triggers » Confessions of a Serial Insomniac

Futility

Sep 062011

Don’t read this if you’re in a bad mood or have an aversion to pointless, inane, self-indulgent whining.

—

Breathing. Awake – awake almost all the time. Out of bed – somehow. Eating – just. Disillusioned. Hermitting. Ruminating, especially during the wee small hours, swathed as I am in darkness, both literal and figurative, about suicide – spent all last night thinking about the film The [Golden Gate] Bridge, and kept seeing my body flying off it. Too exhausted and fed up to do anything about it, not enough money to buy petrol never mind a flight to California (jumping from GGB causes a horrid death anyhow. There are better ways to go). Avoiding laptop as if it carried Ebola (I haven’t opened it since Thursday or Friday and this is being written on my phone) – I’m positively belligerent towards the poor, innocent thing right now, which is most unusual. Weepy – again, most unlike me. Obsessed with idea that my mother will die – it fills with me with a profoundly horrified dread and deep sorrow that I cannot quantify. Very worried about her on a more rational level due to an arthritis flare-up. Triggered and disturbed by a few things I’ve seen lately. Possibly experiencing tactile hallucinations, but not sure. No other obvious psychotic symptoms. IBS, migraines and knee pain strongly in evidence. Back and neck aren’t good either. Psychosomatic, I suppose. Same nett effect as if issues were organic, though. Intoxicated by the sounds of the wind and the rain – the only positive release and escapism other than reading. Yes, reading! Shockingly I can do this, for which I give my heartfelt and eternal thanks to God(s) in whom I don’t believe. Can’t write, as this spiel of complete shit attests. Lonely but paradoxically desperately desirous of no social interaction at all. Shut down FB – more particularly, not using Twitter or G+, which means things are bad. No idea what’s going on outside my tiny little house and really, honestly, truly don’t care. An aberration for a news and current affairs junkie, surely.

I’ve been at best ambivalent and at worst actively hostile about the future of this blog lately. I go through periods where I loathe it, then others where I remember how truly important to me it is, and how markedly therapeutic it has generally been. I was going to delete the whole thing on Friday night, then again on Saturday, but must have retained some semblance of sanity because I realised (admittedly with some advice from Twitter) that I wasn’t in the correct frame of mind to make a big decision like that.

But I might take a break. Might not. Can’t say. Can’t think straight, don’t care about much, in love with the idea of complete unconsciousness, too fatigued to be angry, useful, or remotely coherent or interesting company.

Odd sense of déjà vu.

Psychiatrist in morning. Logically know this is timely and necessary, realistically dreading the living fuck out of it. Mother’s house afterwards. Unfortunately some McFauls will be there. Cannot avoid them as I need to make sure mother is OK. Hopefully there will be no Paedo though. Christine next week some time. Have so far failed to contact Nexus about renewing therapy as I promised her I would, because I’m avoiding contact with anyone (other that A, in person, and mother, by text message), regardless of reason.

Sorry this is such an unmitigated pile of hot, steaming wankshit. Thought I ought to advise those of you that inexplicably give a damn about me that I do, in fact, still exist. Thanks for comments on recent posts, tweets if you’ve sent them (I haven’t checked, sorry) and whatnot. You do mean a lot to me, I hope you all do know that – I just can’t be part of this world right now.

Much love

Pan <3 xxx

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Will I be Forced Back to Work?

Finances, Life, Moods, Triggers, Work 27 Responses »

Feb 032011

***Beware of triggers: self-harm and (potential) benefit loss***

You may recall that a few weeks ago I wrote about how the delightful Social Security Agency (SSA) had managed to fuck up my ongoing claim for Employment and Support Allowance (ESA) rather epically. The bloke to whom I spoke on that occasion advised that I would get the money owed to me since the fucking 12th of October within a week.

Did I? Did I fuck.

In light of their continued failures, I sent my ma a text message from the Republic last week asking her to ring them and find out what was going on. I was fairly sure that they wouldn’t tell her anything – a correct assumption, as it turned out – but still, I figured that it was worth letting the fuckers know that I hadn’t forgotten that they owe me over a fucking grand, so I got her to ring despite the likelihood that they’d reveal fuck all to her. In the end, they shockingly did advise Mum that they would get one of their people to phone me by Tuesday of this week; ie. 1st February.

No such phone call was forthcoming, of course, but as I was driving home yesterday (Wednesday), a blocked number did call. Of course as I was behind the wheel I didn’t answer it (though I’ve been known to do so in the past, to my shame), but when I got home I checked the answering machine straightaway. The message that had been left confirmed that the call was from someone who, it seemed, was allied to the relevant governmental department. On those grounds – ie. because I wanted to know when I was actually going to be deigned worthy of payment – I returned the call.

Oh dear.

