I want to punch myself in the face. To give myself a black eye. There is a kind of lacking there, in the eyesocket, that would do well with a purple (to match my new shoes) mark around it. Blinking would be painful, but it's painful with a headache and I get loads of those so hardly a major detraction.
Explaining it at work, also difficult. I would want to be honest "I punched myself in the face." But I think that would raise more questions than it answers, eh? I think I'd be carted off to occy health sharpish if I did that. And I don't want sympathy. As ever I just want the external pain to match the internal. I've never been beaten up and I suppose some part of me feels like it was an inevitability that never happened. I should have been hit and bruised and broken by a fist rather than some unfortunate experiences.
It's such a hard thing to explain, too. Why would you want to do that to yourself?
I know I've gone over this 'desire to self-harm' thing before. It's the most concrete thing, when I'm at my lowest, that's what I want. A physical marker.
Incidentally, I just googled 'want to punch myself in the face' and all that came up were rants about things like insurance and homework. Sam Smith's 'Money on My Mind' does, as it goes, make me want to punch myself in the face.
They might accept that as a valid excuse, come to think of it.
Sunday, 27 April 2014
Monday, 27 May 2013
Coping and Not Coping
A to-do list with one static item on it that I cannot bring myself to complete, no matter how many times I open the file and keep it there in the corner of my eye, I cannot find the impetus to do the rewrites and complete the Bruntwood process so it can sit uncomfortably at the back of my mind til October, when they announce the winners.
Logically, it all boils down to - if you don't enter, you can't win, but at least if you do enter, you have a tiny, smidgey smear of a chance something could happen. I am a great fan of logic, logic makes my world go round, makes all my issues and stupid things make sense, to me at least.
Other things on the to-do list, of course. Eating lunch rather than Pringles and those exciting new Cadbury's chocolate bars with the space dust and jelly beans in. Doing a second load of washing. Leaving the house.
There is a reason to leave the house, a wonderful, marvellous reason but I still don't want to go.
For all the logic in my personality, in my soul, I don't have a handle on the depression (no possessive terms here, sounds far too much like I'm showing off, parading it around. "Oh, you have depression, do you? Like hell you do. Fuck off."
Therapist or doctor asks "How do you cope [with the low moods]?"
"I just sort of get on with it."
I don't. I wish I could sit there with the duvet over my head in a darkened room, or go for a run in the sunshine (there is sunshine, remarkably.) It's just there, isn't it? It comes and goes. It was good for a while - a low hum, barely noticeable apart from the occasional pang.
Then there was a thing, and crying, and two weeks that were a mixture of avoiding calling the therapist and calling him but getting voicemail and still not hearing from him three weeks later which can't be good. I don't know what to do. I could have taken the drugs when the gp offered them, I should be doing my work books but ever since reading one made me cry, I can't bear to. Cannot bear to. I can't treat myself, because I will just avoid doing it.
The blog is, I suppose, a form of therapy - I come here when the physical pain threatens, puke it all out onto the internet, and feel a little better.
But still, logic is there, waiting behind everything for the perfect moment to tap me on the shoulder and point out that no matter what I say to myself during the regular, boring day-to-day stuff, the truth is the less palatable statements. "You are unlovable.""People do not want to be friends with you." "You cannot hold down a job, because you are not personable in the slightest." (These things all closely related, I know). "You don't inspire, or therefore deserve love, or happiness - you have done nothing to work for it." "Your work is sub-par, no matter what people may say to appease you." "Your friends merely tolerate you, like a civic duty."
And it feels pathetic, but it also feels true. I feel the world is passing me by, but equally, does not want me to participate. So you creep ever closer to Those Bad Thoughts, although you're too scared to do yourself damage, you can clearly picture the calm, Zen equilibrium you would surely possess if you smashed your face into your bedroom wall, your fist into the door, or placed your hand deliberately onto the red ring of the hob.
