Monday, June 30, 2008

A Sad Day

I stabbed a tea bag to death in my kitchen sink this afternoon. Stab, stab, stab - with a fork.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

10:00AM - 12:20AM

10:00AM Went to visit new house. PMA baby. All the way.
10:15AM Negotiated a deal with the pointy witchy woman in the office (who just secretly needs a hug I think, or a nice bunch of flowers)
10:16AM Mentioned: "false advertising" in a serious fashion.
10:18AM Decided I was the best negotiator in the world.
10:22AM Left letting agents still non-the-wiser about moving. I think I may have agreed to move in 14 days and screw over my current landlord, all in one go.
11:00AM Home.
11:01AM PMA seems to have gone missing.
11:03AM Decided I was too tired to look for PMA. Think it may be a bollocks concept.
11:17AM Made breakfast.
11:25AM Spoke to Life-Raft Mate on telephone, with mouth full of very soggy cereal.
11:40AM Booked taxi to go to Biscuit Centre while still on phone and still with breakfast in mouth.
11:55AM Arrived at Biscuit Centre - everyone in the waiting room was feeling rubbish today.
12:03AM Went into appointment with Thursday.
12:10AM Realised I couldn't speak because of rapid onset of slurring and narcolepsy.
12:20AM Crisis Team to be involved again. I am in Crisis.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

49 Days & Counting...

Good news this morning. At last. And not in a way that I thought would make me happy...

My Notice to Quit the flat arrived this morning by Recorded Delivery. No more leaking pipes, pouring water from under the bathroom and kitchen sinks; boilers draining themselves dry, pilot lights constantly blowing themselves out and me hauling half a wall off (really) every day, to re-fill the tank and re-ignite the pilot light. No more grumpy neighbours wanting money for repairs to the building and money for cleaning that was done before I moved in - with me constantly avoiding them, save the hassle. No more storing the landlord's prized possession, an enormous fridge-freezer that hasn't worked sine I arrived, (she could never quite get round to removing it). But, best of all - no more waiting for this bloody letter to arrive (I have been on a month-to-month contract since the end of April) - because it just did.

I thought I would be sad, I thought I would be thrown into drama/confusion/melancholy - but instead I found myself looking around the flat, that to date has completely alluded me in a: "I have too much stuff" way - thinking: "What won't I be taking with me?" The post-it's shall be out and the labeling shall begin: "Staying", and "Going". Easy. There is just no way on this earth that I am moving the same crazy way that I have done for the past twelve years, lumping everything together at the last minute and taking everything - including dirty dishes and rubbish bags. No more sets of undies from 1996. No more.

I had been craving simplicity for a good long while now, as I cannot bear the quantity of possessions that I have amassed. Useless, impotent tat that has followed me around for years and piles of paper mostly or twenty versions of the same thing in a slightly different shade of pale (I still hate colour). I have managed to chuck and donate to a certain degree - but then I lose momentum, the stacks build up and the pile paths narrow. I have booked in my Expert Chucker Mate for a week Saturday to go through my wardrobe to get rid of three-quarters of my clothing. The kitchen has almost been completely culled and the cupboards look scarily sparse - but I love it. And the bathroom - no bad. Just a box containing sixty versions of the same nail varnish to dispose of. A place for everything and everything in its place. A-men.

The decisions shall now be easier. I have a deadline. I shall be outta here on 11 August, and that's it - end of. Brilliant.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

But Then...

Clark (Kent) gave Lana a gift of what only could be described as a blue, fluorescent dildo. (I think it was supposed to be some kind of crystal shaft - sorry, shard.) Which, (after a few Lambrini's Diazepam) enabled me to cobble together a faintly bemused smile.

I might go to bed now and eat Minstrels.

Bloody hell, my chin's itchy.

There's Nothing Here But Glue On The Bottom Of My Shoes

I have absolutely nothing more to give. I am left entirely blank and the tunnel I am in, is collapsing in front of me. I can see no light; I can't make sense of my own thoughts and feel nothing but disaster looming. In the eye of the storm, the belly of the beast. Oh and how the pit calls, the black, velvety pit... Oh my. Seductive, numb and so very quiet. No more trying, no more fighting, no more resistance from me. I want to slowly raise my hands, "I give in". "I'm done."

