Self absorbed?

I’m sitting here on my sofa amid a Pandemic and I don’t care if catch it and die. I care about how it’s thrown my stability. I care that today I’ve woken up with a lump in my throat, with eyes already tired from unshed tears. Curled up on a stale sofa in a stale dressing gown with my stale body un groomed and clogged up with shitty food that has no nutritional value and I’m just shovelling in to try fill the emptiness but instead it’s just cementing it. I can’t go to work until Saturday, the longer I’m away from others the more I’m disappearing, I’m finding it harder each day to fight my demons. Both my internal and external world are becoming scarier and intermingled. I’m finding it difficult to find reasons to stay alive. I can’t stand the stuff in my head for much longer and now I have the added shame that my preoccupations with my own struggles are self-absorbed. Everyone’s going through anxiety at the moment I understand but that doesn’t mean people’s pre existing conditions have gone away…if anything they ve excerberated. It’s not worth struggling with the flashbacks and dissociation and traumatic scenarios that I have without human connection, without my job and the productivity, without stability. I’m floundering but I guess I’m not alone in that. But please if someone reaches out to you don’t minimise or devalue…don’t just say well everyone’s anxious at the moment…they probably been holding it in out of shame and fear of that reaction.

What I feel

What I feel:

I don’t feel it’s true you have to love yourself before you can love others:

This is because I don’t believe I deserve love, I was adopted at a young age, taken from a mother who neglected me because she prioritised alcohol over me, I was abused by others repeatedly in all ways imaginable which has reinforced my belief that I am worthless. This affects every aspect of my life even now.

But I find hope and vindication in caring for others. I sought a job in care, it’s a physically and mentally exhausting job but no other vocation is worth the pain and effort it takes me to exist.

Going to work is like a protective force field around me, it shields me from the looks and sniggers from others, it helps me believe I am worthy of the air I breathe and the space I take up on the bus….

Everyday I force myself to get up, feed my fur babies, I find it difficult to attend to my own basic needs,

I just don’t care about myself, who will notice if I’m hairy, who knows if I literally can’t remember the last time I had a meat, 2 veg hot dinner, I feel like Jabba the Hut in clothes, everything about myself disgusts me.

However, this doesn’t seem to impact on my ability to care for others…Everyone else deserves better, they are worthy. My life can be in tatters, I can return to a cold, husk of a flat, receiving a brief emotional respite as my fur babies greet me at the door,

this is my favourite part of the day: Fee fee jumps up excitedly as I enter, then jumps on Banksy as if to say: “she’s back! I told you she’d be back!” I rush to the loo and throw up, the upheaval of concentrated anxiety that has been sitting in my stomach since I left the house. Hope my cat comes in she seems to like synchronising her litter tray trips with my toilet trips, we do our business awkwardly avoiding eye contact. I feed them all, Banksy ignores the food perfecting to weave around my legs which I always misinterpetate because I still can’t accept or fully understand that he loves me over food and just wants affection.

I don’t have children or a partner, I don’t feel secure in my flat, my animals are my anchor and I often resent this, as I would have to make external arrangements for their well-being if I decide to top myself.

But I would never treat others with the lack of care I give myself….I will stand there and make the appropriate sounds as a fellow colleague thinks it’s borderline neglect if a resident has socks on that don’t match their outfit, I will stand their with no socks on, in trainers that I didn’t realise had holes in untill I walked the 20 minutes from the bus stop in the pissing rain because my washing machine has broken yet again…. or how we can’t cook them casserole today as they had it yesterday! I will stand there and agree because I do agree! My residents deserve to be well cared for, I will always strive to give them the best of me. And they give back…they give me the opportunity to be a better person, they give me time.

I will never love myself, and I truly believe my existence is a burden, my pain seeps out, knocks the equilibrium of those around me, I don’t mean to do that, but I do, it’s understandable that others even those I accept have some fondness for me retreat….it’s a gnawing regret but something I’m used to.

