Acceptance

It’s Pride in Newcastle, today: “a community LGBT festival for the northeast UK”

Why do I care? Well, I care for several reasons, some of them personal, but mostly because I think it’s really important for people to be able to say ‘this is who I am.’ Whatever your colour, whatever your religious beliefs, whatever your sexual orientation: you have the right to be accepted and treated equally. Yes, even if you choose to wear a fur-suit and Yiffy it up.. I may smile, but I won’t treat you any differently.

I know many people have issues on sexuality on religious grounds, that’s fine, but I do not think anyone has the right to cast judgement on the relationships consenting adults have with each other. If you truly believe God (whatever you perceive him/her to be) has a problem with it, I’m sure God can handle it in his/her own way. Pray for our souls, if you like, but keep your criticism to yourselves. This goes for a lot of things, actually: the most important thing in any belief system should be to honour the person.. ‘love thy neighbour’.. any hate-filled attacks in the name of missionary work smack of simple prejudice. I’m wary of people who use their faith to justify their own beliefs, it’s pretty easy to do, what’s more impressive are people that use their faith to reach out and understand things they may not be wired to understand. It’s a beautiful thing.

Acceptance is a beautiful thing. I should know, I’ve had to ask loved ones to accept a great many things about me lately, things known only to a handful of people. I try not to adopt labels because I feel I have no right to, yet. I’m cautious of appearing ‘trendy’ by pinning my colours to the mast of something yet untried. But, in my mind, I have labels pinned neatly to my breast.. and, finally, I admitted this to a family member, and the relief at expressing them out loud to someone I never thought I’d tell was amazing. As was being accepted, unconditionally. It’s the biggest gift we can give to another person. And to become the person we truly want to be, we need to accept ourselves.

I’m bi. (Not just bi-polar, though I suspect that too, but that’s a post for another day!) I’ve known for.. ooh, 11 years, but I’ve also been married that whole time, so there was no intent to act on it. So I’ve avoided the label because I can’t ‘prove’ it. As many of you know, my marriage has ended.. I’ve been separated for nearly a year now, and it’s been nearly two since it was clear it was heading this way. My husband knew I’ve been attracted to women, it wasn’t an issue. He might be surprised by my declaration, but then a lot of people are surprised by my moments of ridiculous honesty.

So, now you know.. those who choose to read this.. am I a different person to you now, I wonder?

Hope

I'm tired, itchy and irritable.. but I'm still here. I want to talk about hope today - the things that get me through the days and quieten the inner voice that tells me just to give up.

I don't want to bring religion into this, particularly, as it's a difficult topic for me to address and not one I have the strength for right now. I'm just going to say, simply, that the universe provides - or at least it seems to - if you are willing to listen. I remember railing out at the world not long after Christmas (my first ever one alone).. 'give me something to live for!' Not long afterwards I received an email via a website I had forgotten I'd joined to come try out for a band. The band I'm singing with today. I've always loved to sing, but had very little confidence in my voice. Still, I harboured a desire to give myself a chance to have some part in an actual band. I don't have a very strong voice - I can't do power ballads or party songs, the things desired by a lot of commercial bands. And I didn't feel I had enough of a distinctive voice to be in an original band - hell, I don't play an instrument well or write my own music. Still, I signed up to a website that connects local musicians, I even approached a couple of people, with no luck, and then I forgot about it. Until the email arrived.

So, now I'm with a small group of guys who want me as their lead singer, who actively encourage me to write lyrics (and, to my amazement, I have been) and who don't make me feel like I need to be glamorous or petite to be a lead singer (good job, cos I'm really not). I'm doing something I've always wanted to do and never thought I would. We're not perfect, by any means; we've yet to gig (we're aiming for our first next month) and there have been too many days when my moods have wanted me to give it all up. But, somehow, I've stuck it out because I figure if the universe will answer my plea the least I can do is work with what it provides.

And, this isn't a one off, albeit the most dramatic and easiest to describe. I rail at the world, demanding, pleading, hoping for something to get me through the next week, day or hour like a child in a tantrum. I can't think of a time when I haven't been answered, somehow. It doesn't have to be a big deal - just enough, just a hint that life is worth living and fighting for. A few words - like last week when my sister told me she was proud of me. This meant more to me that I can possibly describe. I can't remember the last time someone told me they were proud of me, and certainly not for fighting a condition that the majority of people can't even understand and the situation she is in herself makes it the more poignant. I felt lifted up.

