Stuck between a rock and a hard place, and other stupid English sayings…

Hello everyone… new people and the people who usually read my blog which I have abandoned for what feels like forever.  I said in my last post that I’d write about this blogging void, and I will.  Just not today.

Tonight I really have the urge to write.  This isn’t because I’m feeling inspired (soz).  It’s because I feel wired.  Ooh that rhymes.  I think that those few words get across my current head space quite well.

Yesterday I decided that I was going to take the plunge and go to see my psychiatrist to talk about meds changes.  If you have read my page on “My Journey to Date” you will know that as with most other fellow bipolarites I have been on a shit load of various pharmaceuticals and combinations of said pharmaceuticals.  I’ve been on my current combo of Seroquel (quetiapine) and Lamictal (lamotrigine) at varying doses for almost 18 months now.  Lamotrigine is my friend and has never pissed me off… well other than when my dose last got upped and I felt nauseous for around 3 months, but that helped me lose weight so it didn’t piss me off that much *BAD foodie brain*.  Seroquel however is a whole different kettle of fish.  On writing that I wonder where the phrase kettle of fish comes from.  Hmm.  *Types “kettle of fish” into google.* Turns out no-one knows where this phrase originated.  The English language is beyond weird.  Anyway – I digress… there may be a lot of digressing in this post… soz again.

Back to the Seroquel.  On lower doses it makes me feel groggy and a bit cloudy.  On higher doses it means that I wake up (by wake up I mean half open my eyes and hit the snooze button 5 times) feeling hungover everyday.  Hungover to the level of just under a bottle of wine I’d say.  At levels close to what I “should” be on it feels like the pros of a more stable mood are far outweighed by the cons.  I wake up feeling hungover to the extent of a bottle and a half of wine.  In fact sometimes I wonder whether I should just have a bottle of wine to validate feeling so shit *bad addictive personality brain* but I don’t.  A little high five for me on not becoming an alcoholic.  I have never been a morning person.  On Seroquel I’m also not an afternoon person.  Or a night person.  Or an actual person.  At high doses I’m a zombie.  I’m talking Shaun of the Dead but scarier looking.  Getting out of bed isn’t much easier, if any easier, than when I’m really depressed.  It’s more frustrating than when I’m depressed because if I am depressed I don’t care that I can’t seem to get up because I don’t want to.  When I’m not depressed it’s vile as I can’t seem to get up even when I have things to do.  Things that I really want to do.  This is beyond annoying and does get me down.  My thoughts are cloudy.  My memory is awful.  My memory has always had the functioning of that of a goldfish.  On high doses of Seroquel it’s like that of a goldfish with Alzheimer’s which has terminated its AA attendance and has been swimming around a tank full of vodka for the last 5 years.  Although I can’t quantify how bad that poor orange fishies memory would be I imagine it’s on par with mine.  Maybe a bit better than mine.

Of course Seroquel has its pros or I wouldn’t have stayed on it so long.  There is no doubt that I have had fewer major mood swings, and those that I have had don’t last as long and are in general less severe.  It also helps me sleep and after 20 years of chronic insomnia this was definitely a sweetener.  But now?  I can’t do the brain fuzz any more.

The thing is I’m going away travelling in two months time and one of the big things that’s worrying me is that I don’t want to go mental while I’m away.  I also don’t want to be a zombie.  Not going mental and not being a zombie are mutually exclusive at the minute.  As going mental and being a zombie are not on my to do list whilst away (along with getting robbed, kidnapped my drug lords, or contracting rabies from a frothy mouthed llama) this means I need to change my meds.

I wanted to try lithium but it turns out that this isn’t sensible given where I am going (deepest darkest South America) and what I will be doing (high altitude trekking and climbing where altitude sickness symptoms overlap with those of lithium poisoning).  Bollocks.  I have tried dirty Olanzapine aka condensed lard pills which can fuck right off, and am already on anti-epileptics.  He mentioned Risperidone which I took for a while back in my university days and made me hallucinate when I came off it.  Not a good hippy like LSD trip involving flowers and rainbows – more the “oh my god someone is stood by my bed waiting to kill me as I sleep” trip. The alternative is Aripiprazole which he says isn’t as good but isn’t sedating.  Yay!  But then I find out it is also stupidly expensive and I don’t have time to stockpile before I go away.  FML.