I know that my existence is actually quite draining for those around me, Everything about me seems to jar and attract attention, even positives, like maintaining a job, puts added pressure on my boss and colleagues. So in a way it’s quite selfish of me to even have this job, it’s quite selfish to expose others to me, the worst thing about it is what others see is the tip of the Iceberg….

There’s adverts on tv etc saying how important it is to talk about mental health! It’s all bull, they don’t have the resources. If you talk to others then your attention seeking or over sharing, if you manage to get through it, which is exhausting and torturous then you weren’t ’ serious about it in the first place. But hey no-one will hold there hands up to this at your funeral…and I honestly don’t resent this, not from my family or friends or colleagues, I know I’m difficult, I know you guys need to prioritise your own emotional well-being and I hate that I just can’t be inoffensive.

But the CMHT I do resent, I resent the slanderous reports, I resent the abuse experienced whilst under the care of St Andrews adolescent hospital and Oxleas House, I resent the lack of therapy and support. I’ve asked appropriately for support, in tears, begging for help, in mental torment and you have ignored me.

But the rest of you I don’t expect you to be able to handle my shit, I can’t handle it! I’m too exhausted and it hurts, unfortunately so do many methods of suicide….

I can’t win either way,….

But I want it known that I care….that I understand your resentment, I don’t want sympathy it’s nothing to me, it tastes stale it doesn’t stop the torment, I’d rather you didn’t care because I’m sick of putting you in emotionally draining situations.

I will always love others before myself.

Song MY Skin by Natalie Merchant




The Past bites!

This blog is a brave step for me, it may seem unnecessary, unexpected and over sharing but I feel it’s required because how I am, my past, my present are affecting those around me. people I am learning to care about. people I now interact with on a daily basis….so many people! I’m constantly out of my comfort zone…I try and keep up with all the intricacies of human communication . But it shames me, I’m in a constant state of despair at my inability to fit in, to blend in. I’m not coping with all the different aspects of Adult life. But I try sooooo hard! I try not to make excuses but I do have migrating factors which are valid.

When tired I meltdown as you would expect more from a young child. It’s a disconcerting blend of Autistic spectrum disorder a handful of complex post Traumatic stress disorder and a scoop of Attention deficiet hyperactive disorder plus large number of tablespoons of Social anxiety disorder. Mixed up this is a devilish and difficult thing to manage for both me and those around me. I have trouble with emotional regulation, time blindness, hyperfocus, I have panic and flashbacks. I have intrusive and paranoid thoughts on a loop. They tell me people are going to hurt me and repeat past traumas, I can see it in my minds eye. I then become stilted and blunt, emotionally unpredictable and hyper vigilante.

It’s not that those around me don’t try and help. And it’s not that I don’t appreciate that every person in the world has a past and struggles in life. However, not many people around me can appreciate what it feels like to be taken from your birth mum at 13 months old, or raped by two lads at 11 years old or gang raped at 15 by 8 men. They can’t appreciate time spent in children’s homes exposed to abuse or institutions for 10 years which included 9 months in solitary, left in a bare room alone, left to cry, left to hurt. In those institutions often the only physical contact I experienced was being held down painfully by several large men, injected and left naked on a bare floor while I sobbed and relived previous abuse and hurt myself just to try get all the pain inside to seep out once and for all and it never has.

I’m on medication but it doesn’t always work, I’m not very well in myself at the moment, I’m tired, I jar and am reacting to the things in my head. I’m really trying to do better, be better, be someone who isn’t so offensive and difficult to be around! I’m trying really hard but I’m sorry I can’t always control my behaviours and it shames me, I can’t always blend in and I’m sorry…I try. This post isn’t to gain sympathy maybe empathy and a bit of insight. The past isn’t in the past for me but the hope that it may one day be keeps me stumbling along.

