Last night I had a horrible dream. Well I guess perhaps it should be described as a nightmare. My eleven year old daughter drowned and died over and over. I felt the hopeless bottomless feeling of despair. A black bottomless pit, you're falling downwards and no one or nothing can stop you. I cried, I grieved. In fact it went on and on what felt like all night and when I woke up I felt so low.
I was overwhelmed to see my daughter, hold her and know she was alive. My pillow was wet and my hair soaked. Not a good night.
I recount this with you as since my mental health has been bad again I have been having very realistic dreams. So much so that I have to stop myself when I'm awake and try and decipher whether I am remembering a reality or a dream. Quite unnerving.
I'm having a rollercoaster all around with my depression at the moment, two blogs back I was at my lowest, today I am also very low but yesterday and the previous days I was quite content if not reasonably balanced. I can never tell until I wake up which extreme I am going to find myself at.
Yesterday I realised a lifelong dream and self published my book. I started writing it during my last depressed time two years ago and have worked on it around work ever since. It is kind of auto-biographical as the DS suffers with anxiety and depression and I've used all my personal experiences to create the character of DS Sarah James. Her emotions and difficulties with mental health are me, they are my experiences within the police service. She does my job, on my department. the murder didn't happen but the characters are true to life and it was cathartic to write.
So yesterday I published my masterpiece, Money for Old Rope by Leasa Wilkes on Amazon Kindle eBooks', that was a lifetime highlight and very exciting. Of course it was tainted with my normal self doubt, a need to apologise for fostering my work on the world and a massive fear that it is useless but that's fairly standard for me. Paranoia and self doubt figure in everything from parenting to supermarket shopping. I have however had this daft dream that it will take off and earn me enough money to retire from the cops early allowing me to escape from my demons, but I fear that's just one of my dreams as opposed to a reality!
Yesterday I also had my second, 'how are you' email from work in the month since I have been off sick. Thankfully the boss did email me not ring but I can't help but thinking the timing of his contact means HR have prompted a contact as opposed to someone really caring. I suppose that could be my paranoia talking but that's one e mail every two weeks.
The thought of the office, work and even the people there makes me feel like I want to turn myself inside out. Its a creepy feeling that is somewhere between nausea and a panic attack. Revulsion even. I feel allergic to an environment that has formed the basis of my working life since I was 19 years old. I now hate it and love it in equal measures, it is my greatest accomplishment yet my biggest weakness all at the same time. It's like my kryptonite, I feel weaker, sicker and darker when I think about work.
I made another step forwards today. I emailed Steps2Wellbeing, a free talking therapy service in the UK. I was in their system two years ago having counselling but just prior to my fourth session and whilst I was sat waiting to go in I was told the counsellor had gone off sick with stress! Now I have always struggled with the concept of counselling as I recognise from policing that professionals are humans with their own garbage and are therefore only listening to me prattle on for their wages! So when she went sick I absorbed the blame as it felt as if all my misgivings had been confirmed. I made her sick, she didn't want to listen to me at all, she did have her own baggage and it is purely a job and she didn't give two hoots. Steps2wellbeing never re-contacted me to book me in with somebody else, or for that matter to apologise for dropping me out of their loop and I never re-contacted them.
So bearing in mind my current 'trigger' with telephones that I have covered before I have emailed them. phones make me sweat, hyper ventilate, panic and generally feel very unwell. Let us wait and see what comes of my email. But the email itself was an achievement trust me it's taken me a week since seeing the GP to get around to actually writing it!! But apparently according to my GP to even stand a chance at being considered for a PTSD diagnosis I have to see a psychologist via them?
On a more positive note I have had some great feedback from you all about these ramblings and whilst I feel I have something worthwhile to throw into the mental health mix I'll keep on writing. Feel free to follow me on twitter @BeachHutBabe24 if not already and if you're feeling really generous perhaps you could spend 99p on my book, read it and give me an honest review!!
Showing posts with label paranoia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paranoia. Show all posts
Thursday, 26 January 2017
Monday, 23 January 2017
Meeting the Black Dog
If ever there were a contrast then the last three days have shown me one. I've felt the blackest of the black stages of depression through to the light contented feeling that I currently have. So precious is the feeling that I am currently experiencing, that I have switched off the television for fear of seeing something that may taint my mood! I am not going to touch my emails or answer the phone until the school run forces me back to reality. For the here and now I am going to enjoy a buoyant mood.
It is much like walking a tight rope, I am confident and strong. Perfectly balanced, however it wouldn't take much to make me wobble and fall, so with that in mind I wanted to write whilst I feel positive and hopeful.
I think the cop in me is constantly looking for a solution to problems. Instead of comforting my daughter I'm always giving her strategies to solve the issue when all she may really want is a cuddle. Cops solve peoples problems and we expect to use the same tools on our families and emotions. We find it frustrating if not down right confusing when the same strategies fail.
I cannot help but think I can 'solve' depression which is essentially tosh as it is an illness much like diabetes or cancer. You can't snap out of those any more than you can depression.
So as a result of my 'problem solving' approach I find myself reflecting what it was that I wanted or needed from the police over the last two years since my diagnosed and disclosed depression that I didn't have?
Now support comes in various guises doesn't it? When you ask someone you know after they've been ill, "How are you?" what are you really expecting to hear? I am positive our British culture means we should accept the "How are you?" solely as someone being polite and showing an interest in you. They do not actually want to know the ins and outs of your illness. What they expect back is a 'Fine thank-you" before you move on to the weather or sport or soap operas. Our coded British conversations devoid of emotional connections other than on a superficial level. Try it out and I bet you when someone starts to actually tell you how they are, you'll switch off, raise your internal eye brows and then cut them short. We are a nation of stunted emotions!
Now that does not bode well for the person suffering with depression and anxiety because emotions are front and centre of every darned day whether you want them to be or not. Some days are good and some are bad, some days you want to cry, some days you want to lark around and have fun but ignoring these emotions and maintaining a stiff British upper lip will not wash.
Instead the stigma prevents these things happening. The coded canteen culture when discussing people being off sick with stress is inevitably followed up with some form of skiver comment and there is a sad inevitably to that in my experience. I've done it, haven't you?
Yes there are people that may swing the lead however you never ever know what someone is going through. Depression is not a rash. It isn't worn as a badge so if you consider changing one thing, never automatically assume someone who is off sick with stress is a skiver. You cannot tell if someone suffers with depression unless you ask or they share. Often the nosiest, funniest people can be suffering the most. Robin Williams was a prime example of that.
