e mail me at :hope2bsurvivor@yahoo.co.uk
This is my BAD DAY page.Some where to express some of the thoughts that fly around my head, especially on BAD DAYS.I admit that this page is totally self absorbed but it's just a few things I needed to get off my chest.If you are looking for sense or rational thinking you will not find it here.
You are entering my crazy head!
I guess this is the side of me that is not often seen - this is my messed up mind churning with anger. Anger at the injustice of it all,anger at people who have let me down, anger at the state of this fragile world but most of all anger at myself. For being me and having to put up with me day in and day out. One of the favourite questions that all the therapists I have seen have asked are these two :"do you get angry?", "do you feel angry?" I didn't know what they meant by anger. Anger like my Father's temper, anger like shouting at somebody, anger like throwing crockery around the kitchen - I never showed anger outwardly so I assumed I did not fit into the category of anger. I couldn't even fit into that. But I was angry and I was taking all the anger out on myself. No one told me you could be angry on the inside and never let the outside world see it. Mine was hidden anger pushed down so deep I couldn't even touch it. All I could do was make it a little less painful by jolting my body with self harm. Shocking it into a numbness, a temporary state of bliss so I just had time to catch my breath before the pain returned.
Depression is very much about anger turned inside. You do not have to rant and rave to be angry. You can sit calmly and quietly with anger boiling inside you. A cauldron of frustration bubbling and spilling it's foul contents over the edges. It starts to boil over and I guess that's where self harm comes in. A release, a secret self infliction of pain to get rid of some of the anger so as not to explode like a volcanic erruption. I did not want to burn anyone with my anger - just me, so I did all those things to myself,scrapeing,battering, banging and cutting the anger out. I never got rid of it, just cooled it down, keeping it hidden.
So to everyone I told I wasn't angry, it turns out I've been angry all my life. Just quietly angry. And I'm still angry now even though I am beginning to understand my depression, even though I don't cut anymore. It's still there, I can feel it like a heavy mass of misery that could and does rise to the surface, usually without warning. I write my anger out like I am doing here or in my poetry. It does not work like cutting did but I suppose it's a more acceptable coping method than bleeding it out - for other people that is. If I didn't feel a responsibility towards my family, friends and work then I would cut - instead I just dream about it.
"In truth, you like the pain. You like it because you believe you deserve it, and the fact you're putting yourself through pain means you are doing what you, by all rights ought to do. You're doing something right"
extract from 'Wasted' by Marya Hornbacher
Holding people at a distance is something I have become good at over my lifetime. I do it to protect myself. By keeping them at a safe distance I am ensuring that they will not trample over my feelings. My heart has been broken one too many times and I cannot let it happen again. Instead I cage my heart in, only letting little pieces escape now and then to let people know that I'm still alive, still feeling. I cannot let anyone hurt me badly again. I cannot bear it, I am sure it would kill me. I cannot handle people letting me down, even if it is circumstances beyond their control. I avoid situations where I could be let down and if I do find myself in a position where I risk being let down I feel as though I'm risking my whole world, that I will fall apart if things do not go according to plan. It is pathetic I know, but my whole life is essentially supported by structure and routine. If it broken I usually crumble.
Must not depend on anybody and yet I need them. I need to be heard and I need to be cared for. I hate needing but I need support from anywhere I can get it. And I do get support from very special people in my life but then I feel guilty for needing them so much. For loading them with all my emotional baggage and expecting them to understand. Why should they understand me when I do not even understand myself. I am just a head full of crazy words and thoughts. I can play at being normal, I can play the part well, but I know I'm not. It is too late for me to ever be normal, too much damage has been done. I am broken, repaired, broken, repaired, broken, repaired, broken, repaired, soon to be broken again, maybe repair again. Who knows.