I have been hauling my ass out of bed these past few days - for what? To sit and stare at four walls. These are the old lows my friend, the old lows. They came back because I got too cocky and thought I was "normal" and that I had the right to be "normal" didn't they? Who was I fucking kidding? The Old Guy, up there - he is laughing his ass off at his creation. As am I.

If there were a delete button on me, I would be pressing it. Right now.

Method In My Madness

I can't make sense of my own bloody entries. I knew I had about five or six entries missing, presumed dead; then they all decided to look up at me from my virtual, "bloody desk" at once. Posts from here, there and everywhere: bitty bits and lists and all other kinds of rhetoric - all just wriggling around in there as if butter wouldn't bloody melt.

"What am I supposed to with that lot now? Tidy them up and back post, add them in today and try and link them back to the day they were drafted?" This is the kind of shit that worries me into anger and makes me want to slam my freakin' laptop into the nearest available wall. "Fucking brain - just bloody work!" Jesus. I can't get my head round these simple virtual components that are/were/should be, part of my daily life. Maybe I just momentarily "forgot", when I started this stupid bloody diary, that I am a complete technophobe with no idea about organisation? Perhaps I just assumed that I wouldn't be writing, nearly two years on - or that these here diaries of mine would have become such an important part of my life. I doubt I have ever had such a lengthy, ongoing project; apart that is, from the project of: "Getting Well Again.

"Fucking hell. Give me a piece of bloody paper. Maybe I can remember what to do with that? "

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Falling Slowly

Rattling panic is here. I am on my own and I can't open my mouth. Jaws are locked. breathing from top of chest. Stomach pulled concave. Had Diazepam three minutes ago. Stung wrist with elastic band. Not called Ma, like I promised. She's away, away for many a day. Wanted The Wood. "Why?" "Dunno." Just wanted him to talk. At me. The voice that always calmed me. Talk me down from the ledge. Music blearing drowning out the thoughts. "Falling slowly." Closed eyes. teeth tighter. Sick inside - just feel sick. Want to pace, but frozen - jammed into the back of the sofa. Keep typing. Keep fucking typing Roz. It has save your life before. It will do it now. Just wait. It'll pass. Worst thing happens you'll sleep and your 'to do list' won't get done today. breathe. Can't. Thrat swellong insdei. rock. Help; Wood? Fucking help me. Panicking. Now. Reaching for phone. Text, sent.

Slope. Go for broke. "CALL MA!"

Did.

Friday, June 20, 2008

The Constantly Dangling Hook

I'm bloody well sat here thinking about doing it again. Am I mental? Have I learnt nothing in the last 24 hours? "Think Rozza, think!"

Just write it here - never to them. Write it here. What am I doing - what do I want!? To be constantly miserable it seems. To have constant drama, obviously.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

I Called Him And I Didn't Even Want To Speak To Him

I tried writing an email, and that didn't work - so I called him, and I didn't even want to speak to him.

"What the fuck am I doing?" Luckily, he diverted me to his Personal Incoming Call Barrier and I hung up.

Then I thought I would try to email him again, but couldn't think of anything to say that would actually make me feel any better - or that was indeed, appropriate or apt.

I think I wanted to tell him all about my counselling session with Lady Friday last week and how I'd worked 'it' all out, but then realised that he wouldn't actually care and that speaking to him would probably just make me think I wanted him again. It is also probably because I am lonely and want some attention. I want someone's approval, I want someone to say: "Roz, I want you just as you are". Even though I know this is a phantom of our own making, that he/she/me/him doesn't exist, anymore - if indeed it ever did, 'it' comes into my head at the most inopportune of moments and has, tonight, sabotaged my evening (and I let it).

And so I began to wonder what I would want him to say if he had told me to "fuck off", instead of going as cold and quiet as a fishy corpse. What I would want him to say if I thought it would make the blindest bit of difference to how I feel or how I am behaving.