I would have liked to have become part of a buddy scheme. A group of people, well police officers and police staff who suffer with mental health illnesses who could perhaps initially meet each other through an online/force chat room scenario. I personally wouldn't be able to meet someone face to face or go to a group session straight off the bat but if I built up trust through anonymous chat eventually followed at your own pace by a meeting or group meetings in job time, that would have helped.
I also think each force needs it's own counsellor. On the books, paid for, that automatically sees officers that have dealt with certain types of incident or who those who work in certain departments plus all those of us who need psychological support. I'm pretty certain it would pay for itself fairly quickly by keeping officers mentally healthy and fit for duty. Using outside agencies for counselling services, numbering the amount of qualifying sessions you are entitled to even before you've got their or assessed, expecting you the depressive/anxious person to arrange/book these terrifying sessions when you A/ hate phones B/hate new environments C/avoid counselling at all costs are all barriers to success. Force counsellors are the way forward boss people out there.
As it was I had a back to work interview with my line manager followed up with a risk assessment?! He might as well of had a placard with,
"You're a nutter we're covering our arses"
on the wall behind him. The boss completing the risk assessment asked me about my 'triggers' a fair and pertinent question. However I made the mistake of being honest. Certain office idiots had been fairly brutal with their belittling and put downs. Explaining this to the boss though as one of my triggers met with a derisive snort immediately followed by him concurring with them and putting me down himself! Of course I then clammed up just nodding and saying yes or no where necessary.
Apparently the risk assessment was due to be reviewed regularly but it wasn't and I didn't push it as that initial session had become a 'trigger' in itself!! But that's not the point I did need support and I didn't get it.
I battled on in the same department for two years, a negative, counter productive environment. I started talking about my 'madness' openly and loudly out of sheer bloody mindedness as acknowledging my struggles publicly helped me deal with my daily ups and downs.
Not long before I fell ill again just before this Christmas I had two separate conversations with my two line managers. they job share. Suffice it to say that both expressed amazement that I was still suffering with depression?!
"But that was two years ago"
one said! Their little faces quite the picture when I reminded them that I was medicated for my depression and anxiety and had been throughout the last two years. I didn't miss the shock and disappointment on their faces either.
So in the absence of a force counsellor talk to your staff and colleagues. Ask them about their triggers, especially people with anxiety.
As an example - I hate telephones, talking on them makes me hyper ventilate, my heart races. They are a necessary evil but just recognising I may need some time to work myself up to a telephone call in itself would be helpful.
My message to police managers, if you have staff that suffer with depression or anxiety, talk to them about it, discuss their triggers with them and maybe even help them to draw up a coping strategy for dealing with those triggers. It's far easier if someone acknowledges the black dog in the room.
It is much like walking a tight rope, I am confident and strong. Perfectly balanced, however it wouldn't take much to make me wobble and fall, so with that in mind I wanted to write whilst I feel positive and hopeful.
I think the cop in me is constantly looking for a solution to problems. Instead of comforting my daughter I'm always giving her strategies to solve the issue when all she may really want is a cuddle. Cops solve peoples problems and we expect to use the same tools on our families and emotions. We find it frustrating if not down right confusing when the same strategies fail.
I cannot help but think I can 'solve' depression which is essentially tosh as it is an illness much like diabetes or cancer. You can't snap out of those any more than you can depression.
So as a result of my 'problem solving' approach I find myself reflecting what it was that I wanted or needed from the police over the last two years since my diagnosed and disclosed depression that I didn't have?
Now support comes in various guises doesn't it? When you ask someone you know after they've been ill, "How are you?" what are you really expecting to hear? I am positive our British culture means we should accept the "How are you?" solely as someone being polite and showing an interest in you. They do not actually want to know the ins and outs of your illness. What they expect back is a 'Fine thank-you" before you move on to the weather or sport or soap operas. Our coded British conversations devoid of emotional connections other than on a superficial level. Try it out and I bet you when someone starts to actually tell you how they are, you'll switch off, raise your internal eye brows and then cut them short. We are a nation of stunted emotions!
Now that does not bode well for the person suffering with depression and anxiety because emotions are front and centre of every darned day whether you want them to be or not. Some days are good and some are bad, some days you want to cry, some days you want to lark around and have fun but ignoring these emotions and maintaining a stiff British upper lip will not wash.
- Talking therapy when you can actually discuss 'emotions' would have helped.
- Talking to like minded people would have helped.
- A buddy up scheme, would have helped.
- An hour of weekly counselling in job time, at job expense would have helped.
- Someone drawing up a coping strategy, identifying triggers, would have helped.
Instead the stigma prevents these things happening. The coded canteen culture when discussing people being off sick with stress is inevitably followed up with some form of skiver comment and there is a sad inevitably to that in my experience. I've done it, haven't you?
Yes there are people that may swing the lead however you never ever know what someone is going through. Depression is not a rash. It isn't worn as a badge so if you consider changing one thing, never automatically assume someone who is off sick with stress is a skiver. You cannot tell if someone suffers with depression unless you ask or they share. Often the nosiest, funniest people can be suffering the most. Robin Williams was a prime example of that.
I would have liked to have become part of a buddy scheme. A group of people, well police officers and police staff who suffer with mental health illnesses who could perhaps initially meet each other through an online/force chat room scenario. I personally wouldn't be able to meet someone face to face or go to a group session straight off the bat but if I built up trust through anonymous chat eventually followed at your own pace by a meeting or group meetings in job time, that would have helped.
I also think each force needs it's own counsellor. On the books, paid for, that automatically sees officers that have dealt with certain types of incident or who those who work in certain departments plus all those of us who need psychological support. I'm pretty certain it would pay for itself fairly quickly by keeping officers mentally healthy and fit for duty. Using outside agencies for counselling services, numbering the amount of qualifying sessions you are entitled to even before you've got their or assessed, expecting you the depressive/anxious person to arrange/book these terrifying sessions when you A/ hate phones B/hate new environments C/avoid counselling at all costs are all barriers to success. Force counsellors are the way forward boss people out there.
As it was I had a back to work interview with my line manager followed up with a risk assessment?! He might as well of had a placard with,
"You're a nutter we're covering our arses"
on the wall behind him. The boss completing the risk assessment asked me about my 'triggers' a fair and pertinent question. However I made the mistake of being honest. Certain office idiots had been fairly brutal with their belittling and put downs. Explaining this to the boss though as one of my triggers met with a derisive snort immediately followed by him concurring with them and putting me down himself! Of course I then clammed up just nodding and saying yes or no where necessary.
Apparently the risk assessment was due to be reviewed regularly but it wasn't and I didn't push it as that initial session had become a 'trigger' in itself!! But that's not the point I did need support and I didn't get it.