But explaining the why, the how, the reasons behind your self mutilation wouldn't wash. And if they section you for things like that, I would only feel anxious and guilty that I was taking up a space better needed by someone with actual, deep-rooted psychological disturbances which need the full attention of medical professionals.
I can't get over the guilt. And I'm overreacting, aren't I? I don't think anyone's reading this, even though someone said they had. That's fine. No one wants to listen to my self-indulgent wankery, and I don't blame them at all.
Logically, it all boils down to - if you don't enter, you can't win, but at least if you do enter, you have a tiny, smidgey smear of a chance something could happen. I am a great fan of logic, logic makes my world go round, makes all my issues and stupid things make sense, to me at least.
Other things on the to-do list, of course. Eating lunch rather than Pringles and those exciting new Cadbury's chocolate bars with the space dust and jelly beans in. Doing a second load of washing. Leaving the house.
There is a reason to leave the house, a wonderful, marvellous reason but I still don't want to go.
For all the logic in my personality, in my soul, I don't have a handle on the depression (no possessive terms here, sounds far too much like I'm showing off, parading it around. "Oh, you have depression, do you? Like hell you do. Fuck off."
Therapist or doctor asks "How do you cope [with the low moods]?"
"I just sort of get on with it."
I don't. I wish I could sit there with the duvet over my head in a darkened room, or go for a run in the sunshine (there is sunshine, remarkably.) It's just there, isn't it? It comes and goes. It was good for a while - a low hum, barely noticeable apart from the occasional pang.
Then there was a thing, and crying, and two weeks that were a mixture of avoiding calling the therapist and calling him but getting voicemail and still not hearing from him three weeks later which can't be good. I don't know what to do. I could have taken the drugs when the gp offered them, I should be doing my work books but ever since reading one made me cry, I can't bear to. Cannot bear to. I can't treat myself, because I will just avoid doing it.
The blog is, I suppose, a form of therapy - I come here when the physical pain threatens, puke it all out onto the internet, and feel a little better.
But still, logic is there, waiting behind everything for the perfect moment to tap me on the shoulder and point out that no matter what I say to myself during the regular, boring day-to-day stuff, the truth is the less palatable statements. "You are unlovable.""People do not want to be friends with you." "You cannot hold down a job, because you are not personable in the slightest." (These things all closely related, I know). "You don't inspire, or therefore deserve love, or happiness - you have done nothing to work for it." "Your work is sub-par, no matter what people may say to appease you." "Your friends merely tolerate you, like a civic duty."
And it feels pathetic, but it also feels true. I feel the world is passing me by, but equally, does not want me to participate. So you creep ever closer to Those Bad Thoughts, although you're too scared to do yourself damage, you can clearly picture the calm, Zen equilibrium you would surely possess if you smashed your face into your bedroom wall, your fist into the door, or placed your hand deliberately onto the red ring of the hob.
But explaining the why, the how, the reasons behind your self mutilation wouldn't wash. And if they section you for things like that, I would only feel anxious and guilty that I was taking up a space better needed by someone with actual, deep-rooted psychological disturbances which need the full attention of medical professionals.
I can't get over the guilt. And I'm overreacting, aren't I? I don't think anyone's reading this, even though someone said they had. That's fine. No one wants to listen to my self-indulgent wankery, and I don't blame them at all.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Interim Therapy
I have a headache and behind my eyes I can feel my depression building. It tends to come in a physical form, pressure in the eyes mostly. 2nd session with cbt therapist on Thursday, more tears. I have reading and homework to complete, goals to set.
I want to write and I can't. All I can do is sit here.
I realise this is writing. Only it isn't because it's just the voice in my head stamping it out on the page. Proper writing eludes me.
The week before, she asked me what I did when the feelings became overwhelming and the bad thoughts started to sneak in. I told her that I didn't really, just sort of rode it out until it faded. Or until I tired myself out and could sleep. I always forget to say it makes me want to punch myself in the face; break my nose or my arm or snap something. Suffocate myself.
