There are times when I feel I’d rather not be the one behind the wheel

Another death. Pointless. I’ve been to too many funerals, and I can’t tell if it’s because I am getting older and that is what happens when you become an adult, or if I’m just exposed to a particularly susceptible bunch of people. I think the only person I have known who has died of old age is my grandfather (touch wood). There’s been accidental overdoses, a couple of murders, car accidents and lots and lots of suicides.

In a way, suicide is indeed a most selfish act born of the fear of rejection and responsibility for “letting down” people we care about. “I couldn’t bear to tell my wife I’m broke,” “I failed all my exams and my parents will be so ashamed, I really don’t want to hurt them.” Sentiments of care for others, but ultimately narcissism for believing that loved ones would rather have them dead than failing at some part of their life. Surely the pain of seeing someone fail is not a pinch on the pain of having someone end their life over it

I sit here, having just learned about another friend who has taken his own life, and I’m certain he wasn’t thinking of others, but not in the narcissistic way that saddens entire schools, businesses and churches. He sounded so completely fine when I spoke to him a few weeks ago. He sounded happy. He was excited about coming back to South Africa. I don’t for one second believe that he feared parental upset for something less-than-favourable in his life.

This may be going all over the place, but I’m basically saying that I see two sides to suicide. The “guilt/can’t cope with embarrassment of self-perceived failure” type, and the “my life is fucking miserable and I don’t want to be alive anymore, and I’m going to end it because I just can’t bear living anymore” type.” I don’t find the latter selfish. I find the former selfish. Even though it involves care for others, it is is care that stems from a desperate need to keep one’s ego afloat. The latter stems from utter misery and depression, and has nothing to do with ego.

I count last night’s suicide amongst the non-selfish type. And it makes me so sad that this person was in such a bad place to have done this.

You’ll be missed, Surfer James.

 

Earplugs

Always in the background, a bit like a dull, humming sound.

An annoying sound. Very noticeable. Unavoidable. But subtle all the same.

All questions, experiences, reminisces, moments of growth,

All involving that shallow rumble. Like life began

With her.

Nails on a chalkboard. Am I reasonable.

Something I think about often,

Not as often as I try and ignore that nauseating sound.

Spiders and stars, scrambled eggs and subwoofers

The days come and go these days. They blend together one after another and I lose count of where it began, and where it will end.

It feels like I’ve known you for years.

I’m experiencing things I haven’t felt in years: contentment, amazement, happiness.

Yet with such good comes such bad. Intensity, passion and safety leave space for loneliness, neglect and sorrow. We who climb highest fall hardest.

I’m tempted to use caution; to preserve myself in a half realised, half abandoned limbo so that any pain I may come to experience can be buffered by the detatchment.

But I don’t want that.

I’ve been made to smile a lot, laugh constantly, evaluate the preferences in my life and feel valued as someone truly worth adoration. These mean so much to me, and they are easy to do when you’re around.

Sometimes I do feel fear, anger, loneliness and confusion. Big emotions come easily to me, but aren’t dealt with easily by me. I’ve always struggled to be appropriate.

But I realise there is no fine-line over what is acceptable and what is not. It’s different with every lover.

I do not feel boundaried and expected to behave within certain parameters in order to please someone else over my piece of mind.

And I daresay the same for you.

How fortunate!

 

 

An every day reminder.

“Flat boobs are hot.”

“Lots of tattoos are hot.”

“Boots (Levi’s cowboy, army, those brown ones at Mr Price) are hot.”

“Very long hair is hot.”

“Androgynous bodies are hot.”

“Red hair is hot.”

“Skinny legs are hot.”

“Girl on top is hot.”

“Short shorts are hot.”

“revealing tops are hot.”

“Gymming is hot.”

 

I am none of these.

And every day another one pops up, reminding me how I am everything but what’s really desired.

For better, for worse

I had a sober 21st.

I have been told since the age of 19 to behave like a 35 year old.

I have had it drilled into my head that there is something fundamentally wrong with me, and that I can’t be a normal person, while I have also had it drilled into my head that if I am NOT a normal person, I am a failure.

I have been told I am an addict, alcoholic, co-dependent, sex addict, love addict, self mutilator, anorexic, bulimic, compulsive over-eater.

I have been forced to adopt ruthless attitudes to things like relationships, friendships, self-preservation, health.

I have been diagnosed with severe depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, bi-polar 2 disorder, spent hundreds and thousands of rands on rehabs, psychologists, psychiatrists, weeks in clinics on the psychiatric ward at Crescent and Kenilworth Clinics.

I have been heavily medicated since 19.

I have had a nervous breakdown at 23 after my fiance relapsed and I was convinced all was lost as I had been fed the belief that once someone in a relationship relapses, they need to be kicked to the curb.

I have seen people in recovery walk out on marriages, engagements, friendships, jobs, families, commitments of years and years because someone involved relapsed and is now “dangerous.” For better, for worse doesn’t exist where I was.

I have been restrained against my will in psychiatric clinics.

I have been threatened with being sectioned to Noupoort, Valkenberg and other horrific institutions if I refused to comply with the wishes of professionals.

And now I refuse to live in a prison in my head, so afraid to even look at something the wrong way because it might threaten my “recovery.”

What recovery? I had no life. Not one that was worth anything of substance, anyway.

What would Gramps think

I often wonder what my grandfather is thinking. To me, when people die that we love, they are always there, even if just in my head and a product of my imagination and they are a bit all-seeing/all-knowing. Especially my grandfather.

It’s a good gage of how my life is going when I consider what he must be thinking of me. It’s like that old question – “if you were to die suddenly, would people be shocked at what they find in your belongings?”