I forgot all this, as I always do in the darkness, when I wrote my post yesterday. I screamed out into the void because I needed someone to listen to me and I didn't think anyone was left that would. I should know better: into my inbox dropped an email from a complete stranger. Someone was there, someone was listening - a simple gesture of kindness that got me through the rest of the day. I'll always be grateful.

This is what it's all about, what I've wanted to blog about for so long and haven't been able to: there is so much to live for, so many people willing to reach out to one another. But you have to be willing to accept it when it comes - to work with the universe, embrace the little things, recognise the hope they offer and let them have a positive impact on your life. And then, take your own opportunities to give the same back - it's important. It's easy to think when you have depression that you have nothing to offer anyone, but that really isn't true. I think we tend to focus on the big gestures that we don't have the resources to make but it really doesn't take that much to help someone else: a smile, a greeting.. an email out of the blue. Just because you can't always see the impact it has on someone's life doesn't mean it hasn't had one.

I'm going to edit this later, and add to it as my first proper post on the new blog. Until then, I just want to utter another thank you to a random stranger and to the universe.

So, I wasn't going to post here again. But I don't want to write this on my new blog - I can't - I added family there and I really don't want to worry my family. The website is special to me, too: it's the better me, the 'whole' me.. well, the flashes of her that I sometimes get. That's probably why I've slowed down with it now it's come to writing content. I want to write happy, insightful things. But it's hard to write happy insightful things when all you can think is aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggh. Still, screaming's good for you, right?

I literally don't know what to do. I'm working so hard at being 'well' but I'm not even sure I know what well is. There's a bit of a family crisis going on, at the moment, I'm not going to go into details but it's not good. And it is more important than my depression. So, I tell the people involved that I'm fine and not to worry (although they still do). And I AM fine, comparatively. But, God, if I don't type these thoughts out I'm going to explode. It was dad's birthday yesterday, or would have been if he hadn't died nearly three years ago. I wasn't good the night before and was too close to self-harming. I was prodding at myself with scissors. See, my left wrist had been throbbing all day, it has been for a while, nagging to be cut. I had that before I started burning: the compulsion. I didn't do very well at fighting that, I'm doing better at fighting this thanks to the meds. But even as I'm typing this there's a constant dull ache to do it. But I didn't then, and I won't now, I painted - the thing I'm the worst at in the whole world. It was therapeutic and dire and distracting enough to calm me so I could sleep. Yesterday, the day itself, was actually better. I made myself go out, armed with a camera and the walking, sun and hours editing later left me in a better place.

So what the fuck is wrong with me today? Death is heavily on my mind: dad died a month to the day after his birthday and the aforementioned family crisis could be resulting in another one soon. I need to be strong, but I don't want to be strong. I saw the docs a week ago, mentioned I'd been suicidal - she asked me if I'd act on it. I won't. It would destroy people I care about. I said I didn't feel like I was staying alive for myself. I'm not sure how true that is, actually: I enjoy the good days, I take pleasure in the small things I do to occupy myself. It just isn't enough. I don't want to live with this constant feeling of emptiness, hoping and wishing things will change. I don't want to feel like a constant whining burden when I know so many people suffer more than I can even imagine. I'm tired of feeling half coshed and half agitated all the time, I'm tired of not having anyone to talk to about it. I'm sick of listening to myself moan.

I just don't know what the point is, at all.

Goodbye and Hello

Last week I decided to create my own website, just to see if I could.. it isn't finished yet but I'm pleased with the way it's working out. Anyway, I've decided to end this blog.. there will be a new blog on the website but I haven't decided if I'm going to be as frank about my feelings, I just haven't felt totally comfortable writing about them.

I'm going to hide my old posts and just start over, as 'me' .. no pseudo-identities. Fresh start, fresh clarity of mind.. we'll see.

See you in the new place, I hope.

www.detritusofthemind.com

Hello Darkness..

So, I'm up at 5am.. check my bank and work haven't paid my SSP. Now I'm panicking what that means and waiting for 9am so I can call and try to find out. I say try because getting a response from this company has never been easy. I tried to go part time a month or so back, but was told I hadn't been off long enough for them to consider it. Bewailing this fact to an online, American friend, who has been my closest support through all of this.. he told me about the situation in the US.. they get so many sick days and then they're out.. no government help. I felt pretty crappy.