I should have recognised the woman’s name from back in 2009. I should have known that she was not ringing about the SSA’s pathetic yet monumental fail. I should not have called her back.

Because she is not involved with payment of ESA, or any other out-of-work benefit. She is there to get people back to work.

I’m not sure if I ever explained exactly what happened about this matter. I did rant a bit about it here, and a little more here. To cover it again in a very rudimentary sort of way (more details are here), there are two ‘groups’ of ESA – the ‘work’ group and the ‘support’ group. If you are placed in the former, you are considered to have ‘limited’ capacity to work; if the latter, you are essentially considered incapable of employment for the foreseeable future. I was initially placed in the work group; I appealed against this, and I won (see the second link at the start of this paragraph), thus seeing me placed in the ‘support’ group.

Those in the work group are required to undertake wanky “work focused interviews”, which are allegedly voluntary for those in the support group. When I first received correspondence from the woman that rang me yesterday, she had invited me to one. At the time, I wrote back and said that I was way too batshit to cope with such an eventuality, and she kindly agreed to postpone it for 18 months.

So here we are, o my little brothers. The 18 months is fucking up. Which would be terrifying but at least understandable if I was still considered to have ‘limited capacity’ for work – but I’m not. I’m supposed to be too mental to work at all, as the SSA themselves fucking decided.

I rang the woman – let’s call her Pamela – and quite innocently started wanking on about my ESA claim, wondering if she could confirm when it would be paid. She listened to me without interruption, to be fair, but when I finally shut my gob, she explained that she effectively has nothing to do with social security payments and was in fact calling about work focused interviews. Did I recall, she asked, the correspondence with her about a year and a half ago in this regard?

My blood ran cold. I could almost visualise blocks of deep red ice falling out of me, tantalising me into a deeper madness. In a reverse of what are apparently cultural norms, I saw my future – not my past – flash before me. A Mental Bird being talked to by things that aren’t there and dissociating into a fucking child nervously opens the door to a large, cold office. The assorted, hard-nosed personnel turn to see The New Girl, staring her up and down, making crude and probably cruel judgements within seconds. The voices, probably rightly, scream at the Mental Bird about how much her new colleagues already regard her with utter contempt. They chatter, chatter, chatter – louder and louder – until the cacophony builds to a sickening crescendo that sends the Mental Bird running out of the office screaming. Bye, job. Bye, sanity. Bye, benefits. Hello, increased dosage of anti-psychotics. Hello, crisis team. Hello, hospital. Hello…suicide?

I must have thus ruminated for a few seconds, because Pamela broke through my thoughts. ”It’s not a job interview or anything like that, Pandora,” she was saying.

“Right,” I murmured, pointlessly, pathetically and frustratingly submissively.

“It’s just…well, its just to see where we are with things, and how I can help.”

“Right.”

“I’ve sent the appointment letter out…if that date doesn’t suit you, sure you can let me know.”

“OK.”

In fairness to her, she is actually quite nice. Having explained the situation with my lack of ESA payments to her, she said she would ring the fuckwits responsible for same and attempt to ascertain what had happened – and when I should expect to receive the back payment.

“Can I call you back on this number?” she queried.

“Yes,” I said, with that same empty, obedient blankness.

When I had hung up, I sat down on the sofa and stared into space in a sickened daze. I simply can’t go back to work. I mean, I want to go back to work, and as noted with Paul in week 11, that is what I’m trying to work towards. But I can’t do it yet, no matter what the consequences. I have to sort my head out first, otherwise not only am I screwed, but my potential employers aren’t exactly going to have gained much advantage either.

So much ran through my mind, though if you’d seen me, you could have been forgiven for thinking I was catatonic. I thought of Ali Quant’s post on her proposed way out if her benefits were removed (ie. suicide), and how I now identified even more than ever with what she’d written. I thought of the lovely Phil Groom and his admirable idea to save her, which has now morphed into the wonderful charity-to-be, 5 Quid for Life. I thought of One Month Before Heartbreak and my own post for that campaign.

I had always known that all this stuff was worryingly close to home – but I thought I had a little bit of breathing space before it was knocking right on my own door. That particular illusion has now been well and truly shattered, as if someone has thrown a rather large rock at a rather small mirror.

Once again, my nihilistic thoughts were interrupted. This time it was Pamela phoning back, having contacted the cunts at the ESA branch. She said that they were unable to give her any explanation as to why things had fucked up, but that they had claimed that they were checking the final details of the claim (given that the backpay is so large), and that I would get the money by what is now today at the lastest (I haven’t). I thanked her for looking into the matter for me and rang off.

