Virtually I have moved here.
In real life, I am moving from my litle abode in middle class Oxfordshire, to another little abode, where students live, in York. I got into uni, move in date is 17th September.
I'm sure I'll ramble about it on wordpress and twitter
Laura xxx
Monday, 29 August 2011
Friday, 5 August 2011
letters and a downward spiral
It’s been “one of those weeks”.
I’m writing this trying to decide how I feel, but the honest answer is, I don’t know how I feel. I’m completely empty. Numb. It’s a horrible feeling.
At the beginning of the week, I decided that I was going to write a letter to my new counsellor. I met her last week and had a brief chat with her. I’m not sure what caused me to write the letter, I suppose I’ve reached the stage where I can’t keep running from the past and what happened. It took a very inspiring lady to get me to realise this. She knows who she is.
So I wrote the letter. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Nearly two thousand words of horrible memories and raw emotion. On Wednesday I went to the counselling place, with the letter and asked to speak to my counsellor. I should have thought it through; I had turned up unannounced and had to wait just over an hour to see her. I could feel my breathing getting unsteady and was aware that I was shaking, but before I reached ridiculous levels of panic, my counsellor appeared. I handed over the letter and she read it then and there. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just needed to be honest, but didn’t have the ability to form articulate sentences out loud to do this. She was audibly shocked by what was written in the letter; my friend’s suicide, my character reversal at school, getting thrown out of lessons, the attempted, forced sexual activities from someone that I was subjected to. The conversation that followed wasn’t what I was expecting (or what I wanted). She had her own take on what was written in the letter; she said that the self harm was because I’m angry with myself and don’t know how to be angry with other people, that I need to stop blaming myself and that I need to express this emotion.
It’s a learning curve, but I really resent being told that I am something; that I’m angry with myself. I’m not angry with myself, I did some incredibly stupid things, but anger isn’t something I feel. I’m hurting. And I want to control that hurt.
She continued to talk, repeatedly asking me to express some form of emotion. I couldn’t do that. I sat, listening, answering, but not feeling. She asked me when I was due to start at university. I told her that if everything goes to plan, it should be the middle of September. There was a long pause after I’d said this. She then said that because I’m moving in six weeks, she refuses to continue my treatment because all the issues which have been written in the letter can’t be address in this space of time and I can’t be helped. That, quite literally, was that. My letter has been put in my file and I was free to go.
It was been the biggest blow I think I’ve ever had. I’m not going to big myself up, but from my perspective, it took a lot for me to write that letter and admit everything, it took even more to have the courage to go the counselling place, wait, and hand it over. To then be told that treatment is being stopped and I “can’t be helped” was one of the worst things I could have been told. I feel truly let down. I feel let down because it’s taken a number of years for me to accept that I need help, that I want help and I am not being told I can’t have it. No mention has been made about being transferred to another service when I move, so I assume nothing is being done in that respect. It hurts. It’s actually made me feel pretty shit.
I rang my Connexions advisor after this. I didn’t know what else to do, she was the only person I could think of who might be able to calm me down. This is where the emotional overload started, I cried hysterically down the phone to her, making very little sense. After establishing where I was, she gave me strict instructions to remain there and she would come and meet me, which she did. We talked things through, she calmed me down and she listened.
Fast forward two days and we find ourselves at today. The emotions have disappeared. I don’t feel anything. I still feel let down, but that isn’t an emotion. I smile, but I don’t feel happy. I cried at a sad programme, but I don’t feel upset. I am completely numb. My motivation has hit an all time low and I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t want to socialise with people because I don’t know how to. I want to sleep but I can’t, even after abusing the ampitrityline prescription my GP gave me and tripling what I should have taken, I still find sleeping difficult. I wake up in cold sweats after nightmares mixed with flashbacks, or I just don’t sleep and lie in bed watching rubbish on TV until 5am when I collapse in a groggy state.
I’m scared, I’ve never been this scared. That is the only thing I can identity how I feel. And the worst part is, I don’t have anyone to turn to.
I’m writing this trying to decide how I feel, but the honest answer is, I don’t know how I feel. I’m completely empty. Numb. It’s a horrible feeling.
At the beginning of the week, I decided that I was going to write a letter to my new counsellor. I met her last week and had a brief chat with her. I’m not sure what caused me to write the letter, I suppose I’ve reached the stage where I can’t keep running from the past and what happened. It took a very inspiring lady to get me to realise this. She knows who she is.
