What’s wrong with me?  This pathetic malaise has been permeating my existence for weeks now.  I always had it to some extent, in fairness, but my small levels of creativity were at least granted some outlet here, and now I am disallowed even that simple pleasure.

I used to have a life.  A shit one, perhaps, but at least I could derive pleasure from some things.  I may not be quite as severely depressed at the minute as I have been at a number of previous junctures, but there’s something new now and it is, in some ways, almost as bad.  Everything is not a completely opaque sea of blackness, but I now see and experience everything as if there’s a veil between me and it.  Not in the sense of depersonalisation or derealisation necessarily, but as if there’s a haze of fuzzy discolouration everywhere that keeps me from enjoying any of the things I am genuinely lucky to have in this world, or even wanting to enjoy any of them.

This is an existence, not a life.

I am going on holiday this evening. Ergo, I will be (mostly) in absentia until at least 24 May.

Unlike the preceeding hours before the last time I went on holiday, I am not in a good mood. I am, in fact, muderously livid. C is to blame (surprise surprise), even though it’s not his fault.

So, the latest on the wanky questionnaires is that either I have DID or I’m exaggerating my dissociative symptoms. He tried to dress it up, but that’s what it comes down to whatever he says.

So typical of borderlines, yes? Neurotic, attention-seeking, self-obsessed, manipulative narcissists.

Beyond that the session was thouroughly pointless. It was just more of me slagging myself off endlessly. He didn’t even bother to defend me this time, like he has been known to do, because apparently I am trying to manipulate him into doing so or something.

Some gems:

I’m a five year old fantasist trapped in a womans’ body. A pretty smart five year old, but a five year old nonetheless.

I’m an immature, pathetic, stupid waste of space. Well…not stupid. But stupid all the same. Just not stupid-stupid. But the stupid kind of stupid. Except not actually stupid, just…stupid.

[On seeing Trust headed paper being used, as intended, for rough notes] You do realise that I’m internally raging, don’t you? That exemplifies your pathetic public sector inefficiency. No wonder the Trust has no money. Such wastage. [Genuinely seething inside - proper, murderous anger].

I’m sure there was more but I can’t recall it all and anyway, I’ll write about this session properly when I get back from my travels.

My mother had called me during the session so I called her back to see what she wanted when I left. Mr Director-Person had finally responded.

My analysis of the NICE guidelines etc is apparently quite correct, but – it now emerges – the NICE guidelines don’t automatically apply in Northern Ireland. Well, that’s brilliant, isn’t it? Great job. How eminently rea-fucking-surring to know that we are safeguarded in this country as well as the rest of the UK. OUT-FUCKING-STANDING.

Blah blah blah…we are developing a PD service…we welcome “service user” (I fucking hate that term) involvement…please register your interest with this tosser at this hospital…

Readers, I will. In fact, if they do indeed accept me on board, I will turn it into a personal crusade. I will twat the system from inside the bastarding system.

Blah de blah…[C] and [NewVCB] have agreed to put you under the care of either a CPN or a mental health social worker…details to be worked out closer to the time…

Go and fuck yourselves. What is some CPN going to fucking do? Remind me it might be a good idea if I fucking washed occasionally? Attempt to patronise me with CBfuckingT?! No. No. I need psychotherapy. If I am not to receive psychotherapy, then you can all just go and die, you supercilious, self-interested bunch of despicable cunts from hell.

So that, dearest readers, is the latest. I am sure I’ll calm down a bit – but probably only when we finally reach our apartments tonight, as hanging around airports is supremely frustrating, and flying is supremely boring.

I have got a data abroad package on my phone so will probably be about occasionally on Twitter – I might even post here if you’re (un)lucky. Otherwise, thank you all for reading and thank you for your unwavering support and friendship.

Much love

Pandora x

Alas.  These evil bastarding illnesses don’t disappear because one has a few less shit days.  I had a very productive session with C on Thursday (blog to follow, mais oui), but it left me thinking about some shit that I don’t really want to think about, mainly about the stupid fucking sex abuse (like that’s the only difficulty I’ve ever faced in my life.  Why the hell am I fixating on it?).  Moreover, my mother – I am not unconvinced deliberately – made a particularly insulting comment vis a vis same a mere few hours later (details in the forthcoming C post).  Consequently, this stuff has been swirling around in my psyche for a few days, though I thought I was handling it quite well, as my mood remained on the less-shit-than-completely-and-utterly-shit level.

Or, more accurately, it did ostensibly.  However, beneath the surface the madness bubbles smugly in its little cauldron of neurons and silly levels of dopamine and eventually, when you least expect it, it attacks.

I made the stupid decision to go on a drinking bender yesterday.  Well, I say ‘bender’, but by comparison to some piss-ups I’ve frequented, it was actually relatively subdued.  Nevertheless, one should not be consuming alcohol when taking anti-psychotics.  I’ve always ignored rules on alcohol and medication, and have never encountered any noticeable side-effects, but then all of these tablets are different in how they interact with one’s personal physiology.