I'd do it, only explaining it to the paramedics puts me off.
"Who did this?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"Attention seeking?"
Yep, pretty much. I'd only hit myself in the face to make it look like there was something seriously wrong with me. There isn't.
It does sort of seem to be dissipating now. My face is still sore, but the ache in my throat and the tears are going away.
See? It didn't last long.
I want to write and I can't. All I can do is sit here.
I realise this is writing. Only it isn't because it's just the voice in my head stamping it out on the page. Proper writing eludes me.
The week before, she asked me what I did when the feelings became overwhelming and the bad thoughts started to sneak in. I told her that I didn't really, just sort of rode it out until it faded. Or until I tired myself out and could sleep. I always forget to say it makes me want to punch myself in the face; break my nose or my arm or snap something. Suffocate myself.
I'd do it, only explaining it to the paramedics puts me off.
"Who did this?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"Attention seeking?"
Yep, pretty much. I'd only hit myself in the face to make it look like there was something seriously wrong with me. There isn't.
It does sort of seem to be dissipating now. My face is still sore, but the ache in my throat and the tears are going away.
See? It didn't last long.
Friday, 25 May 2012
Better late than never
It's been a year. I apologise, would say life got in the way, but it didn't really. I just didn't think anyone would be remotely interested, so I avoided it. Besides which, when I was writing, I was immersing myself in fiction instead, far less confrontational.
And having a shit time at work.
I've left now.
I quit my job.
Its true what they say, it is liberating, freeing. I left with a massive grin on my face; it took ages to dissipate. I was happy. Less so as of this morning; the not getting interviews is starting to smart a little. I'm worrying. And trying not to spend money in case something dreadful happens.
Worrying is the thing I do best. Compartmentalised worrying. Big things, little things, in boxes in my brain. It's maths. Worry about seven little things instead of one big one. Worry about not turning the oven off even though you have done. Don't read things properly, fear the worst and when the almost-worst happens, collapse in a heap and say the sky is falling.
That is me.
When I was at my lowest, I contemplated suicide, rationalised it in my head. It made sense, it was logical and that's what scared me. I never would - many and varied reasons. But the voices there, spilling the home truths and making me sound so minus in terms of worth that it made my head hurt. Who are you supposed to talk to in these situations? My mother - whom I love so dearly - wouldn't understand. I've alluded to it and she believes I'd never think something so stupid, she thinks far more of me than she ought.
Tried reaching out to friends and they had their own problems and I was quite far down the list of priorities.
In the end, I told she-who-is-not-a-shrink-but-whose-title-escapes-me, and she gave me a list of numbers and addresses, told me a&e have dedicated psych advisors to stop these things. Reminded me there are people to talk to.
I'm not going to kill myself.
I wouldn't talk to those people, anyway. It would be a waste of nhs resources. Help someone better than me.
I think myself out of it, eventually. Headaches for two days. Back to the low hum of discomfort, accepting you're useless, then thinking you're not so bad. Up. Down. Up. Down. Disjointed and repetitive.
Not unlike this.
And having a shit time at work.
I've left now.
I quit my job.
Its true what they say, it is liberating, freeing. I left with a massive grin on my face; it took ages to dissipate. I was happy. Less so as of this morning; the not getting interviews is starting to smart a little. I'm worrying. And trying not to spend money in case something dreadful happens.
Worrying is the thing I do best. Compartmentalised worrying. Big things, little things, in boxes in my brain. It's maths. Worry about seven little things instead of one big one. Worry about not turning the oven off even though you have done. Don't read things properly, fear the worst and when the almost-worst happens, collapse in a heap and say the sky is falling.
That is me.
