Reminders of what I want to forget

I have been reminded lately about stuff I would like to be without. Suicide and my psychosis. How you might ask? Well. First of all I have done the mistake to get hooked on the series Mr. Robot in which (spoiler alert) Elliot is having a massive psychosis. It hurts to watch. Also there is short film festival on in my town at the moment. Rethinking Normality is the name. On Friday there is a screening of Kærlighedens Smerte followed by a debate on suicide. My mind is a little too fragile to even think of it. The bad thoughts (and the use of PN (oxapax)) have taken over. I really thought I was getting better. Why are they even back? The thoughts.

Now excuse me, I need an oxapax.

Over and out.


If I mention to a job interview that I am ill, I will never get hired.

I never thought about this. I even thought my illness would be a strength when applying for job on projects for people with similar vulnerabilities. I guess not. They will ditch me, it seems. That is a little unfair I think. If I am asked about illnesses at a job interview, how can I tell the truth without waving the job goodbye?

Over and out.

A mixed episode aid-project

I had a mixed episode last year. It has the peek that it let me be productive for a little while. So I drafted an aid-project. I looked at it just now. It is feasible but not perfect. I could apply for some funding I guess… I remember my mom made a comment to my psychologist: She might as well have said ‘stupid stupid little girl with her aid-project’. I think that is how she is feeling now as well when I am writing a children’s book out of boredom. (currently not very good, but it keeps my busy)

Anyway, back to the aid-project. It is pretty okay if I should say it myself. But it is written in a mixed episode and it shows. It needs some love – and I need a partner; so if anyone if from central/south Italy and want to do an aid-project (for migrants) with me, please get in touch.

Over and out.

A sick tale

I want to tell you a story. It started with a sick girl. She had a stomach ache for years. She tried anything she could think of in terms of special diets. It made a different but never treated the cause.

This girl had a panic attack in the school canteen. No big deal.

This girl went travelling. Maybe things would be better away from home. But not really. New faces, new structures, new challenges. She stopped eating.

This girl came home. She was exhausted – and thin. No big deal.

She started working. Still thin. Her days went on like in a mist. Unclear. Everyone saw something was wrong.

That was my first depression. I share it with you because I have never said it out loud to anyone. I have never said how sick I was when I was 18.

Thanks for listening. Over and out.

What is my purpose of this blog?

Normally I am not as self-absorbed as it might seems on my blog. I am sorry about that impression; it makes me feel shitty. So I though it might be about time to get down to it: What is my purpose of this blog?

When I ask myself this kind of questions, it is usually stuff like ‘what is the purpose of human kind’ or ‘what is the purpose of dill’?

Now, however, the question is the purpose of this blog. There are more answers to that question:

  1. I need to share my experiences otherwise I go nuts (correcting: nutter).
  2. I want to read how other people are dealing.
  3. I hope for dialogues about aspects of the illness (although I am pretty bad at starting them myself.)

I am sorry that this blog might not be very entertaining, but it helps me a lot regardless and your comments help me even more.

Over and out.

To my support group

At first I didn’t like you. I didn’t like coming in a group where everyone was talking in turns. Several times I have been at home before a meeting and thought to myself ‘I do not want to go tonight’. Some of those times I went, others I didn’t. My husband is the reason of that. He helped me take the decisions I couldn’t. Like going to a meeting or not.

I have realised that I need this group. I need to feel that I am not all alone with my illness. And I need to practice to verbalise how I feel. You are good at that. You do something special for me. And this place is like a quiet hiding place in the sea of normality.

I came here after a psychosis and in the middle of a depression. While I have been here, I have gotten worse and I have gotten better again. While I have been here I have left the hallucinations behind, I have relearned how to bike in narrow spaces, and I have have regained the ability to have conversation.

Thanks for hearing me out. I really needed to say this. I like you now.

Over and out.


“Yeah, it is scary,” my husband answered to my statement that I don’t know what I used to. It is nice to have somebody finally admitting that I was not this stupid always. Yet it is scary, as he said. It is scary that depression made me more stupid.
It could just be the cognitive difficulties still taking its toll on my head. But honestly I doubt it. I hope it but I doubt it. Pessimistic mind? I prefer to think that I’m more of a realist. That way I won’t be disappointed.

It also made me think about intelligence. Are you intelligent if you take an education? No necessarily, I think. Some people without still have very abstract thinking, are good at reasoning, and well informed. Maybe that is intelligence? One of my friends is developing artificial intelligence and he talks a lot about categorising. It that how intelligence works? By creating categories?

I think my wondering about what intelligence can all be track back to my concerns about my own brain. What if it never gets better? It has gotten a little better over the passed two months I must admit, but how long will it take? And what am I to do in the meantime?

Over and out.