As a summary, I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Oh look – another stupid English phrase which google can’t really explain.  I’m going to make up some new ones I think to see if I can get them into general language.  I have got a lot of people using the phrase “that blows goats” which I believe I invented and is being passed from friends to friends of friends.  Must think of some more.  I digress again.  Behave silly bipolar ranty brain.

I don’t feel like I can stay on the Seroquel and would rather risk coming off it and chance going manic than remain a zombie while I’m away.  Although realistically I know coming clean off it would be stupid, and I have the benefit of having 5 months worth stashed in my bedside drawer.  I can’t really afford to go onto Aripiprazole as I will have to buy it when I’m away and it’s still on patent, i.e. stupidly expensive.  This means that part of me doesn’t want to even try it because if it is my wonder drug the chances are I’ll have to switch back to Seroquel anyway.  Hence I’m not entirely sure what to do.

Anyway rant over.  I’m not even entirely sure what the point of this post is other than venting my frustrations, but I guess it can make up a bit for my absence.  Deep breaths *inhales, exhales*.  Oh and I just realised I haven’t taken my fucking Seroquel *heads upstairs and sulks as she swallows the poison*

I’m still here…

I know it’s been a while and this isn’t anything decent to break up that ‘while’, just a short post to let you know I’m a) still alive, and b) wish you all a Merry Christmas.

 

Looking back at my blog I see that it’s actually been over 3 months since I last ‘properly’ wrote, which even for me and my procrastinating being, is quite a delay.  In September I spoke about how the eating disorder head was back with a vengeance, fully armed and ready to bombard me with its shit.  Since then it got worse, I went on holiday, things spiralled some more, blah de blah.  Now it’s the end of the year and I have no idea where the last 3 months have gone, except for the fact that they have gone bloody quickly and so much seems to have happened.  I think the main reason I haven’t blogged is because I didn’t know where to start.  Then more stuff happened and I really didn’t know where to start.

 

So yes – hello… and I’ll figure out where to begin soon.  Promise.  Just bear with me x

Are You Ok?

What was that?

Am I ok?  Of course I’m ok.

I’m just tired.  Or I have too much to do.

Or the cat shat in my cornflakes.  Whatever

Look at my smiling face.  See.  Obviously fine

Well kind of, but there’s something missing.  A hole

To fill.  A light bulb moment brings the clarity

That’s it.  The way to somehow make me complete

Everything will now fall into place

Excitement removes any logic

Am I ok?  I told you I’m fine

 

What was that?

Am I ok?  I think I’m ok

I mean I’ve noticed some things from before

Old thoughts.  Old feelings.  Old behaviours.  Old stuff

But it won’t become a problem.  I’m not stupid

My head cries a warning.  Fuck off head.  I’m in control

It won’t go too far.  I know what I’m doing

I’ll be careful and sensible.  No extremes

Not like before.  This time is different

There’s no need to worry about me

Am I ok?  Well I think I am.

 

What was that?

Am I ok?  Fuck knows.  You tell me

It’s all creeping in through that damn crack

The one which will never entirely leave me

It’s becoming bigger.  It’s all flooding in

Breeding.  Multiplying.  Like rabbits on Viagra

This can’t be real, can it?  I’m fixed now

But it’s getting stronger. Building momentum

If I ignore it will it go away?

Maybe I should let it stay instead

Am I ok?  I really don’t know

 

What was that?

Am I ok?  Yes.  I mean no.  Shit

The omnipresent voice says hi.  It’s back

As for the control.  Gone.  Was it ever there?

Everything has flipped.  It’s all the wrong way around

Like an old film negative. Good is bad.  Bad is great

This twisted way of being strangely brings comfort

I don’t know when my reality changed form

People said it was a bad idea

They were right.  I hate it when they’re right

Am I ok?  No.  I’m really not

 

 

What was that?

Am I ok? Not really, I’m struggling

I feel ashamed. Like I’ve let people down

I swore it wouldn’t happen.  The bitch is back

It wasn’t extinct.  Just dormant.  A volcano

Waiting for me to hit the big red fuck it button

Which I have.  I don’t care.  It’s welcoming me back

Manipulating thoughts. Tricking me again

I have to do something.  I need the strength

But where from?  Asking is admitting

Am I ok?  I don’t know what to do

 

What was that?