I battled on in the same department for two years, a negative, counter productive environment. I started talking about my 'madness' openly and loudly out of sheer bloody mindedness as acknowledging my struggles publicly helped me deal with my daily ups and downs.
Not long before I fell ill again just before this Christmas I had two separate conversations with my two line managers. they job share. Suffice it to say that both expressed amazement that I was still suffering with depression?!
"But that was two years ago"
one said! Their little faces quite the picture when I reminded them that I was medicated for my depression and anxiety and had been throughout the last two years. I didn't miss the shock and disappointment on their faces either.
So in the absence of a force counsellor talk to your staff and colleagues. Ask them about their triggers, especially people with anxiety.
As an example - I hate telephones, talking on them makes me hyper ventilate, my heart races. They are a necessary evil but just recognising I may need some time to work myself up to a telephone call in itself would be helpful.
My message to police managers, if you have staff that suffer with depression or anxiety, talk to them about it, discuss their triggers with them and maybe even help them to draw up a coping strategy for dealing with those triggers. It's far easier if someone acknowledges the black dog in the room.
Saturday, 21 January 2017
My slippery depression slope
At the moment the only things keeping me moving forwards are my daughter, my dogs, my writing/twitter, and a very small handful of trusted friends.
Yet even so I am barely moving at all, both from a physical perspective and a psychological one.
I have never ever felt this bad, so lethargic, so overwhelmed by something I cannot control. It feels like someone has hollowed out my brain and removed the majority of it. I am a husk, an empty shell floating around on the breeze totally aimlessly.
I cannot concentrate or focus enough to make food. I stand in the kitchen staring around me, lost, confused. I cannot be bothered to lift the pans out of the cupboard and I certainly do not have the brain capacity to think about how to cook something. In fact any activity that isn't utter simplicity itself is just too complex for my subdued brain. I manage takeaways, something & chip meals or prick and dings.
I know there are things that I should do, emails that need sending to work re sick leave dates, daughters club dates that need putting in the diary but try as I might there is insufficient willpower within me to lift my head of the sofa let alone manage a complex task like putting dates in a diary.
I have never struggled quite this badly, tears are always close by and desperation a constant companion. What are usually simple tasks like driving my daughter to a club or filling the car with petrol are becoming hugely testing and exhausting expeditions. Just trying to remember how to put petrol in the car or recalling what my daughter needs are for her clubs feels like an A level standard test.
This my friends is what depression is currently doing to a police officer with 27 years service, a Detective Sergeant who was competent and capable. Professional and proud. Who has worked fulltime, juggled a home life and parenting yet here I now am reduced to the capability of a child. I can't cook a meal, I can't concentrate, I can't even think about what to watch on the television whilst vegetating on the sofa. To whom washing has become an arduous and often ignored chore instead I sit in stale smelly clothes watching endless random television and wondering when or if someone will ever plug back in my brain.
This is probably complete nonsense to some of you. A fairy tale or nightmare. This is the reality of mental health. This happens. This swallows people up and spits them out, if they're lucky enough to escape or get a reprieve.
I feel suspended in time, unable to move forwards or backwards. Feeling numb and beginning to hope that I can actually cling on to the slippery slope that I now find myself on. I've never felt quite so out of control or helpless with my previous bouts of depression as I do this time. Perhaps you fall more heavily and harder the more often you fall of your perch?
I hear myself talking to my daughter but its almost like its in the third person, like I'm somehow remote from myself. I paint on a smile whilst feeling like a fraud and hoping she doesn't notice that her Mum's been swapped out for a fake version. Am I the fake or was she? The capable one?
And yet through it all I'm somehow hoping honesty will help. If I tell it how it is, if I describe my dirty little secrets then maybe people may just start to see mental illness in all it's degrading glory.
I'm out of wine, that's an issue too. I drink every evening. Varies in amount but sometimes a bottle, sometimes less but I have none left. I feel like I need some right now.
The weird thing is as I've said, I feel numb, unconnected to the world. Remote and unplugged yet I want the wine to dull the way I feel, to self medicate as it were. Isn't that a"contradiction"?
So for now I'm planning that on Monday I will email work, do the diary entries and then email Steps to Wellbeing for an appointment. I can't ring them. Phone calls make me feel ill, very ill. Panicked even, and cry, yes definitely. Even at the best of times I hate telephoning people but at the moment its just not possible so the doctor said I could make an appointment to get assessed by email instead.
So that's my plan, survive the weekend, get daughter back to school, come home walk dogs and then do these chores and maybe write some more blog ...
Yet even so I am barely moving at all, both from a physical perspective and a psychological one.
I have never ever felt this bad, so lethargic, so overwhelmed by something I cannot control. It feels like someone has hollowed out my brain and removed the majority of it. I am a husk, an empty shell floating around on the breeze totally aimlessly.
I cannot concentrate or focus enough to make food. I stand in the kitchen staring around me, lost, confused. I cannot be bothered to lift the pans out of the cupboard and I certainly do not have the brain capacity to think about how to cook something. In fact any activity that isn't utter simplicity itself is just too complex for my subdued brain. I manage takeaways, something & chip meals or prick and dings.
I know there are things that I should do, emails that need sending to work re sick leave dates, daughters club dates that need putting in the diary but try as I might there is insufficient willpower within me to lift my head of the sofa let alone manage a complex task like putting dates in a diary.
I have never struggled quite this badly, tears are always close by and desperation a constant companion. What are usually simple tasks like driving my daughter to a club or filling the car with petrol are becoming hugely testing and exhausting expeditions. Just trying to remember how to put petrol in the car or recalling what my daughter needs are for her clubs feels like an A level standard test.
This my friends is what depression is currently doing to a police officer with 27 years service, a Detective Sergeant who was competent and capable. Professional and proud. Who has worked fulltime, juggled a home life and parenting yet here I now am reduced to the capability of a child. I can't cook a meal, I can't concentrate, I can't even think about what to watch on the television whilst vegetating on the sofa. To whom washing has become an arduous and often ignored chore instead I sit in stale smelly clothes watching endless random television and wondering when or if someone will ever plug back in my brain.
This is probably complete nonsense to some of you. A fairy tale or nightmare. This is the reality of mental health. This happens. This swallows people up and spits them out, if they're lucky enough to escape or get a reprieve.
I feel suspended in time, unable to move forwards or backwards. Feeling numb and beginning to hope that I can actually cling on to the slippery slope that I now find myself on. I've never felt quite so out of control or helpless with my previous bouts of depression as I do this time. Perhaps you fall more heavily and harder the more often you fall of your perch?
