So I’ve not really been blogging or reading blogs or doing anything all that interesting the past few days. Sorry. Mostly, I have been freaking out.
This is a really self-indulgent post. Nothing good can come from it. Sorry. I just start feeling like I should blog because I haven’t done a public post in a while, even when I have nothing good to say so I’m just going to be honest and it’ll probably be rubbish.
I’m on Prozac now, which I think is playing a massive part in my freaking out actually. I mean, side effect wise, I haven’t been hit by like awful migraines or anything, but I am a ball of tensed up, negative energy. It’s kinda like being a very small amount on pills all the time. And I mean a tiny amount. It’s like that first tingling, but you’re not sure if you wishful thinking it into being or not. You’re tightly wound and your belly is doing an anxiety dance and your thoughts speed up to one hundred million zillion thoughts a second, yet you’re never actually high. It’s kinda crappy, but should settle after a few weeks. Sleep is a distant memory of mine.
I’m worried about them though. The last SSRI experience didn’t go so well, and this beginning part isn’t filling me with optimism. Obviously I haven’t had any positive mood effects yet, but they take a good few weeks to start getting their shit together. I have however, had multiple calls to crisis support because everything’s fucked. I can’t stop thinking about how I’m nothing but lies and I’m completely made up and even what I make up sucks because I haven’t even got the ability to create a pretend type of good so really, I have absolutely nothing and I’ll never have anything. I’ve spent so long creating nothing that what was me in the first place, if there even was a me, has turned to dust. Everyone know’s that I’m nothing. They see it and they know and they judge me. I can’t make something worthwhile and I’ve got nothing and there’s no point. All this thinking is leading me into some pretty dark corners which are eerily reminiscent of first year. I duno if it’s the meds though. I hope it is kinda, because then I can either a) wait for it to calm down or b) come off them. If it’s just the way my mind has decided it wants to be then… I duno it’d just suck more. My mental health is kinda rocky at the moment. I was really fucking depressive, then I had like two days of being kinda hyped, then I started to get so fast and so concerned and so confused that I can’t see any way out of it and I end up sitting on the phone to the nice man on the crisis line who talks to me for a bit and tells me to think about A&E, but I ignore him because it’s not an absolute necessity. My mental health is plummeting I think.
Or is it? I don’t know. Maybe I want it to plummet. I don’t think I’d want that because that doesn’t sound nice. Or maybe I’m just dramatic. Plummet is a dramatic word.
I don’t think it’s dramatic though. And I don’t want to feel like shit.
Story of my brain. Fucking constant brain noise.
I’ve got an emergency appointment with the psychiatrist at the CMHT on Tuesday. It’s at 9:30am which will not be fun. I feel like shit for having that appointment. I feel like I didn’t actually freak out and I didn’t feel all the things I said I felt and I didn’t mean any of it and he’s going to think I’m a needy, dramatic dickhead and I don’t need his help and I suck. He’s going to think that I don’t realise I’ve got it easy and there’s no reason to see him. He’ll think I’m no good and hate me and I’m wasting his time and he has more important people to treat than me. He’s going to think I’m just being over the top.
Except maybe I’m not. I duno. He blatantly already thinks I suck.
I think today was better than yesterday. Yesterday a man stopped to talk to me because I looked so fucking crappy. He asked me if I was ok. To be fair, I was just staring at the cars under a bridge zooming along. I don’t know if I knew him because as soon as he spoke, I freaked out went “What? Yeah? Sorry. I’m going.” and ran away without looking at him like any normal person would do. Who know’s, maybe he was a friend?
Today though, Mum took me to Zizzi’s for lunch. I had a glass of prosecco, lots of garlic bread stick things, creamy harissa chicken pasta stuff and a piece of plum and fig frangipane tart thingy. I liked going to lunch. I felt good I laughed a lot. Then I got that emotional gravitational pull thing where you’re suddenly hit in the fact by this bodily emotion that wants to suck you into the Earth’s core when I realised I’m going to have a benefit assessment soon and I’d freaked out so much I had convinced my psychiatrist to see me and I don’t know anything about myself or what my trajectory is or if I can feel well ever. It was ok though because, like a stupid person, I got to hold the Ma’s hand. She called me her lovely girl and it was comforting. She bought me nice things in M&S and we had a rubbish coffee in a pretty shop. We were in South Woodford, so we did some good Essex people watching. I then went and saw my friend. I think I did alright. I was really fast when I met her. My head, and therefore my mouth, were going so fast I couldn’t keep track of what I was doing or saying. I talked about homemade nut butters and smoothies and eBay and on and on. My fingers were tingling. I really wanted to talk to her about what’s been going on with me though. I think that’s why it all got too speedy for me. Nervous. Which is also why it wasn’t me. Except it was. It doesn’t feel like it was me. It feels like I wasn’t in control and made it all up and fucked up so much that she’ll hate me forever because I got it wrong and wasn’t fun or interesting or anything. I performed the wrong things and lied and now she’ll think I suck. Except I didn’t think I was making it up at the time. I duno.