Am I ok? No, but I’m fighting

I must, although at times I don’t want to

It’s the thoroughbred.  I’m the Blackpool donkey

Trying to jump a hurdle which seems far too high

The smart arsed stallion watches and laughs as I try

Baby steps to meet what seems unattainable

“I will get there. You served your purpose.  Now go

I can’t lie for you anymore.  I won’t

Get back to the hell where you belong”

Am I ok?  The battle is on

 

What was that?

Am I ok?  Well I will be soon

I’m swapping secrecy for the truth

Which goes against everything it wants for me

Its voice lessens.  The gag and ropes on it tighten

It squirms, begging to be allowed back.  Making promises

It never keeps them. There’s no trust.  “You always lie

You’re losing your grip.  I can hold on.  You can’t

I refuse to let you.  You mustn’t win”

Now I’m the one laughing in its face

Am I ok?  I‘m now getting there

 

What was that?

Am I ok?  Yes!  In truth I am

People told me I could do it.  I have

I stopped it in its tracks.  I accepted help

I fought when it seemed too hard.  Then even more so

I booted it right in its metaphorical bollocks

It finally retreated.  I’m proud of myself

I’m content.  It feels strange.  Like I’m normal.  Ish

As normal as I’ll ever be that is

Those that care are proud.  They always were

Am I ok?  Yes.  I really am

 

 

Trying to see what is rational and what isn’t

Tonight I have my foodie group and I really don’t want to go, and for different reasons to last time.  Last time I needed to get everything out there so to speak, which I did and it was extremely cathartic despite being terrified about saying I was struggling.  In some way it felt good that others now knew, as I have been very closed with the majority of people.  In fact I have been actively avoiding seeing friends in case they notice that things aren’t so good.  I don’t want to be honest but at the same time I don’t want to lie which makes things tricky, so I would rather just avoid any situation where questions may arise.  I have been told by a few people that I look really good.  One of which was someone at work who should be looking after my welfare, and this was after I told her that the ED was back.  She then quickly said “although I hate to say that to someone who is purging”.  Too late.  Yet another seed sown in my mind that what I’m doing isn’t a bad thing, and even further than that, that if I look great it must actually be a good thing.  In which case why should I care?

This time I’m not entirely sure what I want to get from the group.  Three weeks have passed since the last one.  Have things got better since then?  No.  Have things got worse?  I guess so.  I’m in a bit of a blasé mood about it all today and feel like it’s not really a big deal.  What does it matter if I lose a bit more?  I want to so why shouldn’t I?  It is completely and utterly doing my brain in.  I can hand on my heart say that I don’t want to get ill, however I can also put my hand on my heart and say that what I have already lost is only half of what I want to lose in total, and I don’t want to stop until I get there.  I would like to state for the record that this would not take me into the underweight category for BMI (Bollocks Mass Index).  The question I have is whether this is my goal or is it “its” goal?  Today the boundaries between me and “it” are somewhat fuzzy.  So what do I say at group?  That I need support to help me to stop spiralling but I’m not sure if I want to stop?  It sounds ridiculous.  I think that “it” doesn’t want me to go in case I decide to fight against “it” with more force.  I assume that the bit of my brain which would be really pissed off if I stopped losing weight has also been kidnapped by “it”. 

I think that it is highly likely that I will get angry tonight.  I really don’t want to because I know it would be deflecting my anger with “it” onto others.  Plus I dislike it when I get angry, particularly when there is someone around to witness it.  I’m far better at managing my temper than I used to be and I haven’t (properly) punched or kicked a wall in quite some time.  Although saying that there was the “dickhead moodswing” back in January where I smashed a lot of stuff up in my kitchen but I’m choosing to ignore that! 

Despite what I have written about being unsure if I want to fight, I am still making myself.  I’m not allowing my food intake to get too low, although I admit I am still being pretty restrictive.  Yesterday I was fine with making myself eat and even went above what I have set as my minimum.  Today however I want to cry about the thought of reaching that minimum.  Maybe that is because “it” is kicking out at me for being “greedy” yesterday.

