sufferers will have at least one suicide attempt in their lifetime, and many will make multiple suicide attempts. People with BPD are more likely to complete suicide than individuals with any other psychiatric disorder. Between 8 and 10 percent of BPD’s will complete suicide; this rate is more than 50 times the rate of suicide in the general population.
I would like to refer to my previous blog “work will set you free”. Will it fuck. Twenty years of therapy. Two of a therapeutic community. Who the fuck am I kidding? This is why people have religion. Therapy is like a religion. If their isn’t hope then there isn’t anything.

Work sets you free

What ever your mental health diagnosis or problem be it’s safe to say that it actually feels like some form of death sentence. For the rest of your sodding life you will battle to stop the mischievous voices winning,the depression winning,the mania winning or the stigma becoming so out of hand winning. The choices are similar to picking which weapon you would prefer. Personally I hope the mania takes me if the choice be it. The sense of ” fuck it”  is the better sin of places. Bring me the drink the drugs the sex and the fact I am near on a frigging super hero. I shall die in my cape.
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Seventy years ago some tosser with a tash would have marked us up and killed us for our mental health conditions. Since then advances and research have allowed for increased understanding. Or has it? By the high up powers has it? At the lowest level, as a sufferer I add to the stigma, I lie to my children that I work,they do not know I am in full time therapy. I can describe bpd until the cows come home to my family and friends. Those cows have had dinner, done their homework, chilled in front of the tv and gone to bed,and still my support network will not understand. I know for a fact my friends partners see me as that “bad Influence”  friend,  because I have chaotic relationships, distorted yet chilled views, and probably behave recklessly when I’m overwhelmed. In every dispute within my relationship my mental health becomes a scapegoat, the same for the breakdown of friendships,and because I’m so conflicted myself I allow it. No matter how much I rationalise that maybe I allow arse wipes into my life,  I myself will blame me. This is the mild levels of bad stigma I live with. We all live with. If someone with mental health reacts to anything that someone else does not like or we aren’t conforming as wished, mental health is there to alibi. Let me take this opportunity to say ” mental health does not change the fact people act like total pricks”.  You have your own  stamp book.

However the stigma,the one that apparently is becoming less, actually gets worse the higher you climb in society. Scarily once you get to the top you are target b, refugees currently have top place. Poor bastards. Propaganda and our government are a dangerous duo. We all know this, but let me tell you how fuckin scary it is when your at their perceived, bottom of the shit pit. Yes a minority of people but this number is increasing and will continue to do so thanks to some toffs idea of making the statistics appear better for the voters.

Mental health is a drain on the NHS. Ooooooooooooo whip up some tax paying, probably tax avoiding, hater. Bring in good old channel four to cover this. Bed crisis, psychiatric fly on the wall documentary, show the staff over worked.  Show the patients being treated, recovering and coming back. God dammit. Aren’t they a nuisance of non contributing, draining individuals. Well. Dear conservatives.. You have so few beds in psychiatric hospitals and few actually educated staff so when a patient comes in why not send them to a private clinic and fork the bill. The priory I hear is where a recent member of my own tc has been placed and from what I hear his common people’s problems and triggers will be well understood amongst the wealthy addicts. Phewee. It’s almost ridiculous that diploma routes for nurses and midwives were scrapped by you, especially when you employed those that labour saw through education and helped to train. Dried up future students in your aim to make everyone require some serious university debt. Dust your hands off. I note the next target is junior doctors, and I won’t start on the fact hospitals remain the same size despite the ever increasing population. My local maternity ward has been the same size for almost forty years, my town however is now requiring city status. Anyway back to mental health.

