“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”
Yes (those of you who know me) I’m still here. Kinda. Hanging on by my fingertips actually.
For those of you who don’t, a very brief potted history:
Walked out/sacked from my job after being bullied by my boss after confiding in him about my depression. It was 18 months of hell, but fought my corner, negotiated a pay off them promptly collapsed into what one might call a breakdown.
Launched ‘Phoenix Flights’ on the stroke of midnight New Year’s eve 2012 as a way to vent creatively, work through my aims and complete recovery (scheduled for December 31 2013) sharing with y’all what I did and how I conquered all my demons and why I am such a huge success today, with my great career as an author, my cottage by the sea, clan of like minded friends who adore me, first class travel to exotic locations, loving partner, wrinkle free skin, hair that doesn’t need blow drying anymore etc, etc.
Yes, I was that naive. I knew I had problems, but it was because of the environment, the stress, backstabbers, etc. and now I was away from all that, I truly believed would discover my inner being, find peace and true meaning and direction for my life.
Until I was diagnosed with EUPD (border line personality disorder by any other name) in December, just in time to wreck my Christmas, thus squishing my plans for a celebratory New Years Eve party (hah!) but also confirming why I was the way I was.
Bottom line, I could not deny that so much of it rang true.
Ho, ho, fucking ho…
So another older but wiser Sister signed on ‘Blogging for Mental Health 2014′ as ‘Phoenix FIGHTS’, but made another stoopid mistake by veering wildly in the opposite direction.
Instead of believing that I could do mastermind my own recovery all by myself, I decided that I was too sick to cope on my own, regressed somewhat and resigned myself to the care of group therapy with a couple of eminent psychiatrists who would fix me, and then I would sally forth into the great unknown in a couple of years time and have that great life, with the great career, state of the art beach house, nose job, great friends, blah blah.
And given that the therapy would be on two midweek days, there was no point in me getting a real job. No, I would just saunter on, in the sure and certain knowledge that this time i was on the right path, and for that reason God would supply me with a delightful array of part time job opportunities to finance me through these lean times, and all would be well in the end.
So I waited anxiously for news of when my therapy would begin and my life could begin again.
And waited. And waited.
And waited Month after month after month.
After lot of questions, form filling and preparation, we started in Winter 2015.
So my life had pretty much been on hold for 75% of the year during which time, my money had run out, I lost more friends because I could not afford to socialise, became even less employable, and I finished the year even older and wiser than ever.
I say wiser.
But to be honest, I still don’t really have any answers for you and I’d be doing both of us a disservice to pretend that I do anymore.
In a lot of ways I’m very much worse off than I was prior to that fateful summers day in 2012 when I walked out on the life that I knew for the last half century.
Was I right to wait for the therapy? Probably. But not to rely on it solely, nor that the gods would provide and support me whilst waiting.
Also the group dynamic isn’t quite what I thought it would be. I thought it would lessen my loneliness and bring me comfort to be around ‘my people’, but we aren’t all kindred spirits. Some I like. Some I don’t. Some really get on my tits sometimes. So I keep my distance because, if anything, it’s even more politically fraught than any corporate environment.
Plus they know too much, so I can’t get close to them, because if they ever used this information to hurt me, there would be hell to pay. ;-)
It’s also not an enjoyable process like it is with Aunty C (my previous/current psychologist counsellor), because we have a relationships and rapport, whereas I don’t entirely trust the shrinks or their motives, and sometimes I feel patronised and humoured as they are not at all good at being sincere.
Not to mention I get bored, depressed, irritated and downright amused by the absurdity of the exercises we are given to do on a weekly basis, and it is nigh on impossible some days not to take the piss out of them.
But I soldier on.
What else can I tell you?
Things that help?
The usual. You know. All that annoying shit bandied around on memes via Twitter and Facebook.
Mediation, exercise, good nutrition, lots of sleep, not too much sleep, support, contact, connectivity, mindfulness, creativity dancing, helping others, yoga…
If only we loved ourselves enough to make us do these things for ourselves sometimes, right?!
But on the days I do do them, they are a triumph.
I am kinder, more tolerant, people seem to warm to me more, I am more patient (most days) and I’m actually learning to understand my fellow man a whole lot better.
But every day is a new day, and most of them i wake up groaning that I’m still here and have to find a reason to stay, let alone get out of bed.
But things can only get better.
They have to. Don’t they?
My writing has suffered of late because sometimes it feels like I’ve said everything I have to say, and nothing I scribe has any worth anymore.
But this platform has just given me reason to keep going.
Namaste bitches x