I hear myself talking to my daughter but its almost like its in the third person, like I'm somehow remote from myself. I paint on a smile whilst feeling like a fraud and hoping she doesn't notice that her Mum's been swapped out for a fake version. Am I the fake or was she? The capable one?
And yet through it all I'm somehow hoping honesty will help. If I tell it how it is, if I describe my dirty little secrets then maybe people may just start to see mental illness in all it's degrading glory.
I'm out of wine, that's an issue too. I drink every evening. Varies in amount but sometimes a bottle, sometimes less but I have none left. I feel like I need some right now.
The weird thing is as I've said, I feel numb, unconnected to the world. Remote and unplugged yet I want the wine to dull the way I feel, to self medicate as it were. Isn't that a"contradiction"?
So for now I'm planning that on Monday I will email work, do the diary entries and then email Steps to Wellbeing for an appointment. I can't ring them. Phone calls make me feel ill, very ill. Panicked even, and cry, yes definitely. Even at the best of times I hate telephoning people but at the moment its just not possible so the doctor said I could make an appointment to get assessed by email instead.
So that's my plan, survive the weekend, get daughter back to school, come home walk dogs and then do these chores and maybe write some more blog ...
Sunday, 15 January 2017
Self loathing and the FMO
Hello,
Today as I am writing this is Sunday and I have been away from work sick since 28/12 last year, nearly three weeks now.
Tomorrow I have to go and see the FMO or Occupational Health as some refer to it. I'm guessing this early referral is because I was actually honest this time and stated depression was the reason for my absence. The last time just over two years ago I wasn't referred to the FMO for several months but initially I did not know what was wrong. (Full story in earlier blogs x)
I'd like to think the referral this time is out of compassion, concern and a desire to offer me support yet I can't help thinking it's more about bottom covering and the edginess I've created by daring to use 'that' word. In the email from my boss advising me of the need to refer me to the FMO he referred
'to that type of illness'
being the reason for referral?! Which one is that then boss, that illness we must not name?! In not being able to discuss it openly he reinforces my feeling that it is a sordid little secret that should remain covert. Do you know if I am certain of one thing this time it is that I will not be quiet about it anymore. I will not be silenced in discussing mental health, its time the stigma ended.
By the way I am happy the boss emailed as I find telephone conversations with him difficult and my paranoia and anxiety kicks in. I end up hearing all sorts of things he may not actually be saying. I take insinuation and can read between the lines like no other person I have ever met. Even when I'm well I can sense people's emotions like a blood hound, I feel emotional waves coming off them like bad body odour especially if they are talking to me. Times the strength of that scent by infinity if they are talking to me about my sickness record. No it is far safer to see the words written down to have time to evaluate their meaning before I go off at the deep end for no reason whatsoever.
I do feel anger towards this boss, the job as a whole, the department I work in, in fact generally I'm just angry. Angry that I feel the way I do, angry that I can't fix myself, angry that it impacts on my daughter. I am an angry person
Anyways back on to the matter at hand, the FMO. I feel anxious about tomorrow. Anxious that I won't be able to convey just how broken I feel more than anything else. I've been covering my tracks denying my mental health problems for so long that it is a new experience trying to be honest about the state I'm in. I feel confusion at how to explain how muddled my head space feels, how to speak about the fact that I could sleep for a month and yet still feel tired, how I can't remember things at all from one minute to another and just how fragile I feel with life in general. Writing is my only method of communication, ask me to speak out loud and I just ramble, feel stupid and then clam up.
I am finding Twitter an enormous help at the moment for this very reason, I can write it down, I can interact with like minded people and I don't have to speak a word. Bliss.
So as I contemplate tomorrow I feel my head pounding, the start of an anxiety headache, the ones that feel as if your head is in a vice that gets tighter and tighter making you feel like your head will explode. My guts are churning and growling out loud and I want to sit and cry. My joints are swollen and my limbs feel heavy. In fact I feel like the wreck I know I am.
You know I look in the mirror or at photographs and hate what I see. I have a set phrase that rattles around my mind when I am looking at my own reflection, I say to myself over and over 'gee you sure is ugly'.
I feel self loathing and disgust to the point that nothing matters. I don't want to wash or put on clean clothes, I do so for my daughter but not for me. Going out is consuming in a bad way, the thought of seeing real people or more importantly them seeing me gives me chills. I wish I could go out but be invisible then I would know for certain that I'm not being judged or hated. I think I dislike myself so much that I can't help but wonder why anyone else would tolerate me.
I think that is borne from the abandonment of my Mother who always said I was useless and wouldn't amount to much and then is confirmed time and again by a Father that talks the talk but never walks the walk.
It's probably why I rely so heavily on dogs for support. They don't judge, or hate. They're loyal to the bitter end even when you're ultimately taking them to their death. Pure unconditional love, and dogs are the only source I've ever found.
So there I am ready for tomorrows events! NOT!! Laters....
Today as I am writing this is Sunday and I have been away from work sick since 28/12 last year, nearly three weeks now.
Tomorrow I have to go and see the FMO or Occupational Health as some refer to it. I'm guessing this early referral is because I was actually honest this time and stated depression was the reason for my absence. The last time just over two years ago I wasn't referred to the FMO for several months but initially I did not know what was wrong. (Full story in earlier blogs x)
I'd like to think the referral this time is out of compassion, concern and a desire to offer me support yet I can't help thinking it's more about bottom covering and the edginess I've created by daring to use 'that' word. In the email from my boss advising me of the need to refer me to the FMO he referred
'to that type of illness'
being the reason for referral?! Which one is that then boss, that illness we must not name?! In not being able to discuss it openly he reinforces my feeling that it is a sordid little secret that should remain covert. Do you know if I am certain of one thing this time it is that I will not be quiet about it anymore. I will not be silenced in discussing mental health, its time the stigma ended.
By the way I am happy the boss emailed as I find telephone conversations with him difficult and my paranoia and anxiety kicks in. I end up hearing all sorts of things he may not actually be saying. I take insinuation and can read between the lines like no other person I have ever met. Even when I'm well I can sense people's emotions like a blood hound, I feel emotional waves coming off them like bad body odour especially if they are talking to me. Times the strength of that scent by infinity if they are talking to me about my sickness record. No it is far safer to see the words written down to have time to evaluate their meaning before I go off at the deep end for no reason whatsoever.