So I wrote the letter. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Nearly two thousand words of horrible memories and raw emotion. On Wednesday I went to the counselling place, with the letter and asked to speak to my counsellor. I should have thought it through; I had turned up unannounced and had to wait just over an hour to see her. I could feel my breathing getting unsteady and was aware that I was shaking, but before I reached ridiculous levels of panic, my counsellor appeared. I handed over the letter and she read it then and there. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just needed to be honest, but didn’t have the ability to form articulate sentences out loud to do this. She was audibly shocked by what was written in the letter; my friend’s suicide, my character reversal at school, getting thrown out of lessons, the attempted, forced sexual activities from someone that I was subjected to. The conversation that followed wasn’t what I was expecting (or what I wanted). She had her own take on what was written in the letter; she said that the self harm was because I’m angry with myself and don’t know how to be angry with other people, that I need to stop blaming myself and that I need to express this emotion.
It’s a learning curve, but I really resent being told that I am something; that I’m angry with myself. I’m not angry with myself, I did some incredibly stupid things, but anger isn’t something I feel. I’m hurting. And I want to control that hurt.
She continued to talk, repeatedly asking me to express some form of emotion. I couldn’t do that. I sat, listening, answering, but not feeling. She asked me when I was due to start at university. I told her that if everything goes to plan, it should be the middle of September. There was a long pause after I’d said this. She then said that because I’m moving in six weeks, she refuses to continue my treatment because all the issues which have been written in the letter can’t be address in this space of time and I can’t be helped. That, quite literally, was that. My letter has been put in my file and I was free to go.
It was been the biggest blow I think I’ve ever had. I’m not going to big myself up, but from my perspective, it took a lot for me to write that letter and admit everything, it took even more to have the courage to go the counselling place, wait, and hand it over. To then be told that treatment is being stopped and I “can’t be helped” was one of the worst things I could have been told. I feel truly let down. I feel let down because it’s taken a number of years for me to accept that I need help, that I want help and I am not being told I can’t have it. No mention has been made about being transferred to another service when I move, so I assume nothing is being done in that respect. It hurts. It’s actually made me feel pretty shit.
I rang my Connexions advisor after this. I didn’t know what else to do, she was the only person I could think of who might be able to calm me down. This is where the emotional overload started, I cried hysterically down the phone to her, making very little sense. After establishing where I was, she gave me strict instructions to remain there and she would come and meet me, which she did. We talked things through, she calmed me down and she listened.
Fast forward two days and we find ourselves at today. The emotions have disappeared. I don’t feel anything. I still feel let down, but that isn’t an emotion. I smile, but I don’t feel happy. I cried at a sad programme, but I don’t feel upset. I am completely numb. My motivation has hit an all time low and I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t want to socialise with people because I don’t know how to. I want to sleep but I can’t, even after abusing the ampitrityline prescription my GP gave me and tripling what I should have taken, I still find sleeping difficult. I wake up in cold sweats after nightmares mixed with flashbacks, or I just don’t sleep and lie in bed watching rubbish on TV until 5am when I collapse in a groggy state.
I’m scared, I’ve never been this scared. That is the only thing I can identity how I feel. And the worst part is, I don’t have anyone to turn to.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
twitter, a reference and tea (lots of tea)
To Whom It May Concern
It is with great delight that I recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation. Whilst I have only known her for a short period of time she has proved herself as a highly valued Twitterer and it is with great confidence that I can say that she would be an esteemed new member to your organisation.
I first became aware of @Zoe_Smith through her blog, which I read quietly for a few weeks, before deciding to follow her on Twitter, something which I have since realised I should have done a lot sooner. I can distinctly remember one of the first things which @Zoe_Smith said it me on Twitter and it was virtual offerings of plasters with monkeys and giraffes on them; this appealed to my childish side and also made me realise that I’ve always had boring plasters and never patterned ones. Since then @Zoe_Smith has not once let me down and has continued to offer virtual plasters, hugs, pain relief, hot chocolate and most recently tea, after indirectly convincing me to try it and converting me. This proves that @Zoe_Smith has great leadership qualities and is able to assist other people either in real life or virtually. I have not shared with @Zoe_Smith my next opinion and I must apologise in advance if it offends her at all, but in many ways she is a virtual Twitter mother to me, something which I am forever grateful for, even when she makes me cry ridiculous amounts. Should you or anyone else in your organisation ever need help, I believe that she would response immediately with necessary requirements, be that tea, hugs or just a friendly ear. Evidence of this can be seen on Twitter on the evening of Friday 22nd July 2011.
