(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Eight)
Not to sound too overbearingly pretentious, but my life has become a Dali painting. Everything’s blurring, dripping, and I have no sense of time.
This is probably not helped by my recent concerted efforts to revisit some of my old writing from, in some cases, a decade or so ago. I have stories and ideas that have been dormant on my computer for years and years, and in a strange, morbid and sometimes slightly masochistic manner I have been going back to those stories and finding words from somebody I don’t recognise.
It’s cathartic, in a sense. My memory is a sketchy thing at the best of times, and I don’t really enjoy looking back at myself as a human being in that time. If I do, I get caught up in the bad things – my rampant eating disorder, my school life, my loneliness, my hatred – and forget the fun bits. I like looking at stuff I created because it doesn’t have the bad bits attached in the same way. A lot of it is just my own, things I’ve shown nobody or have been anonymous, and so it stays somehow separate.
In any case, I’m appreciating the necessity of grounding. Music and scent are two very strong physical ways to tether me back to normal life, especially when dissociating, so using that in abundance. I won’t go back to inpatient. I just won’t.
(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Seven)
I’m losing time. Just little things, little bits, but I can feel it. It’s usually the harbinger of worse things to come, but I’m going to remain optimistic because why the fuck not. Maybe I’ll be okay. Just a few days of weirdness and I’ll return back to normal. My mental health re-stabilises and I become a fully-functional human.
Or, you know, a few weeks pass and I wind up back in acute inpatient.
(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Six)
I feel like I’m floating through time. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I’m partly just heavily dissociating. Everything is blurry in some way, out of my grasp, and I sit to write and don’t remember the day that I’ve just had. Concentration is difficult. I don’t want to leave the house very much, but also can’t bring myself to care when I leave – my partner makes me leave, we have a number of things organised, and I do what I have to. I don’t have much impetus to argue.
Still no word or developments mental health wise. Group tomorrow morning.
I don’t know any more, I don’t know what’s happening to me.
(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Two)
At my worst, I experience dissociative seizures. These are the bastard child of a panic attack, and an epileptic seizure. I dissociate heavily, spasm, scream, cry. It’s a nightmare. Haven’t had one in a couple of months…
… until last night.
So overall, understandably, I feel like my health is going backwards rather than forwards. I sent a strongly-worded email to my care co-ordinator today (Sunday, so will be actioned tomorrow) expressing everything that is currently wrong and detailing the places I wish to be referred to. I am out of patience, and I’m running out of time. I fear that without stability, I’ll be back in an acute ward before too long, which I’d really rather avoid (for reasons why, see my earliest posts; acute inpatient was horrendous).