Anyway, all was going well up until the point at which A and I met G, our friend about whom I blogged on the DBT philosophy post.  Not that there’s anything wrong with G; he doesn’t act as some sort of intellectual trigger or something.  No, the reason it went wrong at this point was that it is the last point of which I have any recollection.

I woke up this morning in my own bed, fully clothed.  I must confess that I wondered at the time if I’d done anything mad…but I didn’t think it would be quite as bad as it turned out to be.

My party piece had apparently been to pass flat out in the disabled toilet.  Classy, SI.  A had begun to think I’d slit my wrists in there, and ergo G asked the barwoman if she would check the toilets to see if I remained in this plane of existence.  Unfortunately I did, but was lying there, flat-out unconscious.

I have to admit that in retrospect, this seems amusing – albeit in a twisted sort of way.  Stupid cow had too much to drink and fell asleep in the pisser, chortle chortle!  But it’s really not so funny when I actually think about it.  I have never passed out owing to alcohol before – and as I say, some days gone by make yesterday look fairly tame.  What’s more, I’ve never experienced such long-term memory loss like some people do as the result of pissing it up.  A few details get lost amongst all the murdered brain cells, certainly, but not hours of material.  It’s like an entire chapter has been ripped from a book, and the only thing that I really feel I can compare it to is the amnesia from a severe dissociative episode, like some of the fugues that have been my absolute joy to behold.

The story continues.  A brought me home, not unreasonably.  And there I really, really lost it.  He doesn’t recall most of the specifics exactly, but whatever the case I lodged a barrage of completely ridiculous and unfair allegations and insults at him.  Subsequent to which I levied them at myself – I’m a fetid, disgusting slutty whore, apparently.  Well, at least I got something right during this epic rant of stupidity and vicious pointlessness.

I am reminded somewhat of the behaviour that gave rise to this post, though at least my mind has the common courtesy to allow me to remember what happened in that incident.  Last night’s events were not as serious as that, and as far as I know there was no overt psychosis involved, but nionetheless – the stream of abuse that came out of my grotesque little mouth is simply unacceptable.  More lines crossed.  More boundaries of common fucking decency transgressed.

My current self-view is that I am a evil, utterly vile, indescribably despicable bitch of Satan.  Not, as a committed atheist, that I believe in Satan’s existence, but you take my point.  Oh yeah, and the fetid whore thing still rings true.  A said that my apparently unwavering belief that I am a slut is something that needs to be discussed with C in therapy.  Well.  Quite.

Perhaps the most bizarre thing about all this is that despite my complete self-disgust and total horror at what I’ve done, I’m actually still in a (relatively) favourable frame of mind.  I’ve gone about punching myself as punishment, but I don’t feel that overwhelming need to self-harm that one does when the strength of one’s depression is crippling.  I’ve actually managed to have a relatively non-shite day with A despite his revelations about what a complete twat I was.

So anyhow, I apologised to him and then started deriding myself a la the last-but-one paragraph.  He accepted my apology and refuted my blather of self-disgust, though I am clueless as to how he can hold me in any positive regard whatsoever.  And then…this is the best of it…my appalling behaviour was rewarded with breakfast in fucking bed.  I am a lucky girl.

My assessment as to the causation of the blackout is that it must have been attributable mainly to the combination of alcohol and Quetiapine, though I do think I must have been unconsciously harbouring some major stress.  Certainly, the outbust thereafter would indicate that – the actual catalyst might have been booze, but the content of the rant strongly speaks to me of underlying and unprocessed psychological bullshit.

However, that simply isn’t an excuse.  A may defend me on the grounds that I’m “mental”, but I don’t think that – or anything else – is a valid defence.  Being mental does not give one carte blanche to scapegoat the most important people in one’s life for things in which they were and are absolutely uninvolved.  No, the only human characteristic that deems that permissible is one that is strongly in evidence in my personality: that of being an abject cunt.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck it all,
My fucking life.
Suck, suck, suck, suck, suck it all,
My fucking dick.

Here is my apparent equivalent in prose. Hilarious.

—

Fuck my existence.

Fuck therapy.

Fuck C.

Fuck (New)VCB.

Fuck the NHS in general.

Fuck V.

Fuck Paedo.

Fuck my entire famly except my mother.

Fuck my ex.

Fuck the school bullies.

Fuck the school fucking teachers.

Fuck university.

Fuck the Troubles.

Fuck politicans.

Fuck the Social Security Agency.

Fuck the government.

Fuck religion.

Fuck secularism.

Fuck human relationships.

Fuck feeling.

Fuck heat.

Fuck cold.

Fuck the UK and Ireland.

Fuck Earth.

Fuck the solar system, galaxy, local cluster, universe and multiverse, should the latter exist.

Fuck medication.

Fuck getting washed and dressed.

Fuck getting out of bed.

Fuck prejudice and bigotry.

Fuck the beautiful people (forgive irony vis a vis last point).

Fuck this blog.

Fuck my “life”.

Fuck everything.

That is all.

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