I do feel anger towards this boss, the job as a whole, the department I work in, in fact generally I'm just angry. Angry that I feel the way I do, angry that I can't fix myself, angry that it impacts on my daughter. I am an angry person
Anyways back on to the matter at hand, the FMO. I feel anxious about tomorrow. Anxious that I won't be able to convey just how broken I feel more than anything else. I've been covering my tracks denying my mental health problems for so long that it is a new experience trying to be honest about the state I'm in. I feel confusion at how to explain how muddled my head space feels, how to speak about the fact that I could sleep for a month and yet still feel tired, how I can't remember things at all from one minute to another and just how fragile I feel with life in general. Writing is my only method of communication, ask me to speak out loud and I just ramble, feel stupid and then clam up.
I am finding Twitter an enormous help at the moment for this very reason, I can write it down, I can interact with like minded people and I don't have to speak a word. Bliss.
So as I contemplate tomorrow I feel my head pounding, the start of an anxiety headache, the ones that feel as if your head is in a vice that gets tighter and tighter making you feel like your head will explode. My guts are churning and growling out loud and I want to sit and cry. My joints are swollen and my limbs feel heavy. In fact I feel like the wreck I know I am.
You know I look in the mirror or at photographs and hate what I see. I have a set phrase that rattles around my mind when I am looking at my own reflection, I say to myself over and over 'gee you sure is ugly'.
I feel self loathing and disgust to the point that nothing matters. I don't want to wash or put on clean clothes, I do so for my daughter but not for me. Going out is consuming in a bad way, the thought of seeing real people or more importantly them seeing me gives me chills. I wish I could go out but be invisible then I would know for certain that I'm not being judged or hated. I think I dislike myself so much that I can't help but wonder why anyone else would tolerate me.
I think that is borne from the abandonment of my Mother who always said I was useless and wouldn't amount to much and then is confirmed time and again by a Father that talks the talk but never walks the walk.
It's probably why I rely so heavily on dogs for support. They don't judge, or hate. They're loyal to the bitter end even when you're ultimately taking them to their death. Pure unconditional love, and dogs are the only source I've ever found.
So there I am ready for tomorrows events! NOT!! Laters....
Monday, 9 January 2017
Police officer with Depression ... over here!!
As I was walking the dogs this morning I started pondering my mental health, as usual, and came to the conclusion it was high time to be more honest with myself. Honesty about mental health within the British police service is in its infancy and I find myself on that front line with a responsibility to speak out.
My personal mental health struggles go around and around my head more often than most anything else. Things like, am I imagining it ? ... and I am really just a skiving bitch? or ...Why did this happen to me? and... Now I have accepted that I suffer with depression and anxiety why can't I beat it?
Things like, can all my physical symptoms solely be attributed to depression or are they real?
Well they are real because I feel them, they hurt, they ache but are they really just figments of a brain being ignored on a conscious level that is trying in its own way to bring me down of my perch?
The police service and us the police officers remain locked in an environment where mental health is something that happens to other people and not us.
When I joined the service in the late 80's people with mental health problems or 'nutters' as we were referred to, were definitely 'them' and not 'us'. They were the people we got called out to, people who caused problems, societies drop outs, trouble makers but definitely, one hundred percent, categorically not 'us'. They were the S136 calls, the concern for welfare incidents and the vulnerable mispers but they were not police officers.
So when mental health came knocking at my door after a harrowing few months running a sex offender unit, I denied it access, turned it away, refused it a home, slammed the door in it's face because when I looked in the mirror I saw a police officer, not a drop out or trouble maker. I refused to accept that I could have 'those' sorts of problems for I was none of the things I associated with a person suffering from mental health illnesses. So the first time 14 years ago when I fell off my perch I accepted my branding as a skiver, after all being thought of by colleagues as swinging the lead, although hugely damaging, was no where near as horrific as contemplating facing the truth. I climbed back up the ladder onto my perch and battled onwards for another 12 years.
I lived in a twilight zone of self hatred and loathing, of spiralling debt and sabotaged relationships. But any hell was better than facing the stigma of being a 'nutter'
Yet coming to terms with my reality, my bias, my stereotypical point of view has been and continues to be blooming hard work and that's from me the sufferer. So, as to what hope the rest of the police service has in getting their heads around what mental health really looks like I really don't know.
It wasn't until a couple of days ago that I finally publicly tied my mental health firmly together with my police career. I was asked to contribute to a 'Police' magazine article on mental health within the police service. Which after careful consideration I have done, although I have now received coded warnings from colleagues of the dangers of my speaking out and 'do you know the trouble you may land yourself in for being so honest' ??! Just think about that for a minute... the federation will print an article on mental health which I have helped with, which I am very honest in, yet my colleagues are fearful that I will get in to bother for it? What does that say about the current state of play? It reminds me of the stereotypes I spoke of previously and proves to me that the service may utter relevant words and try and sound like they are on top of mental health within the police service but its not yet having much impact. So far its just words and hypocrisies...
I personally have had the 'nutter' badge proudly pinned to my lapel since the last time I fell of my perch about two years ago, yet publicly to other 'police' folk especially on social media etc. I have been reticent to 'show out', for them to know that I am one of 'them' , to let it all hang out so to speak.
But I came to a decision out walking those pooches today. Someone has to be honest, the words, the sentiments are all very well but unless 'us' the sufferers on the inside of the police service speak out where will we get? It feels wrong, it feels scary and sadly it feels like I am being a 'Judas' somehow but we need to see the wood for the trees don't we?
So with that in mind I am going to be very brave... speak a truth that I have never uttered, never told to a single soul.
I have contemplated suicide in the past. There, I said it. (no lightening bolts yet!)
I have always answered 'no' to that question on the doctor's forms,
Have you considered taking your own life? NO. I always put NO.
After all if I answered honestly then I would definitely become one of 'them' wouldn't I?
I am not sure I would have gone through with it but there was one particular weekend before I fell off my perch two years ago when I sat and planned how I could make my death look like a fatal road traffic accident. Even in death I was not prepared to be judged as a 'nutter'. I wanted the world to see my death as a tragedy so my daughter wouldn't have to live with the stigma of having had a mad mummy. Thankfully I haven't visited that dark place again where death feels like the only option available but I want to reach a place in time where I would at least feel able to speak the truth about my state of mind.
Sadly I am pretty certain that I will never be a mentally healthy person whilst I am working within the police service. The police service environment has a very long way to go before it is totally accepting and understanding of having the devil on the inside of the organisation and I hope to retire well before I think things will start to change. But in the meantime I will keep speaking and spreading my truth in the hope it may just help edge the change along more swiftly. LAW24
My personal mental health struggles go around and around my head more often than most anything else. Things like, am I imagining it ? ... and I am really just a skiving bitch? or ...Why did this happen to me? and... Now I have accepted that I suffer with depression and anxiety why can't I beat it?
