Pregnant, Mental and Fat

Bloody hell. It’s taken me 18 weeks to write this post. I imagined a dam would burst when we told everyone at week 12. And I, who diarises everything and have done since I was a child. Anyway- better late than never. This is my news…

Whomp whomp whomp she says

Whomp whomp whomp she says

I found out I was pregnant on the day Rik Mayall died. My already not inconsiderable boobs seemed to have become zeppelins of ache, so I decided to grab a pregnancy test on my way to work to  wee upon in the peaceful surroundings of the disabled toilet. I yawned as I waited for the results, expecting it to be negative like all the others had been. It wasn’t.

The first person to find out wasn’t my husband, but my much beloved friend at work, Ellie. Robert had just gotten off his week of nightshifts and as I’d left for work, had been barbecuing in the garden with his friend Ben.  As I waved goodbye there was the, “hhsssstt” of an opening can and a peal of already-rather-drunk laughter. (In fact, this was him that very morning:

I bumped into her as I was dashing across to the Superdrug to buy another four pregnancy tests. I’m one of those incredibly unlucky (or lucky, depending on how you see it) people to have gotten a false positive pregnancy test (two in fact- fuck you Sainsburys own brand). That positive test was met with jubilation, calls to buy fizzy wine, shock. This time it was rather different. I got home from work, having sent Robert a few subtle, “Hey, you sober now? Wow, about that Rik Mayall eh?” texts throughout the day. When he texted back to tell me that he was turning into an otter, I thought it was best to break the news in person. Which I did by shaking him awake at 7pm and quietly telling him the news. It took him a while to shake off the alcohol haze and for the news to be understood.

We had approximately 19 hours with which to enjoy the news and to imagine a future with a child. The next day, our bastard landlord. the criminal scumbag Gabriel Edun whose negligence could have killed us in the house fire it caused, was heard casually talking over the garden fence with the landlord next door about their offer on the flat. He was selling. We confronted him and he admitted that he would be serving us with a section 22 notice of eviction. We’d only lived there 3 months, and those 3 months we’d lived in a sooty, fire damaged whole, taken days and days off work, not just for hospital treatment after the fire but to sit around waiting for this lazy piece of shit to come and make the flat breathable again. We’d only endured it because the flat was very cheap and he had assured us, repeatedly, that he wouldn’t be selling and we could finally have somewhere to make a home.

Fucker. We left him this as a present.

Sincerely, motherfucker.

Sincerely, motherfucker.

(The shitbag scumlord couldn’t had evicted us legally anyway- he didn’t protect our deposit and I got it back when I threatened him with court. I had spent the day cleaning his shithole and as I left, he offered to carry the hastily packed bags of an unwanted house move to the bus stop because of my “condition”. I declined).

We could have waited three months until he served the eviction notice, but in the three months since we’d moved to Lewisham, we’d already been priced out of it. We had to move quickly. The next weeks I could barely sleep, and could barely eat because I was throwing up everything that passed my lips (“morning sickness” my HOLE. All day sickness.  All 15 weeks of endless dizzying sickness). We were both hysterical, me crying often, totally screwed financially having spent everything we had on moving three months previously.  It absolutely ruined the first month as all I could think about was where we were going to live and what we were going to do. We ended up having to borrow money, and kind friends helped, too, and finding a place in Streatham, far, far more than what we were paying but still below market rent. What a fucking joke London is. (Incidentally, we moved to Streatham to be close to Robert’s family, who are now all moving out of fecking London).

Having to move also meant that I had to end therapy. I had *just* started therapy (finally) for panic disorder.  I was struggling to get to appointments on the bus due to sickness, so she said she thought I’d be better referred to Lambeth, which I agreed with. Couldn’t transfer, had to do a new referral. Which I’ve yet to do.  Because…

This got long. In the next entry, I’ll discuss the NEVERENDING APPOINTMENTS you can expect if you’re both pregnant and mental! 

And I’ll also talk about how GREAT it is being FAT and how you’re basically told you’re KILLING YOUR BABY just by EXISTING WHILE FAT! 

MARVEL as you VOMIT for 15 weeks! 

To be continued… 

Being a “Woman Who Blogs”-“I’m just a person trapped in a woman’s body”.

This is my favourite post, so now it lives here.

I have a vagina. Continue reading

How My Dad Died.

Originally written in April 2007

I was asked in comments to write a story about my dad here.

The way my mind is working at the moment, I can only think of negative and horirble stories, doused in alcohol and soaked with sickness.

I have very few specifically positive stories of my dad. Plenty of lovely memories, but they are fleeting, small events like him making us Toasted Toppers or his insistence that Graham Chapman deserved a better looking boyfriend than David Sherlock.

Wedding Day

I’d never been to a wedding as a Grown Up. Nor a reception or any suchlike thing. The first wedding I remember was that of my aunt and uncle, Anne and Brian. Anne is a blonde model who appeared in speeding adverts, I’ve seen her in a bridal gown only once before, and that was on an advert on Ulster Television- “40 miles an hour!” with blood rolling apologetically down her dress. She used to come back from filming in England (“You’ve been to England?” we’d gawk at her) with those fat red dummy rocks in clutches for us. My uncle Brian is a big nosed, fresh-faced lovable man who has raised his three children to have quiet country burrs which is somewhat exotic to me when he brings them begrudgingly to their aunt’s house.

At the time I was nine years old and wasn’t taken to the wedding. My granny Molloy looked after me that day, in the only time she had ever been to our house. I remember her with her red slim face, which always looked like a warning triangle, taking my hand and us walking to the Dairy Farm, a supermarket near my house, where she bought me a pink keyboard. Then we went to the library where I proceeded to be kicked out as I was too fascinated with my first ever musical instrument. I managed to retain my dignity and my Asterix books, whereupon I rechristened myself Cacophonix.

That day I seemed to inherit a new family. At the wedding my mum met some of her family, The Mallons. Edna had a sharp tongue and fast humour, then there were her three daughters- Angela, Ceri and Michelle. Their ages corresponded roughly with the ages of me and my older sister. Michelle was the youngest so we were expected to get on. We were utterly different people so were never close.

So one wedding created a new family. The next was the day after my 18th birthday, the wedding of my uncle Michael to a quite well-to-do middle class girl called Fiona. Her family were much more respectable than our rough West Belfast one.

My uncle Michael looked like Damon Albarn. My sister Paula and I used to boast to our school friends about this. His fiancée was a social worker, tiny, buxom, blonde and beautiful. I first met her at a bedside vigil for my granda. I’d never met her before and remember feeling insulted rather than touched that she had come here while my grandad was so sick. In that respect, I’m quite traditional. For all my running-off-to-London, I believe in the family and find “outsiders” intrusive sometimes.