@Zoe_Smith is also highly observant and frequently states what the weather is like in St Andrews, Scotland, which brightens up my Twitter feed each morning (or dulls it down, as the case often is, because it is usually raining.)
As well as being an avid Twitterer, @Zoe_Smith also writes a blog, as previously mentioned. Through this, her creativity is apparent through her #newprojects such as the Lunatics Lexicon and Alternative Mood Scale, both of which should be made available to Mental Health Professionals everywhere as soon as humanly possible. It is through Mental Political Parent that I have learnt how amazing @Zoe_Smith is, as well as how incredibly strong she is. Whilst I have told @Zoe_Smith how much I admire her, I don’t think she realises that she has given me and so many other people the strength to keep going.
Nothing is beyond @Zoe_Smith. Should you be looking for someone to Tweet photos of on-going projects which your organisation is carrying out I would not hesitate to recommend @Zoe_Smith.
Should spam emails ever be an issue within your organisation, @Zoe_Smith would be able to deal with them quickly and fairly, by blocking, reporting and getting a bread knife and hunting them down. This shows that time wasting will not be an issue, although tea/diet coke breaks are an absolute necessity.
@Zoe_Smith is an intellectual, funny, compassionate lady and someone I am very glad that I have “met” through Twitter, proving the importance of social networking in the 21st century. It is without any hesitation that I would recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation and strongly believe that she will continue to be the remarkable person that she is now.
If I can be of any further assistance or can offer any more information then please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours faithfully,
Laura
It is with great delight that I recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation. Whilst I have only known her for a short period of time she has proved herself as a highly valued Twitterer and it is with great confidence that I can say that she would be an esteemed new member to your organisation.
I first became aware of @Zoe_Smith through her blog, which I read quietly for a few weeks, before deciding to follow her on Twitter, something which I have since realised I should have done a lot sooner. I can distinctly remember one of the first things which @Zoe_Smith said it me on Twitter and it was virtual offerings of plasters with monkeys and giraffes on them; this appealed to my childish side and also made me realise that I’ve always had boring plasters and never patterned ones. Since then @Zoe_Smith has not once let me down and has continued to offer virtual plasters, hugs, pain relief, hot chocolate and most recently tea, after indirectly convincing me to try it and converting me. This proves that @Zoe_Smith has great leadership qualities and is able to assist other people either in real life or virtually. I have not shared with @Zoe_Smith my next opinion and I must apologise in advance if it offends her at all, but in many ways she is a virtual Twitter mother to me, something which I am forever grateful for, even when she makes me cry ridiculous amounts. Should you or anyone else in your organisation ever need help, I believe that she would response immediately with necessary requirements, be that tea, hugs or just a friendly ear. Evidence of this can be seen on Twitter on the evening of Friday 22nd July 2011.
@Zoe_Smith is also highly observant and frequently states what the weather is like in St Andrews, Scotland, which brightens up my Twitter feed each morning (or dulls it down, as the case often is, because it is usually raining.)
As well as being an avid Twitterer, @Zoe_Smith also writes a blog, as previously mentioned. Through this, her creativity is apparent through her #newprojects such as the Lunatics Lexicon and Alternative Mood Scale, both of which should be made available to Mental Health Professionals everywhere as soon as humanly possible. It is through Mental Political Parent that I have learnt how amazing @Zoe_Smith is, as well as how incredibly strong she is. Whilst I have told @Zoe_Smith how much I admire her, I don’t think she realises that she has given me and so many other people the strength to keep going.
Nothing is beyond @Zoe_Smith. Should you be looking for someone to Tweet photos of on-going projects which your organisation is carrying out I would not hesitate to recommend @Zoe_Smith.
Should spam emails ever be an issue within your organisation, @Zoe_Smith would be able to deal with them quickly and fairly, by blocking, reporting and getting a bread knife and hunting them down. This shows that time wasting will not be an issue, although tea/diet coke breaks are an absolute necessity.
 |
| taken from here |
@Zoe_Smith is an intellectual, funny, compassionate lady and someone I am very glad that I have “met” through Twitter, proving the importance of social networking in the 21st century. It is without any hesitation that I would recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation and strongly believe that she will continue to be the remarkable person that she is now.