Into the fires of Mordor

A little about my experience in a secure children’s home called Swanwick lodge, I had been a resident there for the previous 9 months. The majority of my time had been spent in isolation, intermittently earning the right to spend a hour in the evening locked alone in the bedroom corridor watching a tv placed on a small table with a hard chair in front of it but for the most time I was locked in a bare room, the furniture was hard bases moulded into the floors and walls and there was a shower room connected with a door that could be locked back or shut. So there was no need for me to even be taken for a shower and time out for fresh air or exercise was a privilege that was not even considered. My meals were finger foods served on paper plates and delivered by 3 staff while I was ordered against the wall. The plastic mattress and thin sheet was removed by 3 staff every morning at 7.45am and the air conditioning was left to blow, the windows had blinds in the plastic glass which were permanently closed and when I had clothes to wear they were ill fitting vest tops and shorts.

My crime? Being suicidal, being autistic, being traumatised, being a child unable to process her traumas, angry at her abuse, full of self hatred. I was on a Welfare order because of my self harm, sucidality and impulsive and I admit sometimes dramatic behaviours.

In this unit I was left to tie ligatures untill my nose and eyes bled and my face was mottled from burst blood vessels, staff would run in as I was about to pass out, painfully restrain me in what were apparently considered painless holds, pull, tug, cut off the ligatures and run out leaving me gasping and distressed on the floor and adding a further 24hrs to my solitude, I would punch my face, smash my head against the walls, I would gouge my skin. I would tie ligatures repeatedly with every scrap of clothing untill I was huddled under the desk in what I hoped was a blind spot as male staff peered through the hatch in the locked door. It was torture, the memories of abuse and rapes coursed through my head and my chest screamed in agitation. I would cry and scream to no avail, I would thrash and try to escape, run out the door at any opportunity with little success. I became like a animal, feral. I was not comforted, I was not treated with compassion.

I blamed my own behaviour for my treatment, I believed I deserved it, I believed I deserved to hurt, I was so ashamed of myself, I needed to die because I was such a bad person and caused the world and everyone around me harm…I still believe this even now.

It was a torturous 9 months I now wonder how it was suppressed but then I discovered that unlike children sentenced through the criminal justice system children given welfare orders do not have time spent in solitary recorded and sent to the ministry of justice in effect this allows the most vulnerable children, normally care children, normally abused children, normally children suffering from mental health issues and whose only crime as it were was to be unable to process their traumas in a ‘civilised manner’ so these children can be restrained repeatedly, and secluded indefinitely without anyone regulating or over seeing it.

Some of you may believe, as some part of me still does that it was the only way to manage my maladaptive behaviours, Maybe your right I just don’t know. All I do know is that every second was breathy agony.

DISILLUSHIONED

If you judge a Fish by its ability to climb a tree….That’s the start of a quote credited to Albert Einstein and the majority of the time I divulge great comfort from this.

But today I feel disillusioned about my future prospects, I’m overwhelmed and exhausted, I feel like I’m being swept along by tempterous currents I’m unable to control and I have no anchor. A anchor does not always feel comfortable, sometimes its stabalises and feels grounding other times it feels stifling and restrictive however both times its a necessity. I’m in full time work in the caring profession outwardly that’s pretty respectable, I live independently, I manage adulting just well enough that I slip under the radar but I often feel I’m drowning, floundering and lost.

I’m often described as high functioning, it feels like a curse sometimes, how can they think that…I sleep 4hr max a night, I Flinch at the coldness of the shower curtain, I can hardly bare brushing my teeth, finding clothes that don’t agitate me is near impossible. I procrastinate for hours before I’m even on shift at work, and Ive been to anxious to food shop in a supermarket for over a year now. My finances are in tatters, my flat is a squat house and to be honestly I’m not great at personal grooming. I’m discombobulated with the constant responsibilities of adulthood and social expections. And I just keep swimming….

The intrusive thoughts, videos and most debilitating of all the flashbacks are overwhelming and consuming me, Ive had flashbacks at work which have rendered me incapable of completing my duties. I’m not sure how long I can continue without the therapy I desperately need, but resources are none existent, I have more good then bad days which is positive and helps to keep me fighting that bit more, the desire and hope of a better life niggle every time I feel I cant go on, it sweeps me through but its exhausting because what comes around and passes comes right back again and I’m being ground down.

I just guess I needed to get this out there, combat the isolation I feel.