Writing like this does help me to get at least a little clarity on the situation.  I imagine what I would say to one of my friends if they wrote this, and whether I would recognise their behaviour as irrational.  Of course I would.  So I will keep writing and see what comes out of it.

When FML really should be FMED

I realised today that it has been a couple of weeks since I last posted.  As much as I dislike the word “should”, I really should have been writing.  Maybe it would have got some of the raw sewage out of my brain, which appears to be currently addled with shit in various forms.  Horse shit, dog shit, and most of all bull shit.

My thoughts are intertwined with the barbed wire conceptions of “it”.  “It” being the incredibly strong eating disorder, which for some reason has popped up to say hello, and is now outstaying its welcome.  Within a few weeks “it” has grown from the almost benign, gentle tapping of a small, lost child on the door of my mind, pleading to be granted entry, to a giant ogre smashing through the door with an axe whilst shouting in a deranged manner “Here’s ED” (think The Shining).  He is in and I’m struggling to catch the slippery fucker to throw him out on his arse.

Over the last couple of weeks things have been spiralling.  I have been fighting it, I admit not all of the time, but I really have.  I have managed to slow down the decline but I haven’t been able to get better, or even halt it.  Initially I wasn’t even preparing for a fight as I didn’t think I needed to, because I was just on a bit of a diet.  Rationally I know that going to the gym twice a day to burn off every last calorie that I had eaten, plus a bit more just to be sure, isn’t “just a bit of a diet”.  The thing is I’m great at rationalising things when I’m caught up in it.  On one of my diet porn television shows, they eat a small amount and exercise for 6 hours a day therefore it’s ok for me to do it.  Obviously.

I decided that I didn’t want to be binging and purging anymore so I have instead cut right back on my food intake.  I really do not want to eat at all, for both physical and mental reasons.  Physically I’m not hungry and food makes me feel sick, but it’s the mental side that screws me over.  Mentally I don’t want to step back from the challenge and the adrenaline I get every time I see the numbers go down and feel my clothes get looser.  I am managing to force myself to eat, even if it is still a restrictive amount, but it’s getting harder and harder to do even that.  The amount that I feel comfortable eating is dropping, although not as quickly as it has in the past due to the fact that I haven’t lay down and let it walk all over me.  But yes – it is still dropping.

Last weekend I had a bit of a wake up call, which made me think that it may have gone a bit further than “just a diet”.  I was at a friends and admitted that I had barely eaten and I know I was a bit jittery.  I went into the kitchen with her as she made me some toast.  As she scraped it with butter “it” went mental in my brain and panic started.  In my eyes the scraping may as well have been laying it on with a trowel.  All I could see was this calorie laden monstrosity, but I knew I needed to eat something as I was feeling a bit spacey and I also wanted to show that I was ok.  I don’t think the showing I was ok bit worked as my eyes leaked and the fear of a slice of bastard toast was no doubt emblazoned across my face.  Not a good sign.  I got home and sobbed.  I was frightened and incredibly confused.  We have talked about it since.  She came over one night this week and I tried not to snot on her shoulder as I told her about how I’ve spiralled in the past when I have relapsed.  I have never been this honest with a friend before because I’m always scared that they will back off.  That they will think I’m a freak or an idiot.  It has happened in the past.  She doesn’t.  She’s a weirdo.  Instead she put her arm around me and said all of the right things, however hard some of them were to hear.  Like that it is back.  I agreed that I do need some extra support to get through this, as however hard I’m trying, it isn’t enough.

People have started to comment on the fact that I’ve lost weight and are noticing that I’m picking at food.  I had to take one guy aside and say that yes I was struggling, but him commenting on it in front of others in the office wasn’t helpful.  He apologised profusely and then I felt guilty for saying anything.  I can be such a nobber.  It’s a bit of a no win situation.  I either don’t eat and they get suspicious, or I make myself eat which takes ages and they get suspicious over that.  I can wear my now baggy clothes, which show I have lost weight quickly, or alternatively I can wear the clothes I have bought which now fit and also show that I have lost weight rapidly, which yes, you guessed it, makes them suspicious.  You may wonder what the big deal is about them seeing I’ve lost weight.  The thing is they all know about my eating disordered past.  I have talked openly in the media a fair bit about my experience, and have harassed them for sponsorship when I have raised money for an eating disorder charity.  It doesn’t take much to put my “past” and the weight loss together and come to the correct conclusion.  I tell myself I haven’t lost that much, but the scales, my clothes and my friends are saying otherwise.  