Things like, can all my physical symptoms solely be attributed to depression or are they real?
Well they are real because I feel them, they hurt, they ache but are they really just figments of a brain being ignored on a conscious level that is trying in its own way to bring me down of my perch?
The police service and us the police officers remain locked in an environment where mental health is something that happens to other people and not us.
When I joined the service in the late 80's people with mental health problems or 'nutters' as we were referred to, were definitely 'them' and not 'us'. They were the people we got called out to, people who caused problems, societies drop outs, trouble makers but definitely, one hundred percent, categorically not 'us'. They were the S136 calls, the concern for welfare incidents and the vulnerable mispers but they were not police officers.
So when mental health came knocking at my door after a harrowing few months running a sex offender unit, I denied it access, turned it away, refused it a home, slammed the door in it's face because when I looked in the mirror I saw a police officer, not a drop out or trouble maker. I refused to accept that I could have 'those' sorts of problems for I was none of the things I associated with a person suffering from mental health illnesses. So the first time 14 years ago when I fell off my perch I accepted my branding as a skiver, after all being thought of by colleagues as swinging the lead, although hugely damaging, was no where near as horrific as contemplating facing the truth. I climbed back up the ladder onto my perch and battled onwards for another 12 years.
I lived in a twilight zone of self hatred and loathing, of spiralling debt and sabotaged relationships. But any hell was better than facing the stigma of being a 'nutter'
Yet coming to terms with my reality, my bias, my stereotypical point of view has been and continues to be blooming hard work and that's from me the sufferer. So, as to what hope the rest of the police service has in getting their heads around what mental health really looks like I really don't know.
It wasn't until a couple of days ago that I finally publicly tied my mental health firmly together with my police career. I was asked to contribute to a 'Police' magazine article on mental health within the police service. Which after careful consideration I have done, although I have now received coded warnings from colleagues of the dangers of my speaking out and 'do you know the trouble you may land yourself in for being so honest' ??! Just think about that for a minute... the federation will print an article on mental health which I have helped with, which I am very honest in, yet my colleagues are fearful that I will get in to bother for it? What does that say about the current state of play? It reminds me of the stereotypes I spoke of previously and proves to me that the service may utter relevant words and try and sound like they are on top of mental health within the police service but its not yet having much impact. So far its just words and hypocrisies...
I personally have had the 'nutter' badge proudly pinned to my lapel since the last time I fell of my perch about two years ago, yet publicly to other 'police' folk especially on social media etc. I have been reticent to 'show out', for them to know that I am one of 'them' , to let it all hang out so to speak.
But I came to a decision out walking those pooches today. Someone has to be honest, the words, the sentiments are all very well but unless 'us' the sufferers on the inside of the police service speak out where will we get? It feels wrong, it feels scary and sadly it feels like I am being a 'Judas' somehow but we need to see the wood for the trees don't we?
So with that in mind I am going to be very brave... speak a truth that I have never uttered, never told to a single soul.
I have contemplated suicide in the past. There, I said it. (no lightening bolts yet!)
I have always answered 'no' to that question on the doctor's forms,
Have you considered taking your own life? NO. I always put NO.
After all if I answered honestly then I would definitely become one of 'them' wouldn't I?
I am not sure I would have gone through with it but there was one particular weekend before I fell off my perch two years ago when I sat and planned how I could make my death look like a fatal road traffic accident. Even in death I was not prepared to be judged as a 'nutter'. I wanted the world to see my death as a tragedy so my daughter wouldn't have to live with the stigma of having had a mad mummy. Thankfully I haven't visited that dark place again where death feels like the only option available but I want to reach a place in time where I would at least feel able to speak the truth about my state of mind.
Sadly I am pretty certain that I will never be a mentally healthy person whilst I am working within the police service. The police service environment has a very long way to go before it is totally accepting and understanding of having the devil on the inside of the organisation and I hope to retire well before I think things will start to change. But in the meantime I will keep speaking and spreading my truth in the hope it may just help edge the change along more swiftly. LAW24
Thursday, 5 January 2017
My mental health in the police service...
So lots to catch up on...
I guess the biggest news is that I fell off my perch again. I have been trying to think about new analogies' for my depression and I conjured up these two...
Number one - A game of Snakes and ladders is after all just a kids version of life. There are plenty of snakes out there who want to see you 'go down' and there are plenty of ladders too if you're healthy enough to attempt the climbs. Throwing the dice, pure chance, again like a lot of life. Being in the right place at the right time and not what you know but who you know are mantras I am all too familiar with and are positive experiences if you are on the right side of them. A lot of my life I am content climbing those ladders and throwing those die, however once and a while my anxiety and depression kick me down a snake. Sometimes one of those small ones where you only lose a few squares but sometimes it gets me from the top of the board to bottom in just one throw. Floored, having to start afresh again...
Number Two - also equates to a game I recall from childhood that used to be on television as part of a UK kids television show called crackerjack. The game I think was called 'Double or Drop' although I could be wrong on that but essentially a child was handed one toy, boxed or otherwise after another until they could hold no more. Then they were told they could double their winnings beyond what they were already holding by taking just one more parcel without dropping all the others.
That's my life, me stood on a raised platform being given parcels to hold, daughters bullying, work anxiety, family politics, cleaning, shopping, bills, car servicing and so on until I get to that place where I know if I take one more parcel I am likely to drop the lot. I always do though, take the next parcel that is, as the lure of wining is just too great.
Then inevitably it happens, in trying to take that one extra parcel, in pushing myself just that bit further I drop every single one of my parcels that I'm holding on to for dear life.
Or I slip from top to bottom of that snakes and ladders board and bam the world spins and I end up a blithering wreck back in the doctors waiting room.
It was coming for weeks, I think I even blogged about feeling the wobble of my Jenga blocks... (I do so like a good analogy!) but they've toppled and I've fallen by the wayside. I also think the more often you fall that maybe it gets harder to get back up again? This is my third major episode in adulthood, one was fourteen years ago, one was almost three years and now another. I was already wobbling but then over Christmas 2016 my beloved Penny Dog, a loyal friend of fourteen years, who actually saved me the first time around, died and taking her to the vet to be put to sleep was brutal.
So brutal in fact that it was the final parcel so to speak, so not only did I fall but I crashed and burned into the dirt big time taking all my parcels with me.
I kidded myself for a few days that I would bounce right back after I'd had a good few days of crying but I didn't and here I am again having to break the news to work bosses. Going to the doctors and admitting another defeat.