The wedding was in Bangor, and my dad was determined that we weren’t taking a feckin’ train that day. We got a taxi, god forbid, all of us piled into one black cab. He wanted us to be stylish, just as good as them, he said. But he was brimming over with happiness, as he always did when we were all together.

We found ourselves outside the church with a half an hour to spare and a bit peckish. “There’s a reception on later, Da,” says Michelle. Imagines of vol-au-vents, quiche, delicately decorated salmon en croute filled our minds.

But it would be hours before we had the chance to eat.

In our new clothes, we went to KFC and smeared ourselves with greasy chips and microwaved gravy. We sipped flat coke out of enormous buckets and liberally ate cold chicken.

We went at breakneck speed to the fancy Gothic church, stinking of fast food, gravy on our lips and the odour of old plastic seats sticking to our arses.

Twenty minutes later my other uncle Brendan (sarcastic, amusing vegetarian, much beloved of Paula, much resented by me for wrecking my carefully constructed house of cards) shows up, late and distressed and bangs on the window, Graduate style, to be let in. The priest shook his head and we all froze in horror and laughed as he strained to watch his baby brother getting married through a window, occasionally letting loose a fly of words that made the choirboys blush as he batted unruly twigs away from his face.

I wish

I could end the story there and that it would be Full O’ Larks. But of course with my dad in tow the day turned ugly.

He got drunk, completely pissed, and refused to be told otherwise. He was loud, embarrassing, abusive and disruptive. We ended up having to look after him, pleading, begging and crying.

I don’t think, until that point, his family believed us when we said his alcoholism was severe. But as the evening progressed and his behaviour got worse, I think it finally clicked that for all those years, we had not been exaggerating. Michelle, Paula and me were just exhausted, exhausted, humiliated and depressed, wanting to be a Proper Family out at their uncle’s wedding, instead of three ringmasters in the arena of my dad’s illness.

I have a lot of guilt concerning my dad. Not just that everything we did didn’t stop him from dying. But for childish things.

My mum and dad had prolific and devastating fights almost every night. My dad would eventually stumble upstairs, screaming obsenties. And my sisters and I would huddle in their bedroom and talk about how if we pushed him downstairs, we wouldn’t have to put up with it anymore.

We had many comical scenerios as to how we’d get rid of my parents. And they were comical, we didn’t actually want them to die but craved silence.

My dad rang me up on my 16th birthday. It was one of the periods he wasn’t living at home and I had assumed he was calling to wish me a happy birthday. Instead, he told me he was going to kill himself.

Sometimes I wish he had done. There were times when I violently wished that something, anything would end his and our suffering. I knew always that alcoholism was a disease and an addiction but it’s scant comfort when you’re in the living room with your little brother and sister trying to block out the crockery breaking in the kitchen.

I wanted something quick and painless and it would be over.

I was outside work once. At the time, a friend of mine was suffering from serious depression and they had rang me earlier to tell me they were going to kill themselves. This was sometime during 2005. I took the phone outside and tried to talk them down but I was petrified and shaking.

When Vicky died, I prayed to whatever gods there were that I would never have to go through it again. The stark memory of sitting down on the chair being told she had hung herself, the starker memory of walking down the forest the same night, vision blurring with tears, standing on the roadside we had walked upon destroyed me.

I got off the phone to my friend and lay back against a wall with a cigarette.

Suddenly, the image of someone calling to tell me my dad had killed himself flew into my head and took my breath out. All those times I wished it had happened pulverised me and I felt like the worst person in the world. The reality, the already-grief of his dying laid me on a fold up chair in tears.

I had always believed he’d get better. I held that hope to my chest, to my heart, to every minute of the day. I believed that with our help and willpower, he would recover and live to say, “When I was an alcoholic”…

The Reality of it

When it happened, I didn’t know what to do.

My dad had been in hospital for two weeks or so. It started innocuously enough. I was on the phone to my brother when he made a joke about my dad looking like one of the Simpsons. I asked him what he meant and he said, “He’s bright yellow”.

That night was a Saturday and I was alone in my flat. And for some reason, I got my mum on the phone and said, “I think daddy has liver failure”.

She didn’t really take me seriously so I told her I was going to call NHS direct. I described my dad to the nuse on the phone. Jaundice. Alcoholism and, in the background, his slurred voice.

I rang my mum back and told her I was calling an ambulance. I rang them in London and asked them to transfer me to Belfast. Rang them up and sent them to the house.

I was on the phone when they came. I heard my daddy protesting that he had an appointment with the doctor in June (it was the end of April) and that he was fine. I told my mother to keep trying and spoke to the ambulance staff, telling them I think he’s very ill and please make sure he goes.

He didn’t. He refused the ambulance and my mum called someone else, I can’t remember who, I think it was psychiatrist services. He finally went.

A few weeks passed. Phone calls here and there. I didn’t go home as nothing sounded serious. He was filled with fluid and had acute liver failure. I assumed he would get a transplant.

I had a holiday to Belfast booked on the 18th of May to introduce Rob to my parents. It had been booked for a while. I had spoke to my daddy on the phone and he was looking forward to seeing me and Rob on the 18th. He sounded fine.

On the 16th of May, while I was in work, my sister Michelle sent me a text saying daddy was dying now, right now, and to get home.

I called her, then called my sister Paula who was in the airport on her way back to London. She didn’t want to make a fuss so I called the nurse to make sure Michelle wasn’t being hysterical.

The nurse told me to come home.

Paula turned round and went back to the hospital. I had no money whatsoever and couldn’t change my flights. Jo and my boss at work started printing out train and flight times. I appealed on Livejournal for someone to help me get home. A friend lent me the money, I booked my flight, kissed goodbye to Rob and flew home.

I met my friend Tracie at the airport. She had some ham sandwiches and a bar of chocolate for me. I was filled with dread. I couldn’t, would not think of my dad dying. We sped down the long, dark, 10pm roads. I laid my head against the passenger window and stared at the greyscale countryside.

I met my sisters in hospital. I was not prepared for what I saw.

My dad was so clearly and obviously dying. I burst into tears.

When my grandad died, my drunken, grieving father shouted that the next funeral we would be at would his own.

I had not believed him. And here it was, his dying.

He was so afraid of death and that’s mostly what was on my mind. Did he know? A nurse leant over his bed and told us it wouldn’t be long. I was horrified, what if my dad heard? Was he afraid?