I felt crappier still when he gently asked if it might not be better for me to work, rather than have so much time to sit and think. It upset me a lot. Only because I keep asking myself the same thing. I've worked since I was 16, in some form or another, alongside education. I've worked through some pretty bad lows where I've been pacing the office and lying down in the toilets unable to function (yay for being the only female in the building and having a room that is lockable and more hygienic than that sentence sounded). And shouldn't I keep doing so, rather than survive on what is essentially hand-outs? See, I thought time away from 'it all' would do me good, allow myself to find and then fix myself. Only it wasn't supposed to take this long, and it was supposed to be going a lot better than this.

I've had flashes, some really good weeks. Admittedly, I am better with a purpose: leafleting against the BNP, helping out with a homeless kitchen, demos and the like. I also sing with a band - we're not gigging yet, but writing and rehearsing (expect for most of May when I slumped and couldn't). I've learnt a lot about myself and I've done things I never thought I'd be able to, and am proud of. But I seem to have hit a block. Slowly the things that were giving me a purpose have dwindled, and I haven't had the impetus to seek out more. I am largely friendless, here, thanks to a nomadic lifestyle and a marriage that really excluded all else. My closest friendship seems to have become complicated, and awkward. Mental note: if your best friend is a boy, don't kiss him. I rely too much on online relationships, I know I do, and now I feel like those are being eroded too.

Everything I do takes so much effort, I panic if I have more than one thing to do a day. For example, I started going to church (that's a subject for another post) which is 11am on Sunday, but I also have band practise on Sunday.. usually 6-8pm.. I find it immensely hard to do both, even with so much time between. One appointment or activity can consume my whole day. Sustaining the ability to work consumed my whole life, until eventually I just couldn't hack it any more. But I feel incredibly guilty not working, and I constantly doubt my motives. I want to do something useful for 'the greater good' but have made no efforts as yet to work out how. I've considered long-term volunteering where I get a roof and board, but I'm scared to take that on while I'm still so flaky. I just want to do something where the reward is enough to get me out of bed on the bleak days. I suppose everyone wants that, shouldn't I just get on with things in the meantime? Especially as I have long-standing debts I need to sort out.

Problem is, I've been so busy trying to stabilise my financial situation I've lost sight of the bigger picture. I know I can't do this forever, but I just don't know what to do.

I'd quite like to stop crying, though.

Money, money, money..

So, on Monday I received a call from the Housing Benefits office to discuss my appeal against them not back dating my claim. They wanted proof that I have had depression from the time I claimed, 'No problem,' I say, 'I have a photocopy of the initial sick note. No good. 'We need a letter from your doctor or therapist. Oh.

So, I contact the therapist's office. We can certainly send a letter stating we've been seeing you, and the dates your therapy started, but we might not be able to put 'depression' on the letter - you'd have to talk to your GP about that. Letter arrived two days later, they are very efficient about things like that and I know it's not their fault that they can't do 'labels'. I call my current doctors. 'this pre-dates your time with us, you need to contact your previous GP' so, I do... 'oh, yes, we can do that' great! 'that'll be £20' ... um, I'll leave it for now.

So I've contacted the appeals team again to see what they say about my therapist's letter. I can't afford to pay £20 when the amount I'm claiming may not be awarded, and isn't exactly for lot of money anyway (my claim was processed on 12th April, I asked for it to be back-dated to the 8th March). That's like a week's food shopping. We'll see.

In other financial news, I have been awarded working tax credit (based on my full wage) of £36/week .. between that and housing benefit I can now pay rent.. I managed it last month without having to borrow from my sis, I was so happy!

Another Suitcase in Another Hall..

I've avoided blogging so far today because I felt it meant answering the question 'how did yesterday go?' and, honestly, I don't know how to. It was easier than expected which, for some reason, just made it emotionally harder.

