Seit langem hab ich nix gepostet. Und das ist schon was gutes aber…
Irgendwie fühlt es sich nicht richtig.
Das ‘ich’ von früher, kenn ich die nicht mehr. Und das finde ich toll. Recovery. Endlich.
Seit einem 11 Monate ist alles hier still – überlege ich grad, ob ich das Blog stilllegen soll. Und dann denk ich nein – vielleicht in der Zukunft brauch ich ihn. Und hier habe ich alles von früher geschrieben, als alles schlecht war. Das ist ein Teil von mir, ein Teil meiner Geschichte, die NIEMALS vergessen sein soll.
Letzte Woche traf ich mit meinem damaligen Personal Tutor und eine andere Dozentin. Die haben u.a. über Studenten, die nicht anschienen und haben irgendwie tausende Probleme, die die aber die Uni nicht mitteilen wollen (ja super) aber trotzdem hilfe erwarten. Der hat mir gefragt, was ich darüber denke, wie er sie am besten hilfen soll. Und was hab ich gesagt? und was hätte ich gesagt? So: Ich sagte, naja kommt darauf an, ob sie wirklich probleme haben oder nicht. Was hätte ich gesagt? na klar sollst du die besser helfen. Besser anhören. Und danach stellte ich fest: der hat recht, damals. Und er wollte mich nur helfen. Aber hats damals weh getan und ich hasste ihn. wirklich. ich war so… ich weiß nicht… doof. immature. a complete and utter idiot.
Der hat mir wirklich geholfen, da er mir extenuating circumstances verweigert hat – weil würde ich das immer verlangt. Wie doof soll ich sein – ich habe ihn drei jahre gehasst… aber der war richtig. Und das schmerzt. wirklich.
I’m such a bloody idiot.
Wo geht’s jetzt hin? Weiß ich nicht mehr. Weiß nichts.
And for those of you who don’t speak German; ‘I have lashes’ (well a rough translation…)
A full set. Managed to reduce the pulling, haven’t managed to stop quite yet…
Life is very busy; call this my way of checking in.
I think I’ve briefly alluded to the fact that I pull out my eyelashes and eyebrows in previous posts. I’ve been doing it now for about 10 years; the last 5 or so I’ve been trying to give up.
I’ve come a long way since the beginning; I remember getting bullied in class for having no eyelashes. Since then the puffy swelling around my eyes has become a thing of the past – for the last few years I’ve become very concerned about the fact that every time I do it, it might be one pull too far and the lashes won’t grow back at all so I haven’t been doing it as badly. But still doing it.
The main problem I have with doing it, is that I enjoy it. I enjoy the spike of pain, the sense of relief; it feels good. It’s a nice feeling and I enjoy it, but I need to give it up. It’s been going on too long. Like I already said, the supply of lashes isn’t endless and I don’t want to have to wear false eyelashes for the rest of my life. So this is it. It’s time to stop pulling.
I wanted to add some photos, but there are two problems: I am hideously unphotogenic right now and I couldn’t get the camera close enough. I will keep trying.
It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
I am here to give you a moan, since the only reason I ever update here is to moan.
Tonight, the topic is my weight.
I’ve been doing well. The gym didn’t send me off into a raging fitness freak desperate for the perfect body and wanting to restrict. What has, however, is my girlfriend (who is smaller and weighs less than me) telling me she’s fat and needs to lose weight. Well if she’s fat, what am I?! She spends so long in the gym and I hardly manage it – mainly due to time contraints or injury or just not being up to it. It’s horrible. I have a wee bit of a belly, but it’s not terrible. It does now feel terrible.
All negativity channelling through my head. Like how I am undeserving of love, of life, of others’ company. It’s a sure sign things are going downhill. I’m coping less. I’m more out of control; everything I react to is OTT. Who’d have thought there was such a difference between 20mg and 30mg of citalopram? Since reducing about a month ago, I’ve turned into an old bitch haggard. I wonder what the doctor who wanted me off the meds will say to that? When the girl who was bouncy a month ago re-appears subdued and red-eyed, will that serve her right for wanting me off? But do I even want to go back up to 30mg? Or rather, would it be irresponsible at this point in my degree to start messing around with the status quo? And if so, when will be the right time to work this out? It’s not all been bad, the entire time of reducing; but it’s getting worse. More ‘bad days’, fewer ‘good’.
Oh, and regarding my Dissertation tutor? We’re getting along well. I was beginning to trust him more and he was frequently asking about how I am doing mentally; it seems the department are really pushing welfare this year. You may have noticed, however, that I’m using the past tense. This is because he’s just announced he’s going on sabatical after Christmas – so in approx 1 month. Which is all great for him… but it means a swap in tutor to someone I don’t even know and have never even met me one to one, someone who is an influencial academic and someone I’m quite scared of. Funny, but scary. Bah, why do I bother?
But it’s all going to be fine.
As the title says.
Uni was going okay, but I’ve just found out who my dissertation supervisor is and I don’t think there’s any point in completing my degree course. I am royally screwed. I was going to try and live with it, try and be mature and put what happened behind me… but right now there is no way in hell I can do that, especially when it’s this important. I wanted to try and get on with him, because it’ll be good practise for later life. It’s going to take a lot of trying.
I woke at 3am and got back to sleep at 6.30, alarm went off at 6.50am. I’m now sitting in departures at Manchester Airport surrounded by an australian team of some sort and lots of business people trying to schedule in various meetings. Due to my mother’s love of being early, I was here 2 and a half hours early. Yay.
On Tuesday, I got a score of 3 on the PHQ depression test. Win? Well ever since I’ve felt a bit weird about it. A bit unsettled. A bit like ‘is this as good as it gets?’ Because I’m alright, but I might just be numb, not well. But I don’t know because I don’t remember how well feels. Or, maybe it’s because getting nice care is addictive and the doctor was really nice. Or, maybe I’m unsettled because I’ve got used to no longer talking about my mental health and to start thinking about it again has tipped the boat. And if it is the latter, what do I do? I can’t get away with just being okay and not having to go into detail; doctors in the UK want details, they have tests, counsellors, psychologists and psychiatrists to get involved. The doctor wanted to do me a care plan (bless the junior doctors, they’re always so eager!). I don’t want a care plan. I want, and need, ‘tough love’ so I can get on with my life. Because when a Dr is nice, I want to see them. This is bad and keeps me in a cycle. I need to crawl back up and away from this.
I want to be fine again.
To come home. Purely for economic reasons. I could hack it, of course I could. Still feels like failure though. Good news is that I might be going back – if my plans work out, and even if they don’t I’ll probably go back in anticipation of not being cancelled on…