Headfuck

A little bit of insanity is a good thing

by Veronica on October 2, 2011

in Headfuck

We all want to be normal. Completely average and exactly the same as everyone else. No one wants to be called the weird kid, or the one who is odd at inappropriate times. We all want to be brilliant, but completely unrecognisable.

I struggle with this, because when I’m writing fiction, the inside of my head feels more real than reality. Children needing food and drinks, attention and cuddles, snap me out of my world and I’m left with one foot on either side of my realities, wondering which one I’m actually meant to be in. Then I wander around distractedly, too firmly implanted in this reality to write, but too far into that reality to think clearly.

It feels a little like a waking dream, as I hold conversations inside my head, with potential characters and flesh out worlds and plots.

Having small children means that I don’t write as much as I want to, because no one copes very well when I’m stuck in the alternate reality in my head.

I admire Amanda Palmer, with her ninja gigs and amazing clothing. I admire her brilliance and her music and her VERVE, in going out into the world, dressed however-the-fuck she wants to dress. She is brilliant because she DOESN’T want to be like everyone else. I admire that she does what she loves in the biggest, loudest way possible.

I don’t want to be like everyone else, but I find myself getting squashed into the box that society prescribes for us. The small square box of normality , where creativity is correctly partitioned off and exercised at only the right moments.

I want to be brilliant and different and amazing and I need to realise that being brilliant and different and amazing, means that I need to stop being so fucking scared of being different.

Don’t be controversial, you’ll make yourself untouchable.

Be sure to stop swearing, so that you appeal to brands.

Don’t speak out about anxiety and depression, because then you’ll be forever labelled.

Write what everyone wants to hear, so that everyone likes you.

I mean, CHRIST. The list of things we should and shouldn’t do (the unwritten list, that we all hold close to our chests and read from every night, so that we remember how we’re meant to behave) gets longer every day and I’m drowning underneath it.

When I start feeling a little insane, I write things. I also wander into walls and forget to cook dinner and feed everyone pasta with butter three nights in a row, but I’m busy having ideas and the sparks inside my head are flying. I just wish I could stop feeling so guilty about fucking pasta and go with the insanity.

A little bit of insanity is a good thing – I’m not seeking out a psych because of the insanity. I’m seeking out a psych because of the anxiety.

The anxiety that stops me doing what I want to do. That makes me question wearing rainbow tights in public, or glitter eyeshadow, or a dress just because I want to.

I want to break the mould and embrace the different.

After all, we’ve proved over and over again that difference is enviable, and coveted. We just don’t want to be the ones considered different.

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The hardest posts to write are probably the ones I need to write the most

by Veronica on September 28, 2011

in Headfuck

I confessed that I was not okay during the week of RUOK day. The irony there was that despite the lovely comments, not one person actually asked if I was okay on the day. It seems from my circle of friends, I was not the only one having a minor breakdown that week.

Despite the mental unloading that I did on the blog, I am still not okay. Mental wellness doesn’t seem to be a tap that I can turn on at will, which is a shame. I’m sure we’d all be lining up to fill our buckets if that was the case.

It feels like I’ve been fighting for a long time. Fighting to have professionals believe that I was sick, fighting for a diagnosis, fighting to be treated as a human being instead of a teen pregnancy statistic, fighting (again) for a diagnosis, for help when we were having issues with secondary infertility, to having someone take me seriously and finally, when I was diagnosed, fighting to be believed again. Full circle. Fuck me.

On top of that, there was cancer, death, autism, behavioural issues, and on and on and on. It’s like herding cats, every time I get a handle on one, seven disappear on me.

[Digression: When I was 41 weeks pregnant with Amy, aged 17, I developed a chest infection and couldn’t breathe. Living in the city, having quit my job months before, I didn’t have a regular GP that I could visit easily, as he was an hour drive away. Nathan was working nights and by the time I realised how sick I was, he was asleep.

I rang the pregnancy assessment centre for advice – something I had been told over and over to do, for any issues. I was a high risk pregnancy as it was and so, I expected advice, if nothing else. The midwife who answered the phone was short with me, got all of my details including the overdue nature of my pregnancy and asked me to hold please.

Unfortunately, she didn’t press mute on the phone and I could hear her bitching about me to her colleagues. “She’s 17, says she can’t breathe properly, she’s 41 weeks pregnant, of course she can’t breathe properly. She’s been down here on and off for the last couple of weeks, attention seeking. God. She says she can’t even make it to her regular GP. I don’t know what I’m expected to do about her issues.” She then picked up the phone again and I was crying by this point, unwell and very pregnant and also very sick. “Are you there? I’m sorry, there isn’t anything I can do for you.” I replied “Maybe not, but next time have the decency to press mute on the phone before you complain about me.” She swore and hung up on me.