He was yellow and ancient and couldn’t breathe- he couldn’t see or talk and he was so clearly dying. I started crying as soon as I saw him, held his hand and tried to tell him I was here but I don’t know if he knows I was. I thought at least he would be able to talk, there was so much to say. He looked so different and my sister assured me he had only become this bad within the past 24 hours. Before that, he was able to talk and I hate myself for not going home 24 hours earlier.

We stayed the whole night in the room, holding his hand, talking to each other, going to the smoking room and watching his monitors. I’d bought him the issue of Kettering- I had thought he would be conscious enough for me to read him to him, he had wanted to read my Neil Innes interview, because he was a fan and he was proud. He’d gone round telling everyone I was interviewing him. I had been so hopeful he would be conscious. I desperately wanted to speak to him. Wanted to hear him say my name.

Michelle left to sleep and Paula left to smoke and I tried to tell him that I love him, he made no sign he’d heard, just groaned and fiddled with his breathing mask.

He kept trying to take his mask off, and we kept putting it back on. A few times he’d clutch his head, like he had a headache, like something so normal, a headache. He tried to sit himself up a few times. He tried to sleep.

He must have known we were there. He kept holding Paula’s hand while I stood on the other side and stroked his hair. It made him sleep. In his sleep, he said our names. All our names, his five children.

He said. And he did say, although my sister denies it, “I don’t want to die”. It could have been a trick of the ears but I am sure he said it. And my heart cracked in two.

He was obviously in a lot of discomfort but the doctor said he wasn’t in pain. He kept pulling out his wires and tubes- he was so scared of ending up like my granda that Paula told me he’d been pulling them out since the beginning. He always believed he’d be going home and on some level, so did I. I thought this would be a lesson, he would stop drinking and get better. I thought he was brilliant because recently he’d been sober more, and he was going into rehab this month.

Hours passed of him taking off his mask, falling asleep, waking up. The morning came, we hardly knew. About eight am or so we called our mum and asked her to come take our place for an hour while we ate something. We didn’t want to leave, we agonised over it but we needed something to eat. We expected to be there days, we were getting ready for it.

Before we left, Paula stroked his arm and said she’d see him soon. I kissed his forehead and told him we’d be gone an hour but we’d be back.

At about 8am, our mum came and we went home to get some food.

A half an hour later, the nurse phoned and told us to come back. We tried to wake our little brother up but he wouldn’t wake up. After some exhausted, frustrated screaming at him, he got up and smashed the china set my dad had bought for my mum.

We got to the hospital. Liam went to the toilet and we went up to the ward. Tacked on the curtain was, “NO VISITORS”. And my dad had died there, without us at about 9am on 17th May, a day before Rob and I’s visit. Aged forty seven, a month before his 48th birthday.

We howled. I had to go and find Liam and tell him. He was in the corridor and I didn’t know what to do or say. I just had to tell him that his dad died. How do you tell a fifteen year old that?

I remember standing by my brother and sisters and crying, I remember hugging my uncles, his brothers, and his mother, who had lost her sister two weeks ago and her husband seven months ago. It is not fair, I remember thinking that over and over.

A nurse came in and said, “Did he have a wedding ring on?” Nothing else- “NO” and then, “Did he have any gold teeth?” “NO” get out of my sight and she did and I hated her so much.

They took him away and kept hassling us saying they needed to do it now. We said wait because his brother isn’t here yet, my uncle Michael was on his way. Before they took him away we said our separate goodbyes and had our time with him. No-one will ever know what we all said, and I am glad.

They took him and we organised the wake at my grandmother’s. It was best to be there, it was his real home.

I slept after that and the next day Rob got here. We spent the next days at my grandmother’s. He met everyone in my family, except my dad. I wrote the obituary with my little sister and it appeared in the paper with many others, and flowers arrived and two big wreaths, “DAD” and “BROTHER”. I got away with much as a lot of my extended family and friends didn’t realise I was his daughter, so there weren’t many, “I’m sorry”s or tearful hugs. That hurt me slightly because I wanted some hugs but I had Rob, my sisters and uncles and brother and that’s all I needed, all we needed.

The coffin was in the room and they did a good job, he looked like my dad. I couldn’t understand why he was there, none of us could.

The priests came and went and on Friday night, Paula, Brendan my uncle and I stayed with him on his final night. We talked about a lot of things, not really my dad, and didn’t sleep. Everytime the automatic air freshener went off, we jumped.

The funeral was on Saturday and at first I didn’t think I could do it. My sister held my hand as we listened to the priest before they took him away. I couldn’t stop crying. I said goodbye again, I said I’m sorry.

My fifteen year old little brother had to carry his dad’s coffin.

On the way up to the church we noticed one of the men carrying the coffin had something written on his bald head and neck in green marker. He didn’t know he had it.

After the funeral, we went to the PD, a Republican bar my dad and our family went to often, and had a buffet and a drink. Since then, I’ve felt very little. I’d been sleeping in his bed and going through photographs, taking some and not taking others in the knowledge he’d kill me. But he isn’t here now and I can’t really understand how. As time wears on, the truth of it, the real truth of it, is beginning to dawn.

I don’t know what to do now. There’s years ahead without my dad but I still feel as though he’ll be back. I never want to remember him as that man I saw in the coffin. I hate Catholic services. I’m worried about the future for my mum and the kids. I’m worried about my granny. I don’t know what to do without my dad. He’s the one who understood us and helped us. He paid my rent once and bought our Christmas presents. He taught us how to read and ride our bikes and taught us how to write and taught us our history. He got me into comedy and music. I have all his David Bowie vinyls now, as promised.

The last time I saw him was Christmas 2005 and he had stayed sober, it was lovely. There is a photo of him in the bedroom, arms outstretched and smiling and you’d think he didn’t have a trouble in his heart until you notice his wrist, a huge gaping wound. He was not a happy man and that kills us. We tried. We love him so much.

My sisters joked we should put lots of IOUs in his coffin with him because he helped us with money when he got ourselves into scrapes. I wanted to put his comb in there with him. Paula could barely look at him but when she did it was to fix his hair. He would be mad at us if he’d known we didn’t shave his head for him.

What it feels like to be in my brain when I am depressed

So, here I am, not particularly striking, with my weird nose, rather tired.   I look normal enough.  Nothing much going on there.  Visualise tumbleweeds, flotsam, carrion shuddering on bone in an arid desert…

And here’s my brain- poetic license has been observed.

(Note: Not actual size.  It has been proven that manic depressives have brains that are the size of walnuts, rather like sauropods.  Both are regarded with more sentimentality than they maybe deserve).