"I think to myself: I have finally gotten so impossible and unpleasant that they will have to do something to make me feel better. And then I realise, they think they are doing all they can and it's not working. They have no idea what a bottomless pit of misery I am."
extract from 'Prozac Nation' by Elizabeth Wurtzel
Perhaps all these insecurities come from the rejection I have experienced. At the time my Father left the family home it was not only him that I was rejected by. No. He went and told my best friends Mum and Dad some sob story telling them it was my fault - they believed him. I lost my best friend and her Mum and Dad saw me as a bad influence, someone that their daughter should stay away from. He convinced his Mother that it was my fault and suddenly my Grandmother decided she didn't want me as her Grandaughter anymore.He spread his lies around the village we lived in. Cruel gossip followed and it hurt me deep - so deep I believed it was my fault. I was responsible for my family falling apart. I was a bad person, I was cursed and no one should come near me. Stay away or your life may fall apart. I am a named witch, I am tainted, I am the devil. But I was not bad and it was not my fault and it's taken me years of torment to come to this conclusion and still there are times I find my self questioning it. Dad, I know you will never read this but I'm telling you now - I'm telling you that it was all your fault and will you please stop getting in my head and telling me that I am guilty. I do not want to listen your lies anymore so get the hell out of my mind.
Still cannot figure out whether I hate my Dad or not. If I hated him I would not be so indecisive about whether I should ever contact him or not. Would I? If I hated him surely this would be out of the question. If I hated him I would not waste time mourning his absence from my life. Once I did love him so maybe I still do. Maybe this blood thing has bonds that even hate cannot quite eat through, maybe it can only fray the thread but never completely snap it. Then maybe all this comes from wanting to have somebody to call Dad, my Dad, my own Dad. And maybe I should just stop thinking about this man that attacked my mind and body - I'm better off without him. Aren't I? Hey, maybe I should just stop thinking, full stop.
I've been feeling really scared lately - scared that my life seems to be going to well and scared that I'm able to smile with genuine happiness. When did that happen? How did that happen? I'm touching an emotion that I never thought my heart would be able to feel. I did not believe there was room for it what with all the space pain was taking up. I still wake up with a feeling of dread but it generally eases instead of lingering throughout the day. I laugh because it feels right - the laughter is no longer forced from the depths of a weary soul. And what I find most confusing is that I still feel depressed. Is it possible to feel depressed and happy at the same time? Can these two conflicting emotions sit together within one person. Hey, maybe I'm a split personality - but no, it's not like that. I'm one body and one mind feeling two separate emotions at the same time. Maybe it's not that bizarre, after all laughing and crying are not that different - both produce tears! Is there such a thing as a happy depressive? Or is this just life lulling me into a false sense of security that I will never trust but will embrace all the same because I'm desperate to feel it, to be happy, because although it scares me I'm feeding off it.
I cannot stop being depressed - not because I have not tried to get rid of it because I have - but because it has become etched in my make up. I have scored it into my skin and like a tattoo it does not come off in the wash. It does not matter how much cleansing and healing goes on in my mind, it will always be there. If happiness can truly be present a long side it then I'm okay with that. I just do not want to depend on happiness to keep me alive in the same way I do not want to depend on depression to kill me. I do not think I'm making a whole lot of sense now but what I'm basically saying is that this happiness is scaring the hell out of me. All this being able to live without harming myself - I feel like am losing my support structure, that happiness is breaking it down. Yet from what I've heard happiness can only be a good thing, a positive experience so why aren't I letting it flood me with optimism for my future? Depression is reliable, it is always there but happiness comes and goes. I guess it comes down to this, I trust depression but I do not trust happiness. Sorry if this page is becoming a confusing read but then I'm not forcing you to read it.
Happiness is like a beautifully gift wrapped package - I've pulled at the ribbon and torn the paper but I've never opened it completely as I am unsure what I will find. Will it be what I'm expecting or will it just be yet another confusing emotion to deal with - yet another emotion to throw my world into turmoil. But now this parcel seems to have opened itself and there is not a whole lot I can do about it. Is this the happiness that comes with healing or is it a cruel trick, an illusion. All this colour I'm seeing, is it real? It is so bright I'm having to squint my eyes. It's like after all these years I've taken off the sunglasses that have shaded my world in tones of grey and suddenly I've walked into a 'Wizard of Oz' world of technicolour. And the colour scares me because I'm so used to the f**king grey. I'm seeing a beauty in things that was not there before, or I was too damn miserable to notice. I see beauty in my surroundings,in people and even in myself - but I guess that must be an illusion. The colour cannot be real, it cannot be permanent, and I'm sure that sooner or later the cloudy rain will wash it away. Happiness will become a mere puddle in my memory, a tiny drop in the ocean of despair. I'll be back down there where I have always dwelled, in the dark depths of depression looking for a way out but never finding it.
Keep Hoping