I spent the rest of the afternoon lying on the sofa with a tension headache of migraine-esque proportions. Not only can I not go back to work, I don’t know how I can even so much as meet this woman. I can’t bear the idea of it. It’s alright for her to say that it’s informal and friendly, but when speaking to anyone beyond your partner, therapist and, arguably, mother seems an impossible task, how can it be reasonably done with a complete stranger who by virtue of her job is meant to at least encourage you into something that is, for now, inherently dangerous?

When A arrived home, he had already read my despairing tweets on the matter. He offered to attend the meeting with me, which may be beneficial, and believes that it’s probably an exercise in civil service box-ticking. Maybe so, but it seems horrific to me that the simple act of a tick on some cunt of a form is allowed to create such appalling distress in those to whom it relates. I’ve said this before but I’ll say it again: can’t they just contact one’s consultant or GP if they need to confirm your illness or disability? And in any case, if I’m supposed to be in the ‘support group’, why the fuck am I apparently required to do this? As noted above, it is supposed to be voluntary for such claimants. Have they fucked up my particular group designation as well as the last three months of my income?

I couldn’t sleep last night, so at about 3.30am I knocked back a Zopiclone. Mercifully, it worked – but when I awoke today it was with great horror and dismay. Out of the corner of my eye, I happened to notice my old friend the scalpel sitting there. I thoughtlessly picked it up, and within seconds was cutting my lower arms to complete shreds. When I say ‘thoughtlessly’, I mean it in the most literal of senses; I didn’t think “oh, I should self-harm here, yay” – I merely acted. Perhaps it was as if I were a robot – behaviour on rote, I suppose, with apparently nothing to actually consider. As I later sat with disinfectant and bloodied paper towels lying all around me, in a classic example of “too little, too late,” I considered what I had done. I had cut my arms, which not my MO at all. The actions of my subconscious now seemed cynical, even manipulative; if I was self-harming to relieve anxiety (and, to be fair, I think at least to some extent I was), then why not cut my abdomen or upper legs as normal? Why slice my arms? Stupid, pathetic, borderline, attention-seeking freak. I have clearly cut myself in this particular location in order to ensure that people will see the fucking things (even though this evening, when out for coffee with A, I went to great pains to try to hide the fuckers).

I am scared. I am really, really scared. I don’t blame Pamela; she’s just the messenger, doing her job as dictated by our wonderful cunterngovernnment. But whoever is to blame, I am still – potentially – in a great deal of trouble here. I am making progress in therapy, but I am very far from recovery – nowhere near enough to even begin to deal with basic human interactions, nevermind the complex stresses often observed within working environments. If I have to go back to work or face losing my benefits, I have no idea what I will do. The ‘s’ word strokes my mind from the fringes, despite the campaign that has resulted from Ali Quant’s discussion on same (see above). One way or another, I don’t think I can cope with the worry, the degradation, the anxiety and the results of everything that this impending meeting is likely to bring.

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Benefit Claim EPIC FAIL

Finances, Triggers 39 Responses »

Jan 192011

Finances utterly depress me, a reality that makes them even more impossible to understand that they were in the first place. For the past few months I seem to have gone right to the line of no income, despite the fact that Employment and Support Allowance (ESA) and Disability Living Allowance (DLA) should, together, provide me with a decent-ish income. I mean, their existence doesn’t allow me to live any sort of luxurious life, as some right-wing commentators appear to erroneously opine. But, until fairly recently, they allowed me to survive financially; my basic needs, cautious payments of debts and even the occasional treat were all within my budget.

However, mental illness that includes a large and chronic dollop of depression makes keeping track of these matters, something of which other people seem to be vaguely capable, very difficult. Especially during the winter, when depression, anhedonia and listlessness seem to reign supreme. This is a typically pretentious and verbose way of me saying that I haven’t been keeping track of my finances at all of late.

Sometime in November, I started to struggle with money even more than normal. I blamed it on the then-upcoming capitalist festival that is Christmas, and on occasional on pretty expensive expenditures such as flights, and didn’t really think much more about it. By December, I was kind of perplexed by just how little money there consistently was in my account, but I still didn’t have the wit/couldn’t face any form of investigation into same, and continued trying to evade my debtors – something at which I became extremely adept as a student.

However, today I received a text message from my bank informing me that I had received a payment and since this is a Wednesday, I assumed that this was my monthly DLA payment (which it indeed turned out to be). Its arrival caused me to casually wonder if this fortnight’s ESA had arrived – and for the first time since I moved to e-banking and statements, I decided to check.

After the usual faffing about of forgetting my username, password and PIN that grant me access to my account, I was finally presented with the dubious details of same. I clicked the link to statements, and a dull, code-like document duly stared back at me, mocking me with its desultory language of numbers. I ignored this frustrating but expected element of the matter and read it, looking for ESA payments from the Social Security Agency (SSA) of doom.

There were none to be seen.

I went further back – back to last month’s statement. Maybe they paid me double before Christmas, similar to the way that employers pay December’s salary at that point rather than at the traditional end-of-month juncture.

