Monthly Archives: April 2014

Eva Luna

Had a definite case of the head melters today. Music and conversation has been pretty much intolerable, I feel acutely sensitive to everything and binge ate earlier (pastrami bagel and three Princesa bars – really need to avoid the Polish aisle in Tesco) to try and quell my anxiety. A bit of light exercise helped, though I’m exhausted and didn’t want to push it in case it over stimulated me or made me cry.

Managed to get through it with quiet solitude and books. I’ve finished Anne Frank’s diary and have moved on to Eva Luna, a book I read when I was just about to turn 17. I was on my way to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe. I spent the first night sleeping in a tent in the garden of a nice Christian lady who had opened her home to about 10 of us thespians. I caught a horrendous cold and so was moved to my own private room. It was very small, Just a a top bunk over an old desktop PC, but it had a tremendous vent through which I could observe the kitchen. I took great delight in my little crows nest, a sense of isolation permeated the entire trip due to my lowly status within our so-called theatre company (4 drama wannabes and a piano player), and I very much enjoyed watching the comings and goings over breakfast. We ate Burmese Cheese Rice (a recipe from my mother’s old Austerity Cookbook) at least twice that week and I was introduced to the joys of vodka and apple juice. I can still taste the acrid tang of that cheap Prince’s juice with the added vitamin C. I also invented ‘Russian Gold’, a cocktail consisting of vodka, milk and honey.

I remember having a good time but I also remember the day I was left in the flat on my own. I was still very ill with a cold so while the rest of the gang went flyering for our show, I stayed wrapped up on the sofa. I was also very depressed at the time, though I don’t think I told anyone, and I recall writing something which turned into a morbid spewing of self-hatred and bile – something which used to happen whenever I tried to write in my diary. It was uncontrollable, like an unseen force would take the pen and make me carve my rage into the paper as I sobbed. I still have those diaries at home.

The show itself was quite good, if bizarre. It was about a vicar whose mother wanted him to marry an appropriate, cake obsessed C of E spinster (me) when really he was in love with a working class (I.E. The actress put on a Scouse accent) pregnant girl. This dilemma was resolved only with the help of the idiot who lived in his bathtub and transported him to an Alice in Wonderland style alternative reality where we were two rabbits and he was the Mad Hatter. In the end the pregnant girl died giving birth and we adopted the baby (obviously), the whole thing supposedly representing the role of the church in modern Britain but really being about the tawdry and repressed sexual desires of Christian drama geeks. The next year we did a show about a man who couldn’t pass through to the afterlife (‘drink his milk and go to sleep’) without help from two balaclava’d entities in pyjamas, one of which would torture him (me) and the other one who tried to persuade/seduce him (P, who was very camp indeed but married the idiot in the bathtub), the grand twist being that he was a milkman who I think fathered an illegitimate child. We got decent audiences for both (the latter we performed in a real theatre and at our schools/colleges, including the scene where I wore nothing but my underwear and a balaclava) and I think we had a good time, though I always got the sense I wasn’t supposed to say anything because I was the ‘chavvy’ one. Posh kids are fucking weird though.

I celebrated my 17th birthday there, they took me for a meal which I was still too depressed and gauche to accept graciously and without tears. I lost my wallet at a fairly decent production ofFaustus and everyone subbed me, so much so that I got horrendously drunk in a hotel bar and sobbed that I could only ever attract ugly men. This was after I had taken up with one of the (significantly older) semi-chaperones of the grown up theatre company who had endorsed us and took us up for the ride, of course. He gave me a copy of Sophie’s World which I found interminably pretentious but we did enjoy a nice afternoon kissing in the park, despite his wankiness and blonde ponytail.

The day of my birthday itself we were on our way back home. We stopped at Lindesfarne in Northumbria on the way and went to see Holy Island. It was cold, it being the end of August in Britain, but we all went in the sea to paddle. Of course someone started singing a hymn but I remember it all being very beautiful. We all got silly and far too wet but it was good, clean fun. As we got within about 30 minutes of home, the bus (an old postal van which was shakily approaching death’s door) gave out and we had to get picked up by various grown ups. I think I lent someone Eva Luna and then went home, satisfied but deflated in post-show malaise, to open my birthday presents.