Him: "Stop. Roz, just stop. I can’t bear to watch you try to make me into someone I am not. I am entirely inept. I am not someone you want to be in your life. I am not stable, or balanced. I can’t be what you want me to be because I am not that person I am not reliable and I have enough of my own demons to deal with to be able to help you out with yours. I am sorry that I got spooked before we had even met. I’m sorry that I encouraged you in every way when deep down I knew that I wasn’t ready for any kind of relationship with you, or anyone else. I decided to delete my profile after what happened with you as I realised that I just wasn’t cut out for this game. I am so sorry that I used that image that I sent you privately as a lure for others, it was a deeply insensitive thing to do and as soon as I put it online I realised what a dick I had been - and took it down immediately."

Him: "I am an evil and abhorrent male that sold you down the river for a fiver and I can only hope someone else will do to me, what I did to you so I too can feel like a lump of lardy shit that is destined to be mistreated by anyone I ever try to trust. I am just the same as all the others – you are entirely right and I should have never tried to make you believe otherwise. I took advantage of the distance between us and played the Online Game well. I am married and my wife and I have three children. I live in Serbia and my friend writes all my emails for me because I can’t actually speak English. I am still online, looking for others to replace you, because I need the constant chase to feel anything in life because I have no conscience or soul and care not a jot for those who get caught up in my schemes and manipulative ways. You are right, I don’t exist, I knew what you wanted to hear and said it all because I thought it was a fun thing to do. My mates and me had a right old laugh at your expense. Stupid cow."

Him: "I handled things badly, I took out my own failings on you and I’m embarrassed by my own lack… my own lack of everything. I should have come to meet you in person to see if there was anything between us, but I am a coward."

Him: "I just wanted a ‘quick shag’ and once I realised you were looking for something more I bottled it. I realised that you were a cock tease pretty early on and completely fickle, just like all the others. I wanted to teach you a lesson before you bled me dry and could make a cuckold out of me."

Him: I shouldn’t have emailed you, ever. I should have realised, from your own pictures, that you were unbalanced and needy and incapable of handling a normal relationship.

Him: I am an axe murderer and I am currently serving six life sentences back to back in a maximum-security prison. The nun that works with me started an online profile for me using someone else’s identity to encourage me to change my intolerable ways. She thought it would be good for my soul to find someone to talk to.

Him: "You scare me"

Him: "Listen stalker – if you don’t stop calling or emailing me I am going to call the police and get a restraining order."

Him: "I am a manic-depressive that has serious psychotic episodes. I am on many, many tablets and have been sectioned twelve times purely for the safety of others. If you spent any time alone with me, I would murder you while you slept and if I couldn’t do that I would simply make your life a misery. I would frighten you all the time - you would always be terrified of what I might be capable of doing. You would sleep with the entire contents of the knife drawer under your pillow every night, just to feel safe. I would cheat on you constantly."

Him: "I am seventeen-years-old"

Him: "I am an alcoholic"

Him: "I am a woman"

Him: "I am your long lost brother"

Him: "This is your father speaking"

Him: "I lied. About everything. I’m sorry."

Him: "I changed my mind, I made a mistake – I am outside right now. I flew up today as soon as I realised what a fool I have been." [Me: "I've got a cracking headache and my front tooth hurts from clenching my teeth in my sleep - try again tomorrow"]

Him: "Best regards, The Woodsman"

Him: "Oh and P.S. Stop looking at my profile on the website. It is making you look more desperate by the second."

What do I want to say?

Me: "You hurt me. I was/am(?) mad at you. You worked really hard at making me trust you, convincing me that you were real and as soon as I let my guard down and let myself invest something in you - you scarpered. The truth is that you probably could never say anything to make me feel better about any of this shit and in time, I will let it go and you will become less of a scab for me to pick at. Nice huh? Yes, I think it better that nothing is said, ever again. Not even this..."

If I think back to my conversation with Friday last week: This could all just be happening because I am in self-sabotage mode. Bloody What-sit Protector Demon Thingy.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

When Thursday Fell From Her Therapeutic Pedestal

Thursday fucked me off today. Mind you, I think I probably fucked her off first, by being five minutes late for our appointment - even though I called ahead, apologising profusely and muttering about taxis and then did so again as soon as I entered the room with her. The receptionist had laughed when I arrived five minutes after calling. “You’re not that late – it’s only five minutes!” she said. I hate being late, however at times, the constant desire to ‘check’ (that things are off) when I try to leave my house (sink taps/gas etc), make me so. We never seem to talk about this particular complaint, strangely enough, maybe it’s considered par for the course?

