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littlemooseI've got a lot of conflicting thoughts rattling round my little noggin at the minute. Some of them I'm reluctant to put down, because I don't want anyone to worry about me (I'm ok, it's just the way my brain works sometimes), some of them, I don't even know how to articulate.
How does one go about writing a good old-fashioned brain clearing 'getting it off my chest' type of entry without coming across like an angst-ridden thirteen year old?
Told mum some stuff last night that I'd never told anyone before, not even myself really, about what it feels like, to be ill like this, back in the days when it was really bad, oh this is back in my early teens... and every noise in the night was some unknown stranger coming to take me away.
Paranoia and me, sure, we go way back.
She understood. Sweet mother of god she understood!
Seemed kind of hopeful in an odd sort of way... that I recognise it now, for what it was. There's nothing to be afraid of out there. The scary part is locked up in here with you, but... how do I want to put this? That kind of fear has a glass jaw, I think... a few good socks and you've got it down. Not dead... maybe never dead, but knocked out enough that you can sort of carry on as if it's not there... most of the time.
And I'm sitting here now, not even sure I want to post this... always worrying about what people will think. I could hit save, rather than post, and stick it on some floppy, and look back at in in three, maybe four years and say 'god, I've come a long way haven't I? Getting better then, even better now.' Getting better all the time.
But putting it out there, maybe that's part of facing up to all this. For a long time, I've fought, but I've always been afraid of saying what is wrong with me... of people finding out... I think partly that's mum, that 'not in front of the neighbours' attitude her generation cultivated - and now they're all drawing their pensions and fading away with no neighbours to care... hmm. Partly, it's the way some people act, as though mental ilness is infectious. I tell people I'm just taking some time off, a year out between courses, and when dad talks about me to people he still seems as proud of me as ever.
But we never mention what's really going on, even talking about it with family feels like declaiming before a court, giving my last plea before sentence. I have a friend, a lovely, jolly, highly intelligant retired man with a fantastically old-fashioned name, who has grown up children and small grandchildren he writes stories for. He seems to know everyone, and they sure as heck all know him, but I bet I'm the only one who knows he's manic depressive, and was diagnosed in his early twenties. I guess he sensed a common theme in me, when he asked me what I was doing with myself this weather, and I couldn't quite meet his eye when I told him I'd had to take some time off, ill.
"Head or body?" he'd asked, fixing me with that sharp look he has. And maybe I saw whatever he saw, because I found myself answering 'head'.
I expected some pity, or tutting, or an akward changing of the subject, but he shook my hand and said 'manic depressive, pleased to meet you'. Typical, that man has a sense of humour that could cut steel! He gave me the best piece of advice I've had on this subject too, 'don't worry about those other bastards, they don't understand, you take care of yourself.'
And sometimes there are empty days that stretch on forever, or nights that seem too dark and long, but they're just ordinary days, lonely sometimes, but with no lurking evil... and I know I'm damned lucky to have come this far back up.
These days I'm labelled as 'severly depressed' among other clinical terms. Thats an improvement, believe me. And would you believe this is the first place I've written that... not even in my paper journal, the one true private place I have... Some things are hard to say. but maybe now, the more I say it, the less it'll matter, and the better I'll get.
How does one go about writing a good old-fashioned brain clearing 'getting it off my chest' type of entry without coming across like an angst-ridden thirteen year old?
Told mum some stuff last night that I'd never told anyone before, not even myself really, about what it feels like, to be ill like this, back in the days when it was really bad, oh this is back in my early teens... and every noise in the night was some unknown stranger coming to take me away.
Paranoia and me, sure, we go way back.
She understood. Sweet mother of god she understood!
Seemed kind of hopeful in an odd sort of way... that I recognise it now, for what it was. There's nothing to be afraid of out there. The scary part is locked up in here with you, but... how do I want to put this? That kind of fear has a glass jaw, I think... a few good socks and you've got it down. Not dead... maybe never dead, but knocked out enough that you can sort of carry on as if it's not there... most of the time.
And I'm sitting here now, not even sure I want to post this... always worrying about what people will think. I could hit save, rather than post, and stick it on some floppy, and look back at in in three, maybe four years and say 'god, I've come a long way haven't I? Getting better then, even better now.' Getting better all the time.
But putting it out there, maybe that's part of facing up to all this. For a long time, I've fought, but I've always been afraid of saying what is wrong with me... of people finding out... I think partly that's mum, that 'not in front of the neighbours' attitude her generation cultivated - and now they're all drawing their pensions and fading away with no neighbours to care... hmm. Partly, it's the way some people act, as though mental ilness is infectious. I tell people I'm just taking some time off, a year out between courses, and when dad talks about me to people he still seems as proud of me as ever.
But we never mention what's really going on, even talking about it with family feels like declaiming before a court, giving my last plea before sentence. I have a friend, a lovely, jolly, highly intelligant retired man with a fantastically old-fashioned name, who has grown up children and small grandchildren he writes stories for. He seems to know everyone, and they sure as heck all know him, but I bet I'm the only one who knows he's manic depressive, and was diagnosed in his early twenties. I guess he sensed a common theme in me, when he asked me what I was doing with myself this weather, and I couldn't quite meet his eye when I told him I'd had to take some time off, ill.
"Head or body?" he'd asked, fixing me with that sharp look he has. And maybe I saw whatever he saw, because I found myself answering 'head'.
I expected some pity, or tutting, or an akward changing of the subject, but he shook my hand and said 'manic depressive, pleased to meet you'. Typical, that man has a sense of humour that could cut steel! He gave me the best piece of advice I've had on this subject too, 'don't worry about those other bastards, they don't understand, you take care of yourself.'
And sometimes there are empty days that stretch on forever, or nights that seem too dark and long, but they're just ordinary days, lonely sometimes, but with no lurking evil... and I know I'm damned lucky to have come this far back up.
These days I'm labelled as 'severly depressed' among other clinical terms. Thats an improvement, believe me. And would you believe this is the first place I've written that... not even in my paper journal, the one true private place I have... Some things are hard to say. but maybe now, the more I say it, the less it'll matter, and the better I'll get.