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Balloon

Definite mood swing. Slept badly again last night, feel tired but wired. Pressured speech and trembling. Had to run away to library at lunch because I couldn’t bear conversation. Everything’s a bit loud and I keep wringing at my clothes. I just want to bury myself into the warm hug of my shirt. Embarrassing memories tickle my brain stem. I’m aware I look rubbish and I think I’ve got a worried/horrified/tense expression. It’s like there’s a balloon made of acid in my chest.

Fantastic movement around my dissertation and lots of great feedback already. My tutor says how well I write and how interesting and current my work is. She’s told me to hang fire on my autism project, maybe save it for my dissertation in third year, but that it sounds very interesting. She seems impressed with my ambition and quality which makes me feel good. I was offended when my pdoc said I was being grandiose about my intelligence – I genuinely am shit hot.

Don’t want to go back to class but don’t want to go back to the flat tonight. Want to go to life drawing tomorrow, hope I can manage it.

It’s just a feeling – keep breathing!

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I’ve been happy but out of sorts today. Creeping anxiety is heating the base of my neck. I did some exercise and are a healthy meal, was very happy to be back in the classroom, had some good news about publishing my dissertation (a less busy tutor has agreed to take it on and is very positive) and have been asked to speak publicly at an event next week.

There’s a worm of tension somewhere under my skin. I couldn’t face the pub after Uni. I’m waiting to hear back from a boy which always makes my guts pulsate. I feel a heat radiate from my bones. I feel ok though I think. I went to bed too late but then kept waking up and slept pretty badly, though I don’t feel bad for it. A slow ascent? I’ve dyed my roots which is generally a good time stamp for each hypomanic phase. I didn’t think all my hair had fallen out this time and fall to bits in a panic which is nice.

It’s just a feeling. My insight into life, the universe and everything seems tinged with a little more fear than yesterday and sitting still at Uni was tricky.

Might’ve cracked the skin routine at least.

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Melt

So I went to the pub quiz, my head slightly starting to melt after a weak appetite and random bouts of nerves, to have a decent night in the end. Told C exactly why he has been a nob and how shitty he made me feel to the point where we made proper friends (and I may have stolen a cheeky snog for posterity). We are now mates and it is all ok!

L has fucked off her awful suitor and I’m so relieved, even if it took her being ditched to walk alone in a park to twig what a twat he is. Hopefully that is fully done so we can get past him and his ridiculous wrong side eyebrow piercing which he did when drunk (despite being 34).

Have started re-reading Anne Frank’s diary. I first read it when I was about 13/14. It’s amazing how much but really how little changes in ten years. She has such a beautiful insight.

Worked out today and even my stomach churning bouts of anxiety and tension have been managed. I really really want to stop picking my skin now. If anyone knows an idiot-proof and semi-natural skin routine for slightly oily people then please do chime in.

I am going to be so late for Uni tomorrow.

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Appreciation

Where have I been the past few days? It feels heady but sensible, like a grown up glass of wine with dinner followed by a pint of water and an early night. On Friday I was seduced and domesticated, followed by a reasonable bedtime alone. Yesterday I came home to see my expectant friend and today I went for lunch/milkshake/Antiques Roadshow with T. It has been good, I am trying to take one day at a time and keep up with my exercise.

I feel well, I have managed to stave off the self harm I predicted earlier in the week and have really enjoyed spending some time with my mum. My sleep routine has been a bit disturbed but not as broken as before – I have not awoken in a sweat though I’m sleeping and rising later. I am down to 0.5ml of trazodone.

I hope this is me being me and ok. I’m not being too silly at the moment. I want to roll with it. I want to continue to enjoy these little activities I have found for myself and to make the most of my time at Uni before my next placement in ~7 weeks time.

I was told I was fascinating the other day by someone who tends to mean what they say. I felt really appreciated. That’s something I’d like to remember.