Thursday had already seemed disgruntled by the fact that I had requested a Wednesday appointment to try and spread out my counselling days – Thursday followed by Friday has been proving a hefty package – but she doesn’t know about Lady Friday, and as I’d quite like to keep it that way...

She told me that my What-sit Protector was in the room with us for the entire session - i.e. I was numb (“No-shit-Sherlock”). Sometimes I think she doesn’t get it at all. I sigh inside when I mention that I still (almost), constantly question my usefulness in this life and indeed the point of my being here and am met with The Face of Distant/Appropriate Concern from her chair. It makes me wonder if she thinks my admissions are merely lip service these days.

So, after our great start, she further fucked me off with her both personal and flagrant disregard for the concept of celebrating Father's Day (Thursday doesn’t “do” Birthday’s, never mind Hallmark Celebrations). She enforced this belief system with comments such as – “…[so you just celebrate your Uncle] because he is a man?” I myself am not altogether enamoured by many of these celebrations, but Hallmark Days (Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, Easter, Anniversaries) become expected within the walls of a family unit, so you just have to put up and shut up. Special Uncle’s Day was actually a concept of my own creation (she says after admitting she thinks Hallmark Days are an entirely commercial act - but as Hallmark doesn't do Special Uncle's Day, I feel my face intact), it follows on from Special Auntie’s Day - celebrated in conjunction with both Father and Mother’s Day because I felt they, (my Aunt and Uncle) deserved a day of celebration along with the rest of us. They have been the one constant in my life since my birth and have been a constant support throughout my current and now lengthy debilitation. They have no children of their own, and even though I’m not sure anyone else agrees – I think they might miss not having that day in their lives. We are/were the children in their lives, always have been.

Once I had explained my personal, familial position regarding celebratory days of the year, at length, we got down to why so many of my schemas were in play this weekend and why I slept through most of, the now infamous, Father’s Day. I explained that I thought it ironic that both men celebrated that day weren’t, either of them, my biological father and maybe that had triggered something unconsciously? I was looking for reasons, when to me, there were/are none. I don’t think Thursday appreciates that I still think about The Biological One most days. I am slightly phased by his constant ‘lack’ in my life, but it is also something I am entirely (un)used to. He left when I was, what - four/five? But, and I suppose at times that is a big BUT, it is odd knowing that the man that took part in your very making is out there with another family and is too ‘dangerous’ to be in contact with. I just think I had Doom that day, Father’s Day. “Doom” is when I feel the oncoming swoop and apparent encapsulation of self, by my depression. The days when nothing I do can abate the demons from slipping and sliding all over me, I just have to let it play out its part in this whole mess and hope it won’t escalate into something sinister like a suicide bid. These are the days when it is best to sleep (she said, sounding like she had some say in the matter…). Sleep drowns out the nagging bottleneck of emotions and deep-seated fear that I don’t seem to be equipped to deal with - yet. Thursday thinks my depression is my Abandoned/Abused Child Schema. “What do I think?” I think that I am depressed – my thoughts go no further than that. My ability to rationalise or query goes the same way of all flesh - although at a somewhat faster pace.

Then she thought the earplugs I had worn while the five strong gaggle of family members were screeching at each other all around me, was another stab at self-sabotage. I personally had thought it was an entirely sensible solution to a big problem. They/we are extremely noisy and excitable when we get together - especially my ma and my sis whose lungs are extremely large, loud and screechy. Thursday told me I was weird and abnormal. I thought: “It saved me from leaving the room nine times out of ten when the noise levels all got too much”, therefore a thoroughly good solution to a problem. She asked me what I would think if I saw someone in the Biscuit Centre waiting room with ear plugs in - if I would think it strange? I said: “No”. Because I wouldn’t - why would I? Isn’t it the same as wearing earphones? They essentially do the same thing. It’s the same as giving a schizophrenic a mobile to make him/her more socially acceptable. The earplugs stay.