You say that young mothers aren’t treated any differently? I beg to differ.]

Anyway: Issues with medical professionals, I have them.

I was coping. I was doing well, I was smiling and working and laughing and then I woke up one morning, and I wasn’t coping anymore. I sobbed for hours, had a minor breakdown and hid myself in a book for the rest of the day.

I am decidedly not okay and I’ve learned that it is okay, to be not okay. That said,  I am sick to death of bouncing from one extreme to another, from abject depression, to panic attacks, to manic behaviour and wanting to frantically FIX everything, because surely things would be easier if the inside of my house wasn’t purple.

The roller coaster ride has turned my stomach and I would like to get off now.

I rang the psychology clinic today and asked for an appointment. Despite being quite busy (their words), I now am the proud possessor of an appointment on Tuesday afternoon and since receiving the phone call back, I have been fighting off waves of panic.

Despite what every single medical professional I have seen has put me through, I am holding on to the fact that this person will help me. That I won’t be discarded as too hard, or too broken, or too complicated, and sent home to cope on my own again.

I am sick of coping on my own. I would, for once, like someone else to help with this. To come up with a plan and insist that it will work and tweak it if it doesn’t. Not delete the plan altogether and leave me without any safety net.

Surely that is not too much to ask?

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Painkillers, headspace, broken joints and assorted other things that won’t make sense

by Veronica on September 21, 2011

in Garden, Headfuck, My body is broken.

It was after I dropped Amy off at school that my hands started to hurt, badly. We were on the way to the supermarket and I’d already had to talk myself out of vomiting a few times this morning, so my head really wasn’t up to ignoring the pain in my hands.

By the time I was 3/4 of the way through the supermarketing, I was unable to push the trolley and the pain was at the front and centre of most of my thoughts. Luckily, with the help of unlimited lollipops, Isaac was being practically angelic and just following along behind us, as Nathan pushed the trolley and lifted the heavy things, like milk and rice.

(Side note: It takes three lollipops to get the supermarketing done without meltdowns or screaming. What I need now, is to find lollipops without artificial colours.)

I held on, until I got to the chemist, knowing that I had scripts for regular tramadol (that doesn’t give me insomnia) and panadol oesto for the arthritis pain. Only, when I went to fill the script, I discovered that it was out of date and I was out of luck. Fun times, you guys, fun times.

By the time we made it home, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind and Isaac deciding to have a meltdown over toothpaste wasn’t really something I wanted to deal with.

I managed to take some slow release tramadol (that does give me insomnia) and now, two hours later, it has kicked in and while I’m still in pain, I’m rather stoned and I don’t care quite so much. It was a choice between stoned, or knocked out. Sometimes there are no good choices.

This Winter has been really bad. I’m coming out of the other side of SAD, smack into depression and anxiety, but I think that if I can hold on until the weather warms up, I might be okay. My soul is screaming for long hot days spent laying in the sun, letting the warmth fix my joints for a little while.

***

I was outside using the pitchfork to poke holes in the swampy patch in my back corner. I had a bag full of mint that needed to be planted and Isaac was helping me, by tipping out the roots and running away with them.

Three holes in, the pitchfork handle snapped in my face, as the bottom (metal) end threw itself up into my forehead.

“Mummy! It hit you in the head! MUMMY!”

Funnily enough, I realised that.

My forehead still hurts, but the cut is healing, at least.

I can’t say that it’s helping either my mental or physical states to be beating myself up with a pitchfork, however.

On the upside, with some help from Nathan, I got 20 currant cuttings planted out (not sure what types – Mum had forgotten) and a bag full of mint plants planted. And the raspberry canes survived being transplanted and are shooting up.

Finally.

***

It’s been dark inside my head lately. I keep putting one foot in front of the other and trusting to the fact that eventually, this will change. It might not get better, or easier, but I can count on it getting different at some point.

Different is good.

I’m discontent with my house, with my lack of garden, with a paddock full of nothing, that screams its nothingness at me every time I see it. With the clutter and the lack and the excess and everything. I am discontent.

I need to work on getting things inside my head sorted, so that I can work on getting things outside of my head sorted.

And until then, I’m going to keep dreaming of moving house and living somewhere that isn’t falling down, that has a garden to sit in and just be, and storage space and cupboards for everything. I hear that they exist, somewhere.

Until then, I’m going to keep planting things and hoping that they grow and help sort my sanity out.

***

I don’t think this post makes much sense. Sorry about that.

 

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So far from okay

by Veronica on September 14, 2011

in Cancer, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Grief, Headfuck, My body is broken.