We met the auction person at our old home but with the up-front costs required, it looks as if we're going to have to let the mortgage company take the house. This doesn't daunt me as much as it should, bankruptcy has been an inevitable part of my future for a long time now. I don't like that it's come to this, and do feel guilty, but there's nothing I can do about it, and I have nothing much to lose. Walking around the house we renovated together was odd, but that wasn't what made me sad.. we'd barely finished it before we left to run our own business, and it had never really felt like home. I think it was the comfortableness with each other that did it. Well, after he'd finished glaring at my scars and asking me why I did it in such a prominent place.. 'uh.. it was the first piece of skin available?' See, when I burn myself, I go out (can't smoke indoors) to my 'special' place.. this is not conducive to disrobing to injure secret places. Besides, the first time I burnt I was not thinking of the covering-up consequences, and it was colder.. so, long sleeves. The second time, well, is it weird to admit that the non-symmetry of the three previous burns was pissing me off? I know that there's going to be at least one more time, one more burn would make a star-design.. yeah, that sounds sad, right? I used to cut myself, well 'graze' is more accurate, with a key, across the top of my arm. Still do, sometimes, though it doesn't help like it used to. Much more hide-able. Not from a partner, though. He hasn't lost the same expression of bewilderment as he had that day, many years ago, when he first noticed.

Walter also caught me pinching at my skin in the car, 'you're not self-harming are you?' .. 'um.. no?' It's too hard to explain how it gets me through the day, and that most of the time I don't even know I'm doing it. I've come to realise that some people are either willing to understand, or not at all. Sadly, my husband was always of the 'pull yourself together' category, and no amount of explaining would change that. I knew it was hard for him, too. Before 'the end' I asked him to find a counsellor to speak to - to help him deal with me. He agreed, at first, then decided it wasn't him that needed fixing. He does try to make sense of it, sometimes, maybe more so now: 'I thought you'd be happy once you'd left me' .. but depression doesn't work like that, if that's what 'this' is (more on that some other time). I never blamed him for my depression, it just devastated me that we couldn't find some way through together, and I realised, gradually, that I needed something else. I needed space to be 'me' without repercussions: I met him at 18 - had never lived alone. I lost all sense of self, and there wasn't much of it to begin with.

In better news, the room opposite mine in the house-share has been empty for a while. The door was left ajar yesterday morning and a quick glance made me realise (a) how much bigger it was than mine and (b) how much better the furniture was. A quick call to the landlord later and I was given permission to move. Which took up the rest of the day following Walter's departure. A welcome physical distraction. I have a lot more of my stuff around me now and for the first time since September last year I have a sense of a 'homely' environment. Grateful as I am, I've still spent a good part of the day in tears. Looking through old photos perhaps didn't help..

And now that I feel more settled in my living accommodation, and another nail has been hammered into the coffin of my marriage, I return to the constant, unanswerable question.. 'so what happens now..?'

I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning

So today I'm going to see 'the ex' .. let's call him Walter (still following the Charlotte Perkins Gilman conceit.. but, honestly.. Walter?). Feels weird to call him 'the ex' as we're still, for all intents and purposes, married. Feels weirder still that this will be the first time I've seen him since October last year. Until my departure in September 2009, the longest we'd spent apart since 1997 was one week. Today he's bringing some more of my stuff (keyboard, camera, knitting.. I need things to do, dammit!) and we're going to our old home to meet with an auctioneer in a last attempt to get some equity before the mortgage company follows through on its threats to reclaim it.

And I'm sitting here trying to work out how I feel. I know why I left, and I know why I'm not going back. I don't have the emotional energy to blog about it right now, so you'll have to trust me that It Was For The Best and We Are Still Friends. But, I know today is going to be hard for both of us, how can it not be? We met when I was 18, that's a huge part of my life connected to someone else's. And Walter? (the name is still making me giggle) well, it wasn't his choice to finish it, really - although we mutually agreed by the end - and that weighs on my conscience. I hate making decisions, and that was a big one. On the bright side, given that I'm still crying like an idiot pretty much every day, maybe he'll be reminded why it wasn't so much fun having me around.

Oh well, only 4.5 hours until he arrives. Wish me luck.

You're Not Alone

So, I'm not very good at this blog-writing thing. I've honestly lost count of the times I've opened 'New Post' and it's sat in a tab on my browser all day while I distract myself in the wonderland that is the internet. It's not the first time I've experienced the inability to write. My ambition, for as long as I care to remember, was to be a novelist. Unless being a novelist means sitting in front of a blank screen banging your head on the desk, I haven't achieved it, yet.