If I can be of any further assistance or can offer any more information then please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours faithfully,
Laura
Thursday, 21 July 2011
regret
I don't feel very good today. It could be a massive come down from the large quantities of drugs that have been pumped through my system since Monday (finally had surgery, but that requires a whole other blog post and now I'm not in the right place).
Yesterday I cut myself. Before hand it was all I could think about. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I gave into the voices and did as they said. They'd been quiet for a few days, I miss that quiet. So yes, I gave in, And yes, I regretted it instantly. But I didn't regret it enough to not do the same thing again today.
Cry.
Guilt.
Sick.
Panic.
Yesterday the counselling centre rang me. Two and a half weeks I have been waiting for that phonecall. Two and a half weeks ago was when I dragged myself there because I didn't trust myself to be at home by myself. And what do I do? Ignore the call. Just as I have been ignoring the fact that they have been ringing me every 30 minutes sience 2pm this afternoon. I don't want to talk. I don't know what to say. Yes, I have fucked up. I gave in and I hate myself for it. I want my happy bubble back. But most of all, I want to know what the hell is wrong with me. I cannot do this.
Yesterday I cut myself. Before hand it was all I could think about. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I gave into the voices and did as they said. They'd been quiet for a few days, I miss that quiet. So yes, I gave in, And yes, I regretted it instantly. But I didn't regret it enough to not do the same thing again today.
Cry.
Guilt.
Sick.
Panic.
Yesterday the counselling centre rang me. Two and a half weeks I have been waiting for that phonecall. Two and a half weeks ago was when I dragged myself there because I didn't trust myself to be at home by myself. And what do I do? Ignore the call. Just as I have been ignoring the fact that they have been ringing me every 30 minutes sience 2pm this afternoon. I don't want to talk. I don't know what to say. Yes, I have fucked up. I gave in and I hate myself for it. I want my happy bubble back. But most of all, I want to know what the hell is wrong with me. I cannot do this.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Today...
Today has been a good day.
- I don't have a rare blood disorder. They messed up, twice.
- I can have surgery
- Today I feel happy and unpanicky.
- I was out for most of the day and didn't feel tortured by loud noises which were invading my head
- I coped being around people
- I have an excited, manic feeling and I can't sit still for very long.
- I feel happy.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
anti order
I started writing a blog post this morning, but it is saved in my drafts along with a load of other shit, and will gather cyber dust until my brain has the ability to function and do something slightly normal. Until then, you're going to get some spontaneous crap which flies straight out of my head and won't make much sense.
Today I had the privilage of meeting one of the top haemologist consultants in the country (this was repeated on numerous occasions throughout the appointment) to discuss my crazy blood. What has so far been established, as I may have already said a lot, is that my blood isn't clotting. This is bad. What hasn't been established is why my blood isn't clotting. This is also bad. This new consultant decided to draw me a nice picture/list thing detailing his doctoring thoughts. What he concluded is that I may have a rare blood disorder. I was unable to process anymore after that.
After being sat in the cancer and haematology unit at the hospital where my father spent some of his final days, it has been the most enormous slap in the face that potentially something is very wrong with me. Whilst the Big C hasn't been uttered at all (or at least since December when there were mumblings) being in a unit with people so critically ill has given me the biggest reality check ever.
Yes, they could be erring on the side of caution, I fully accept that, but the words "rare" and "disorder" being uttered in the same sentence by some top consultant has scared me more than I can put into words. I am hoping and praying that this is some technical mistake (made twice by some incapable arseholes) or that they will turn round with massive smiles and say "it's okay! You're okay! Stop worrying!" It's been a long time since somone smiled at me in hospital, at least not a real, celebrationary smile symbolising okayness. I miss that. Things are very much passed being okay.
I suppose it's also a shock because this is yet again, another instance of me being linked to a disorder. I already have erratic "disordered" eating. I already have compulsive "disordered" behaviour. I feel like I am a walking disorder, except I can't do the walking bit very well all the time.