Then you get a bit closer…

This is the Universal Depressive Translator. 

He takes seemingly friendly and innocuous salutations, actions, laughter, jokes and so on and then turns them into horrible things that make me wonder if everybody really hates my guts so that I spend my entire waking life locked in a jumpy, paranoid ballet, loathing myself for every thing I say, do and am because it all seems to illicit further (albeit veiled) disgust from the world at large.

It makes it very difficult for me to concentrate on anything because I have to disentangle my thoughts, and other people’s words, from the sound of his voice.

So I lie awake and his voice spins around in my head, over and over again.

He doesn’t hate me, not really.  It’s what he has to say, what he has to do.   And I don’t really hate him either.  I regard him almost affectionately, because I have known him for a really long time. Both of us are just going through the motions.

But I do everything to try and drown him out- I walk around singing, I vocalise my thoughts.  And it works, for a while.  But eventually, my voice is lost altogether.  What I want stops mattering, stops even being real. I want to live, I think.  I become a phantom.

I had this dream in which I was repeatedly slapping someone called Christina in the face- what does it all mean?

(Christina has responded- see comments for what she says)

I’m, ahem, mildly critical of New Age-y pseudoscience.  It depresses me that “experts” like Gillian McKeith find their way onto our TV screens and peddle their non-science to the masses.  And today something came to my attention that I found hilarious.  But first…

It might have slipped your attention but I write a blog about living with severe mental illness and as your humble narrator, I’ve received hundreds of well intentioned e-mails offering me “the cure” (and often, for a price).  They’ve ranged from the sensible but misguided like DIET and EXERCISE, the vaguely credible scientific sounding Neurolinguistic Programming and to the downright trying to stifle a guffaw bollocks, such as  exposing myself to “midday sun” (but not early morning sun, apparently, this is bad, though it was never explained why.  Maybe the planets would realign, or, just maybe I’d spontaneously combust.  And what do they mean by “exposing myself”?  Do they want me to get my arse out?  I know I’m pale, don’t rub it in.).  I’ve also been asked to try out various homeopathic remedies at a “reduced cost”.  Well, don’t I feel special.

New Age pseudoscience is basically nothing tied up in vaguely scientific terminology.  Homoepathic remedies, for example, are concerned with treating “like with like” and are sold in bottles that look like they came on prescription.

The remedies undergo “Serial dilution”:

Serial dilution is one of the core foundational practices of homeopathy, with “succussion“, or shaking, occurring between each dilution. In homeopathy, serial dilutions (called potentisation) are often taken so far that by the time the last dilution is completed, no molecules of the original substance are likely to remain.

…meaning that by the time they’re sold, they are water. But it retains the, er, “memory” of the original substance.

However, some alternative medicines (so called because they’re not proven, had they been, and if they become so, they’ll just be medicine) and New Age remedies are slightly more credible than others.  And there are some that make you want to punch the monitor.

Take “expert” Christina Sponias who thinks that we can CURE! mental illness by the “scientific method” of analysing our dreams.  She says she is continuing Carl Jung’s work (and indeed says she is better than him) but seems only to have condensed his extremely wide reaching and complex theories and philosphies into fodder.  She has a free e-book called: Battling Depression and Craziness.   All of which certainly make for interesting reading, and I truly mean that.

She’s a font of knowledge, I mean, here’s what she has to say about schizophrenia (which Mental Nurse has already touched on):

Schizophrenia is the total invasion of the content of the wild conscience of the human being, into the conscious field. This means that the person is dominated by another personality: their primitive self, which is violent, immoral and cruel like a wild animal.

The unconscious mind shows them in their dreams all their mistakes, and they understand that they are responsible for their misfortune. This comprehension eliminates their hate for their enemies.

A schizophrenic patient is totally insensitive, and this is why he is very cruel and violent, without feeling the pain he is provoking to the others. He is totally disconnected with the external reality.

This is the result of the domination of his wild personality and the only possible psychotherapy for him is the elimination of the anti-conscience that dominates this brain and psyche completely. It has to be transformed into human, so that the person may find peace and mental health.

This is a very arduous process after the destruction of the human side of the human conscience. This is why we must prevent craziness and never let any human being become schizophrenic.

Schizophrenia is the worse existent mental illness…

However, the scientific method of dream interpretation can help schizophrenic patients eliminate the monster that dominates them, and acquire a human personality, even though they cannot recuperate their destroyed human conscience.

EH WHAT.

I’m going to hand that out to my schizophrenic and schizoaffective WILD ANIMAL friends.

Firstly, she starts out on the basic, common ignorance that schizophrenia is a “split personality” (or, this could be metaphorical, but I very much doubt she has a basic grasp on it anyway).  Most people I’ve ever met have thought this, and here it is, being peddled by an “expert” who claims to be a psychotherapist!  Schizophrenia means “split mind”, but that’s not “split personality”.

Secondly, has this woman even met someone with schizophrenia?  How dare she make value judgments on their being such as: cruel, violent, insensitive.  These are judgments, they are not symptoms.

This crap just promotes the staggering ignorant assumption that people with schizophrenia are dangerous.  About 1% of all violent crime is committed by someone with schizophrenia- and that’s just incidental, like you’d say 40% of crimes were committed by people with a car.  Many people with schizophrenia, like other mental illnesses, are suicidal, not homicidal, and not violent.  And the “negative symptoms” of schizophrenia trouble people as much, or more than, the psychotic symptoms (of which are not confined to schizophrenia).

And schizophrenia isn’t the worst mental illness.  There is no worst mental illness.  All of them affect people differently.  I hate this cloak and dagger business of schizophrenia being the “cancer” of mental illness.  That it’s hopeless.  It’s not, it’s just a frigging mental illness like manic depression is. People with mental illness are just sodding PEOPLE. And mental illness is an illness like others, at least that’s my “from reading and goddamn a lot of experience” opinion.  And as for the use of craziness, that’s one for our personal relationships and us crazies to use, not for quacks to use in regards to people with mental illness.

If you were feeling left out, she has some theories on bipolar disorder, too:

If you suffer from bipolar disorder this means that you are frequently dominated by the wild side of your brain and psyche, which pretends to belong to your human conscience, but is in fact a violent animal, without human feelings, that tries to mislead you.

Really?  Which are you talking about, mania or depression?

What does it mean to be dominated by the wild side of your conscience? The anti-conscience (wild side of your conscience) is a true demon and it invades the human side of your conscience through absurd ideas, feelings and sensations. If you pay attention to them, the demon becomes stronger and you gradually start losing the notion of what you are doing. You forget your moral principles, nothing has any meaning for you, you accept immorality… you gradually forget who you are.