We finished the thirty-minute session (I was docked the time I was late and the time that she made me wait, after I was late) with my asking if I could see my file. Immediately shocked and looking somewhat startled/horrified Thursday went on the offensive. She couldn't understand why I would possibly want to see my file, as there was, “nothing in there that we hadn't talked about in session”. And then I mentioned that I didn't trust healthcare professionals to tell me the truth because I was paranoid that they were all lying to me. My mistake, what I actually seemed to have said was that Feminism was an outdated subculture that belonged in the same antiquated cinder pile as all those burnt bras. She carried on to say that she had never had anyone ask to see his or her files before and that she would have to find out how to make that happen. Because, “…no one had ever asked to see their own files before…” “Yup, I got it” She was horrified that there could be any suggestion of suspicion on my part and told me, quite frankly, that if there were to be a lack of trust on my part - it would cause huge problems within the therapeutic setting. I tried to appease the therapeutic setting by saying we could talk about it first, at the beginning of next session. But as I thanked her for her time on the way out, I could sense her displeasure. Hadn’t she just said that my What-sit Protector would do everything and anything it could to sabotage my Healthy Child and allow her to sit comfortably within my Healthy Adult Schema and wasn’t this (in her mind) an example of exactly this?

I shall have to make a list of things I want to know for next week as she is positive she can answer everything I want to know:
When was I fist seen at the last Mental Centre (before the Biscuit Centre)?
Who was I first referred to?
What was the fist medication I was on and how many different ones have there been to date?
What letters go back and forth between you and my GP?
Does my initial diagnosis still stand?
What do you write in my session notes?
At what time, and how long were the Crisis Team involved?
How long did I see my CPN for - and the one before that?
Am I still considered “at risk” (of suicide)?
What are the names and dates of all the people that have been involved in my case?

"She must have noticed the startled aversion across my face at the sight of her bizarrely chosen hair clip", I almost said aloud as I walked the hallowed halls. "I thought I had hidden it so well…" I should listen to Lady Friday about this face of mine and accept that it isn’t the blank canvas of joy that I think it is.

“Oh Thursday, I’m not going to think you are Mother Theresa all the bloody time. Didn’t you tell me that…?”

The Curled-Up Girl and The Chair

I walked into my lounge this morning and something about it reminded me of the mornings when The Carpenter (TRD) was here. Dunno if it was the lingering smell of cigarette smoke - or the light coming through the blinds on a cold morning. But It feels like he could be here, making coffee in the kitchen. It made me smile. It made me remember happy times, because they were then - before they weren't.

I emailed him after that, this morning, to tell him how the light in my lounge had made me think of him and that all I wanted to do was say, "Hi". I don't expect a reply. But as Peter Sarstedt sings, I close my eyes and allow myself to smell the coffee, cuddled in the past. It still feels like home.

I came back here yesterday - from a weekend of celebrating Father's Day with two men who aren't biologically, either one of them, my 'father' and the following day, my Step Grandmother's Ninetieth Birthday. I am far from awake after another night of staying up to greet the wee small hours and with an anxious twang, think of the counselling session that awaits me at the Biscuit Centre, with Thursday at noon today. I wonder if the little, curled-up girl will be sat by my chair again today as she was last week. I feel like I have no idea who she is, although we are one and the same. I wonder if I will have the words to talk to her this time. I think I just want to observe her - try and work her out, as much as I seem to do with others?

Tea, tea needs to be made so my eyes stay open.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

The Woodsmen and The Bee

He made me do it you know, the Man in the Woods. He made me do the one thing on my list of "scary" that I had been putting off and off and off. And now that I have told him? Nothing. Not a word uttered. It makes me want the fireflies back, thinking of him. I want the tea in the morning and the laughing bee. I want to be the girl that is at the end of his attention. But it's not for me, right now. He seems to know that it isn't, they all do. Tom, Dick and Harry. They don't reply to emails. They leave me unanswered, for how long? Well that's up to them, but it is a secret that I am not privy to the answer of. They don't answer my questions of: "Too much or too little?". They never have, they possibly never will. Maybe they just can't open their mouths because they are from Mars and I am from Venus - supposedly. Perhaps they just don't want to respond - maybe I just don't warrant that courtesy; or maybe they simply think it a potentially unnecessarily and messy answer to give. Dunno, but I am apparently at pains to understand...