Recovery: The blank slate

This is my musings on what Recovery encapsulates for me:

Your born like a blank sheet of paper, sometimes the edges are already a bit frayed from being pulled out the package with undue care or the package being handled roughly in transit.

But there’s a sense of excitement, it predominantly fresh, and you get your favourite pen, and you start writing on it, at first you take time to make sure your handwriting is neat, your sentences straight and coherent.

But as time goes on you become distracted, you get bored, multiple information causes confudlement, you may have to cross out, under light bits of the story.

As you progress it starts to lose it crispness, you feel disillusioned, you start to be a bit careless or those around you see the deterioration and the gradual, they don’t realise the importance of that paper to you or they take advantage, they see it as scrap paper.

Doodles and hastily written notes corrupt your carefully written script, the paper is put here, put there, gets grimier, gets more damaged as time goes on. You start to care less and so do others so you put it in unsafe places, others pick it up and add to the scribbles

But in the back of your mind you realise there’s important information, that no matter how frayed, no matter how or why another person has added to it, either negatively or positively it still predominantly holds your script.

Then something major like liquid damage occurs, sometimes a direct result of your own or positioning or a careless mishap, or malicious act by others

For a while it seems irretrievable, and you sit for a few minutes while it disintergrates before your eyes, you only have a few moments to decide whether it’s worth saving, whether it’s strong enough to take the transit to the safety and possible revival of the radiator:

Yes you think, you peel it from the surface you handle it with utmost care, this is your script and there’s important information worth saving the ideas and morals with in can never be saved.

You drape it over the radiator, you put it where you can’t see it directly but it’s there, in the corner of your eye, you wait and wait for it to dry out, it looks imperfect, it takes longer then you expect, it takes up space and makes the place look untidy, you can’t bear to look at it and at times you want to just give up and throw it away.

Maybe you could rewrite you think, but deep down you know that script was the essence of you and a copy won’t cut it.

Eventually you get tired of seeing it draped, useless and untidy on the radiator so you prematurely take it off and try straightening it out but it wasn’t dry enough and you feel disheartened as it seems to disintegrate even more in your hands, despite the time and care you’ve committed to it

You throw it away in disgust and frustration but not somewhere it can’t be retrieved because in the back of your head you know it’s important and irreplacement and worth keeping, you know one day you will need to go back to it.

You try rewriting your script on different paper in different but all are distractions and don’t seem honest or encompass what that first script did, it’s all superficial.

So every now and again you go back to your paper, your script each time attempting to smooth it out, sometimes you go in too heavy…it’s not quite dry enough, sometimes you don’t spend enough time smoothing it out, you get called away.

Eventually it reaches the point where you can clearly see the information, the essence of your script…it’s there…the key points are there but the paper is still watermarked and frayed and imperfect

That frustrates you more the initial damage because you realise that despite your commitment and care and investment in this script it is flawed…you feel bitter because those around you didn’t respect that paper and added to the disfigurement treating it with reckless or malicious disregard, you realise that in hindsight you may of contributed at times in response.

But eventually you realise how important it is despite what you and may believe is imperfect, it was actually more resilient then expected, it still has your script on it, it still holds and can convey the information, you and those around you just have to handle it with more care, maybe peer harder to decipher.

So you put it in a clear plastic wallet, you display somewhere safe, you make sure it’s not needlessly exposed to the elements and you take your time to explain and help others decipher it, sometimes it’s feels like code. Some people write it off for its imperfections but others are impressed by the essence and celebrate it.

You yourself still look at in regret sometimes, you know that it can never fully be removed from it’s protective casing but it’s transparent and shines through.

Sometimes recovery is being strong enough to accept that you will never fully recover, that even though it’s exhausting breathing and intermittently functioning has to be good enough…hoping that others will see through your imperfections perceived or otherwise, but predominantly fighting the regret and realising your still you…there’s still space on the page, there’s still a knowledge and script that can’t be unwritten….I guess that’s hope!

Childhood part 1

How my combined diagnosis of ADHD, Asburgers syndrome effect me.

Background: I was born in a Camden in 1988, I was born with alcohol foetal syndrome, my mother was a alcoholic, I was exposed to many dangerous and neglectful situations, I was taken off her and placed in a foster family at around 15 months.

