Beware pointless whinging and navel-gazing nonsense. As usual.
I have an appointment with my consultant in the morning. I wish I didn’t. She’s probably going to have a go at me for dragging her into my war with the management of the hateful bloody Trust, and I wouldn’t blame her. None of this is her fault.
I don’t know what to say to her, apart from the fact that I am sorry. Sorry for putting her in that position, sorry for having wasted so much of her time since January, sorry for being so twisted. For everything, really.
How do I admit to her that I’ve made up everything about being sexually abused? Will she stop treating me in a righteous fit of pique, or will she section me for being such a fundamentally fucked up being as to dream up something as evil and heinous as that? Who makes up a story that they were systematically raped as a child?! Who does that?!! It makes the lies that Hideous Ex spun me look like stealing a penny chew from a bankrupt sweet shop. I am malevolence personified, and I don’t know how she’ll react to that.
How do I admit to her that I’ve been walking about with a (perhaps metaphorical) smile on my brittle, prematurely haggard face, convincing everyone that everything is fine…when inside I am screaming and despairing? That I’m doing my Great Pretender thing again? Am I actually screaming and despairing? Who is the arbiter of what is and isn’t real? We are only defined by perception, ultimately, are we not? And the perception of everyone else is that I’m fine. I’m one person to Everyone Else’s dozens of people…what do I know?
Paranoid and Schizo
How do I admit to her, when I haven’t even had the balls hitherto to tell anyone else, that I’m being watched on those rare occasions on which I put my foot outside the door of the house, which is at least a comparatively safe haven for me?
How do I admit to her that I’m haunted by inner amorphous but nefarious terror all day long, which is compounded notably by what sounds like sleep paralysis at night? The difference between the two being, however, that I can accept a rational, medical explanation for what happens at night, but during the day I can’t. Then the foreboding dread is real, and I am certain that it means that something ghastly is about to happen. I deserve it for making up lies about Paedo (not that I should continue calling him that), of course, but she’ll probably say that I’m paranoid – possibly delusional – which isn’t fair; but, again, everything’s about perception, and her’s is a medical one.
Fucked Up Eater?
How do I admit to her that my eating behaviour is becoming increasingly erratic? There’s no clear pattern to it – I binge sometimes, I eat nothing all day on others – and I almost always end up vomiting what I’ve eaten, an action which is quite deliberate. In fairness that’s simply because I feel over-full (and never realise in the course of eating that it’s time to stop consumption), not because I’m trying to get rid of the calories I’d just ingested.
Something I’ve started doing in the past fortnight or three weeks is taking laxatives after each meal, but again this is not about losing calories – it’s about getting waste out of my system as quickly as possible in order to minimise IBS attacks. I am concerned, however, that NewVCB won’t see it quite like that if I elect to confess to her. I don’t think I have an eating disorder (I’m about fucking 14 stone for Christ’s sake!) – I’m just trying to manage other issues. But to give her an accurate picture of my state of mind, I feel almost honour-bound to tell her the truth (about the binge/eat nothing behaviour) when she asks about my appetite, and I fear that that will lead to further questions.
Finally, most grotesquely after my lies (though a good bit further down the ladder of outrageousness), how do I admit to the almost unspeakably disgusting fact that I haven’t had a shower, nor even a fucking proper non-shower wash, for weeks? That it’s partly because I have no actual reason to – I barely leave the house, after all – but more so because I am scared to clean myself? How do I justify that absurdity not only to her – but to myself?
Clarissa of Bipolarity and Brushing Your Teeth has an interesting post outlining her take on this issue, and the explanation rings true with me too. I remember with embarrassed and cringing despair the horror of having to undress in front of other people – people who thought that they were more attractive, slimmer, cleverer and more interesting than me, and who were more than happy to demonstrate their views to me.
Note my avatar on the top right of the blog’s sidebar. It’s taken from the (truly awful) film Carrie, and comes from a scene in which the protagonist begins menstruating in the school showers, and ends up getting tampons, sanitary towels and bog roll thrown at her by her jeering, scornful peers. I never endured anything quite that extreme, but nevertheless the activity – apparently innocuous and even full of camaraderie to most of the others – was marred by my classmates’ contempt and revulsion towards me, and does not ergo represent one of my favourite memories.
I feel like there’s more to it, though; it’s almost like the night that A was ‘spring cleaning‘ and I went completely mental. As if some sordid little detail is lurking there just outside the perimeters of my conscious mind and that for a second it almost blurs its way into focus, so that I can dissect it…but then it snatches itself back again, away from me. The thing is though, the night of the ‘spring clean’, I was under the belief/self-delusional fantasy-of-evil that I’d been abused and it was a belief about that that sent me off my head – but of course I wasn’t really thus abused, so I must just be very strange. Scared of cleaning the house and scared of cleaning myself.
Depression can be insidious. Although it often happens, you don’t always just wake up one morning with a dark syrup of despair imprisoning and inhibiting you. Whatever is wrong with me at the minute has crept up on me – I felt surprisingly OK for a while there, though admittedly I could have been acting so well that I had just convinced myself that all was relatively well when it wasn’t. But having said that, isn’t it the same thing? Or if not, does the distinction matter – isn’t it entirely arbitrary? Who knows. Frankly, who really cares.
Until probably this week, I was coping remarkably well with the anxieties brought by being a twisted fuck of a liar, my sense of indeterminate portentousness and being watched when I left home. However, as my mood has taken a stroll down a figurative canyon, so my nervousness – observing my circumstances, but not previously becoming involved with them – has taken a slow walk up out of its hole.
I feel strange. It’s not a traditional mixed episode because, paradoxically, I feel a sort of weird resignation about everything. I can’t really put it into words, and I am only writing this utter, utter bilge to try and get some idea of what I’m going to say tomorrow.
But I’ve written over 1,100 words and I still have no idea.