It infuriates me that the people who suffer most in life are usually those treated most harshly by society.  Which includes everyone from the man at the bus stop to the psychiatrist to the family.  What is it?  Is it spite, or is it the idea that if someone has suffered then they must be weak so pile it right now?  Make them weaker so they can’t fight back anymore? And then what?

I might need a break from the madosphere as reading blogs about people who have gone through horrendous things and are being treated like crap makes me want to fire up my Google-fu, find addresses and dust off my hurley bat.  I feel impotent.  I rarely comment on blogs and that’s the main reason why; some I read are written by people going through hell, and what could I say?

I wish there was a natural equilibrium, in which people who have suffered a lot had life be kinder to them in other ways, something, anything to redress the balance.   Like every day a favourite thing of theirs is delivered to them, a note from the world at large that they deserve nice things, to be loved, to be thought of.  To paraphrase every single four year old in the universe: it’s not fair. (Or a four year old me, it’s not fucking fair. Thanks, mum).

I’m not talking about myself here, by the way. I don’t consider myself to be someone who has suffered a lot.  I have some traumatic things in my past but who doesn’t?  My parents were ill.  My mum is…well, she’s mad, proper mad.  Mentalism unspecified, though she’s been in a mental hospital.  She is a pathological liar so I don’t know what she was diagnosed with, she lies about it!  She is manic depressive, to my knowledge, and has a bit of kind of sociopathy to her.  My dad was an alcoholic with depression, who is dead, now. They hurt themselves, and each other, they struggled but they never wanted to hurt us. We got caught in the crossfire of their sadness, their madnesses, but it was never directed at us.  I don’t know who I would be or what I would do if my family had hurt me, on purpose.  In terms of my family, the traumatic things bought us together.  Our experiences gave us compassion and balls.  They’ve been incredibly supportive of me and I hope I am with them, too.  My big sister once drew a zebra crossing on my arm because that’s what my scars reminded her of- in permanent fucking marker, in July.  That’s love.  And she- and my other big sister-used to call me, “Denny” after the sausage rolls.  If you think about it, you’ll understand.

A few of you reading are probably wondering if I’m talking about you and I most likely am.  The madosphere puts a lot into perspective, and I wish it wasn’t so.

Grr. I throw my love and wishes out there to you all, for as little good as it will do.

In other news, my zopiclone prescription hasn’t been filed, and my social worker is off for the next week, so not sure how I shall sleep.  It sometimes takes my GP surgery a while to get prescriptions or my GP might not have approved it. My normal person sleep is bollocks and broken and left me exhausted and depressed for weeks on end.  I’ve been trying to get through it for over a month, but I’m failing somewhat so my social worker suggested Zopiclone to get me through the nights where I really need a big sleep.  It was going to be difficult coming off Seroquel as it helped me sleep.  In one way, I don’t want any medication and I didn’t accept the offer of Zopiclone for a little while.  I’d like to have some around, though, for times of desperation (and not just my own, the desperation I seem to instil in other people when I don’t sleep.)

I smoked weed for the first time in ages on Thursday because I wasn’t tired but wanted to alter my state a little bit further and also in the hope it would make me sleepy.  I’m jumpy as all fuck right now too, but that’s because I found a tiny tragic dead mouse under my sofa (even more tragic is that it got stuck in the hoover and we didn’t realise until two days later, when debris started snowing out onto the floor) and I’m waiting for the pallbearers to arrive.

I want to be healthy, so, er, drugs, yes, they’re an excellent idea.  Although weed is the drug I probably respond best to.  Not that I have a chequered history- I’m quite unversed in the ways of the dragon.  Alcohol is the drug I respond least well to, but it’s the one cheapest and most freely available.  I don’t drink much anyway, which is good. The only drink I can stand anymore is red wine.  Everything else tastes like a cocktail of piss and meths.

I’m realising that sleep is quite possibly the key for me.  I haven’t slept but so far today I’ve fixed a few things and cleaned the sitting room and rearranged some stuff and taken some photos.  I want to do everything- paint my flat, go to the farm, fix lots of computers and get a loan for a houseboat- except write!  Unusual for me, really.

When it comes to deleting or privating entries here, by the way, I reserve the right to do so.  This is my blog!  Sometimes I am not comfortable with what I’ve written, sometimes I realise I don’t want to get into a discussion about it, or upset someone, sometime it’s irrelevant and I’ll write it elsewhere, or sometimes I just write utter bollocks that should remain private.  A good chunk of this blog is private, I write a fair few things only I can read because I still use this space as a mood journal, which was its original intention.  So! Don’t point out that I shouldn’t delete things.   I sometimes worry about what I write here because it’s public and it’s my life. I once found an internet cafe when I was out with friends because I was desperate to delete a blog entry that in retrospect I thought was too personal.  I do worry, especially with entries concerning other people, because nobody in my life has asked to be written about, and I’m not anonymous.  It’s a bit like blurting out something embarrassing about your sex life down the pub- you just want to push the words back into your mouth.  But in blogland-


Anyway, speaking of photos, how frightening does Girl Cat look when she’s having a bath?