The hardest thing about my personal experience with depression has been the slow eradication of concentration, until eventually it became a struggle to read a book or even watch a whole film. I miss reading the way I used to: devouring a whole book at one sitting, but I'm coming to terms with the fact it might be a long time before I'm back to that, if ever. Some days I get a glimpse of how it used to be, but most I'm barely able to read even a whole newspaper article. Which is why I spend most of my time on the internet. There's a lot online to distract my addled brain; twitter and facebook are my lifelines to the world. And there is just enough interaction to make me feel I'm achieving something, even if it's only passing another level of my new physics-based-puzzler addiction.

So, what have I been doing in the vast time between my last post and this? Well, my financial position is stabilising, somewhat. I've stopped having to borrow money from my sister to pay my rent. I have housing support, SSP from work and working tax credit in the pipeline. Forms are not fun. Forms are not fun even when you can concentrate. Forms are apparently not even fun to the caseworker I had briefly who missed some of the things I needed when helping me fill them in. But, it's done. There's always the threat of it all being taken away from me, but at the moment, I'm past caring.

Generally, I try to count the good things: I have a growing network of support, I've been out in the community and am trying to help (when I'm able), life is beautiful and people are immensely reachable if you smile at them and are prepared to listen to them. I know that, I really do. In the last few weeks I've danced, sang, chatted to 'vagrants', protested against racism, found my way to Church, laughed, and cried. I've been reminded of the person I used to be, way back when. I've seen my own frustrations with mental health blogged by someone much more eloquent than I (http://politicalparent.blogspot.com) and I know I'm not alone.

I know I'm not alone.

I know I'm not alone, even though my NHS therapist has pretty much told me they don't have the resources to help me. I know I'm not alone, even though it's going to be another month before my GP can tell me when I'm likely to be referred to the nurse that is the point of contact between her and the psychiatrist.

I know that when I wake from another nightmare, I can log in somewhere and there will be someone to talk to. I know that when I succumb to burning my skin again in frustration, someone will be there to give me a real or virtual hug. I know that my sister is only a phone call away, even though she has so much pain in her own life to deal with right now.

I know, I do know.. but if someone could tell the voice that echoes in my head 'it's all hopeless, it doesn't matter how much you fight - you're never going to win' - well, that would be nice.

Bad Day at Black Rock

Some days just suck. There's no getting away from it - trying to maintain a positive outlook isn't always going to cut it. But we can learn from the bad as well as the good, maybe better.

I've been signed off on the sick for 6 weeks now, and I've been trying to sort out some benefit entitlement. The good news is I should be able to claim. The bad news is there's so much form-filling and red-tape it's no wonder those that end up homeless are often the 'woolly minded' - there's been more than a few days these last few months where that option has seemed preferable to dealing with yet another government department. Still, I'm sure traipsing from one side of the city to the other, clutching various documents only to be told I need to provide more documents before my claim can be assessed (this is despite being helped by a housing support and advice caseworker to fill in the form) is good for the body if not the soul.

Not having made any kind of claim before, it is reassuring that there's help out there, but the system can be so confusing. All I can say is stick at it. I'll post more on this subject when I finally know where I stand.

What's it all about..?

Why am I adding another blog to the millions already out there? Well, firstly, because I think it will help me. Secondly, and more importantly, because I hope it might help someone else. Even if it's only one other person. That would be fantastic, pay it forward and so on..

I have depression. It's taken me many years to be able to say it so bluntly. I can trace it back, way back, to childhood. I'm 31 now and I'm only just starting to face up to it and be determined to get my life in order. Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been 31 years of total doom and gloom. But it hasn't been easy, either: what life is? I'm not writing this out of self-pity - though there will be more than a few moments of that, no doubt - I'm writing to attempt to document what I am going through, and hopefully make sense of some of it. My thoughts can become somewhat disordered, so it's good to have something to bring focus.

I'm writing under an assumed name, not because I'm bothered what people might think of me, but in case I inadvertently say something which might cause pain to someone else. I'd rather not have the fear of someone I know stumbling over my words without expecting it, I can write that much more honestly this way. Likewise assume that any other names mentioned have also been changed. My pseudonym and my Twitter tag are to pay homage to the American writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman, who wrote a short story The Yellow Wallpaper which had a profound affect on me the very first time I read it. As Wikipedia helpfully states: "The story depicts the effect of confinement on the narrator's mental health, and her descent into psychosis. With nothing to stimulate her, she becomes obsessed by the pattern and color of the wallpaper." It's an uncomfortable read but worth it.

I feel like I've embarked on a very long and lonely journey, this is my trail of breadcrumbs in case I lose my way, or others need to follow.