Ah, mania then. What exactly is immorality?  Are we making value judgements again, missus?

When you are bipolar this means that the anti-conscience frequently invades the human side of your conscience, constantly sending you absurd ideas, feelings and sensations, or even a strange intuition.

However, this domination doesn’t last too long, and when you recuperate your human conscience, you cannot understand how you could have behaved the way you did.

Right, stop nodding at the back like I know some of you are.  This is sub par metaphorical wanking, not scientific theory.

How do I fix myself?  Oh please dear god, tell me how!

You need the protection of the unconscious mind that sends you wise messages in dreams with guidance, which works like psychotherapy.

Eh? What?

Your bipolar disorder will disappear completely as you will learn how to develop your intelligence and personality, transforming the wild content into human.

Wild content?  Look, my dreams consist of zombies, and, for some reason recently, the new Elbow album which I haven’t even heard.  What does it all mean?

Anyway!  After her profound misunderstanding of mental illness and the brain in general, we get to her methods:

Accurate dream interpretation using the proven scientific method provides a cure for depression, craziness and suicidal tendencies. The successful interpretation of each dream begins with reading the dream and understanding something about the dreamer’s life.

Let’s look at that again.

proven scientific method

Where?  Show me the data!

We must pay attention to the dream messages and learn the scientific method of dream interpretation so that we can overcome the primitive behavior of the wild anti-conscience and continue to evolve as humans. If we give in to our primitive instincts, our behavior devolves until we behave like wild animals, with cold indifference to human suffering, and prone to depression, and despair. (edit from Seaneen: in my experience: and this is anecdotal, too, people with experience of mental illness are more compassionate than your average).

Dream interpretation using the scientific method is based on translating the meaning of your dreams and dream symbols into words over a period of time. Dreams follow a logical sequence and provide information and advice gradually, so it is necessary to follow the messages over a period of time if you want to learn all the lessons they contain.

WHAT.

Remember what I said about New Age stuff?  That it’s nothing wrapped up in vaguely scientific terms?  Yeah.

This isn’t about the subsconsious or symbolism in dreams.  I think our dreams are very interesting.  What annoys me is that it’s all about a cure and the cure involves- well, nothing to do with the actual mechanics of the mind.  She also specifies that when you submit a dream:

1. Your biography is very important. Write down the most important things about you and your life.

So, say you leave the detail out of your biography that you have schizophrenia.  Do you think she’s going to give you “the cure”?  All the details you provide can easily be slotted around anything you say about your dream to seem meaningful, when really it isn’t.  It’s cold reading.  Or in this case, hot reading.

Her interpretations are irresponsible too.  She starts with:

When we interpret a dream we don’t have to explain to the dreamer why we took these conclusions.

So that basically means, like it or lump it, I am right because your dreams told me so.

I go from one point to the other but I forget my purse somewhere in the way and I cannot find it. While I was looking for my purse, I meet an old friend, who had also lost something, but I don’t remember what it was.
We go together to a place like a jungle, and many snakes appear from everywhere. I think we won’t be able to escape. At this point, I wake up.
Biography: I’m a girl 18 – 20 years old and I feel insecure many times. I have a boyfriend, but I’m not so happy. He is always with is friends or always busy doing something. I feel alone.

Dream Interpretation:

You are in danger because another guy may induce you to betray your boyfriend, and steal you from him. Another part of your personality is too inconsequent, besides your human conscience. This means that you don’t understand the danger you are in.
It is obvious that if you are not happy with your relationship, at certain point someone else will appear in your life, to fill the emptiness.
Be careful and define your position: if you are not happy, don’t insist on this relationship, otherwise you’ll have to face many other unexpected problems, that will cost you too much, even though in the end you’ll learn a lot with everything, becoming more mature.
Be intelligent and separate this guy who doesn’t really love you. Stay alone until you’ll find someone you’ll really love and who will really love you. There is no meaning on living with someone who doesn’t care for you and become a sinner because you’ll betray him in the end…

This is just Agony Aunting from the biography.  Nothing to do with dreams.  There is no “scientific method”.

But hey, it’s apparently really successful.

Everyone finds health, happiness and wisdom following this method, without exceptions.

Unless:

Only if you don’t care for your dreams will you not see any positive results.

Oh.

So if it doesn’t work, that’s your fault.

And what exactly is your “anti-conscience”?  It sounds like a euphemism for your evil twin.

Here’s me and my “human conscience” today, with Little Ted.  As you can see, we’re deeply in love.

I look like an idiot but Little Ted is HOT.

..and then…

OH NO!  LOOK WHAT MY ANTI-CONSCIENCE MADE ME DO TO LITTLE TED!

Why do I care about this random guff on the internet and this random person who charges for her services?

Well, quite apart from her absolutely infuriating misunderstanding and phenomonal prejudice of and against mental illness, it’s that people like this are becoming the new “Experts”.  She’s an extreme case of groundless quackery but just check out the world around you in which science is losing its credibility and we have endless programmes such as shite like, “The Baby Mind Reader”, holistic non-doctor McKeith in her white coat, lifestyle programmes that tell us that for well being we should align our furniture in a certain way and reiki available on the NHS when there’s a year waiting list for therapy (and therapy should be bloody mandatory for anyone with a severe mental illness, or at least should always be offered).  Science is not perfect but it exists to disprove and prove.  And its reputation is receding.

In terms of mental wellness, i.e just keeping yourself ticking over happily, or mild forms of some disorders, I say, do what you like.  Things like good diet, being active, socialising, hobbies, meditation and so on are all good.

As complimentary therapy, I don’t care and think live and let live (and I know that in itself, the more personalised approach that non-medical treatment has is enormously helpful to some people) but never say that your methods will cure someone of something when you have no concept of how someone even experiences it.

Mental illness is one of the worst of things to be afflicted by. It is isolating.  It is misunderstood.  And instead of moving into the direction of, “Hey, well, that might suck”, New Age crap like this (and it is an extreme case of it) pushes the theory of, “It’s your fault.  It’s you as a person that is bad and that’s why you’re like this and we can cure you.  If you pay me”.  Proposing a cure for anything without scientific basis is irresponsible.

In terms of mental illness and medical treatment, well, there’s the battleground.  Some drugs are apparently no better than placebo (see reactive depression and antidepressants). Some drugs should not be prescribed at all. Some work. Psychotic illnesses react well to antipsychotics.  They “work” in the sense that they help kill psychosis- the sociological aspect of that is something I’m not getting into.