When I was at my lowest, I contemplated suicide, rationalised it in my head. It made sense, it was logical and that's what scared me. I never would - many and varied reasons. But the voices there, spilling the home truths and making me sound so minus in terms of worth that it made my head hurt. Who are you supposed to talk to in these situations? My mother - whom I love so dearly - wouldn't understand. I've alluded to it and she believes I'd never think something so stupid, she thinks far more of me than she ought.
Tried reaching out to friends and they had their own problems and I was quite far down the list of priorities.
In the end, I told she-who-is-not-a-shrink-but-whose-title-escapes-me, and she gave me a list of numbers and addresses, told me a&e have dedicated psych advisors to stop these things. Reminded me there are people to talk to.
I'm not going to kill myself.
I wouldn't talk to those people, anyway. It would be a waste of nhs resources. Help someone better than me.
I think myself out of it, eventually. Headaches for two days. Back to the low hum of discomfort, accepting you're useless, then thinking you're not so bad. Up. Down. Up. Down. Disjointed and repetitive.
Not unlike this.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Always Compilation Tapes, never CDs.
Don't start, I never said I was going to be super-dilligent at blogging. It's not a case of an overactive social life, or having nothing to write about - more general apathy and forgetfulness. I'm forgetting a lot - usually words in the middle of sentences at work, it's unlikely my tongue-tied ramblings are doing much for the face of the company. Two weeks ago I accidentally opened a call with "Good Afternoon" at 9am, the caller got so irate that I didn't laugh uproariously at his "Ooh, that's early!" riposte and tried to carry on with the call in a professinal manner that he refused to speak to me, demanded to be transferred and when there was no one available, told me that I had no sense of humour, threatened to complain to his company, then hung up. You can only laugh in those situations, albet tinged with a nagging feeling of 'but what if he does complain?' (It's been a fortnight; he hasn't).
It's an easy enough mistake to make when you're having variations on the same conversation every six minutes for seven hours five days a week, sometimes your brain goes on autopilot and forgets it's past noon - and honestly, Between 12 and 8 I always open with 'Good Afternoon' and no one's once gone off in a huff because it was 6.45pm and I should have said 'Evening'. (This is largely because pople do not start listening to you until they've been on the phone for around three seconds, which also explains why people never register that they've called the wrong number, despite the fact that the company details are the first words that leave my mouth.)
This inability of mine to rub along adequately with repetition and constraint is the reason I don't much care for studio albums by one group, or artist. I very rarely want to listen to the same genre of music consecutively, even less so the same singer, possibly a product of the pre-ipod generation - a doyenne of the compilation tape.
I have a notebook in my kitchen with four pages of painstakingly created playlists for the last foreign summer holiday I took with my parents - day music, and evening music, every cd and cassette I, my parents or brother had in the house was scrutinised, and a handful of my dad's vinyl for good measure. The result is largely of it's time - 2003, I was still in my Ska and Soul phase, hadn't really got on board with appropriating many albums of my own so there was a lot of Less than Jake, mopey tracks from the Grease soundtrack and bookended by The Drifters.
Beyond the oesoteric musical choices though, the painstakingly created lists that had to be in my clearest, neatest handwriting otherwise it would sod the whole thing up (which is not so clear and neat by anyone else's standards) are an exercise in control at a time when I was fairly certain most of my peers thought I was a little too peculiar (occasionally saying it to my face, like it was a piece of coursework I'd forgotten to complete and they were only being helpful) and hung onto my questionable taste in aural poison as a comforter. Even with friends and family, I will get inwardly distressed if they choose to play one album or one artist when I'm around. It feels like I'm not in control. It feels bad. But it's not like you can explain that to someone without coming off like a self-important mental case, so I keep quiet.
It's an easy enough mistake to make when you're having variations on the same conversation every six minutes for seven hours five days a week, sometimes your brain goes on autopilot and forgets it's past noon - and honestly, Between 12 and 8 I always open with 'Good Afternoon' and no one's once gone off in a huff because it was 6.45pm and I should have said 'Evening'. (This is largely because pople do not start listening to you until they've been on the phone for around three seconds, which also explains why people never register that they've called the wrong number, despite the fact that the company details are the first words that leave my mouth.)