A friend asked me this evening "how did it go with the blood posse?" I love her for trying to cheer me up and add a bit of humour to the current situation. I've given up being positive and trying to hold onto what's good. It hurts too much. Just throw me in a wheelchair and leave me be. I'm sick of being prodded and poked by different people and still getting the same answer: nothing.
I feel like I've hit self destruct, yet again. I can't bear being sat in the house, for sheer fear of what I will do to myself. Instead I returned from the hospital and passed the afternoon "seeing my friends". Actually any form of human contact is too much and I sat in the local park for 3 hours, sent a rambling text to L out of sheer desperation. But it's okay, I think I'm seeing her tomorrow. I think. I hope.
The children were too loud, the birds were too high pitched, the dogs were too yappy, the wind was too windy (yes, that does make sense) and all of it hurt my head. I wanted to scream "shut up! Can you not see that I am trying to have a crazy moment?" but I know that is not socially acceptable and the presence of police made me feel that I couldn't outwardly express my feelings. Nice area I live in, with police strolling through a children's park on a weekday afternoon. The walk home wasn't much better: too many old people, too many people full stop actually, dead birds being dead on the path and youths in That Alleyway, meaning I had to walk the longer way home. And the shower is dripping. I can hear it now. It's too loud.
/end selfish rant.
Oh fuck.
Today I had the privilage of meeting one of the top haemologist consultants in the country (this was repeated on numerous occasions throughout the appointment) to discuss my crazy blood. What has so far been established, as I may have already said a lot, is that my blood isn't clotting. This is bad. What hasn't been established is why my blood isn't clotting. This is also bad. This new consultant decided to draw me a nice picture/list thing detailing his doctoring thoughts. What he concluded is that I may have a rare blood disorder. I was unable to process anymore after that.
After being sat in the cancer and haematology unit at the hospital where my father spent some of his final days, it has been the most enormous slap in the face that potentially something is very wrong with me. Whilst the Big C hasn't been uttered at all (or at least since December when there were mumblings) being in a unit with people so critically ill has given me the biggest reality check ever.
Yes, they could be erring on the side of caution, I fully accept that, but the words "rare" and "disorder" being uttered in the same sentence by some top consultant has scared me more than I can put into words. I am hoping and praying that this is some technical mistake (made twice by some incapable arseholes) or that they will turn round with massive smiles and say "it's okay! You're okay! Stop worrying!" It's been a long time since somone smiled at me in hospital, at least not a real, celebrationary smile symbolising okayness. I miss that. Things are very much passed being okay.
I suppose it's also a shock because this is yet again, another instance of me being linked to a disorder. I already have erratic "disordered" eating. I already have compulsive "disordered" behaviour. I feel like I am a walking disorder, except I can't do the walking bit very well all the time.
A friend asked me this evening "how did it go with the blood posse?" I love her for trying to cheer me up and add a bit of humour to the current situation. I've given up being positive and trying to hold onto what's good. It hurts too much. Just throw me in a wheelchair and leave me be. I'm sick of being prodded and poked by different people and still getting the same answer: nothing.
I feel like I've hit self destruct, yet again. I can't bear being sat in the house, for sheer fear of what I will do to myself. Instead I returned from the hospital and passed the afternoon "seeing my friends". Actually any form of human contact is too much and I sat in the local park for 3 hours, sent a rambling text to L out of sheer desperation. But it's okay, I think I'm seeing her tomorrow. I think. I hope.
The children were too loud, the birds were too high pitched, the dogs were too yappy, the wind was too windy (yes, that does make sense) and all of it hurt my head. I wanted to scream "shut up! Can you not see that I am trying to have a crazy moment?" but I know that is not socially acceptable and the presence of police made me feel that I couldn't outwardly express my feelings. Nice area I live in, with police strolling through a children's park on a weekday afternoon. The walk home wasn't much better: too many old people, too many people full stop actually, dead birds being dead on the path and youths in That Alleyway, meaning I had to walk the longer way home. And the shower is dripping. I can hear it now. It's too loud.
/end selfish rant.
Oh fuck.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Dreams/Reality
I don’t like night time. Just putting that out there.
I don’t like staying in other people’s houses because I find it impossible to promise myself to behave “normally” during the night.