But there were still no references to it to be seen, aside from a pathetic cold weather payment of £25 (because that’s really going to pay for all the fucking oil incurred during those seemingly interminable hideous weeks of snow and ice).

By this time I was in a state of panic. Oh my fucking God. They didn’t re-approve the application and they didn’t tell me. Fucking hell. Oh God almighty. I’m going to have to go to one of those evil, suicide-inducing social security tribunals of fucking evil. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. They think I am some dolescum waster. They don’t believe me, they think I’m a liar! I’m not, this is real! Fucking real! Jesus! Why do they think this? Who have they spoken to? Oh my God. I’m going to have to kill myself, I can’t afford to even pay off a fraction of my debts without ESA, never mind actually bloody well live…etc etc etc.

Filled with trepidation, I went back to October’s statement. And there it was: ESA, paid at the normal support group rate. But – the last payment was on the 12th of October. For the calendar-understanding-challenged amongst us, that is over three months ago!

I could hardly breathe. October was at about the time they had inexplicably asked me to apply for a renewed application of the benefit, so it seemed definite that they had received the 7,000,000 light-year long form and decided it was full of lies, or that my ability to even half-complete it demonstrated occupational competency. I say that their request for a re-application was ‘inexplicable’ because, after I had threatened to appeal their earlier decision to allocate me to the work group, they had backed down only in June 2010 and agreed that I was, in fact, meant to be in the so-called support group (here is an explanation of the support versus the work group, if you care). What could they think had realistically changed in a mere four months?

12th October. I was sure that they should at least have informed me of their decision to cancel or otherwise withhold the payment. To that end I quickly navigated to their website to look for an email address to which I could direct a complaint and a request for clarification.

Not that I found one, but as I looked anyway, my panicked mind at least allowed me to consider one rational point: these are the most fuckwitted people in the Northern Irish public sector, which believe me is fuckwitted enough in the first place. If I were to email them, they wouldn’t respond until about August 2038 – if they even responded at all, that is, employing the old excuse of, “oh, I never got that email…”

I knew then that I would have to phone them. This is about as bad as it gets. My serious and extremely debilitating phone phobia has not reduced in any way since I first discussed it here – if anything, I hate and fear it all the more. The thing is evil.

But what choice did I have? For some horrible reason, I’d just discovered I’d lost three months’ worth of my income! The ridiculous situation had to be resolved, and had to be resolved quickly.

So I reluctantly picked up the phone, my anxiety building, my revulsion at the device in my left hand palpable. Even Boy Cat looked at me as if the few marbles that I’d somehow hitherto retained were now lost. I ignored his cynical glare and dialled the number.

It rang. And then:

Hello, welcome to the Employment and Support Claim Line. Please note that this number only accepts calls from new claimaints, and cannot deal with enquiries regarding existing claims. Please also note that we are unable to transfer calls relating to existing claims to the relevant department [yes, that is a supremely difficult task, after all. You don't just press 'Transfer' and enter an extension or anything, do you? No, you must first outline the mathematics of the theory of relativity on the telephone's key pad, then type out War and Peace on same as if you were writing an exceptionally long text message. Demanding stuff, indeed]. If you are calling regarding a pre-existing claim, please call 6-21-3-11 25-15-21. For all new claimaints, please hold the line and have your National Insurance number ready…

I audibly cursed the day that Innocenzo Manzetti or Antonio Meucci or Alexander Graham Bell or whoever actually invented the damn thing took his or her first breath. Though the fact that the actual inventor of it is so heavily contested presumably proves that some other hateful being would have invented the piece of shit sooner or later anyway. Not, to be fair, that it’s their fault that the Social Security Agency are wankers, but who cares? They still suck donkey balls.

I dialled the second number in a dysphoric mix of near-paralysing anxiety and rage.

Hello, and welcome to the Employment and Support Allowance Customer Service line. This line is only for existing claimaints and we are unable to deal with queries relating to new claims. Neither are we able to direct new claimaints to the relevant department. If you are a new claimaint, please call 19-21-3-11 13-25 4-9-3-11. For pre-existing claimaints, please hold the line and have your National Insurance number ready.

I did, and I had.

Thank you for holding! We are sorry, but all our lines are busy at the minute. Please phone back later. We are open from 9am to 5pm on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday, and from 10am to 5pm on Thursday. [I'm sure you do really useful stuff during that extra hour on Thursdays]. Thank you for calling. Goodbye!

Cunts. Such complete and utter cunts. I called again. And again. And again. And again. And AGAIN!

On my seventh call, having got through the above message, I was presented with this:

Thank you for holding. All our Customer Service Representatives [!!!] are busy with other callers at the moment, and your call is in a queue. Please hold, and someone will be with you as soon as possible.