The main thing that really worries me is that when I next go to see my mum she will know.  There’s no way she wouldn’t.  I am petrified of this.  Part of me wants to call her up and say that the bitch is back but that I’m fighting it.  The thing is I love my mum so much, and I don’t want to put her through the worry of knowing.  I want to protect her from it.  At the same time I know that if I don’t say something she will be hurt that I didn’t feel I could tell her.  I don’t know what to do for the best.  She said earlier in the year just how proud she is of me for turning my life around.  I feel embarrassed and ashamed that I’m now fucking things up. That I have allowed this to come back.  Maybe I haven’t allowed it per se, but I feel like I have.  That I haven’t put up enough of a fight.  This of course means I’m weak, stupid, and every other put down I can use on myself.

I don’t want “it” dictating what I can and cant so, but the targets in my head tell me that I need to do what “it” says or I wont hit “its” interim goal before I go on holiday.  If I don’t listen to what “it” says then I wont hit “its” next target either. Today I am fighting more than I was yesterday.  Yesterday I ate fuck all and didn’t really care.  It was a “fuck my life” day.  Today I have been stronger.  I’m not exactly waging a nuclear war against it, but at least I’m not sitting back and letting it do it’s worst.  I think that most of the time when I find myself say “fuck my life” I really should be saying “fuck my ED”.  Must.  Fight.  This.  I’m just so glad I don’t have to try and do it on my own.

Four years ago…

 

What Should You Do?

What should you do when it feels like the
world has been torn from under your feet?

What should you say when you are too scared
to accept the harsh reality?

What should you picture in your mind when
each image makes your heart break further?

What should you do when it hurts too much?

(Me – September 2007)

 

Four years ago, August 28^th 2007.  It was initially a typical day for me in early recovery.  The previous day I had returned home from Reading Festival and was utterly wrecked, although I hadn’t hammered the drink Glastonbury style.  Truth be told I did on the first night but I then ended up hitting a couple of overpriced food vans and did the deed.  Purposely vomiting into a festival toilet is not an experience I would like to repeat.  I was grateful that I had been pissed as it made the process much easier and I could get the hell out before I succumbed to dysentery.  Alcohol was mostly a no no for the rest of the weekend.  I made the conscious decision that if I was going to have a full blown relapse it would be with food that wouldn’t bankrupt me, and from the comfort of my own home with its familiar shiny white and bleached toilet.

During the drive back from the festival my head had gone into one of the distant, not quite sure what is happening places.  This made the journey pretty scary and I didn’t dare let on to my friend just how ill I was feeling.  I’m not sure how she would have felt knowingly being driven home by somebody that felt like they were on the edge of losing it.  Again.

I felt pretty grotty about the food slip up and my mood wasn’t in a particularly stable place.   Just after 11pm I gave up on ripping CD after CD in an attempt to keep myself occupied.  I shut down my laptop with a sigh, and acknowledged that I really should be getting my arse into gear and moving into the vicinity of my bedroom.  That way I was at least trying to sleep even if it did its usual trick of evading me until stupid o clock in the morning.  All of a sudden my mobile went off and scared the crap out of me.  I wondered, angrily, who the hell was calling me at this time.  Didn’t they realise that I could have been asleep, and if I had have been asleep, just how pissed off I would have been with the muppet making the phone call?  I didn’t recognise the number so almost booted it.

On the other end was my cousin.  I was a bit confused as we never speak, so I asked him if everything was ok.  He told me that no, actually it wasn’t, and he pulled out the television drama line “Are you sitting down?  I’ve got some bad news.”  Fuck.  My first thought was of my grandma who was in her late 80’s.  Something must have happened to her.  Oh shit, maybe she’s had a heart attack.  I felt physically sick.  In the moment it didn’t click that if something had happened to grandma surely my dad would be the one contacting me.  “Sam, it’s your dad.  He collapsed today.”  As the words “Oh my God, is he ok” blurted out, I knew he wasn’t.  “I’m so sorry, he’s dead” rang into my ears.  I know it’s common for people to say that on being told the news of the death of a loved one that immediately “it was like a knife stabbing me in the chest” or “it felt like my heart had been ripped into two”.  In those initial seconds I had no chest to be stabbed.  No heart to be torn.  With the exception of those few words attempting to infiltrate my brain, I was nothingness.  I must have fallen to the floor, as I of course hadn’t taken the advice of sitting down.  After a moment I drew what felt like the thinnest of air into my lungs and tried to grasp what I had just been told.  I think I muttered something along the lines of “he can’t be” only to have it gently confirmed.  He said if I wanted him to, he would call my brother and tell him.  As I hit the red button on my mobile a torrent of noise exploded from what felt like every pore of my body, in the form of what can only be described as the strangled scream of a wild animal.  I ran to the bathroom and was violently sick.