I don’t sleep. Instead I pass the time by watching various DVDs; recent choices have been the Outnumbered boxset, Bridget Jones, Bend It Like Beckham and Friends series one. I’m not particularly fussed about what DVD it is (providing it’s not the Black Swan, still recovering from the last mindfuck that caused). If it passes the time, then it will do. Often I don’t watch it; I just like to have it on in the background because I find the silence too loud. The background noise stops me thinking and keeps me distracted for long enough for sleep to be possible. I do, eventually, end up falling asleep, no matter how hard I try and fight it.
Why do I fight sleep? I’m scared. I’m scared about what will go through my mind in the form of evil dreams. Recently my dreams have consisted of me grabbing blades and repeatedly slashing my legs until I have skin literally hanging off and I’m lying in a pool of my own blood. It makes me feel sick just thinking about that dream, mainly because it results in me waking up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe and actually wanting to do that for real.
There’s an alleyway near my house. This is the setting for another one of my “favourite” dreams. I’m grabbed by Man Who I Had A Bad Experience With and shoved against the wall. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the rest of the dream and I don’t have the ability to type everything out for fear of it being real. This dream has meant that I can’t walk down the alleyway after dusk, and even in daylight I’m aware of my quickened pace and probable erratic behaviour down there. I hope to God the homeowners who overlook said alleyway never look out their windows when I walk through there.
Lately I’ve been trying the whole “Positive Mental Attitude” approach to life, PMA for short. It is often something I’ll scream on Twitter, but in real life I find this incredibly draining and nothing short of a lie. I don’t like who I have become, I am ashamed of who I am. I put that shame aside and got help, but that help has gone into limbo and I don’t know what’s happening: I’m still waiting for New Counsellor to ring me. I don’t do phones and I don’t do waiting. It’s been a week. That’s long enough thank you. I look at the “old” me and I wish that was the me now.
Ironically, “Not Gonna Get Us” just started playing on iTunes. Well I disagree, someone is going to get me and I don’t have the power to stop that.
I wish I could try and put into words what it feels like inside my head. Or draw a picture, but art isn’t my forte and I don’t know who to eloquently write what’s happening. Maybe that will be my next challenge. I don’t know.
I don’t know. I don’t know much at the moment.
I don’t like staying in other people’s houses because I find it impossible to promise myself to behave “normally” during the night.
I don’t sleep. Instead I pass the time by watching various DVDs; recent choices have been the Outnumbered boxset, Bridget Jones, Bend It Like Beckham and Friends series one. I’m not particularly fussed about what DVD it is (providing it’s not the Black Swan, still recovering from the last mindfuck that caused). If it passes the time, then it will do. Often I don’t watch it; I just like to have it on in the background because I find the silence too loud. The background noise stops me thinking and keeps me distracted for long enough for sleep to be possible. I do, eventually, end up falling asleep, no matter how hard I try and fight it.
Why do I fight sleep? I’m scared. I’m scared about what will go through my mind in the form of evil dreams. Recently my dreams have consisted of me grabbing blades and repeatedly slashing my legs until I have skin literally hanging off and I’m lying in a pool of my own blood. It makes me feel sick just thinking about that dream, mainly because it results in me waking up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe and actually wanting to do that for real.
There’s an alleyway near my house. This is the setting for another one of my “favourite” dreams. I’m grabbed by Man Who I Had A Bad Experience With and shoved against the wall. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the rest of the dream and I don’t have the ability to type everything out for fear of it being real. This dream has meant that I can’t walk down the alleyway after dusk, and even in daylight I’m aware of my quickened pace and probable erratic behaviour down there. I hope to God the homeowners who overlook said alleyway never look out their windows when I walk through there.
Lately I’ve been trying the whole “Positive Mental Attitude” approach to life, PMA for short. It is often something I’ll scream on Twitter, but in real life I find this incredibly draining and nothing short of a lie. I don’t like who I have become, I am ashamed of who I am. I put that shame aside and got help, but that help has gone into limbo and I don’t know what’s happening: I’m still waiting for New Counsellor to ring me. I don’t do phones and I don’t do waiting. It’s been a week. That’s long enough thank you. I look at the “old” me and I wish that was the me now.
Ironically, “Not Gonna Get Us” just started playing on iTunes. Well I disagree, someone is going to get me and I don’t have the power to stop that.
I wish I could try and put into words what it feels like inside my head. Or draw a picture, but art isn’t my forte and I don’t know who to eloquently write what’s happening. Maybe that will be my next challenge. I don’t know.
I don’t know. I don’t know much at the moment.
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