The false cheer in the robot-woman’s voice made me want to stomp round to their offices, establish her identity, and then rearrange either her face or her motherboard, depending on the type of voice she represented. I waited.

Twice more she rolled out this patronising bollocks, her mutterings interspersed with enraging repetitions of Vivaldi. But hark! Hark! Finally I heard actual ringing. Who knew it was even possible?!

Of course, this suggested that I would soon have to speak, and thus my infernal wrath subsided back into extreme panic once again. Given that I claim benefits for being mental rather than being fucking raging, this was on reflection probably a good thing.

A miserable, fed-up sounding git apparently called Jonathan eventually answered. He asked me my National Insurance number and about 28,000 security questions before finally establishing that I was, shockingly, actually me.

“How can I help you today, Ms Serial-Insomniac?” he asked insincerely and distractedly.

Through tears, stammers and a general inability to articulate myself in any meaningful way, I explained to our righteous and good friend Jonathan that I had been very unwell over the last few months, and to that end had only today realised that his organisation had failed to pay me any money since 12th October.

“I’m supposed to be in the support group, but you asked me to re-claim only a few months later anyway, I don’t know why. I sent the form and everything, but never heard anything from yourselves, so I assumed everything was in order. Could you please explain what has happened?”

The above paragraph is redacted to remove all the ‘ums’, ‘ahs’, sobs, stammers and nose-blows that characterised it.

I heard Jonathan clattering something into the keyboard he presumably had in front of him. Then he said, “just hold on a minute.”

Silence overtook the line. It made a refreshing change from robot-woman and Vivaldi, at least.

Jonathan was gone for approximately three minutes, during which time my epic foray into hyperventilation and neurosis continued completely unabated. Eventually, his now surprisingly apologetic voice returned to the line.

“Are you still receiving DLA, Ms S-I?” he asked.

I responded in the affirmative.

“OK,” he said, “something’s gone wrong here. It seems that there’s been a glitch between our systems and the DLA systems, resulting in the suspension of payments to your account. I’ll send this information over to the Maintenance Department and get it sorted for you.”

“Does that mean that I haven’t lost the benefit, then?” I queried.

“Oh no,” he replied, fairly categorically. ”It’s just been a glitch in the system. I’ll pass it over to Maintenance, and you should get the money within a week.”

I thanked him for his help, and was – praise be to Christ – able to end the hateful call. I assume that at this point I was meant to feel reassured, and I suppose part of me did, but there were two issues with which I then had to contend. Firstly, if the SSA can make such a monumental fuck up for three fucking months, then can easily fuck up the sending of the payment that they now apparently realise is owed to me. Secondly, the whole stress of finding out I hadn’t been paid for so long, believing that I had lost the benefit altogether, and making the God-forsaken phone call(s), had rendered me a tearful, exhausted, anxiety-ridden, depressed mess. Even more so than usual, that is.

Seconds later A, who was home early from a meeting, walked through the front door and I collapsed into his arms, explaining through more stammers and breathlessness what had just happened.

To my surprise, A congratulated me. He felt that the fact I was able to make the phone call at all was a fact worthy of positive regard. Furthermore, when I relayed brief details of the afternoon’s catalogue of idiocy on Twitter, someone else said the same. Now that I have calmed down somewhat, I can see their point: I actually do feel quite pleased with myself. It was a massive ask of me, and I did it. Not, however, that the experience has in any way given me renewed confidence in using the bloody phone, of course. It has simply reinforced my utter abhorrence of the despicable piece of shit.

I think I’m owed about £1,300, which is certainly something to be welcomed. If it arrives as good Jonathan suggested it would, it will help assuage the demands of those bastards hunting my arse for the money they’re owed, and should even give me enough to live on for a bit, especially if normal ESA payment resumes fortnightly as it should.

It’s a big ‘if’, though. I don’t understand why the ESA and DLA payments should even be linked in the first place; they are entirely separate benefits. Still, let’s hope that it was something as simple as stated, and let’s just see if they can manage to acquit themselves with any competence now that the complaint has been flagged up with their oh-so-wonderful personnel…

Oral Rape Flashback From a Seemingly Innocuous Trigger

Life, Sexual Abuse, Traumatic Stuff, Triggers 21 Responses »

Jan 132011

***Possible triggers, as if you hadn’t guessed***

I’m so tired and miserable. I want to sleep – forever. Accept that any way you will. I don’t like this consciousness. I don’t like this life. In some of my brighter moments, I delude myself into thinking it might get better through a combination of therapy and medication. In my darker moments, I find that suggestion laughable – well, I would, if I were able to laugh. Either way, it always come back to this. The darkness always comes, even if it’s occasionally interspersed with mere clouds (or, very rarely, actual sunshine).