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Slept brilliantly last night. Need to keep exercising. Feel a bit supercharged and manic today but am well, had a good day and have a thoroughly excellent plan for tomorrow (hopefully I won’t be disappointed – got contacted by someone out of nowhere ). Feel insightful and empathic, delivered home truths and got a bit angry but managed to also offer understanding and perspective.

House is tidy.

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Petrol Bomb

Nope, I am super awake. Despite a poor night’s sleep, going to work, exercising hard and being in a car for over three hours I am still very awake. I am treading steadily towards hating myself. I can’t keep all my feelings or thoughts in a straight line for very long. I’m tired of the loop-de-loops, of the black and white back and forth between extremes. Even though I can see what’s happening I still haven’t the foggiest what to do. When my pal dropped me off I wanted to get straight back in the car and carry on going.

It’s exhausting and stupid. I keep thinking about all my exes and can never maintain how I feel for very long. It alternates between effusive adoration and hatred for all of them. I gush, empathise and then feel apathetic. It makes me feel unlovable. It makes me bitter about how W said that I’m worth it after all, like I’ll only be loved out of charity because I’m so unbearable. I know he meant well but it’s not very nice to hear that I’m difficult to love. I do find myself intolerable sometimes. I’m probably easy to love but hard to be with – I should know, I have to be with myself all the time. I just don’t know what to do. I resent having to change to make other people’s lives easier – that’s why I want to be on my own. If I make a change then it’s only for me. If I take medication then it’s because I want to feel better, not so I can behave like a nice girl and make someone else happy. I’d like to be appreciated for all the colour and vibrancy I offer, the destructive tendencies included, because while I’m often completely bananas I’m also quite interesting. Evidently I need to be loved by somebody who’s essentially a bit boring but strong and insightful. It would help if I really fancied them as well. But maybe part of my problem is that I’m not as good looking as I pretend to be. I’ve never had brilliant self-esteem even though I come across as very confident.

I just get so fucking bored of being alive. It’s not enough at the moment. Maybe this is part of my quarter life crisis, as J pointed out. I’m in a time of flux and crisis as I try and figure out what the hell is going on. Then again, crises often bring about revolutions. Certainly feels like there’s a petrol bomb inside my head sometimes.

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Had a really hard work out which made me feel a lot better. Went for a drive with a pal in his new car. Was a bit manic in the car, bit intense and sang a lot. Was super awake. Now tired and less febrile, time for bed.

Non-descript day at work. Now I feel angry and every embarrassing memory I have jolts up to the surface of my brain to make me squirm. Even pleasant memories quickly flip into something terrible or shameful. I’m tired, slept really badly again and kept waking up in the early hours. Feel like I’m gonna self harm in the next couple of days as I grow more irritated and ashamed of myself.

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What I haven’t been talking about are the random emotions and urges and thoughts I’ve been having. Just spent half an hour picking my skin in the mirror, squeezing spots until I tear the skin. I’ve been fighting the urge to calm one of my exes and convince him that he’s my one true love, I’ve been swinging through anger and frustration and happiness and highness the past couple of days. A lot of it is boredom and loneliness. I’ve been spending more, I’ve been doing more and wanting to do more, I’ve been horrifically bored. I keep figuring things out, some of it being genuine insight and righteous anger, but some of it had brought me to tears in the middle of the street. I don’t know if I’m ok or not.

Now, all of a sudden, everything just feels a bit much. My skin feels too tight but in tired. Wild plans have to be kept in check.

I know that I have to relax into being single and enjoy life. I’m just not sure why I feel so much pressure in my head and body sometimes. Some of it has been triggered my the news of my friend’s pregnancy, selfish me has feelings about it which are making me feel all tight and wound up. I’m so happy and excited for them but it’s stirring my thoughts in a circle.

Am I ok? Have I just hit the tipping point?

1am – don’t feel ok. Feel antsy and tense and like my fingers are flickering. Don’t feel bad but feel like there’s a scream welling up in my chest. Managed to distract myself for a while but it’s back. I don’t feel completely out there and wild, feel like I’m making it all up as a distraction from boredom. All I do is invent new psychodramas with which to occupy my sad little self. I feel angry with myself.

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