At the moment I'm feeling completely ruined but I keep trying to bolster myself up with the previous successes I've had at pulling myself out of the dirt. Watch this space and I'll try and keep a progress log of how things go third time around.
I have also helped write a piece on #MentalIllness for #Police magazine which is utterly frank and truthful about my personal experiences of mental health within the police service.
There is a lot of talk about what 'we' do to support people in the service who are suffering from mental health problems but personally to date I've not seen any practical evidence of that, I've just heard and read the words. The smoke screen as you like. However let me clarify this is a personal blog, about me and what I feel and think. My experiences...
I'll let you in to a little Police secret... those strong, competent, astute, brave, police officers who go out into our societies day in and day out, night in and night out, festive season or not, are human beings!
Shock horror, I know its a lot to take in!!
Another secret...they have feelings, they have families and they are made of the same stuff you are! Who would have guessed!
We break like anybody else but our police culture is such that coping and being the problem solvers is what we do and what we're expected to do come rain or shine. When we break we think we can and should just fix our own problems, after all that's what we do.
So generally we tell nobody of our woes as we think it'll spoil the illusions we've created of us being some kind of superheroes who don't bleed or feel.
When we realise that we can't actually fix ourselves or reboot there often comes another phase, a period of time where we 'womble' around!! Now when 'we' the afflicted womble about we look just the same as your normal common or garden problem solver, yet this wombling soul will be much like a robot whose programming has corrupted. We may talk slightly oddly or slowly. We may sit staring off in to space. We may snap with fury at the smallest provocation yet eventually someone will notice the womble and offer help. TAKE IT!!
Eventually the mask or underpants will slip off the womble otherwise and reveal the human being beneath in all their crumpled glory which can have catastrophic repercussions if it happens at the wrong 'job' or with the wrong 'client'
Have you been, or are you being a womble? Do you know a womble you could help?
Mr or Mrs, even Miss or Master Womble ... Don't wait until you drop your parcels or slip down that snake... go and get yourself some help you deserve it x
I guess the biggest news is that I fell off my perch again. I have been trying to think about new analogies' for my depression and I conjured up these two...
Number one - A game of Snakes and ladders is after all just a kids version of life. There are plenty of snakes out there who want to see you 'go down' and there are plenty of ladders too if you're healthy enough to attempt the climbs. Throwing the dice, pure chance, again like a lot of life. Being in the right place at the right time and not what you know but who you know are mantras I am all too familiar with and are positive experiences if you are on the right side of them. A lot of my life I am content climbing those ladders and throwing those die, however once and a while my anxiety and depression kick me down a snake. Sometimes one of those small ones where you only lose a few squares but sometimes it gets me from the top of the board to bottom in just one throw. Floored, having to start afresh again...
Number Two - also equates to a game I recall from childhood that used to be on television as part of a UK kids television show called crackerjack. The game I think was called 'Double or Drop' although I could be wrong on that but essentially a child was handed one toy, boxed or otherwise after another until they could hold no more. Then they were told they could double their winnings beyond what they were already holding by taking just one more parcel without dropping all the others.
That's my life, me stood on a raised platform being given parcels to hold, daughters bullying, work anxiety, family politics, cleaning, shopping, bills, car servicing and so on until I get to that place where I know if I take one more parcel I am likely to drop the lot. I always do though, take the next parcel that is, as the lure of wining is just too great.
Then inevitably it happens, in trying to take that one extra parcel, in pushing myself just that bit further I drop every single one of my parcels that I'm holding on to for dear life.
Or I slip from top to bottom of that snakes and ladders board and bam the world spins and I end up a blithering wreck back in the doctors waiting room.
It was coming for weeks, I think I even blogged about feeling the wobble of my Jenga blocks... (I do so like a good analogy!) but they've toppled and I've fallen by the wayside. I also think the more often you fall that maybe it gets harder to get back up again? This is my third major episode in adulthood, one was fourteen years ago, one was almost three years and now another. I was already wobbling but then over Christmas 2016 my beloved Penny Dog, a loyal friend of fourteen years, who actually saved me the first time around, died and taking her to the vet to be put to sleep was brutal.
So brutal in fact that it was the final parcel so to speak, so not only did I fall but I crashed and burned into the dirt big time taking all my parcels with me.
I kidded myself for a few days that I would bounce right back after I'd had a good few days of crying but I didn't and here I am again having to break the news to work bosses. Going to the doctors and admitting another defeat.
At the moment I'm feeling completely ruined but I keep trying to bolster myself up with the previous successes I've had at pulling myself out of the dirt. Watch this space and I'll try and keep a progress log of how things go third time around.
I have also helped write a piece on #MentalIllness for #Police magazine which is utterly frank and truthful about my personal experiences of mental health within the police service.
There is a lot of talk about what 'we' do to support people in the service who are suffering from mental health problems but personally to date I've not seen any practical evidence of that, I've just heard and read the words. The smoke screen as you like. However let me clarify this is a personal blog, about me and what I feel and think. My experiences...
I'll let you in to a little Police secret... those strong, competent, astute, brave, police officers who go out into our societies day in and day out, night in and night out, festive season or not, are human beings!
Shock horror, I know its a lot to take in!!
Another secret...they have feelings, they have families and they are made of the same stuff you are! Who would have guessed!
We break like anybody else but our police culture is such that coping and being the problem solvers is what we do and what we're expected to do come rain or shine. When we break we think we can and should just fix our own problems, after all that's what we do.
So generally we tell nobody of our woes as we think it'll spoil the illusions we've created of us being some kind of superheroes who don't bleed or feel.
When we realise that we can't actually fix ourselves or reboot there often comes another phase, a period of time where we 'womble' around!! Now when 'we' the afflicted womble about we look just the same as your normal common or garden problem solver, yet this wombling soul will be much like a robot whose programming has corrupted. We may talk slightly oddly or slowly. We may sit staring off in to space. We may snap with fury at the smallest provocation yet eventually someone will notice the womble and offer help. TAKE IT!!
Eventually the mask or underpants will slip off the womble otherwise and reveal the human being beneath in all their crumpled glory which can have catastrophic repercussions if it happens at the wrong 'job' or with the wrong 'client'
Have you been, or are you being a womble? Do you know a womble you could help?
Mr or Mrs, even Miss or Master Womble ... Don't wait until you drop your parcels or slip down that snake... go and get yourself some help you deserve it x
Monday, 21 November 2016
Anxiety - the social stigma ...
So I got to thinking about why it is so difficult for those
non-anxious folk to accept that we, the anxious, generally only turn down
social events because of our mental illness. Why is that such a stretch for you
guys to grasp, it’s nothing personal, yet it seems to get treated with contempt
and hostility.