If the simple act of brushing your teeth can, in an instant, send a person knock a person back in time by over 20 years, what hope is there for that person? I was just brushing my teeth. All that happened was that I swallowed the foam creating by the toothpaste – unfortunately it caught somewhere in my throat, I couldn’t clear it instantly, and I ended up choking humiliatingly for several minutes.

As this went on for a few seconds, I was in my bathroom. Without warning, though, I was no longer in my bathroom. In one fraction of a nanosecond I was a child again – a child in the midst of a terrifying, perplexing and seemingly life-threatening horror. I was in that lane at the side of their garage, aged maybe five or six, being fucked in the mouth by him. Choking. Gasping for breath. I’m trying to move…that thing…out of my mouth, but he pushes it further in, and pushes me even harder against that sort of spikey wall. I can’t get away. Please help me. Spluttering. Spit and stuff is dribbling down my chin. It goes deeper again. I’m still choking, even worse now. Sweating, gasping, whimpering, dying…please let it stop. Please, God, I’m sorry. Whatever I did I’m sorry. Please let it stop, please. Just let me die if that’s what it takes for it to stop, if you want me to die than that’s OK. Cough, splutter, cough cough. Gurgle choke…I can’t breathe. I’m choking. I think I’m dying. Please let me be. Please let it stop…

I don’t know how long it lasted. Too long, whatever the case. Half a second is too long to go through that. Whatever the case, I was rendered a mute, shaking wreck in its aftermath anyway. The sheer degradation of the imagery is some of the worst of it all, though the sensations of being choked half to death are hardly exhilarating and drenched in fun either.

I sat down in bed for a while and just…I don’t know. Existed? I then lay in bed and started cuddling my teddy bear like the pathetic little child that I apparently am. I eventually ‘came round’ enough to read a little and, surprisingly sensibly, take a hefty dose of Zopiclone.

And so to today. I was crudely awoken by an alarm I’d forgotten I’d set on my iPhone. For a few moments, I pondered where I was – the room initially seemed unfamiliar. I sleep in a single bed in Mum’s house. My Little Pony on the wallpaper. Or else…well, sometimes I sleep there. But not here, I don’t know this place. Where is it?! Where have they taken me?! Oh, wait Pan (Aurora?) – that was then, this is now. You’re actually nearly 30 now and you’re in your partner’s house, in his bedroom and in his bed. Oh. Oh good. I will be safe here, then? Well…yes. I think so, yes. But I wasn’t safe last night, was I? *whimpering* Um…well. No. No. I suppose you weren’t. [Long pause]. But don’t worry, you’re OK now. Really? Do you mean it? Yes, I mean it. I mean it absolutely. OK then – if you say so. Thanks.

But wait. Fuck! I recalled with horror as I lay there that I had agreed to go to my mother’s house today. Nothing unduly awful about that, you might say. However, the conversation I had had last night with her on the heinous device that is the telephone had revealed to me that the McFauls would be at her house when I arrived.

For the record, Paedo was not going to be one of those in attendance. It was due to be my aunt Maisie, cousin Sarah, cousin-once-removed Suzanne, and cousins-twice-removed Marcus (almost three) and Sean (almost one). Fine? Hmm. Not really. You can’t avoid at least hearing of Paedo, and with a hideous flashback so forefront in my mind, and Aurora’s co-conscious uncertainty underpinning much of my thinking, I knew that merely seeing those who had intimate acquaintance with him would be deeply triggering.

I picked up my iPhone, intending to call my mother and tell her I wasn’t coming. The idea of facing Paedo’s family seemed like a cross too huge to bear. Instead I quite typically failed: I just stared at the thing, before whinging about my unfortunate circumstances on Twitter.

Anyhow, it’s not my mother’s fault – nor the fault of the McFauls who were visiting – that I was, and am, a mess. So I got up, got dressed and left.

I tried to avoid a lot of conversation with those assembled, but it was of course impossible. They enjoy talking. Why? Why?! What is there to say that is even remotely worthwhile in this sickening universe of shite? Besides, ‘They’ and Aurora were keeping a running commentary up in my head, as they have been doing for about 24 hours now, and not blurting the whole sorry story out to the fuckers was a frustratingly difficult undertaking.

Yet I managed to keep my gob shut on that point, hard as it was. In fact, at one point when I got a second to myself, I was acutely

—

Sorry, I just had another major choking fit right now. The memories invaded my head, though it didn’t become an out-an-out flashback. It lacked the ‘realness’, the sense of it being ‘now’, the physical sensations – but the images still drilled themselves deeply into my psyche in the few minutes that the choking fit went on for. My mother dashed from her position on the other sofa to help me; she was (and is) on the phone. When I recovered and she returned to her call, she said to the individual with whom she is conversing, “Pan often takes these terrifying choking fits, usually for no obvious reason.”