I couldn’t face calling my brother straight away, so I dialled my friend.  I left what I remember as a surprisingly calm message on her voicemail.  Within minutes she called me back and told me she was on her way over.  Next thing I knew my doorbell rang and my friend and her mum (I forgot her parents were visiting) came in.  I wasn’t crying.  I had that feeling of detachment that you get after you have drunk a stupid amount of vodka.  I was conscious but my brain felt external to my body.  I recall that I was staring at something beyond the confines of the walls.  Her mum made me a cup of tea and they sat with me for a while.  I think that was when I phoned my brother.  He was pacing around the streets.  We didn’t say much to each other, other than “this cant be real” on loop.  He wanted to come straight down to mine but I persuaded him to stay there and that I would drive back first thing tomorrow.  I said I would call mum and let her know.

My friend and her mum must have stayed for an hour.  There was nothing they could say but I was grateful to have a presence in the flat, rather than having it entirely filled by the darkness that seemed to rapidly be taking on a life of it’s own, and working it’s way into my body like a plague.  She had brought over one of the sleeping pills that I had given to her for safe keeping since leaving rehab.  I welcomed the chemical and after they had left washed it down with a couple of cans of Strongbow.  I wished she had brought more than one.  Not because I wanted to do anything stupid, but because I knew that the one tiny pill wouldn’t even come close to knocking me the fuck out.  I sat in bed with my quilt acting as a cocoon, mum’s number on the screen and my thumb hovering over dial.  I wondered how I could say the words to someone else, and her of all people.  My call suddenly broke the silence of her night.  As the words fell out of my mouth I could tell that she had just sat bolt upright and no doubt scared the shit out of her husband.  I don’t remember much of the conversation other than that I said I’d drive up the next morning.  One more voicemail message to another friend and then I somehow managed to snatch an hour’s sleep.

I had set my alarm early enough to go into work before driving up to my mums.  I was of course awake long before that, so threw some clothes into a bag and sat watching each minute pass by until it was a reasonable time to head into the office.  I felt I needed to go in to email a draft of the report I was writing to my supervisor and apologise that I would be away for a few days.  I don’t know why it seemed so important, but it did.  Maybe because it felt a normal thing to be doing.  I saw my manager in a side room and told him the story that I would soon be repeating over and over again to everyone that knew me, and that I had to go away for a few days to sort everything out.

Before I had set off for work I left my main counsellor at the rehab centre a garbled message.  As I sat in the office car park following the surreal conversation with my manager, summoning up the energy to move my hand to the ignition, she called me back and asked me if I would like to see her before I drove home.  My brain went into automatic as I took the familiar route to the nearby “country club”, which I had only left as an inpatient three short months ago.  After everything that I had shared and processed there it felt like a place of safety.

I sat with her in the nice office usually reserved for the special occasion of the admission of a new inmate.  Kind of like the front room my grandma used to save for use only at Christmas.  She was the only counsellor there that had seen at first hand any of the relationship between my dad and I.  When he came to visit me in treatment, I had a lot of anger and resentment directed at him for all manner of reasons, but particularly for his behaviour following the break up of his marriage to my mum in 2005, where our roles as parent and child were reversed.  This would have been difficult for any child to deal with, but when I was as unwell as I was, it acted as a catalyst propelling me further into my own illness as I tried as hard as I could to make him better.  He needed to acknowledge why I felt so angry, as I needed to accept how much pain my eating disorder had caused him.  She helped us to work through it and we came out with a far stronger and healthier bond.  At the beginning of our therapy session I could barely look at him.  By the end he was holding me tightly with both arms as I sobbed onto his chest, and him into my hair as he brushed his hand through it, telling me how much he loved me and that everything would be ok.