But medical treatment for mental illness can be painful because of the hardcore aspect of the drugs.  In short: the side effects suck and something pissing about with your mind and motivation can be distressing as hell, take that from me. And mental illness is of the mind- no, the brain, which is an organ, too.  But unquantifiable.  So we can be sold anything and in desperation we can try anything, because there is no stick or thermometer to tell us if we’re better or not.  And we can be told that what is going on with us isn’t real in the first place (although to me, “real” just means “really affecting you, therefore if you want help with it, you should be offered it without judgment).

I think that this rise of Pseudoscience is dangerous and damaging.  It relies on anecdotal evidence and is a growing, prosperous industry and that in itself is giving it unwarranted credibility.  In some cases it exploits people’s desperation.  And I don’t think that psychiatry or even science has all the answers but it is an arena that questions rather than anecdotally accepts.  I’d rather push forward in that direction of research into things that are working or work better than most than go backwards into the direction of New Age pseudoscience that says it should work because… well, it should.  Stick it up your chakras.

(Incidentally, Christina responded with exactly what I would have expected: you cannot see the truth, so you are wrong and I am right.  Read more here.).

Dead Set / Pitchforks out for Kerry Katona

As I write, I’m listening to Gnossienne No. 1 by Erik Satie. I’m very fond of Satie, who is an incredibly imaginative writer, as well as a wonderful composer. However, the room appears to have shrank and, try as I might, I can’t seem to squeak out a crumb of humour as it’s playing, which is a disservice to the man himself.  My mind has been clouded over with Royal Dalton.  There’s something about classical piano pieces that render the listener hypnotically earnest. I couldn’t fathom a having a dinner party while this kind of music was on in the background. I’d imagine that even those not from England would lapse into affected Sloaneyisms. They’d voice opinions that they don’t even have on modern art, and I’d be stood there, out of my depth, wondering if its impolite to chain smoke in my own flat, ashamed of my Northern Irish accent that makes everything I say sound like a threat. I can’t ever say the word “knee” in any context because people stiffen and ask, “Did you say you were going to do my knees?” Jesus, of course not. I have family members to do that for me.

(I couldn’t have a dinner party anyway, unless everyone wanted to sit on the floor picking cat fur off their trousers and drinking warm Londis wine from an ancient cracked mug that was sprouting pale green downy fur).

Ah, Pulp! Much better.  

Yesterday, Rob, myself and my rather fetching facial herpes toddled down to Piccadilly Circus to attend the premiere of Charlie Brooker’s Dead Set. Some people had come dressed as zombies but I had no desire to relive the four days of utter discomfort in which I was so saturated in fake blood that I had to use a jack to prise my legs apart every time I got a spare second for a wee. I hung around in the foyer with my head in a trough of popcorn, occasionally having, “Oh, that’s her” moments when my eyesight wasn’t obscured by hot butter.

Dead Set is a short horror series starting tonight on E4 (watch it or I’ll burn your family) and gorily climaxing on Halloween. I had my reservations about it; the setup consists of the end of the world with what may be the last survivors battling for their lives in the Big Brother house. There’s the plucky runner, the bastard producer and the hapless housemates whom we hate on sight but then eventually grow to care for, or at least not break into rapturous applause when they’re ripped in half.

It could have been a compendium of amusing verb-noun swearing (“You fucknut! You complete shitbasket!”) self consciously signposted with clunky satirical swipes. As it stands, though, I’m surprised that E4- home of American exports like Desperate Housewives and uselessly frothy list shows- agreed to make it. It starts off as sharp commentary on the underbelly of television and then descends into brutal, kinetic gore. It’s relentless, tense, hopeless and genuinely horrible. With the occasional amusing verb-noun swearing. It also featured newsreader Krisnan Guru Murphy, who seems to be my generation’s Patrick Allen.

What always irks me about zombie films is that they never use the word zombie. If you’re setting a zombie film in 2008, then your characters would know what a zombie is. The skipping around it with “the undead”, the “living dead” and, “Oh fuck, it’s THEM!” is lost on me. Likewise, Dead Set followed the 28 Days Later school of shaky camera work, which is distracting and irritating because you can’t actually see what the hell is going on. Maybe that’s the point, but a few times last night I was confused when zombies poured in from nowhere and became a blur of blue skin and bad teeth while I struggled to grasp who, if anyone, they were eviscerating.

I really enjoyed Dead Set, if enjoyed is the right word for leaving the cinema checking the irises of people’s eyes. Oh, and if you want to see me in it, just look for a flash of pink hair at the end.  It was also a testament to the power of television.  I hadn’t had a fried egg sandwich in six years.  I’ve had two today.

After the premiere, we stopped by the aftershow party to sample its free bar. Through the glaze of wine I had more of those, “Oh, it’s her” moments. I haven’t watched a series of Big Brother in five years but I still recognise the housemates as most of them spent a while plastered on the front cover of Heat magazine. I strolled up to a few of them to say hello and they were all obscenely friendly and sweet, even though next to their blonde, designer litheness I felt like a full stop, given that I was dressed particularly badly at the time. I met Andy Nyman, who I admire an awful lot, since I’m a fan of triangle headed modern day witch Derren Brown. He’s about five foot five tall and I was quite grateful to drape myself across his shoulder for a photograph, feeling like I’d stumbled into the land of My People, those without thirty yards of legs separating their oxygen starved heads from the ground. I said hello again to the make up girls, the director and Charlie Brooker, and was quite flattered that they all remembered me, even though it was hard not to since I was sporting a pink mohawk and my breasts had been determinedly wriggling out of my dress all day.  They were also effusive and lovely.  I said hello to Kevin Eldon, too, who I can’t look at without imagining in a nappy (not a weird sexual fetish of mine, just something from The Day Today).  I don’t get star struck and generally speak to everyone in the same way but I was a little by Kevin Eldon.

