The low smokes roll from me like Isadora’s scarves

Just an update I guess. I don’t have an incredible amount to say because there has been no profound change in my mental status, it just slowly deteriorates as time trundles on by. Today I actually saw a social worker who really listened to me, I saw her yesterday too. I’d like it if she were my social worker from now on, because she’s actually very polite and kind and took the time to listen to me. She asked me what treatments I would like, how I’d feel about various treatment options, how would I feel about lithium, how would I feel about valproic acid, or even just a sharp increase of the tablets I’m on now. There was no suggestion I had no choice in my treatment options and when I gave her a list of hospitals in East Lancashire / West Yorkshire that I would be happy to be treated in, she actually wrote them down and said they’d start looking there for beds. See, a few social workers have told me this recently, but they’d never actually written down and gave me no updates whatsoever from bed management. A friend who has come to mean a lot to me over recent weeks came to see me this evening, and she described me as “high functioning”, or “plausible”. I used the word “lucid”, but she disagreed. The general agreement we both arrived at was that maybe I’m not actually entirely lucid right now, but I’m putting up one hell of a good front. Just because I’m not running around the streets screaming my head off, screaming bloody murder, it doesn’t mean I don’t still have that rage storming inside my head, I’m just pretending to be coping extremely well. I feel incredibly changed. I think I even said that, didn’t I? A few days into the break-up, I remember saying “Why am I so changed?” (this was pretentious of me, of course, as it’s something Catherine Earnshaw says when Heathcliff disappears and then returns with full fury and full of revenge. Ridiculous to compare the ex to Heathcliff even subtly. Heathcliff was an image of power, strength, deep-running passion and emotion, a Byronic hero. My ex displays none of those characteristics, and he’s not even rich enough to be the meek and mild-mannered pathetic Edgar Linton). Then, I stormed around for a month telling people I’VE NEVER FELT BETTER! And now, this. Right now I’m snatching this moment to write as I’m in a rare moment of clarity. They’re few and far between these days. I have hours of outright mania and hours of downright depression. I sleep for hours and hours and hate to watch the world pass by. I get overwhelmed by making a very simple meal. I stop making food halfway through making it because by then I’ve already lost the energy to microwave something and eat it. I start tidying up by dragging a plastic bag around with me and putting three bits of paper from the floor in then I give up. Either I go back to bed, or I become distracted and want to go out and see everyone and dance and laugh and kiss and love. Colours suddenly get brighter, traffic goes faster and everything is noisier. Thoughts fall out of my head as soon as I get them, my concept of time is shot. I’m losing days at a time. I woke up on Friday thinking, “But it was only Monday yesterday”. 

I was offered a place at a thing in Levenshulme called Crisis Point. They purport to help people who are in mental health crisis, whilst waiting for hospital admission. There are no doctors or nurses on site, but then there are no doctors or nurses at my house either. There are trained counsellors working around the clock if you need them, and you are very much taken care of. It’s not instead of hospital, it’s whilst waiting. And the wait may be a little longer. It’s little things I need help with. Right now, I’m either definitely not wanting to take my medication and absolutely spending hours trying to reason with myself to take it, or I’m having to take it in the small moments I can snatch, like this one, where I feel lucid enough to actually take them. 