What is it about these situations that I seem to love so? I must really like and enjoy, constantly putting myself out there to be ignored and looked over and through. "Is it because I like living in the fantasy that will never be a reality?", Lady Friday and I mused over last week. I struggle like a moth caught in a spiders web, hovering too closely to the bright light bulb. Fascinated, transfixed; obsessed - I think. It dis empowers me constantly and I look forward to that. "I must do", I say when she comes in to question. She thinks it's funny though, my Bad Seed. She encourages me, "Just send one more email... Just try one more time". Then she rolls on her back and kicks her legs up in glee when I join her in my misery. Thud.

The Internet is a lonely place to leave your soul. It doesn't get cared for there. You find that kind of care in the real. The on(e)liner's are a fantasy. But still I go there, I bend to their timelines, I keep the window open, save one pass by and look in. But they don't. The Woodsman reverts me to answerphone. I leave messages. I want him (them), to tell me to stop. Why don't they - because they think I am old enough to take a hint? I don't want hints, I am done guessing, I want to be told: "Stop". I want to be told, "You are too much!". I want him to look into my virtual eyes, hold my forearms and shake me awake. And there it goes, my power, all to him. Poof.

I sat, last night - after a business call with my Life-Raft Friend in London - Mind Mapping the world away. Pages and pages of lines and arrows and bubbles and mute points and facts and questions and goals - for both her and I. I filled page after page, manically tearing off, moving on and filling up 'till way past 4AM. Where are we at in our thirties? Why is there still the shocked nineteen-year-old in both of us that wonders how the hell we got here? "Who am I?" "What do I want?" I have words and bubbles and brain-fog that tell me I haven't a clue. But there are clues everywhere - clues to my detriment that spell out every wrong move and unhelpful habit.

They move into my dreams, these daylight awakenings, so in the early hours of this already troubled morning:
My family, they adore him already. My stepmother threw me out of her home (never to return), for accidentally scalding stains onto her pricey omelet pan that I: "could never afford to replace". "Even if I saved up?", I begged. My estranged (half) brother went to stay with The Woodsman - and then there were the wriggling puppies, all needing my attention. The Woodsman's tall friend came to stay at my Mother's house, and wandered around, silently 'observing' while my Mother talked to The Woodsman on the telephone. She was talking as if deep, dark secrets were being revealed while I was leaving a message on his answer machine. I left no audible voice message, my chin was too close to the ground for that, so I left the background noise of me listening; listening to her talking to him and possibly my urgent and hushed whispers, as I vainly tried to control the wayward puppies. My mother wouldn't believe that I had been thrown away for an omelet pan. But I had. I wasn't allowed back because I had done it on purpose. Had I? Quite possibly so, thinking I knew better than she and that cold water was better than hot. The floorboards flood in my flat - constant water, flooding into the wall space under the broken boiler, like a murky sea. There are never enough mops or buckets or rags or clothes to soak up all the water before it escapes downstairs. I'll be in trouble! I wait for the bang on the door from the neighbours underneath or the Notice to Quit from the Landlord, but they never seem to come.

My womb aches and pours, my legs, now orange, look like a wannabe. A "try harder". I am trying harder. But maybe not in the right direction. "Is that what you were getting at Bee Keeper. Is this what you wanted me to find out?"

People In Glass Houses

Some people just don't want to be found. They hide. Everywhere. You see them; you see right through the bluster and the slide show mirrors and they hate you for it. They hate you because they don't want to be found.

I see it in others, I could name four, maybe five of them right now. One, two, three, four, five... once I caught a fish alive. One for luck, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. How are your wife and children? They circle like vultures until you see them and then they disappear. They try to get you to roll over so they can get at inside, then when you do - when you are exposed, they decide they're not hungry; only because you showed them. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten... then I let it go again. You weren't game enough, you weren't supposed to give in so very easily and you certainly weren't supposed to look them in the eye when you did.

I may be able to see it in others - but what concerns me is that I look exactly like them when I see in my mirror. I play in the same sandpit and throw the same stones. What merry-goes-round, comes back around. Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies - atishoo, atishoo, they all fall down.

"You'll never amount to anything" I remember a car park. We always found a car park. I remember the smell of them. Rubber and must. Fumes. Little fumes. And echoes. Silence can echo you know. It is doing so right now.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

One Glittery Ball at a Time

I was looking around my flat, a moment ago, and I suddenly became disgusted with myself. "How could I let it go like this?" "How can I live within the tiny paths I have created from one room to another, from one piece of furniture to the next?" "Don't know", is the answer, "I just must, mustn't I?". In my bid to find freedom from all my clutter, I find myself constantly and always surrounded by it. I want clean lines and storage boxes neatly piled up with everything in its place and therefore, a place for everything. We're far from that.