Saturday was a good evening, too, being the first of two days in which I found myself pleasantly tipsy. I’ve actually been in a good mood throughout the weekend. Yesterday before going out I watched “Boy A”, in which a former child killer tries to rebuild his life, and cried my eyes out. It’s one of those dramas where you find yourself pounding your fists against the screen howling, “WHY? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ALRIGHT!” and your neighbours ring the bell and ask if everything’s “okay”, and then you fall into their arms mumbling something about bridges. In my actual day to day life, I rarely cry, even if I’m very depressed. I’m one of those depressives who gets the classic “flat affect” rather than bawling. When I’m depressed, I look like this:

and my vocabulary extends to grunting and gesticulating. But sad songs and films make me cry like a twat. Even not sad ones. I cried when I watched Ratatouille. Something about a cartoon rat not being accepted by humans, I don’t know. It’s a METAPHOR isn’t it. Likewise, I laugh when I really shouldn’t. At my grandad’s funeral, the priest was straight out of Father Ted, dully intoning something or other about god. He occasionally hiccuped and kept referring to my grandad as “she” and I burst out laughing. When we were given the body of Christ (a wafer thin mint), it got stuck to the roof of my mouth and I was uselessly trying to prise it off with my tongue. It finally dislodged and fell into my hand with a tiny wet slap, so I had to shove it back in a swallow it. Regurgitating the body of Christ like a mother bird. Then I performed the trick that all Catholics forced to sit through endless masses in their childhoods know about; bow your head as though you’re overwhelmed with piousness and laugh into your lap. If people behind you see your shoulders shaking, they’ll assume that you’re so overcome with love that you can’t control your emotions.

You can’t do that in America, though. When I was there on an exchange trip, rather than pretending to pray on my own, they made me hold their hands in the air and stand up so I felt like we were in the Wicker Man and that the alter was going to split open like Predator’s mouth and reveal a giant wicker Jesus. Aged twelve and precocious, I had written an exasperated note to myself in the bedroom talking about how I didn’t believe in god anyway, and I had told them as much. They found it and subjected me to an angry tearful lecture. Ah, happy memories.

In today’s non-news, Twatty Britain has been dusting off its pitchforks and driving themselves into a judgmental (quite literally, in this case) frenzy over a TV appearance by Kerry Katona. She’s a singer and reality TV star that appeared on a magazine show called “This Morning”. It’s broadcast at about 10.30 after the Jeremy Kyle show so is therefore watched by those who like the sensation of being repeatedly punched in the face.

Kerry has manic depression and is being treated for it. This was the appearance:

To me, it’s immediately clear that she’s still under the influence of medication. She takes an antipsychotic (which are taken at night time) and got to bed late. It’s early in the morning and of course she’s still going to be doped up. I am exactly the same at that time since I also take an antipsychotic. In my past job, they thought I was an alcoholic as I’d arrive at 9am and still be slurring my words. You have to take that type of medication really early if you want to function in the morning.

Kerry even responds to the presenter’s tactless questioning by naming the medication she’s taking. And yet, even with this, she’s being lynched over here, being called a drug addict, alcoholic slut and bad mother. The video is on Youtube in different guises and each one contains a ream of astonishingly ill-informed, abusive crap. Here she tries to speak out and says that people are prejudiced against those with bipolar disorder, which, as we all know, is bloody true (and in every sense; we can’t do jury service and those of us with the severe form of the illness can’t adopt or foster or work within certain places like British defence organisations). And yet the article is still rollseyes. Even the more rational people who accept her explanation are saying that bipolar disorder isn’t an “excuse”.

I don’t have much affection for her given that she’s a vapid, frozen food hawking popstrel with the voice of a haunted five year old but I feel really sorry for her here and angry on her behalf. People are ignorant, and some of the abuse (like calling her a slut and slag over and over- isn’t it great to be a woman?) is like a bad day out in BBC’s Have Your Say (the internet home of, “Get back to work you fucking scroungers!”) and makes me want to gouge my eyes out.

As her protests aren’t really endearing herself to anyone, I’m expecting a sobbing Jade Goody-esque TV appearance sometime soon in which she apologises for somehing she didn’t do.

Well, I feel a bit daft.

(this post has been edited a million times)

Hello chaps.  Feel I owe you all an explanation.  I am, as you can see, alive.  This account isn’t that reliable because I was totally out of it.  Rob has filled me in a lot of it.

Firstly, thanks for all your comments and concern.  Special thanks to Neil and Laura for keeping everyone updated and Cathy for sending an ambulance and Angel, Ed, Miriam, Rob, Dan, Jo, Francesca and Sarah (for hoover lendage, my floor looks class), and my friends have been amazing, though I do expect that some people will be angry at me, an that’s okay and I totally understand.  I’m back home already.  My blood tests came back clear which surprised me as it was a pretty massive dose. That means no lasting damage although I feel like total crap today!  Four hours elapsed before anyone (well, Rob) found me and I was vomiting an awful lot so I think that helped.

So, this is what happened.

I had been depressed for months and suddenly, I got the energy.

I wrote the previous post completely out of my mind, it wasn’t for attention or for help.  Luckily my friend Francesca read it and updated Rob.  Rob had been planning on going to the pub and I often don’t answer my phone so he would have gone to the pub anyway.  Please understand that this wasn’t an attention thing.  Hence pulling the phone out of the wall.

As you know, I have been really battling intrusive thoughts recently, along the lines of killing myself, mostly with the pills I had in my shoebox.  Like I’ve said, it’s an itch you want to scratch, just to make it stop.

I lost it yesterday.  Completely lost it and I couldn’t bear it anymore; couldn’t bear the voice in my head telling me to die, telling me I wouldn’t die if I took the pills, I’d be fine, but die, but take the pills, be fine.

I had handfuls of pills and I took them in quick succession.  I was considering getting some alcohol too but I don’t really like the taste of it and I would have been really out of it.  I didn’t see any of your comments yesterday.

As I said, I took Lamictal.  Most of my Lamictal is 50mg, but there was a lot of 100mg so that was about sixty five pills, or thereabouts, and I took quite a lot more after I wrote the post.  30mg of Risperidone was fifteen, but again I think I took more and the forty Zopiclone was earlier in the day.  To be honest, I’m hazy on the doses because I was in a weird place when I wrote that entry.  The dose was “a lot”. I vomited most of it and am used to Lamictal an Zopiclone so hence my not being dead.  I’ve taken two overdoses in the past but this was the worst.

Pretty much as soon as I wrote the post on my blog I started vomiting, all over the place.  Then I collapsed off my chair, smacked my face on the table and onto the floor, where I vomited some more.  At this point, my eyesight and co-ordination went and I could barely move, and couldn’t see.  I had a few spasms and a mini fit and kept vomiting.  I couldn’t stand up, couldn’t really move at all.  I did try to phone an ambulance (I was really sick and in a lot of pain) but I’ve pulled the phone out of the wall and had turned off my mobile.  My co-ordination was completely gone and I couldn’t see properly, so couldn’t plug the phone in.  I started just hitting numbers, none of which were 999.  I was crawling about but couldn’t stand up.  I started shouting for my mum (who is in Belfast) and I have a slight memory of calling out for my daddy, too, then I think I fell unconscious because it didn’t feel like four hours.