I’m yanking out the umbilical cord to the world for the weekend as I have things I need to do and the internet is not conducive to my distractable self.  The lure of houseboat shopping and easily accessible loans…

Have a good one, chaps!

EDIT! Oh, wait! I know I change tone wildly in some blog entries, especially ones where I’m trying to fit stuff in, but here is another weekend thing- I love weird animals, and this bird not only has the best name in the world, it also has the best mating display.  This bird is called the Superb Bird of Paradise.

Fuzzy mouth

It’s been quite a while since I’ve done a, “Something for the Weekend” post, so here are some lovely things to watch in case it pisses down over the days.

Derren  Brown on 4od is always good value for…well, free things.

The BBC are running a lot of things about mentalism right now, such as Sectioned on BBC 4:

…a documentary following people who have been sectioned.

Also, I hope I’m not the only one who is completely obsessed with Scrubs.

Not the most recent series, they’re awful, but Scrubs is like my comfort blanket.  I want to say I’m cooler than that and my comfort blanket is the entire works of Evelyn Waugh, but no, it’s Scrubs…

Ho hum

Mood and energy have completely booted up today, strangely!  I took Robert out to dinner and we got free dessert!  My brain is being quite noisy however and I am drinking red wine which has helped before to make me concentrate a bit better (odd but true!) I’m not worried about anything and I’m in a good mood (one of those singy ones), except that I’ve spent today getting pissed off when people faff or things are too slow and I don’t want to shout at anyone, though I did swing my bag around and around at people in the tube station for being slow and wanting them to evaporate for being so.  Quite difficult to focus but I’ve done more today than I have recently.  Nothing terribly productive but been out and about and stuff.  Hands are shaky, am a bit fidgety and found eating dinner difficult as formally ravenous appetite buggered off.  (It was nice, too, roasted vegetables, rice and loveliness).  I got a bit overexcited and pulled Girl Cat’s tail.  Don’t call the RSPCA, I wasn’t trying to hurt her, I was just being affectionate and got carried away with the splendor of her tail.  And she wasn’t hurt, she purred, she likes her tail and me.  She was indignant earlier when I put her food in the wrong bowl.

I am aware that this is a bit of a sudden shift (aware being the important word) but so!

Noteworthy- hence my noting of it- after the previous few weeks.  I quite like it!  I’ve been miserable!  This is feeling different! I’m not exhausted for the first time in over a month!  REJOICE! REJOICE!

Talking about mental health and humour on BBC Radio Berkshire

Do you want to listen to me ramble about the mental health system, humour, people with marmalade on their faces and then completely going blank and saying, “Um” a lot on BBC Radio Berkshire?  Of course you do!  Skip forward two hours:

This was part of Berkshire’s mental health week, which was also part of the comedy night.  You can listen again to Monday and Tuesday’s segments on the website; tomorrow’s, if you like, is about friends and family.  Today it was me, warm-voice lovely occupational therapist James and huge-laughed want-to-curl-up-in-her-pocket she’s so friendly Polly talking about the mental health system.  Have a listen, should you want to.  Should you not want to GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.

I’m really glad I was involved. I also met a ginger cat at Reading station. A very urbanised ginger cat. And Paddington needs to stop having brass knobs in the floor that look like £2 coins to people who are tired, broke and not wearing their glasses so that I don’t bend down, try to scrape it up and then get kneed in the arse and knocked into an escalator at rush hour. In my defence, I was dying for a drink of something and didn’t have any cash on me.

Because I have no idea how to end this entry, here’s an artists’ impression of the ginger cat.

The scene outside the station today. That is me, in the nude, and that is the concourse of Reading station. With a sombrero.

Two torch lights trying to shine brighter

A hundred pounds to the first person who comes to my flat and whacks me over the head with something heavy so I’m unconscious for say…ooh, nine hours.

Warning: May Contain Nuts review in the Independent


Warning: May Contain Nuts review in the Independent.

At a time when many comedians see being controversial as an excuse to aim for cheap laughs, a night promising a “taboo-busting evening” may not appear too enticing. Thankfully, the taboos challenged in Warning: May Contain Nuts are ones that actually deserve to be confronted – mental health is an issue around which many damaging perceptions still exist, but it is also a topic that comedy rarely takes on.

Organised by the arts charity Company Paradiso, the night is a mix between a workshop event and a comedy show, with professionals sharing the stage alongside some who are performing for the very first time. Of the lesser-known names on the bill, the most impressive contribution comes from Seaneen Molloy, reading from her witty and honest blog about her manic depression. If she ever plans to turn her writing into a full live show, on the evidence of tonight she would be a natural.

If she was looking for inspiration, she could do worse than follow the example of Mackenzie Taylor. Performing an abridged version of his show No Straightjacket Required, he is given the longest set of the event and his tale perfectly suits the theme of the evening. His remarkable true story about struggling with mental illness and his suicide attempt manages to be both unflinchingly candid yet consistently entertaining.