My foster mother allowed me to call her mummy, but I was soon adopted at the age of two by a well off couple with 4 other children all boys ranging from 11-19 years old.

I only remember meeting my new parents twice. I remember going to a pizza hut on the way to my new home, my new father was not with us…my new mother’s handbag got stolen from the back of her chair there had been a group if noisy teenagers at the table behind us and I had sat in a high chair.

I was not what my new mummy had anticipated, that night I was in my bed it was a toddler cot…I was crying…I can’t remember the emotions I must of felt… but my new mummy rushed in concerned, ready to gush love, hug me, comfort me, I was the little girl who she was to shower love attention, brush my hair, dress me up! Mummy’s here she said with outstretched arms ‘not you the other mummy’ I replied, she left red faced… throwing me back down in the cot,

She brushed my hair, I wriggled and whined, the brush hurt and scraped, the hair bands crushed my temples and gave me headaches, the pretty dresses and clothes were heavy, itchy, constraining and I could never keep clean.

I was two and throwing a tantrum, she locked me outside in the little garden area, I remember because we moved house before I turned 3, she told me the neighbour was a witch and would come and take me away if I cried. I’m not sure how long she locked me out for, I can’t remember if I begged to be let in, I don’t remember if she felt regret afterwards…

But I do remember that till I left home at 15 I had a recurring nightmare of a witch chasing me.

My mummy stopped trying to hug me, they adopted my blood brother as soon as he was available at 1 years old, he seemed more receptive to my mummy’s love, he had a more nervous deposition, ground his teeth, bed wet till 9 years old,

I remember sitting on the floor while young and seeing my mummy on the rocking chair and my little brother sitting on the futon between her legs having his hair stroked… I watched on from within a bubble but I felt something…it was yearning for love…

I would meltdown at school, I was diagnosed with Asburgers and ADHD at 8 I was given a 1-1 and kept locked in a room with her away from my friends…I had friends…I liked them…I was not educated, my school life revolved about being kept in that room and restrained if I tried to run away. I would throw chairs and objects, and growl like a animal in frustration, I would myself at walls and hit myself. I was expelled, my mummy actually told me quite nicely, I said ok, I didn’t have meltdowns at home. It hurt, but I didn’t cry…I’d learnt if you cry a witch comes, if you cry you get hit and sent to bed with no tea. If you cry no one comes to comfort you…

My chest always screamed, I went to 8 different schools from 10- 12 years old, I was physically bullied at 11, I would spend the break times trying to get the blood out my clothes with soap, I knew not to complain to my mum,

I was lonely, I would go for walks in the lunch break, out of bounds, if the six formers found me they would drag me to the lake to try throw me in, I would fight, they would give up. I would hide in the library…two boys one in my year one in year nine told me they wanted to be my friends, they told me they had a hiding place, a den. I felt proud, I went with them, we climbed over fences and I was proud I could keep up with boys! We passed a field of red flowers I always say they were poppies but I was incredibly short-sighted and no one realised till I was 12.

We stopped near a rotten log, there wasn’t much of a den, there was two boys pushing me down, giving me a slap when I tried to get up…something got taken, I was too young to know what, but I felt dirty, I died that day.

It was similar to things that had happened when I was younger…but I can’t go there…but it was painful and worse…

I did tell a teacher, the fences were harder to climb and I was slower, I trailed behind the boys on the way back, they were friendly again, they told me they’d get me pick and mix, it seemed to make it a bit better.

The boys were suspended the older one got 3 weeks the younger 2 weeks, I didn’t understand why the one who had told me it was almost over and hadn’t hit me got longer.

My mum ran me a bath and left me in it, I cried, I wanted her to come, I wanted to be told it was ok, I wanted my hair stroked. She didn’t…

They had said that the boys had said I’d agreed for pick and mix, I denied it, I felt such shame, I hadn’t agreed it, I’d promised not to tell, but I was a child sweets were a treat, I normally omit that from the story, But I’m realising I was a child, and a starved child at that, a child who stole from Lunchboxes and out of bins…I’m not ready say more in this blog…

The boys had access to social media, I went into school the next day, I was called whore and slag, my behaviour got worst, I would run out of class, I was expelled..