Apparently Neil got through on the phone and I was incoherant and he was shouting at me because I went silent (must have passed out again) and thought I had died.  Then he couldn’t get through so I must have knocked the phone out accidentally.  That must have been traumatic as fuck for him.  I feel awful about it and don’t remember it all (he told me about it).  To be honest, I thought I was dying too.  I hope Brendan’s family don’t find out.

When I came to, I shouted for Rob but he wasn’t here yet.  He had found out from my friend Francesca so he got here quickly after work.  I was curled up on the floor so he thought I was dead and was drifting in and out of awakeness.  I had woken up a few times to vomit and was still vomiting when he got here.  I was out of it so didn’t know what was happening and my clothes and room were covered in sick.

Rob rang an ambulance straight away and was trying to comfort me.  They arrived very quickly but I wasn’t really sure what was going on.  I kept being sick and they took my clothes off (mortifying! they saw me in the buff) and Rob grabbed new clothes for me to wear.  I don’t remember the ambulance journey but I think Rob and the paramedics were jokey to calm me down.  I do remember the blonde woman paramedic asking me why I did it, because I was a “beautiful girl”.  Don’t know why she thought that since I was covered in puke!  I think I was lying down or maybe sitting up so I didn’t choke and I know that they cleaned my face. I remember that she was allergic to cats. When we were going into hospital she said, “This is your fault” (to another paramedic about cats) but I thought that she was referring to me.  They had their sirens on.

I think I was lying down or maybe sitting up so I didn’t choke and I know that they cleaned my face. There were straps on my arm and stomach which I think is why my ribs hurt.  I feel like I’ve been beaten up.  Rob explained to them and the doctors that I had severe manic depression, that I wasn’t thinking straight, that I’d been having intrusive thoughts and that my moods are largely beyond my control.  I’m just sick.  If I wasn’t sick, I wouldn’t have done it. I sometimes don’t take it seriously and make too many jokes and drink when I shouldn’t but I’ve realised it is a life or death thing and I need to get well.  When I’m not experiencing severe mood swings (beyond hypomania, beyond depression) I am not like that, I’m a naturally giggly, enthusiastic person which is why this illness is so devastating to me.  It is the illness, it is not me. Sometimes it takes over and it is terrifying for and for Rob. It doesn’t mean that I don’t do everything I can to get better but I really underestimated how unwell I was.

I don’t remember being admitted but I did get a bed straight away.  I was out of it.  They didn’t pump my stomach because it had been a while since I had taken the pills so they were absorbed by then.  I had a mad craving for a Snickers.  After a few hours they said I could eat but I threw up straight away and had been throwing up since I was admitted.  They took my blood and I was hooked up to a drip thing and blood pressure thing and a heart monitor.

Angel and Ed, two of my friends, came pretty much straight away, but I don’t remember much of Ed being there as I was still out of it.  Angel was brilliant and stayed the whole time, stroking my hair, helping me stand up when I had to (I was very, very dizzy and would have fallen over otherwise) and she stayed with us until two in the morning.

My friends came and visited too.  Again, I’m a bit foggy on the details but was very embarrased, lying in the hospital be feeling like a dick for what I’d done.  I was so grateful, though.  They offered-and did- clean the flat so Rob didn’t have to face it.  It was probably one of the most lovely things anyone has ever done for me, and they did it for Rob, too.  They didn’t go to the pub (kinda ruined their night, there) and they all went as a group, with Sarah lending a hoover.  I guess all my paranoia that people didn’t like me was wrong. Neil and Laura rang too from Belfast.  I’m not sure how people knew I was in the hospital because as far as I know, Rob didn’t tell them.  Today I got a new keyboard and phone because they were a write off from sick.  I’m a bit pissed at the expense!   Could have spent it on new clothes as I ruined my hoodie!  Arf.  Or barf in this case.

The doctors and psychiatrist came.  I am foggy on that, too, but I did bullshit a bit because I was desperate to get out of there.  I had pretty much vomited my body weight but couldn’t keep water down and managed to chuck up outside.

Another psychiatrist had to be called but I saw him much later. I asked Angel to leave the room because I was quite embarrassed.  Rob’s used to my mentals, though.  Again I bullshitted (not really about my mental state. I told him I was seeing someone. I just needed to get out of there) a little bit, especially when it came to food and eating.  I don’t know if you know this but I haven’t been eating properly (lost my appetite due to Effexor) and I have a laxative addiction that replaced vomiting bulimia, which I’m trying to kick (thank god I didn’t, er, evacuate when I was sick). I wasn’t sure what day it was (and wasn’t thinking straight) so I said I was seeing my CPN today when I had actually missed my appointment yesterday).

He said he wasn’t going to admit me to hospital but said that I should be with the Crisis Team and asked Rob to look after me.  I told him that I saw my CPN every week, which is true.

They let me go, although I was unsteady and foggy and also exhausted.  Ed had come back with Rob’s keys and lent us enough money to get a taxi.  We got home, had a fag, had some water and fell asleep.  The place was completely clean, even the bathroom and kitchen.  I nearly cried.  I can’t believe they did for us and put so much effort in, I don’t know how I can repay then.  “Thank you” doesn’t do it justice.

I had a very fitful sleep and Rob didn’t really sleep at all.  I didn’t chuck up again but felt very, very sick and disorientated.  Today I feel a better, have got my balance back and am keeping water and bland food down.  I am still quite foggy, bruised and for some reason, in quite a lot of pain over my body.  Rob is napping on the sofa.

Anyway, this post may sound quite robotic but it’s because I am still a bit out of it.  I’m not sure if I would have survived if I’d drank because I would’ve passed out quickly and probably choked on my vomit.  But vomiting my body weight probably saved me.

Effexor is bad for me.

More than anything, I just feel daft! I feel absolutely fucking awful for what I put them and Rob though.  I’m not sure how to face people but I’ve had overwhelming support and love from my friends and this blog, so really, really thank you so much.  And thank you Anna for dropping fags off! Sorry we weren’t in, had gone get a replacement phone and keyboard.

Anyway, so that’s it.  Hopefully the nausea, dizziness and pain will go away and I’ll be back to my old self again. Rob is with me, so I’m safe.  I have no more extra medication and I’m on weekly prescriptions.

Hilariously, this happened near my two year anniversary of leaving the mental hospital.  I can’t get the bracelet off my wrist, nor find the scissors.  I hope at least posting this on this blog might help people realise the reality of it and not do it themselves.

The crappiest thing about yesterday is that I lost the eBay auction for the camera that broke on me. I miss it so much!  Ah well, I couldn’t afford it anyway.

(rest assured I will be making jokes about this)

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