If someone said they couldn’t attend a gathering because
they’d broken a bone or had the flu there would be gushing compassion and
sincere wishes to get well soon. However mention mental illness or anxiety and
firstly it gets glossed over and ignored, but long term it seems to be taken as
an indication that you are an untrustworthy, useless friend who should be excluded
from future social functions as a punishment. Perhaps I just have dodgy
friends!
Or perhaps is it my paranoia kicking in again?
If what I am talking about is a mystery to you then you’re
either lucky or a non-anx person. There was a time when I lied about why I
couldn’t make social functions. There was always that distant relative who needed
attention, or a friend who needed my help or I had some mystery illness that
was sweeping the town. However since my last really bad bout of depression,
when I was off work for five months I feel compelled to be true to myself. That
period of time was the first time in my life that I actually admitted to myself
that I have a real illness, I finally gave myself some credit for not being
that selfish stand-offish bitch that allegedly hated people, but instead I was someone
who had tried to be strong for far too long.
It took me twenty years of looking in the mirror to accept that
depression and anxiety are going to be a lifelong issue for me and it’ll never just
be a case of getting better. There are good days and bad days, but admitting it
to myself was and is a big deal. As such
if I’m asked why I am not going somewhere these days I am honest whether that
makes people feel uncomfortable or not and I think it does make some people
feel squirmy.
In the Victorian era in the UK, us, the mentally ill, or the
insane, as we were once referred to, were locked away from society, placed in
mental institutions or work houses, segregated and scorned. I do wonder whether
that stigma still resonates in people’s minds, because there is a stigma to
mental illness. I make a habit of saying it out loud these days, especially at
work, although you do feel a bit like the elephant in the room when you do. Not
because I am the size of an elephant, well not quite, but you immediately sense
the discomfort of those around you. People almost want to physically shift away
from you, to put some distance between themselves and you. Perhaps there is an
automatic assumption you’re an axe murderer, or is it just an inherent
discomfort that someone would admit that sort of shameful secret out loud? Or
is it more likely to be the fact that many people face similar battles but have
yet to see the light in their own mirror, to accept their own truths?
I have deviated from my point. I do not want to be ashamed
of my mental illness. I want to be proud
of myself for working through the anxiety, for getting up on those mornings when
all I want to do is cry and hide under the dining room table, for continuing to
drive in to work when there are tears of panic and stress rolling down my
cheeks, for getting back up every time life’s bowling ball knocks me down.
So, you non-anx folks out there if people like me shouting
about my anxiety from the rooftops helps me cope and move forwards then you’ll
just have to go out and buy yourself some ear plugs. Deal with it!
The next time a friend or colleague confides in
you that they’re struggling or don’t feel able to do something because of their
anxiety or depression then just say ‘okay that’s fine I understand.’ Give them
the space they need, do invite them out again and again. Do not take it personally;
it’s about them not you. They’re not trying to insult you; in fact, if they
confide the truth in you, they’re paying you the compliment of trusting in you,
making the assumption that you’re cool enough to understand them and the
struggles they’re living with. Just know that they’re putting their heart into
your hands
Monday, 7 November 2016
Paranoia & Anxiety
Paranoia.
If someone with anxiety was trying to impart to you that they also suffered with paranoia would you understand what they were describing, what their perspective was? Would you get what is was they were trying to explain to you? Shall I help you grasp the nettle?
Let’s play a little game. What was the most nerve wracking thing you have ever done? Was it perhaps your wedding, maybe school or job exams or even that all important job interview when so much rested on getting a good result? Maybe even a sky jump from a great height?
Select your event and put yourself back there, back into those moments, in the hours preceding this nerve wracking event. Close your eyes; feel the agitation, can you remember how you felt? Was your stomach churning, butterflies in clogs dancing around dipping and flipping. Had the rest of you insides joined the protest, a dirty protest maybe, with nervous diarrhoea and wind? Did you feel like your heart is missing the odd beat before speeding up and slowing down at will leaving you breathless and probably sweating? Were you having trouble concentrating or recalling the important things that you needed to remember?
I bet it was exhausting for you, burning through all that adrenaline, your neck was probably aching from the tension of the situation and your head was enduring a chronic banging headache.
When you tried to speak did you find that you had a dry mouth, maybe you even muddled your words or messed up what you wanted to say?
Now consider on top of all those feelings how it would feel to think that everyone around you had a downer on you? That you have no support, you feel isolated. You suspect that even your family and close friends look upon you in exasperation for being a complete loser.
You sense people are looking at you oddly aren’t they? You start to analyse every last thing that is said to you. People clearly hate you; I expect they think you’re really ugly too. If you look in the mirror and see such a lump of uselessness why wouldn’t they? You suspect colleagues cannot understand why on earth you’ve got the job that you have, let alone ever think you would be deserving of another more well paid position.
You can sense peoples disdain; you can feel their hatred prickling at your skin. When someone who you’re utterly convinced has been hating on you, someone who you are certain really does hate your guts speaks to you, you’re likely to have worked yourself up into such a frenzy imagining all the vile putrid things they have been saying about you that your attitude in response to their question or query is frankly down right rude. You’re cross; you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve and you snap something at them. Short and sharp immediately regretting it but unable to retract it you sit in stony silence. Now you know they hate you because you were such a bitch to them.
Maybe they invite you out for a drink. You should go they’re your friends right? But they don’t really want you there you know that, they hate you right? Ignore that and go out and have fun your inner voice shouts over the doubters. But you know you don’t deserve any fun, you’re a bitch. You’re a crap friend; you suspect they’d rather you didn’t go out anyways, at the end of the day you have nothing to offer the group and of course you were rude earlier.
No you decide it is for the best if you give it a miss.
Trouble is they now know you are a standoffish bitch don’t they? The next day they really are hating on you aren’t they? And so the cycle of doubt and paranoia goes on.
Anxiety and paranoia go hand in hand in my world. I consistently feel as if the most nerve wracking experience in my life is likely to happen imminently. I take drugs to dampen the feelings but even with them it is palpable.
It is exhausting physically and emotionally. The feelings of isolation you create for yourself are harsh, leaving you feeling desperate and lonely. But you still cannot break out of the cycle. People just make it worse. The more people there are in any given place or situation the more people there are to judge you. Keeping people at arms length is survival. If they are not close they won’t be repulsed by you, they won’t know enough about you to start hating you. You will not offend their senses.
It is a never ending conveyor belt of doom, a long dark road of uncertainty and sadness. The path undulates this way and that but the net result is unwavering in its conclusion.
7/11/16
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