He manages to change the mood of the audience swiftly as he intersperses the more sombre passages of his story with off-beat observations, such as comparing his illness to having a bad modern jazz band constantly playing inside his head.

Before an impressive set from Reading band Amy’s Ghost concludes the evening, the bespectacled John Hegley performs his second short section of the night. With just a mandolin for accompaniment, his comic songs and attempts at audience participation show why he continues to be a master at his rather unique craft.

Whether mental health issues becomes a topic more regularly approached in mainstream comedy remains to be seen, but shows like this make it more likely. Comedy nights that manage to give the audience both food for thought and more than enough laughs are rare – but this is one objective which Warning: May Contain Nuts certainly achieves.

My mention made me blush. I remember Mackenzie’s jazz band comparison well because I turned around to Robert and crowed, “See! I told you! It’s so loud in there! That’s why I can’t concentrate!”   The whole evening was excellent and a lovely review is very heartening.  I hope they do more things like that.

So, I’d like to ask you something.  Is it ever okay to laugh at mental illness?  If you’re reading this blog I assume you think so, but what’s your opinion?  Does it make it a bit easier for you when someone takes the piss a bit?  I remember after I took an overdose and landed myself in hospital, it was on a night that I was supposed to be meeting people down the pub.  They went back to my flat and cleaned the place so neither Rob nor I had to come back and face the vomit and the things I’d knocked over during a fit.  They took the piss right out of me saying, “If you didn’t want to come to the pub, you should have just said,” and, “Next time you want your flat cleaned, just ask”.  That was brilliant.  The exact way to deal with it, for me, at least.


Firstly, I went to the Take Back Parliament protest in London today.  This is what Nick Clegg had to say to us:

That aside, ah bollocks to the Lib Dems losing seats rather than gaining them.  But they support electoral reform and right now have the power to put it on the agenda if they don’t back down.  If you want electoral reform, sign this petition.

63% (sorry Robert) of people in this country voted against the Conservatives.  Let’s get proportional representation so that we no longer have to vote tactically instead of voting for who we want to lead our country. C’mon! Yes! Exclamations! Woo!

Should have clarified in my previous post; I don’t really think that’s what any diagnosis was based upon because it is hideously unprofessional; I was more amused that it was the answer to my question, said in a kind of sheepish manner!

In mood news, I am still feeling fairly low but trying to focus on getting out of the house and stuff.  I am spooked by election results. I haven’t slept properly in weeks and it’s taking its toll.  Damn waking up a million times a night and damn my horrendous mattress that I can’t afford to replace and which means I wake up feeling as though the shit has been kicked out of me.  Or maybe someone is just kicking the shit out of me in my sleep.  Maybe it’s my pocket psychiatrist.  I met my social worker and introduced her to Robert- she offered him TEA.  I have never been offered a drink, not once, not in four years.  He was our hallowed guest.  She thinks I am depressed, though for why, she knows not.  Either a natural mood swing because I was a bit ALRIGHT HIYA before then, a reaction to the BPD stuff (since Robert somewhat overstated it, saying I’d been obsessed with reading about it, but that was only the night before my appointment and the day after the psychiatric one), or…well, the whole, “Fuck knows” springs to mind.  They might give me some Zopiclone or, please god yes, Valium to help me sleep.  I am sleeping, without resting, it’s kind of killing me. I am very tired and all my effort goes into doing the Keeping Alive thing, eating, trying to get up, and that.  It’s so stupidly draining and makes me feel ashamed.  But I’ve been more active in the past few days, so that’s something.

Robert has now been inducted into my world and is duly charged with the mantle of reporting back to her if I start to go weird (mania or suicidality, or a mixture of both).  And her advice is to try and get into a routine, eat properly and get out of the house, which I know I need to do.  My tiredness and low mood means I have been completely unproductive, dangerously so, which in turn makes me depressed…etc.  It’s shameful and shaming how much I’ve been ducking my responsibilities, and they’re ones I charged myself with to help me recover.   Next week I shall be forcefully, er, forced to do things I cannot, in any sense, duck out of. I pretended I lost my charger for a few days last week because I couldn’t face answering the phone.  My friend is staying with me and I am meeting someone for lunch and have the mentalist radio thing.  They’re my little event things I thread through weeks so that I actually cannot just hide, even when I want to.

I care so little about my appearance right now that I’m eating properly, in defiance of not eating enough for quite a while (I piled on a fuckload of weight after getting the implant and had to compensate by lowering my food intake a lot).  So, hooray for the Sads making me care less.  Depression can be oddly liberating in that sense, where I simply pull my unwashed hair into elastic bands and don’t fucking care.  It’s difficult to worry about your huge nose when you smell like week old sweat and don’t feel like leaving the house anyway.  And in a sense I’m lucky that I dress like a bag lady anyway.  Coming off medication also means I’ve lost a bit of weight.  Nothing significant.  But it ushers in a new age of Eating Toast Again.  I for one welcome my new grainy overlords.

Interesting tidbit

I asked my social worker where the psychiatrist got it from that I had unstable relationships.  He apparently listened to my play.


Two whole universes away from reality there…

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