This inability of mine to rub along adequately with repetition and constraint is the reason I don't much care for studio albums by one group, or artist. I very rarely want to listen to the same genre of music consecutively, even less so the same singer, possibly a product of the pre-ipod generation - a doyenne of the compilation tape.
I have a notebook in my kitchen with four pages of painstakingly created playlists for the last foreign summer holiday I took with my parents - day music, and evening music, every cd and cassette I, my parents or brother had in the house was scrutinised, and a handful of my dad's vinyl for good measure. The result is largely of it's time - 2003, I was still in my Ska and Soul phase, hadn't really got on board with appropriating many albums of my own so there was a lot of Less than Jake, mopey tracks from the Grease soundtrack and bookended by The Drifters.
Beyond the oesoteric musical choices though, the painstakingly created lists that had to be in my clearest, neatest handwriting otherwise it would sod the whole thing up (which is not so clear and neat by anyone else's standards) are an exercise in control at a time when I was fairly certain most of my peers thought I was a little too peculiar (occasionally saying it to my face, like it was a piece of coursework I'd forgotten to complete and they were only being helpful) and hung onto my questionable taste in aural poison as a comforter. Even with friends and family, I will get inwardly distressed if they choose to play one album or one artist when I'm around. It feels like I'm not in control. It feels bad. But it's not like you can explain that to someone without coming off like a self-important mental case, so I keep quiet.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
In the Beginning, there was a surplus of beef in the freezer compartment of my fridge
January has been a funny month. Some things happened - I got stood up after the culmination of a month-long 'cyber 'courtship'' (Yes, double apostrophes are warranted. If you can think of a better turn of phrase, feel free to interject); finally learnt to embrace solitude and just this morning, I wedged a piece of TESCO cashew chicken (by Ken Hom) in between my tits and had to use my fingers when it would not be penetrated by the fork. See? It's been a tumultuous month and no mistake. This week has been a particular turning point.
I made the decision on Friday night that I would dedicate this weekend, particularly Saturday, to myself. So, after the alleged 24hr handyman had been and went - fixing my window in the process, even if his idea of fixing a troublesome window lock differs greatly to mine and I had to wait a fortnight for him to show up in the first place - I set about my planned events. These were:
- Make a stew (second attempt)
- Bake cupcakes
- A bit of tidying and washing up and that.
Yeah, that's how I roll. And they were all executed with grace, poise, and an arched eyebrow, wearing a diamente-emebllished brassiere and furry slippers.
Today, in comparison, was a typical Sunday, a sort of greying, itchy day when I didn't really get anything done, although I did do a very grown up thing and tidied up my bureau drawers - that only took an hour, though. The other twelve or so just blurred into one another.
Therefore, in Summary:
Saturday = Thumbs Up
Sunday = Wavy hand motion, "Ehh" noise
Next Week: It's Go Time.
I made the decision on Friday night that I would dedicate this weekend, particularly Saturday, to myself. So, after the alleged 24hr handyman had been and went - fixing my window in the process, even if his idea of fixing a troublesome window lock differs greatly to mine and I had to wait a fortnight for him to show up in the first place - I set about my planned events. These were:
- Make a stew (second attempt)
- Bake cupcakes
- A bit of tidying and washing up and that.
Yeah, that's how I roll. And they were all executed with grace, poise, and an arched eyebrow, wearing a diamente-emebllished brassiere and furry slippers.
Today, in comparison, was a typical Sunday, a sort of greying, itchy day when I didn't really get anything done, although I did do a very grown up thing and tidied up my bureau drawers - that only took an hour, though. The other twelve or so just blurred into one another.
Therefore, in Summary:
Saturday = Thumbs Up
Sunday = Wavy hand motion, "Ehh" noise
Next Week: It's Go Time.
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