My clutter does keep me company I suppose, on nights like tonight when everyone I know is buzzing around in their own little worlds and I am sat here alone, obsessively brushing my newly long(ish) hair. Sometimes, it would be nice to have someone else brush my hair... Interestingly enough, I would like my Mum to be here. I would like her to be brushing my hair, making me some hot milk and helping me into bed. I want to wear one of those long, flowing nightgowns, made of that brushed cotton, buttoned right up to my chin, with a blue stripe, tiny pearlised buttons on the shirt style, bibbed front and a bordering of short ruffle round the neck and cuffs. I hear us silent in our manoeuvres, as she helps me lift my suddenly unable legs, up and over the bedside and under the covers. She straightens the blankets around me, and sits with me a while, stroking my hair and holding my hand 'till I fall asleep.

My fantasy vision is spoiled by the hyperventilating thump of music from across the street and the local kids telling everyone to: "Fuck off, ya wee bastard cunt ye". One more of them added to the pire they've got going out there and they'd be classified "a rave". It's hardly Little House on The Prairie.

Nights like this remind me of always having to be the first in bed when I was a child, while it was still daylight behind the venetian blinds. I could hear my older sister still playing with our friends in the fields behind our house. I always felt so hard done by - but never tired.

Back here in reality, there's the mess. And the boring, yet slightly distressing, neuralgia pain that started this afternoon while I was being "Personal Shopper" to my friend, (and another random stranger in Marks and Spencer's changing room's) that has now left the left side of my face a dull roar. And slightly paralysed.

Suddenly my hormonal melancholia is interrupted and it all goes a bit Pete Tong, my prairie fantasy; Lara Croft erupts onto my TV screen and I remember that I actually want to be her. If my face wasn't frozen and one eye shut, I would be pissing myself laughing, right about now.

"Tell me where the orb is and I'll spare your life" (Wow, I'm nice) Shame I'm not feeling quite as nimble tonight or I'd be off out saving the world one glittery ball at a time.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Self-Styled, Computer Printouts of Therapy Diplomas Do Not a Therapist Make

I first emailed Him (post messy "dumping") the afternoon of 27 May:
"...you mentioned when last we spoke, that it would be OK for me to do that [call] if I ever needed to. And I need to. Having a shit time and need a shoulder and a bit of a lean. Is that still cool with you, or would you rather I didn't?"

I'm sitting here, with my old friend, The Cold Light of Day, thinking: "He's a dick" And, "Yes, I am too..."

I want to scream out to the following message/advice to the world, but this will have to suffice (for now):
"Those of you that want to help someone struggling with their own life, don't play God.
Don't think that you are a qualified therapist and that when someone you know, and supposedly "care" for, asks for help or asks you to call them back - just do that, call them and listen.
Don't mess with the messy.
Don't employ your own tactics of therapy.
Don't expect your reasoning to be heard and understood by someone who is confused and unhappy and tired and wants to die. Just be there, if you can, to listen if that is what you have offered or been asked to do.
If you can't handle it, them, or the situation, ask them to give you the number of another friend or family member so you can call them and alert them to the situation the person you are speaking to is in.
Do not use your own 'methods' in/of madness - you will be playing a very dangerous game with someone's life if you do."

"Never put 'terms and conditions' on when they can call you after you have said they can call you anytime, for anything.
Never berate them for not trying hard enough. They may be in a situation where they are trying very, very hard to put one foot in front of the other and to keep their own minds away from methods of self destruction."

And finally:

"Never ever, ever, offer help to someone in need, if you are not prepared to pick up the phone, night or day - whatever you are doing. It is far better to say that you "aren't in a position to help" or you "don't want the responsibility", than to make someone falsely believe that you mean what you say. Because they will call when they have no reasoning. They will eventually call when they can get up off the floor and you'd better be prepared to do what you agreed to do or help out in any way that you comfortably can."