The next 6 schools I boarded at, they were primarily boys aged 12-19 with behavioural problems, I was locked in cupboards, thrown down a set of metal fire stairs, I was restrained facedown by 6 adults for most of the school days, they would take shifts. A boy called Alex who was 17 groped me in the minibus I pushed him in the aisle I got banned from the minibus, he then started to catch me in corridors push me against walls, grope and try and snog me…After the 8 school I was taken out of school

My dad had left my mum, my mum had yelled ‘ ITS YOUR FAULT HE LEFT HE LOVED ME, HE COULDNT DEAL WITH YOU!’ It still hurts, I hated myself….that’s never gone away.

I started having to sit in front of the Grandfather clock from when my brother went to school to after he’d finished his homework, if my mum went out I had to stay locked in the back of the car, when my mum worked I had to stay at a table or in the chair in a room next to her office, I was allowed to read sometimes write… but I was always so cold and would pass out.

I stopped being allowed breakfast, and my lunch was

Breakfast: mug of milk

Lunch

a sandwich with dairy Lea or slice of wafer thin ham, apple or ski light yogurt and beaker of water or weak squash

Tea

mug of milk, sandwich with butter and banana or no banana if it was spread with jam etc

Small cake

I had no snacks or drinks between

At weekends I had a hot meal for lunch

And every 2nd weekend my dad had us and I could eat whatever I wanted.

When I was at school I had sourced food, eaten out of bins…stolen from lunchboxes etc….I feel ashamed, when my dad was home he would take us all for meals…

At Christmas and special occasions I ate well.

I was not allowed to turn on light switches, choose clothes, open the car door, leave my bed even to go to the toilet from 7pm until my mum woke me up.

I was not allowed any contact with people my age, I was censored and limited in tv, I was allowed to read adult classics and fantasy, I was not allowed magazines.

If I walked with my mum, she started training for the great walk of China, she would make me walk in front, it made me nervous,

At home we had two ways to get to put my plate in the sink, I never knew which way to go, if I walked too fast and the plate and cup clattered I was shouted at, if I walked too slow I was shouted at, if I put the plate and cup in the sink and they made noise or toppled the other items….or if I was too slow deciding the best way…I was shouted at….and worse….

She would tell me I would never be pretty, my calves were too muscular, I wasn’t allowed to do my press-ups or sit ups from the age of 10 she said I was starting to look like a boy….the press-ups stopped the screaming in my chest, so I would secretly still do a few. She would sigh and tut while looking me up and down…she would weigh me, I knew I wasn’t overweight I couldn’t be, but I put weight on easily and would when I spent the weekend with my dad.

I had ran away a few times from school at 12 years old because I was scared to go home, Now thinking about what Ive written about the schools it doesn’t make sense even to me, but at school I had food, I had snacks and drinks, I could walk and play, I guess I even enjoyed being able to meltdown.

A lot of my shame is because I didn’t fight for my innocence, I lost something at 11 it’s destroyed me….but I was only slapped hard once, and pinned down…it wasn’t violent.

I used to meltdown, It used to take full grown adults too control me, it took them hours.

But at home I never melted down, didn’t even talk, no matter what she did, at first before about the age of 6 I did but I stopped.

But at school….I was wild,

That makes me a coward, those restraints didn’t hurt me particularly, it got the screaming out my chest, I would feel calm afterwards, I could scream and shout…still didn’t cry, I had something physical to fight against that I could understand and any pain caused to me was invigorating…I deserved it, I understood I had kicked off…I deserved to be punished, I didn’t complain.