As I sat next to my counsellor I wanted to ask why he had lied.  This was about as far from ok as anything could possibly be.  In my left hand I clutched a photo of dad and I at my graduation less than 12 months earlier.  I used the forefinger of my other hand to slowly stroke his face.  He looked so happy.  And proud.  I know he was both.  We didn’t really speak, but she placed her hand on my arm which felt both reassuring yet also like an intrusion at the same time.  Waves of intense feelings started to smash through the calm exterior I was so desperate to display.  Anger swept across me.  What the fuck was this new sick reality where there would never be any new photos of the two of us?  Where there would never be any him at all.  I used every last bit of mental strength to push that thought as far as I could into the depths of my brain, so I could become consumed with nothingness again.  Nothingness didn’t hurt.

As I went to leave the country club I did have a moment of light relief when my counsellor gave me a bit of a bollocking.  This was because I had informed her that I had water and coke to drink during the drive home to keep me going.  I forgot that to her sugar is on the same level as hard drugs, so by saying coke I may as well have meant lines of white powder on my dashboard.  I managed a laugh as I said sarcastically that consuming sugar wasn’t exactly the most pressing of issues for me right now.  The growl of my car engine broke the eerie silence in my head, and the crunch of the gravel beneath my wheels as I drove away signified the start of what was going to be my new existence.  A life without my dad.

Feeling crap and trying to feel better. What helps and what definitely doesn’t.

I apologise in advance for what may come across as a whining and repetitive post. I don’t mean it to be. Saying that, I don’t know why I’m apologising (and I’m getting annoyed at myself for constantly apologising) as this is my blog and I should feel able to write about anything I want. Sadly right now I feel bad about pretty much everything I do, say or even think, and have done for a few weeks. I have “the guilt”. About everything. This guilt goes nicely with the reasons, or whatever you want to call them, that feed into me not feeling so good right now, which of course makes things even more difficult. Because why would we ever want to make things easy for ourselves? *rolls eyes* But hey – fuck it. Screw the guilt and I’ll write anyway, and I’ll try not to apologise again. Oh and I’m writing this on my BB so I can’t really see this properly and it may be disjointed and stuff. I’m not sorry. Here beginneth a couple of the things which are grinding me down.

Reason 1 for feeling like utter toss – I’m finding general day to day “stuff” hard at the minute. Things at work are beyond difficult. The trickle of colleagues and friends leaving has become a torrent, as the number of people getting served their notice of redundancy across the site rapidly increases. Every week I am saying goodbye to yet more people that I have grown to care about. People say that they will keep in touch, but you know that the majority won’t. That’s just the way it goes. As the office empties I get reminded that it won’t be long until I’m also one of the great unemployed. The atmosphere will only get worse as the months go on and I’m dreading it. Trying to give a crap about my work and find motivation to get the huge list of stuff done that I need to is a nightmare. I have always got some identity from my job and had pride that I do it well. Not so much now.

Yes I am lucky that I will get a good redundancy payment, and yes I have great plans of what to do with the payout following my redundancy BUT it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like shit about losing my job. Yes still. Even though I’ve known since February. I’m not apologising for that. Also the reality that I will probably have to leave the location and people that I love, to start from scratch makes me feel sick. On the positive side I do know that even if I do leave the area I won’t lose the close friends I have made. Thank god.

I am essentially trying to make the best of a bad situation with this redundancy bullshit, by planning for next year and trying to concentrate on that. That said I wish that people would stop assuming that because I’m doing this it makes everything ok. That it will magically make it a piece of piss to get through the next few months. Because it doesn’t, it won’t, and I swear to god if one more fucking person insinuates that it will I won’t be held responsible for my actions. These actions won’t be pretty. That is unless you have a penchant for gore, in which case you may find the bloody aftermath strangely and hauntingly artistic.