"Oh, and if they say they "can't remember" - THEY CAN'T REMEMBER! So, just remind them. Put them out of their misery. Don't dick about re-enacting your interpretation of Judas."

I got so confused last night, and locked into the Bad Seed that I kept calling and mailing and asking for help. I was ignored every time. Eventually I took my sleeping tablet because I thought I was literally going out of my mind. I thought I should be able to remember; that I did and that I was just pretending that I didn't. I questioned every possible scenario, until I was red raw. I got increasingly paranoid and couldn't break the loop of panic. I couldn't break my focus to pick up the phone and call someone I knew would be able to actually help me, I just became incensed with making him listen.

And, last but not least - and possibly most importantly, a note to myself:
DO NOT put your emotional welfare in the hands of someone you have never met and that does not know you. DO NOT call someone up, late at night, that has flirted with you on the internet, made hollow promises and ditched you like a fetid stool at the eleventh hour. They have proved that they cannot be trusted and shown their own instability in great, clear and blinding light in both their actions and treatment of you previously, so why on earth would you trust them again, and with something as precious as your fragile and troubled mind? If you do this again - you only have yourself to blame and the consequences will be entirely yours to deal with. Don't be a fool - again.

After this 'little' scenario ended last night - I emailed two other blokes. One that I had told bravely and smartly the other week, (Healthy Roz in Schema terms) that I no-longer wanted to be in contact with him because things 'just weren't ringing true' - the other a play thing that tickles my ivories every now and then. I couldn't get what I needed from one man, so I bounded off to try and get it in a different way from two others (Abandoned Child). The result? Disappointment (Detached Protector). On all levels. And I did all that by myself.

"Clever girl"

Thursday, June 5, 2008

"If You Want Me To Be Your Friend Then Do What I Asked You To Do..."

He said:
"if you want my help then do what i asked you to do....

if you want me to be your friend then do what i asked you to do....

so do it and stop messing around asking me about how i feel and what i'm doing.

if you want to help then you'll get it but i need proof you want to help yourself."

He don't believe me. No, no, no, no, no, he don't. He won't talk to me to tell me what I am supposed to remember - I'm just supposed to remember. So, now I'm panicking, because he won't believe me when I say I can't remember. Then he sends me emails saying I haven't tried hard enough. Tried hard enough to do the thing that I can't remember. Because I haven't tried hard enough at the thing that I can't remember, I'm not worthy of being spoken to. Punishment. What kind of controller(?), makes you feel even more confused than you already do because you can't remember something. What kind of person doesn't hear genuine panic or fear or loneliness in someone's voice and instantly knows they crossed the invisible line? What kind of person? My father, that's who. My drunkard ex, that's who. So, I emailed back and told him to "fuck off". Not my finest moment.

So, he replied:
"Ok.

nice attitude.

I'm sorry you feel that way but i dont even think you tried to do what i asked."

I feel sick. Really sick. I want to scratch and punch and kick my face and pull at my hair because he won't listen. "Ugly inside, ugly outside"; right? He was the last person that made me scratch. 'He' that once sent me the most beautiful, simple emails that brightened up my days:
"The Little cottage in the wild wild wood likes you.

you are welcome any time.

I gotta run into some smoke now but i will catch you later i hope...we have fireflies to catch you and i."

"Does he know he's doing it?"
"Dunno."

"Why am I letting him?"
"Because I like him."

"What should I be doing?"
"Never speaking to him again. Probably."

It's not healthy, I don't think? "No, it's not, my friends don't dick me about like this" But my: "LISTEN TO ME", default mindset is here and I can't shake it, so I want to scratch to make it go away. Keep typing. Yup, keep typing. You're alone, but just keep typing. You can't talk because you are already slurring, so keep typing. Jaysus, the eyes want to close. They want me to stop, shut down and avoid all of this. Maybe not such a bad idea, huh? "Keep typing"

I am already slurring because of hefty, hardcore session with Thursday (no, nobody cancelled, so I found myself in the chair, closing my eyes and protecting my twelve-year-old self against my mother; Schema Therapy, that's what we call it), slu-u-u-ring.

Even I can't understand me tonight.

Eyes Closed, Face Heaven Bound - Wishing:

"I wish Thursday (well, her secretary), would call and cancel our appointment for today"

I want a day off from misery.