Therapeutic communities have run for fifty odd years. It began in a famous psychiatric hospital and evolved based on the effectiveness. Research has time and time again proven it’s effectiveness. More and more communities became available. It is to date the most effective form of treatment for personality disorders. It’s an eighteen month course. Yes it is expensive for the NHS. Eighteen members a time in mine at maximum compacity. But in this time people fight to get better, they learn, they talk like they never have, it’s an experience anyone else would watch with wonder, amazement and pride. The backgrounds of these people would see many other government services sued and shamed. These people leave with skills that allow them to work, to manage relationships, to have fewer blips than ever. Yet to make the statistics work you scrap these communities. You install talking therapies. It’s insulting. Talking therapies is the biggest waste of mental health funding. In a set few weeks you aim to achieve nothing but a short term result. Who is measuring the long term effectiveness? These people will leave and continue to use services within the system because talking for one hour for ten weeks is a drop in an ocean. You have implemented twelve week programmes, yes they will show on paper short term improvements. Twelve weeks for an hour a week. Disgraceful. I panic for those intering the system. They will never be able to work effectively or for long periods. They will bounce from one chaotic situation to another and probably always require an addictive crutch. More will break, more will stay in the cycle of the mental health system. Statistically the correlation between mental health and physical illness is high. Psychosomatical Illnesses and somitization will do this. But throw pills at us and never help cure, cheaper short term fix. Extortionate long term, but who needs those figures in campaigns. A round of applause for your negligence.

If only this was where it ended. It has been suggested that those with mental health should wear coloured wristbands to highlight their mental health struggles. Reminiscent of some historical time. It has been claimed it would assist us to be treated more fairly and sensitively, so others know our needs. I shall speak for everyone and say blue will not be any of our choice of colour.

Is it enough that you portray mental health as a drain on the NHS? NO. How about you loop us into your benefit system shambles. People died of cancer sooner than they received disability, brilliant new scheme was the pip. But who cares? Wasn’t your family. Disability for mental health is a toughie. It can’t be seen so how can it be judged fairly. I would say a stack of information on a rio site may help. Or the lacerations covering someone’s body. How about if their receiving therapy, or are on physiatric doses of medication? Would it be if the crisis team where involved in the last however long (uneducated donkeys employed to totally tip you over the edge you are stood on, cheaper than educated, but doh..  No labour.. No training worth while).

Propaganda time. Where is channel four with another accurate portrayal of those on benefits. My my they must have spent serious time finding a handful of bad net slippers. Shove them on the box and help distort society’s opinions more. It worked. Shamless, benefit Street.  It would infuriate me to know people where stupid enough to use this crafty example as the basis of their beliefs. What about the many people in this rich country using food banks? The people who work more hours than the rich for less money, who rely on benefits to top up their wages because their three jobs aren’t enough. What about a programme on the impact of zero hour contracts? What about the mental health people fighting to manage and struggling, wishing life was over, with no support for their families from any agencies. Failing agencies. Agencies that step in only when crisis point is hit. Again no support along the way.

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It is apparent why I, we, others do not stand up against stigma. We are tainted in a sneaky way. In lots of sneaky ways. Hatred is growing against many minorities. The upper powers and this western propaganda is doing a remarkable job at nudging things in this direction. An example of this (apologies and no offence to those who have this), the semi colon. The butterfly. What ever the tattoo of the time is. I think it can be an inspirational mark for yourself to remember your struggles and remember there is always a choice and a light. However, after thinking I may have one myself I realised I would be branding myself. You may as well throw me the wristband. I am branding myself.  For what? For whose benefit? Who really wants me in a pigeon hole with a number around my foot. The vulnerable will always be there, the old, the young, the Ill, the homeless,  the refugees. It is one world. One race. Anything that makes you vulnerable has no prejudice, we are all one incident, one year, away from being victim to circumstance.

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Working hard does not set you free. Unless your of a high class, you are screwed. Work hard and work shit hours for shit pay and we will not make sure you are topped up enough to eat. Work hard at treatment, therapy, rehabilitation, we will not cover your extra needs as a vulnerable person or make entering work easy. If you cannot afford to learn you will not be easily employed and we shall shut doors as you go. Freedom has only ever been achieved by fighting for it. I may be batshit but sometimes I am glad it gives me fight in the darkest times. If only everyone would fight.