Reason 2 for feeling like utter toss – The last bit of Reason 1 shows that I’m a teeny, tiny bit angry at the minute. This is for all manner of reasons which I actually can’t be arsed to go into right now, because I will get even more wound up. I don’t like feeling angry because I have to be very careful about what comes out of my mouth. I have a habit of lashing out. Sometimes it’s at the people who in my eyes deserve it, sometimes it’s at some poor sod who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Feeling angry is a trigger for a plethora of things (see Reason 3 for feeling like utter toss). It is something that I have to try to control or it can make me very unwell as I try to keep it. My head then either implodes or explodes. I am much better at managing my anger (I haven’t buggered my hand up from punching a wall for a while) but it still leads to me wanting to do things which are by no means good for my health or my sanity. A large amount of swearing using the worst and therefore the best profanities has helped enormously.

Reason 3 for feeling like utter toss – For the last 2 weeks my eating has been fucked. There. I said it. All of the old behaviour has come out to play. Binging, purging, calorie counting, restricting, putting together weight loss plans, hardcore exercise regimes, weighing myself 5000 times a day, body checking by pinching the fat I wish would just melt away. Blah, blah, blah. I feel so embarrassed by it and have found it very difficult to say to anyone that I’m finding things hard, let alone give any actual information about what is genuinely happening and going through my head. I had got better at being open and honest, but memories of people doing a bunk when I didn’t instantly get better have been flooding into my head. People being “over it” and past caring what I did because I didn’t or couldn’t do what they saw as the solution to everything. All of the ultimatums. Me being paranoid if someone doesn’t reply to a text or phone message. Thinking they don’t care. I’m scared that it is going to happen again if people find out I’ve had a “r word”. Actually that’s a lie. I’m not scared, I’m terrified, and it has already started to happen in a variety of ways.

I have my foodie group on Tuesday. I don’t know if I can go. For ages I feel like I have been “the strong one” in the group. Now I feel like I have let them all down. How can I ask them for support when I feel so ashamed and so stupid? Yes I know I’m putting myself down. I am so good at it that it’s hard not to. I went two weeks ago when things had started to kick off. What if they say “I told you so” or something along those lines? Or that I need to snap out of it, get a grip on things, pull myself out of it, or the million other things I’m worried they will say. These are comments which are likely to make me spiral as I end up mentally saying fuck you and kicking out. I’m concerned that the anger may come out in the group if I attend and anything along these lines is uttered. Right now all I need is to be told that it will be ok. That I will be ok. This is what helps me. When I’m reassured and start to believe these things, it gives me the strength to try that little bit harder to stay away from the big red fuck it button. Reassurance is what works. Thinking about how fucked up I was because of it in the past, or what could happen if I continue, doesn’t. Instead it freaks me out, and not in an “oh my god I can’t go there” manner. It makes me think that these things are inevitable, and rather than make me fight against it, it makes me wonder what the point is in trying. I think you will agree that feeling like that is neither helpful nor productive.

If I go to group I’m also concerned that I may end up triggering people. That would add to the guilt nicely. The sad thing is I don’t actually care that much if someone triggers me, but I’m so concerned I may trigger someone else that I might stay away from the group. A group that’s supposed to be there to help people that are struggling. Like I am.

In all honesty I have been getting worse at quite a rapid rate. Thursday was particularly bad. I felt horrible after work and as much as I tried to not do it and distract myself, it became too much and I went off on a right old session. Cue me feeling really ill yesterday. I had to leave work early as I was a mess. I was dizzy, my heart was pounding, I felt sick, shaky, the words. I had to go to my favourite disable toilet to sit on the cold floor for a while. I saw the sorry state that was my reflection and knew that this has to stop before it goes too far. I caned the fluid down when I got home as I was mega dehydrated. I was also a well behaved foodie and ate without vomming. I went over to a friends and I was pretty mashed. As I went to leave hers last night I couldn’t walk particularly straight. I think I was just exhausted from what I have been putting my body through. In the end I stayed at hers as it really wouldn’t have been safe to drive home. A genuine well done to me for being sensible. It doesn’t happen very often I can assure you! This morning she did say how rough I was last night – not in a horrible way – just that she could see I wasn’t well.

I am trying really hard to get things under control. I just need that reassurance that I can do it and that everything will be ok. So please, if you give a toss then avoid saying things which make me feel worse as outlined above. It may work for some people but it doesn’t work for me. It’s detrimental. Instead support me with a hug. Some nice words. No judgement. I will get out of this, I just need some positive encouragement to help me along the way.