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Cleaning out my closet

January 2, 2009

Bits and bobs from my drafts bin that’d never see the light of day otherwise… They vary in age: some are pretty recent (the last couple of days, some a bit older).

Words and expression

The German for Anorexia is ‘Magersucht’, literally ‘skinny addiction’.

I think it’s better than the English beating around the bush (anorexia), although perhaps in English doesn’t make so much sense. I remember doing a chapter on eating disorders and mental health in German last year, the title was ‘auf dem sucht’. Eating disorders are like that; they are addictive. Like any other addiction, you think about eating all the time, what you’ll next eat, obsess over food.

So, why do we beat around the bush with ‘anorexia’ when to me, ‘skinny addiction’ or ‘food addiction’ makes more sense?

Emotional blackmail

Watching you cry makes me want to cry; hearing your sob story makes me sad, puts a downer on my day. Why should I succumb to you? Why should you have the upper hand on me? Empathy is supposedly a human reaction, I hate it. I hate that time after time my body shows its vulnerabilities, and reminds me that I’m not the cast iron statue I would prefer to be. I’m just like everyone else in the world: I have my touché points like everyone else; like many women I’m uncomfortable about my body shape and size; but that leads to the question of why are they in therapy and I’m not?

I’d love to pretend to be normal and stride down the streets without the honest to God belief that everyone is about to pull a knife on me, to kill me. Everyone has their weak points, we’re all human after all, but what’s the difference between me and the other 60 million or so other habitants of the UK, of the other 6 billion or so people on the planet? To me, the way I am is so normal that I don’t see a problem. To not be paranoid or depressed is a completely different person; I am paranoid, I am depressed but that is me. How can they try to change me from this person? Is this all just going to change me from this person? Is all this just going to change me, my identity and nothing else?

A letter to R’s parents

I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your daughter when everything fell apart for her. I freaked, I ran. My parents knew everything, but they didn’t tell me the truth. They just told me R was finding things a bit difficult and left it at that; only recently I learnt the truth.

Everyday I still feel guilty about what I did, walking away and not helping the situation: I was young, naive and her scars scared me. I just ran because I didn’t understand.

But now, I’ve been there, been through what happened to R and I’m so, so sorry. I know you can say sorry and not mean it, but I really do.

People have done to me what to did to R, and quite frankly, I don’t blame them. If you haven’t been there; you don’t understand. I don’t want to interfere any further, I just want to say sorry. Too little, too late but that’s me all over.

———-

I really want to send that letter, I don’t know why I’ve written it to R’s parents, and not R, when she is still alive. Maybe it was just seeing them, that made me want to apologise to them, when in reality, they probably don’t care. I know it’s too late for my apologies, it’s been too long. I should have been there in the first place, but I wasn’t. Now, it haunts me every day. You can’t change the past, but I sure wish I could.

I know what I shouldn’t

Back at the meet in November, I remember everyone talking about how they disliked knowing more than many people about mental illness and at the time, I disagreed. I felt proud for having my own ‘area’ that I know a lot about; that whilst my flat mates know the best pubs and clubs, I know about what certain pills do, abbreviations and psychology. I was proud to have experienced that; proud to be different. Now, I’m seeing what the others meant.

At uni, I can get away with that knowledge, at home it’s more difficult. I’ve just got back from meeting up with an old school friend and it’s made me realise how ‘abnormal’ it is to know about these things. I’ve had to explain what psychosis is, abbreviations, what anti depressants are and why there are so many: things to me that are a way of life, and terms that I use without a second thought.

When I first started blogging, one of my aims was to raise awareness of mental illness and to be open about everything (not on this blog, but my old one!). But, tonight, talking in the flesh felt weird, even with someone I trust a lot; the only difference is that she ‘isn’t in the know’. Perhaps it’s due to the nature of the beast.

Peace and tranquility

All I can hear is birds and a plane passing high above. The sun is shining, water shimmering and there are no leaves about. This is what life is about: Chorlton Water Park. This is my haven, the place I love, live for perhaps. My hiding place has been cut down, but I’m trying not to mind. This place kills the bad thoughts, nothing can happen here; it’s too pretty. This is my place, the place that kills badness. I told my old counsellor I’d never kill myself here, it’s too pretty. She did have concerns, it backing on to the Mersey and all. I never went through with last time, although I desperately wanted to. That has to mean something.

Going back to my point: never here, never ever. I feel like saying ‘not on your watch’ (Little Miss Sunshine) but a park doesn’t have feelings, it doesn’t care. I just don’t know what I want.

Chorlton Water Park for me is a complete disconnection from the rest of the world; I come here worked up and leave relaxed. Nothing is reality and in the summer I can lose all sense of time.

Here, nothing matters. Thoughts come into my mind, and I tell them to get stuffed: this is me time! I wish this would work elsewhere, but it doesn’t seem to. At least I look forward to coming here. However, I write too much here…

“You’re far too positive for any other outcome”

I suppose I am. I try to keep going no matter what, I keep pressing and don’t give up, if one thing doesn’t work, maybe something else will. I’m too positive because I’ll utter something negative and then try to swap it around. Something, anything. That must be why he wrote it in my leaving card. I really want to got and see him; I need to go into college to pick up my German award, so I might see if he’s there… An email just doesn’t seem to be right. What he has done to help me is beyond measure. He was the one that helped me to get help for my tape phobia, that talked through my suicidal feelings with me when no-one else wanted to. He wanted to scream at the professionals “treating” me to ask about why I wasn’t getting the help I needed. He was the one that noticed everything was falling apart and decided to ask me about it. My friends didn’t notice, neither did my family. Hell, my old MHW had difficulty understanding the situation.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. January 2, 2009 10:38 pm

    I love chorlton water park. When I was having counselling in Manchester I often went there afterwards before returning to work. It gave me some head space before going back to the rat race.

    I used to go with my other half to walk around and often had bbqs there when I was at uni. I miss the place. I haven’t been for about 7 months.

    I also know what you mean about knowing mental health stuff. Even at the priory everyone seems surprised and almost impressed at my encyclopedic knowledge of psych meds. I just know too much.

  2. January 2, 2009 11:03 pm

    You should go again. It’s not so pretty in Winter, mind, but I still love it!

    xx

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