My last few years have been … eventful. Starting with a pregnancy that didn’t look like it was going to end well, cancer, death, family fuckwits, autism x 2, early intervention, Ehlers Danlos, a falling down house, debt and depression. It hasn’t exactly been the time frame that I would hold up to the light and dissect, more the time frame that you force to the bottom of your closet, stomping on it as you go, so that you don’t have to deal with it anymore.

I signed up to participate in RUOK Day and then promptly decided that I would be better off stabbing myself in the eyes.

I am not okay. I am so far from okay, that okay is the distant shore that I left some years ago, before doctors told me that things were “all in my head” and tossed around words like anorexia and problems at home to explain why I was sick and exhausted, why I threw up every day and why my joints hurt so badly.

You tell me, how are you meant to trust the medical professionals to help out with mental issues, when mental issues are what they thought your major, genetic, connective tissue disorder was? I don’t trust them to help anymore.

I watched my grandmother die. I dealt with the fallout that rewriting a eulogy caused. I read long winded rants about myself on the Internet, written by a family member. I dealt with the trolls. I helped clean out her house, knowing that it was never going to be okay that she was dead and we were parcelling up her belongings.

I went to a doctor to discuss anxiety medication, only to be told that it would be better to sort out WHY I was anxious, rather than just medicating. You can’t cure grief by wanting it to hurt less, any more than you can make a broken bone heal faster than it does. I left with medication, that didn’t work anyway.

My son was diagnosed with autism and while it wasn’t the worst thing to happen, it was the straw that broke the camels back. Really universe? Autism and Aspergers ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE? REALLY?

Fuck you.

I would like to be okay, in the same way that I would like my joints to stop dislocating and to stop vomiting all of the time. To stop having to deal with meltdowns and the assumption that I am okay, because I tell everyone I am. I would like people to notice, without having to be told, just how far from okay this whole mess is and to stop assuming that they know how they would handle it.

I would LIKE for the Pain Olympics on the Internet to stop and for people to stop negating what I am dealing with, because it could be so much worse. Sure it could be worse, but stop trying to fucking jinx me. Last time I thought that nothing else could go wrong, everything else went wrong.

And you know what? I DON’T want to talk about this. I don’t want to cry anymore, or have to talk about this, or try to explain. Writing it is hard enough. The last psych I talked to about my anxiety and grief, seemed to think that it was nothing to worry about. Obviously I downplay things, really well.

RUOK?

No. No I am not.

Now excuse me, while I get off the Internet, before I am tempted to swear anymore.

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Blaming everything

by Veronica on September 10, 2011

in Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Headfuck

I keep starting to write posts and them reminding myself that actually, no, I’m not meant to be writing about that on the Internet. You see, I’ve taken some pain killers and it’s been a while since I took them, so I wasn’t sure if I would end up passing out, or just getting really stoned. This time, it appears that instead of passing out, I am inflicting myself and my weird feeling ears on the Internet.

You’re welcome.

I haven’t slept properly in a week. I keep passing out and them waking up with half of my joints where they’re not meant to be, then putting everything back in place, before passing out again. If you do this every hour, by the time your children wake up in the morning, you are not only exhausted, but you feel like you’ve been beaten by a baseball bat all night. This is how I’ve spent the last week.

Sure, I could blame the flu I have had (and I will) and I could blame the bed I have (and I will) and I could blame Nathan’s snoring (and I will), but really, it’s all the crappy joints, and the crappy problems that come with the crappy joints and I’m just a little bit over it.

Okay, I’m a lot over it.

I’ve been trying to work out why my shoulder was hurting and then I had a poke around in there to discover a dislocated collar bone. On top of dislocated ribs. And a hip that goes click-THUNK when I walk. Along with multiple other joints that have decided to rebel. I think my body wants a divorce from me, but I’m not quite sure where I would find the legal team to take on that nightmare.

Also, I’m pretty sure that none of this is making sense, but that is okay. You can blame the pills.

I was thinking about my pain management appointments and the fact that I’ve been handballed off to a psych, to get my anxiety issues sorted, before my physio will start to work with me again. I would have liked to handball my physio off to school, to learn more about EDS, before he could work with ME again, but it seems that you can’t demand that they do that.

Pity.

Of course, getting told I need to see a psych is the easy bit, the hard bit is actually getting my shit together to make the damn appointment (where did I write those numbers down?), making an appointment for some time that isn’t 2013 and then keeping my head together until I get there. Easier said than done, it feels.

And now that I’ve put this out onto the Internet, probably regretting it tomorrow when I wake up aching and ill, I’m going to disappear to try and read a book.

That is, if I can make my hands work properly.

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