But I didn’t fight those boys, I was too scared… When I needed to fight…I didn’t…

Now I fight, I make it hard, I need to hurt myself more then anyone else can, so that fear of pain won’t stop me resisting to convince myself Im not a coward…

If I get restrained now I get flashbacks of all the multiple rapes etc, I struggle or sometimes the restrained use pain which I relish, I laugh and struggle more, I tell myself I deserve everything…the pain…When I’m fighting they have there hands full, they can’t grope me, I fight until I’m exhausted, until they put me in restraints…until I need the loo. Until they realise, I cannot calm down, until maybe they stop shouting and hurting and one female speaks to me compassionately, and I’m done, I’m just scared and tired and hurt and I’m done fighting, I can’t keep it up, and I cry and I want my mum, and I don’t know who that is, who I want to hug me and tell me I am loveable, I was wanted, I am enough, I’m not dirty, it wasn’t my fault.

DAMM IT HUG ME, let me sob my fucking heart out,

Just fucking love me, fucking love me.

I need my mum, I’m 30 and I need to be loved and no one can give me a mother’s no one else’s hug will do, and no one for a long time even touched me except to hurt or grope or restrain me, like a animal except animals are loved…

But I’m autistic so apparently that’s not something anyone recognised I wanted or yearned or feel, I fucking feel….My tears are streaming down my face now I’m done,

I should have accepted that hug at two years old.

Easter meltdown

Last night I didn’t know if I could survive it. Recently my suicidal ideation has not been directly influenced by past traumas more by my frustrations at inability to fit in society, my worries about body image and feeling ashamed and worried about benefits etc, but it’s all linked.

I guess the long weekend where many people will be with their families having a nice meal while I probably end up eating marmite on toast ( which is normally a favourite) impacted as well, though I know it’s a case of seeing the grass greener on the other side but not realising their grass is riddled with red ant nests. But I guess I indulged myself last night. As a lot of people are in my position.

I sobbed over the phone to a close friend and she let me vent, she lives in Ipswich so was unable to come down but she listened and didn’t panic. I vocalised something which I normally pretend doesn’t bother me and the strength of the emotions and my sobs took my breath away!

But I soon calmed, and we finished the phone call, and I started watching The Good Doctor on Nowtv, and I couldn’t believe how much I related! How everyday situations trigger such visual memories that cause him to zone out…..that’s exactly how it is for me too! That’s why I think my traumas effect me so much… because I can recall them so vividly and they get triggered by so little…. how he visualised diagrams or words when he remembers something, how he doesn’t think things through and will act physically when under pressure and unable to explain….I just felt in awe! Unfortunately in my case the savant bit is not there, I have his at a much lower level!

But that show got me through a rough hours and has piqued my interest…it may even get me through the next 4 days! I’m ok but I feel delicate and kind of embarrassed of my overt emotional meltdown.

Thank you for reading…it helps to know my thoughts are out there and may be acknowledged!

Regrets

I’m not a vain person, I should probably actually take more pride in my appearance but I already have too little pride in myself to spread around.

But now and again, I feel a pang of regret at the state of my body. Like this morning when I was online shopping for smarter clothes to improve my image.

I was discovering it near impossible to find clothes which would be smart, big enough and long-sleeved and that’s without taking textures into account, though my sensory issues need to take a backseat.

But I’m particularly preoccupied with my appearance at the moment, I’ve got job opportunities approaching and the hot weather.

I’m not sure how people see me, I don’t look in the mirror, not even to brush my teeth, or even hair….I don’t brush my hair often, I think what’s the point? I’m fat, sweaty, hairy and scarred. Whatever I do won’t be enough…I’ll never measure up and people will always judge. And if they know I feel vulnerable about it they might laugh and tease.

But summers coming, and sometimes I catch myself staring in envy at unscarred bodies…clear smooth arms…beautiful! And I feel regret, I didn’t know I’d be alive long enough to have to deal with these consequences it makes me feel a bit emotional but with a certain ambivalence.

And I’m sorry but no matter how positive I try to be and how hard I’m working to move forward in life…I still wish my first attempt at suicide as a adolescent had been successful. Because my life is lacking and these consequences are hard to bear.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that suicide may no longer be my Get out of Jail card, that I will have to deal with my past, my emotions, the consequences of maladaptive descions made while young and traumatised for the rest of my life…and it may actually be life and it scares me, it fucking scares me.