I know this recent illness is not the ex’s fault. He’s not made it any easier, but it is not his fault. As I might have mentioned before, I was starting to get unwell whilst we were together. Near the end of March, my panic attacks had returned with full force and I was finding it very difficult to be alone. My boyfriend left me because he noticed something was going wrong with me. I was becoming quite beaten down by issues in the relationship that he couldn’t acknowledge fault for; he never did anything wrong, it was always me, me, me. He couldn’t understand that there are some things that are unacceptable in a relationship, and he has recently been doubting that I ever really cared about him. That’s been a dig, but rather than a cause, this acrimonious split has been a trigger. It’s funny how the person I loved the most, the only person I saw a real future with (and let’s not forget I had been engaged before), and yet the split is so nasty and pervasive. It’s like since he decided I wasn’t worth the trouble any more, he started to absolutely fucking despise me. But then, I don’t know what that means. A different ex, after we split, because absolutely horrendous towards me, did all he could to get a cheap dig in. I’ve since learned that this was because he was still hurting it had ended, because he admitted to me recently he was still then, and is still now, in love with me. I don’t know if this is the case with the recent ex. I do genuinely believe he feels he had a very lucky escape and I’m giving him every single reason to believe I am the madwoman bunny-boiler he always thought I was. When we first got together, I told him that sometimes I would transform in front of him into someone he no longer recognised, that my illness has been known to completely change me, but that I would always return back to my original form, and that form is of the person who deeply loved him, who was happy, ambitious, able to cope, independent, intelligent, creative and very compassionate. He did what I guess a lot of other cowards might do. He realised he didn’t really mean it when he made that commitment a year ago, and bolted at the first sign of trouble. I guess it’s easier to say to your friends “We broke up because she’s a crazy bitch” than “we broke up because my past was so relentless in her life that it made her angry at me a lot”. I don’t need to go into it all again, how incredibly constant and present his past was in my life. How exes actually contacted me. How he hid the fact a few of them messaged him constantly still. How he planned to see one without me, and how he told me this in the middle of an argument, shortly after comparing me to an ex of his, asking me why I couldn’t just be more like her, *she* was patient about exes, *she* was a grown up. It’s all that stuff that’s fucking me up. Whenever I retaliated, it was seen I was the biggest arsehole in the world. The rage of Caliban seeing his own face in the glass. 

I’m aware he still looks at my twitter and possibly still reads this blog. I’m still waiting on any kind of apology from him, for his recent behaviour towards me. A friend said to me recently that he is behaving the way Hamlet behaves to Ophelia when he is mad with his own grief, and in turn hands Ophelia over to the grip of insanity that comes about when the person you are infatuated tears down every single one of your defences and barriers, and tears your character apart in senseless rage. I don’t think he ever will apologise. I don’t think he thinks he’s done anything wrong. Everyone asking for his number and email and home address might tend to disagree, but I am showing restraint and not giving his information away. I hate what he’s done to me, but there was a time where I would look at him and see nothing but a wonderful future, and the face of a man I was deeply, deeply in adoration of. A man I was so in love with, the whole world could see it. Whilst he may be happy looking at me now like a bitter enemy, and whilst he might be happy attacking me, throwing me to the ground and kicking me whilst down there – in a psychological sense – I’m still not happy allowing my friends to do that to him, perhaps in a more physical, literal sense. I don’t hate him. I don’t like the idea of him being scared of anything, or to feel unsafe. I’m a fucking mug, I know that. 

Also, recently the person I’ve been on and off seeing (in the loosest sense imaginable thankyou, I know a few people have been speculating but it really isn’t a relationship in any way), has told me we need to “cool it off” as I’m in a very vulnerable position right now and I might not be making the right decisions when I call him at 3am asking him to come over with wine and cheese and a reckless sense of abandon. He, in lots of different ways, is the bigger man. 

Anyway, those are my musings for now. I had a nice day today, even if I did sleep for a lot of it. In the early evening me and my family went out for a bite to eat at a Nepalese place near me, and then my friend came over. Now, it’s 3am, I’ve taken my tablets and I’m hoping they do something. Tomorrow, I will go to sign on at 9:30am (well, technically later today, in a few hours). When I get home, I will call Crisis Team and request a bed at Crisis Point. As it’s not technically a hospital ward, I think they’ll let me have my laptop. So I guess I can keep you updated with how the alternative therapies work (hypnotherapy, acupuncture, neurolinguistic programming, art therapy), and of course post moody and brooding photographs of the clinical room I will be sleeping in. 

I value all of you who have been reading this. I have become so different to my former self I’m not even sure she ever existed. Every day I lose a little more insight, every day I am more confused about myself, my purpose and my life. I look back to who I was just a few months ago, and I have no idea if I will ever return back to that state, but with enough help I really hope I do. 


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