I feel the music

Someone with mental health should never drink, the fact that it’s a depressant is not the one. If you thought you felt bad before, the alcohol crash will have you reaching for the blades, iron, what ever your form of comfort is. This is me today, too much wine last night with the Duck. Brilliant idea at the time, we laughed a lot and competitively went to war against each other on battleships. The sex that followed is one for the wank bank, crazy in the head freak in the bed is a saying for a reason. Plough it with alcohol and monsters are created, one with bpd the other definitely narcissistic (borderline and narcissistic relationship cycles make for good googling and reading).  All of these things are sub topics for other blogs I’m sure, my point of the one now is I am at the beginning of what could be a huge crash.

I am currently writing from the bed I have been in for twelve hours. My house is in post drink state and I now have four children to make a roast for, Duck has his child today and I have mine. The idea of getting up is overwhelming. Dread is sunken in my stomach. I’m too ocd to not gut the house,I also need to wash. Duck is painting my hall and this means the hall furniture lives in the living room. I have no milk so have to shop run. Yet here I am,hiding out in my bed mid afternoon. I did try getting up but it made me feel ill, I don’t know what’s real and what of it is somitization, I don’t even care. Then I found some fluid forming in my eyes so back to bed I came. I layed for an hour thinking here I would stay, nothing can alter my mood. The illness won.

A duck and music may have saved my day. I love music, duck loves music, both with a very eclectic taste, with a very much equal adoration and appreciation. I hated his stupid huge speakers when they made home in my bedroom, my girlie clear bedroom now houses two huge speakers. Until these moments when these speakers act like prozac. Duck came upstairs and from under the covers my ears absorbed the enigma and return to innocence. I hated this song for years until Tc,now it sums everything up and my body responds to its tribal monk like chants. Goosebumps and chills. My body responds the same to this as it does when I pick up something hot my skin wants. My body sinks into my bed of safety. Duck leaves the edge of my bed and goes about the day with our children and a paintrush in his hand. Even whilst I write still the music flows, controlled by him from his androids. It is mix of the man knowing me, caring, and playing the most perfectly chosen tunes. Maybe he just played it selfishly despite my obviously dying self but today I will believe the other. We have a mix of Pink Floyd, Guns and Roses, Enigma and some old school comforting R&B reminding me of how I used music in my teens.

I have always used music to escape and to comfort. Headphones my whole life, vinyls, scratching my parents records to death when I was young. Musicals. Tapes. Cds. Losing myself to music in cars, in clubs, give me it and give me it loud. During some hypnotherapy once my self now gave my young me a walkman, total subconscious decision. Best gift anyone can give a child that struggles I think. I saw most west end productions when I was younger, something my parents got very right ( you have to give them the credits when deservant or you live building hate blocks). Cats was my favourite, I saw that twice, phantom of the Opera, Joseph, starlight express. Anything Wayne Sleep was in I had to see, musicalsl films made my childhood bearable and gives me fond memories.

It’s lying here feeling my mood shift that made me write. I don’t know how this simple thing can have such power. I’m pondering if artisan types and mental health go so hand in hand for a reason. Beside from the fact the back of our brains over ride the rest maybe the blessing is the creative out lets soften the screams of the batshit. Or is it that identifying the feelings is impossible when crashing and music embraces these, waving sounds over us in a way we can manage. Identifying, pulling things from inside to the surface of our bodies where things become easier to reach. Working backwards from my bodily responses is a process that works for me when I am struggling to find the overwhelming culprits.

What ever it is that works such magic, I have reached for my phone to blog, my head is out of the covers, when I put my final fullstop in here I am getting up to tidy and sort out these children. I am placing the chicken in the oven and peeling the potatoes. All after I have hunted out the duck to kiss and thank. I would never have turned the music on myself because my mood wasn’t there, but hearing who do u love ll cool j, and a bit of Mcfly telling me I’m loved has me feeling blessed, feeling that amongst the music played to raise me up he also sends me a message and I feel less isolated than the darkness would have me believe, (remember right now we go with the belief he is making some romantic gesture).

Today it nearly won, nearly robbed me of a day and nearly robbed my children of me for a day. Disgusting vile shitty illness. Disgusting vile alcohol if it be to blame also.  But it didn’t… Today it lost, not to my fight but the fight someone else made unknowingly. That there is one more reason to get up and sort my shit.