Really? Do I? My mother has been known to be guilty of embellishment on occasion, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt on this occasion. If this really happens a lot, and happens randomly at that, then that is very odd. Potentially telling.

‘Telling’ of something I’m sure I don’t like.

—

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was acutely aware of how well I was acting my fit-in-with-the-world part in front of the McFauls. I’ve written about my ability to mask my illnesses, trauma and symptoms a lot on this blog; I am very, very good at it. But it is fallacious, utterly fallacious. It is such a ridiculously huge construct. It isn’t real. Am I even real when I do it? Am I even real at any point? What is ‘real’ anyway?

One of the things that bothered me most today was seeing Marcus and, especially, Sean. Sean is so small and innocent and sweet (that I think him ‘sweet’ nauseates me, but it is not his fault). I had these utterly repugnant images of Paedo doing that to him and I flew into a panicked rage – though a panicked rage I hid well from the others, as usual.

I should re-iterate that I think the likelihood of Paedo being ‘active’ towards either of these children – or any others – these days is infinitesimal to non-existent. It is my mind that is the trouble here, rather than any nefarious intentions from him. I see these grotesque images. I am even sicker than I thought. How can my mind even begin to think of that tiny little baby being raped by that cunt? IT IS VILE. I AM VILE.

Paul will tell me on Monday that I am not vile, but Paul will be wrong. Paul and I may try to utilise our therapy sessions to make me ‘realise’ that I am ‘not at fault’ for what happened in my childhood, but in the (in my current mindset unlikely) event that that does happen, that doesn’t – it can’t – stop the images or, indeed, the actual returns to being there. I will always see it. I will probably always feel it. Paul is skilled, and perhaps he can make things better – but he can’t make it not have happened. It will always have happened. I will always be stained.

I can’t be arsed to proof-read this. Sorry.

And So It Begins

Nexus, Paul, Sexual Abuse, Traumatic Stuff, Triggers 18 Responses »

Oct 142010

Do Not Read This. I Will Probably be Embarrassed by it in a Few Minutes and Privatise or Delete it.

****Triggers of Whinging, Self-Obsessed Nihilism and Child Abuse or Some Such Bollocks, I Don’t Really Know What This Fucking Wank is About But I Know That You Should Not Actually Read it Because it Sucks and isn’t Very Nice. Ta****

(And I Appear to Fail at Title Case, Sorry).

I can’t face it. I was wrong when I told Paul and everyone else that I could. My cheery optimism yesterday was a fallacy that deluded even me, if only temporarily.

Hope? Fuck that. Fuck hope. Hope is a deliberate, if admittedly unconscious, self-deception on the part of the human race to make us feel better about the pointlessness and meaningless of our pathetic existences on this sorry plane. We are encouraged to feel it in the face of adversity by others who’s apparent altruism is selfishness in costume. There is no such thing as altruism either – it’s yet another construct we have developed over evolutionary eons to ease our woes. I exemplify that point that we exist purely as creatures of self-absorption really rather well.

There’s so much more to IT than what I have declared here, or verbally, or whatever. Some of it is clear, some of it is not, but try as I might to fight it as being real, I fear that it is. I know some of it is. I can’t believe some of the rest of it is, but I’m scared that it is. I would rather be the most deranged, deluded, twisted fantasist in the whole of existence than accept some of this as real.

I’m not stupid. Well, yeah, I am actually, but still, I know that things happen in the world that are Not Very Nice. But do they happen to me? Of course not. Liar. Fantasist. Making it all up. How can my mind think these evil, sordid things?

Except that it probably did happen to me, didn’t it? Fuck. Minds don’t just invent stuff like this, however sick and twisted I know mine to be.

How can you have hope in the face of an existence marred by this? You can’t.

I am not capable of dealing with this. I am not strong enough to deal with this. I am not smart enough to deal with this. I am not GOOD enough to deal with this. I do not deserve to feel better and frankly I don’t want to either. I don’t even have a real illness. It’s all apparently because of trauma. Fucking bollocksfuckwankshitcuntbastardtwat.

The 4th of October plan should have been executed (pun intended).

[Deleted about twenty-zillion paragraphs of self-hating whinging]

I’d written a pile of other bollocks too, but it’s just even more pointless drivel. I don’t even know why I’m writing, never mind publishing this absolute cack. But there you have it.

I am pleased for the Chilean miners, if that random piece of information counts for anything, but I still don’t believe in hope, sorry.

I will regret this rant in a minute.

Anxiety: Boxed-Up and Triggered

Moods, Traumatic Stuff, Triggers 15 Responses »

Jun 212010

I am (barely) recovering, thanks to the chemical assistance of Diazepam, from the worst anxiety attack I’ve suffered in months. One minute I was sitting here minding my own business, the next I could barely breathe.