Anyway, she was nice. She complimented my fingernails. She told me that she thinks what’s happening right now makes sense. She told me that she never thought that recovery from anorexia would make things ok for me because they never were ok for me for as long as she’s known me. I think she might be right. I don’t want her to be right though. Or maybe I do. I don’t know. She wasn’t surprised. I hate that a little bit because I’m surprised. I also don’t hate it because at least then I’m not just making it up fully. I don’t know. I think maybe I annoyed her. Thinking about it all makes me feel sick. Other people are really difficult. I told her I’d lend her summer dresses. I hope she likes my dresses. I don’t like it when people think my clothes suck because then they must think that I’m just a rubbish person with rubbish taste. I try really hard to look nice. Plus I’m sure once I give them away, I’ll suddenly want them because if someone else likes them and wears them, I’ll think they look nice and that should be how I look. Standard though. I still want to lend them to her though because it’ll mean I can be nice and she approves of me.
I realise this might be a bit cryptic. Some people know some things, other people don’t. I want to write for both sets. I’m failing miserably. Sorry.
When things speed up, I get more likely to talk to people, but equally my attention span gets really short. I can’t concentrate on any one thing for long and my mind drifts to conversations that probably never have and never will happen. Those conversations occupy my mind non-stop, unless I’m telling myself off. In those conversations, I tend to explain myself to people. So instead of feeling something, I think how I’d tell someone, then I get confused over whether I felt it or not. Maybe blogging makes it worse. Maybe it makes it better. I dunno. I explain myself a lot on this thing. So anyway, I’m more likely to reply to texts, but I’m less likely to read a blog post. Then in actual conversations, I lose track of what’s happening and what’s being said and I forget where I started and why any of the words are being used. Sorry for being a bit absent. Both in the internet sense and when people actually see me.
It’s brain mush. If it isn’t doable in an instant, it just isn’t going to happen. Books can literally fuck off right now. Which sucks because I love reading. Way too much delay in that gratification. They are no distraction at all. If I try to read, I always wind up feeling way worse than if I’d just watched day time t.v. and that’s saying something.
I feel like all my insides are screaming and my chest is being sucked into the Earth and there isn’t anything I can do to stop the constant whirring of my brain spilling out incoherent thought after thought.
Yesterday I couldn’t sleep because I convinced myself I had Munchausen syndrome. Then I thought that I don’t because if I wanted to be sick so much, I could have pretty easily put myself into hospital with restriction, and I chose to get better. I had a week to gain weight before I was made in-patient. I chose to gain weight that week to not be put in hospital, even though part of me wanted to, because I did know that it’d suck to not be at home and to not eat nice food and to not see my friends. And if I really wanted to be ill again, the easiest thing to do would be relapse. I’m working hard to not relapse though. I work at it every day and it’s hard. It’s not as hard as it used to be, but I’m often deliberately going against urges to cut back. I could get sick in a simple, less noisy, less unstable, less emotional way. And I’d also get to be thin and achieve something at the same time. That would be better than this. This sucks. Plus I’m so worked up about the fact that I’m made of lies. I’ve written out all the things I want to discuss with my team this week. I’ve gone over it again and again, adding bits that might make me look worse so I don’t leave them out and think I’m deceiving everyone because then I can’t believe them. And taking out anything that may be an exaggeration or simply untrue.
If I really did want to be sick, why would it bother me so much that I had to know for sure I was actually sick? I have to know the actual, factual truth. There’s always a truth and I don’t feel like I’ve got it and I hate not knowing. I have to find the facts to myself. Right now I am no facts. I need facts.
And I don’t like, rub dirt in my injuries or fake psychosis or tamper with test results.
So then I decided maybe I don’t have Munchausen syndrome. But then I’d realised I’d spent hours going round and round in circles and really hadn’t solved anything. And all it had done is work me up even more.
But then why do I feel like I can’t possibly be telling the truth about anything at all? Why does it feel like I don’t have any real emotions, yet I’m performing them so wholeheartedly that every part of me feels so intensely all the time that it’s raw?
I have no direction. I have no forward momentum. I have no prospects. Everyone around me is busy making lives and getting serious. I’m so behind that I’ll never amount to anything. I don’t know what I want. I say I want things, but I don’t know what they are. I want to leave this city. Some days I want to move to France, other days Bristol, other days the sea-side, other days Scotland. I want to leave. But I have nowhere to go. I want to be independent, but I can’t because I can’t keep my shit together for long enough to even think about having a bit of adulthood. I’m this stupid, lost person that’s fucked up and failed so often that they can never amount to anything. And even if I could, I have no idea what I’d want to amount to, so wouldn’t find a place to start. I want a tiny flat where it’s only me and I have my own space to freak out in with no one watching. I want someone to look after me and hold my hand when I’m scared and calm me down in the middle of the night when I’m worked up and alone. I want someone to be with me making it better all the time. I want friends who wouldn’t see me as too much of a liability to live with. I want to be entirely isolated and alone. I want a job I care about so I could make any of this shit happen, but I don’t even know what I care about. I want to do a PhD. Or be a teacher. Or any number of things I’ll never be. I want so much and I’ll never have it because I suck at being alive.
So I perform. And even that performance sucks. I wish I didn’t give a fuck. Sometimes I give up and don’t give a shit about anything. I like those moods because at least then I’m not losing.
I’m really distressed at the moment. I don’t know what to do.
I reserve the right to completely change my mood in an hour. Or maybe even 20 minutes. Or maybe in 6 days. Who the fuck knows? I definitely don’t.
Sorry for being really annoying and also really long. I think I’ll read some blogs now and maybe even comment if I can get through any. No promises. Maybe it’ll distract. Maybe not.