It is freezing outside and the leafs are playing around in the strong wind. I am sitting inside. It is chilly here too. In front of me are two girls. They are asking me questions. Questions about my illness. I don’t talk a lot about it these days since I am much better. But it is nice to talk about it. It is nice to explain to somebody who is not a psychologist or doctor. It is somehow nice to say I felt this and that, this time was a hard one, these were the breaking points where I changed from mania to depression, etc. They asked me about reactions to my illness. My relatives have been nice and supporting. I had never got through without them. Never. So I told them and that is the truth.
Over and out.
I hate it, but I have started using oxapax again. Everything was going so well for a period. Actually it is still going fine if I simply accept that I need some help from time to time.
These days I am applying for jobs. Maybe it is a bit too stressful, or maybe it is because I constantly need a project to keep me going. A little sewing, some knitting, a little academic writing, anything really. If not I get insanely bored and unfocused.
Benzos help, smoking helps. Both habits that I want to get rid of, but that is not so easy as I wish it would be.
Right now I am in a cafe trying to get myself together and focus on anything really. It has been possible so I believe I will get there again. I believe in optimism – for you and me. We will get there somehow.
Over and out.
Tonight I dreamt that I stole a pair of gloves. I woke up full of guilt. My first thought was “is it always going to be like this? That I overreact and overanalyse everything. Have I done that previously?” Second thought: “Do I have any oxapax left?”
The answer to the last question is not given since I finished at the hospital earlier this month. My own gp is not happy about handing them out to me.
But why so I still need it? My brains know but the rest of me do no accept this. We wanna be free and happy. That is all we have ever wanted.
And it wasn’t a problem. Not at all. I managed time with my husband and time a alone. Not a single tear was shredded. Not a single panic attack. Not even in the airport where I used to panic. All together a pretty awesome holiday from my perspective.
The picture is dawn in the Sahara.
I have found a spot between my husband and the fireplace. I am somehow reminded by everything around me that I not so long ago lived in a mental “mist”. It felt like there was something between me and the world. Like a mist, a fog or even a sheet. I don’t really know what to call it.
It blurred my vision and my mind. It placed a distance between me and everything and everyone else. The mist was there when I couldn’t find the words and it was there when I fucked up all social relations.
It is such a relief to see the world different now. I don’t dare to hope that it doesn’t go down again, but I beg that it won’t. I have spend enough time in that mist.
You, please come and join me out here where things are clearer.
I have been thinking lately about the concept of success. What does it mean? Success is often used about career development, isn’t it. But couldn’t it also refer to other parts of life? Am I successful because I have a functioning social network? Am I successful for moving on from my illness? And is it being success to have a loving child?
I spoke with a friend of mine who expressed that she felt left behind because she had a child. But isn’t that to be successful, I asked. She dismissed it. It is not the success, which society measures by. Would the same count for illnesses?
I do not fell successful in my career. I have just left my temporary position and I am scouting for new opportunities. Yet, I am coming out of three years of depressions. That is success. But why do I not feel successful then? The illness robbed me years of my life. I have successfully defeated it, only to face society’s criteria of success.
I had counselling on my CV. I was asked to remove my work for a mental health charity or prepare myself for questions about it. What would I say then? I have a mental illness but I am well now. That doesn’t sound very successful to me. Even I have incorporated the perspective on mental illness as a stigma. I feel stuck under norms of society.
Over and out.
No more panic attacks, thanks. I had a change of medicine and it changes my life – for the better. I’m better now and I’m loving it. It is a relief and not just to me, to the people around me. I’m still on several kinds of medicine, but with new dosages. And it works. There is hope.