What triggered it? It’s stupid, really. All that happened was that A decided he would clear out two big boxes in which I throw things – either for hoarding purposes, or because I can’t be arsed dealing with them. What a preposterous, utterly ridiculous thing to induce a panic attack.

I feel dreadful. I feel better than I did 10 minutes ago, but I still feel dreadful. My head is fuzzy; nothing seems real – not me, not the world. Ah, depersonalisation and derealisation, my old friends. Welcome back. Not. You have not been missed. (NB. These states are not induced by the Diazepam; I felt this way before I took it).

My chest is still heavily constricted, and I find myself forced to take long, slow breaths in order to obtain any at all.

I have a vile, flat, metallic-y sort of taste in my mouth. Slightly salty, a little watery. Tingly. It wasn’t there before this attack, but it is a sensation I know intimately from other occasions. There’s something at the back of my throat; it’s as if something is trapped, like I want to gag.*

The hypervigilance that characterises some of my C-PTSD symptoms is here in droves that are comparable to armies. The TV, my medication alarm, even the distant sound of one of the cats stirring quietly in its sleep is sending me into cosmic levels of freak-out.

I feel a repugnant nausea to my core and my nerve endings are alert to the point where my skin is actually sore to the touch. It’s compounded by a sense of inner restlessness that is essentially and atrociously unquantifiable (although I suppose it slightly reminds me of akathisia).

I’m horribly irritable, shrieking mindlessly at things for no reason and banging around the place like some sort of bloody barbarian.

Oh yeah, and there’s the whirlwind that my thoughts and cognitive processes presently are. I am trying to work out what has triggered this batshitiness. Paedo and his depravity keep entering my mind, but that makes no sense. Something as inane as this has nothing to do with Paedo. A spring clean [I cut off here mid-sentence when that phrase suddenly resonated in my head. I was going to write 'a spring clean has nothing to do with any of what he did to me'.]

No, wait! ’A spring clean’. A spring clean. That rings a bell; that most ordinary of phrases for this most ordinary of acts rings a bell about something deeper, something darker. I can’t work it out completely, but there are hazy images somewhere in here of my aunt talking about ‘spring cleaning’ and of her husband’s wrinkled, grey, perhaps even expectant face hovering about at the edge of my peripheral vision. I don’t remember anymore. But there’s something there, oh yes. Something.

Fuck. FUCK THIS! FUCK IT TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH AND FUCKING BACK AGAIN AND THEN FUCK IT SOME MORE.

I hate that I still don’t remember all of this stuff, I hate that I dissociated so much of it away. I feel like I have no control of triggers, of life events – fuck, of life itself - if I have no conscious recall.

The attack also acutely reminded me that this is far from the first time I have reacted in a similar fashion to simple, everyday clear-outs and clean-ups. I recoil in horror when my mother asks me to examine my remaining possessions at her house. I have vague memories from when I was growing up of being constrained by overwhelming and indescribable disquiets every time she asked me to clear out my wardrobes, under the bed, the toy cupboards or whatever.

Indeed, the two boxes that A was clearing out tonight have sat in the kitchen looking at me and demanding my attention for the past week, and I have quite deliberately avoided dealing with them. As I always do. Always.

I had never realised before this day, this hour, how much of a pattern this avoidant behaviour is. Even if I had, I suppose that I probably would have thought little of it beyond my self-confessed laziness.

But…can this really be about child abuse? Seriously?! I mean, that’s…well, it’s insane. Hazy memories or otherwise of some afternoon in Hotel California** aside, I can’t see the connection. It’s silly. Occasionally clearing things out of one’s abode is a normal part of life, unless you are some sort of minimalist (which I most certainly am not). Why do I make everything about my being mental?

I remember the mixed states I used to have before I started taking Seroquel (which, perhaps ironically, were similar to the akathisia that Seroquel ((mercifully temporarily)) induced!). They were similar to this. God. Eugh. How awful. I had forgotten just how utterly unbearable these sort of sensations are. If I never experience a mixed state or anxiety attack again it’ll be far too soon.

Things from the boxes adorned the seat to both my left and right. I gathered them up and put them in a bag and hid them, which is exactly what I was meant not to do. But I just couldn’t look at them.

Fuck it, I’m too away with it to continue this post. Now I want to cry and hide under the bed and be away from everything – not exactly pleasant ways to be, but it’s better than the restless, overpowering anxiety of before. I apologise for rambling and whinging and probably making damn all sense, but at least the composition of this post seems to have given me some sense of perspective on why this unpleasantness occurred, daft and all as that reason may have been.

* Based on this description, perhaps my eventual conclusions about this being sexual abuse-related are hardly surprising. Hmm.
** Hotel California is what I call Maisie and Paedo’s house, if you don’t already know. This is because you can check out but you can never leave. Google it if you’re too young to get the reference