Death is something that really breaks down the walls of denial, unless you’re really fucking  ill in the head.

I don’t think my grandfather would be very happy. The worst part is, I don’t think he would be angry with me. I think he’d be sad.  I have shit in my head that I don’t quite know what to do with. And I know he can see that, and that it hurts him.

But then, what the fuck would I know.

My latest phase…

I’ve been going through a bit of a phase I didn’t go through at Varsity lately. No, not the drinking, chicks and skateboarding phase.

Men have been my latest phase.

You see, at Varsity I had small flings but men terrified me. I didn’t like anyone who liked me, and would date them because I thought I might as well “take what I can.” I would do that until I couldn’t bear it anymore. When I reached that stage, I would feel like I was trapped in a vat of glue, and every SMS from the other half would make me so anxious I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want anyone to see me with them. I was ashamed of everything. I couldn’t get my mind off the fact that I was in this relationship and the utter terror of one of them seeing me later. But back then I had a big secret that I was guarding, and guys got in the way of that. My eating disorder really, REALLY did not want to be disturbed by questioning boyfriends. There were boys that I did like, but it wouldn’t last, mostly because of (you guessed it) my eating disorder and how difficult it made it to get along with me.

Start of 3rd year at UCT, 2003.

It wasn’t until I met my first love, Michael, that I had a “proper” relationship. He introduced me to really bad drugs and we formed sort of a “Sid and Nancy” couple. We were inseparable. People were worried we would commit suicide together. After I cleaned up, it ended and I left him for someone else. Then that ended and another one came along for a few years. Then another, then another.  Three weeks ago, the relationship that has possessed me for the last two years FINALLY came to an end after three break-ups and get back together(s). We both had our parts to play and we both seem to be doing better without the other.  And so, driving away from his house after our goodbye and his “I’m not a bastard… because I give a damn!” speech, I decided I had had enough of relationships full of expectations that are never met.

Relationships have brought me some great happiness. But I have done serious for so long. And that serious also comes with pain. Commitment is virtually always doomed, unless you’re married, and even then you get some pretty decent disasters. Over many break ups, people have said to me that “pain is inevitable, and misery optional.” Well fuck! When my next boyfriends steals my jewellery, cheats on me in front of our friends and colleagues and sells our (my) stuff for crack, I’ll try and “just feel the pain” and not be miserable. Bleh! Stupid people.

So I stumbled into the world of having the erm, good times, without the freaking admin that comes with a relationship. For example:

Why is he visiting his parents and not taking me along?! He’s ashamed of meh!” 

No. He’s not my boyfriend, and I don’t want to meet his parents anyway.

“Why didn’t he tell me he was going clubbing with his friends? He’s ashamed of meh!” 

No. He’s not my boyfriend and he can do whatever the fuck he feels like. And I don’t want to go to bars with his friends who I have never met anyway. I’ll go with my own friends, thank you very fucking much.

My friends have had a mixed response to my new found approach to men. Some simply say “well, as long as you don’t do stupid shit like have unprotected sex, that’s fine. Whatever makes you happy dude.” Others have a reaction something more like this: “OMG!!! OMG!!! No man respects you if you do that! You deserve BETTERRRR!!!! You are a wonderful, unique person with a wonderful personality and you must look after yourself!!!! OMG!!!!” I kid you not about the exclamation marks.

As you can imagine, my male friends’ response is more the former, and my female friends’ response is more the latter. At the end of the day, I didn’t have my racy phase at varsity because my ‘racy’ was hard drugs and keeping my BMI under 17. So that’s me. I’m sure I’ll have some sad post coming up about how my female friends were right. I farking hope not.

I’m your weekend special

I seem to be someone’s weekend special. At first it was ok, because that is the only way I knew of getting closer to them. But now, now those relieving razor blades are digging in to the point where I need medical help, and all “bad” food gets put into the toilet by my mouth, I am not wanting to be used anymore.

I have such feelings for this person, but like all the others, he doesn’t have strong feelings for me. Like all the others, the sex was great, but when it came to liking me, that part was lacking. In a way, I am a more sane and stable person when I hack my arm to pieces and I throw up my food.

And that is how I will get through this.

The Quiet 2010

Last year was a particularly strange year for me. Quite a lot happened, and by November I was a bit of a shell. I didn’t write many blogs last year because I was disinterested, paranoid and extremely depressed. I was ok in the first quarter of the year. Despite my job at my previous employer coming to an end (I found a new job after my new manager, an anorexic cow with stomach hair made every day at work absolute hell) and going through the pressure of starting a new job, my grandfather dying, family feuds, a break up with someone I loved but had a turbulent relationship with and my weight issues, I got through the first quarter ok. But then the cracks started to show.

Another break up in June and mix-ups with my medication left me… well, not well at all. I have suffered from depression my whole life, but what happened next is something I had never experienced before. I stopped seeing anyone. I stopped caring about looking after myself. I didn’t clean my flat. I skipped meals. I slept all the time (once for 22 hours). I would sit crying in the dark and then just crawl into bed in the early evening for fear of what I might do to myself if I stayed awake. I pushed everyone I cared about and who cared about me away. I had suicidal thoughts every single day, to the point where I would start counting the tablets in my flat to see if I had enough. I started self harming again. I started vomiting again. I chose a spot perfect for tying a noose that could carry my weight and where I wouldn’t be discovered for some time. I cut people out of my life. I cut myself off from life.

I had a few friends who were there for me, mostly my ex who had left me in March. I felt safe when I was with him. I think he fulfilled a kind of mothering role that I had craves so much since I was 10. Feeling safe is the driving force behind most of my past. Drugs, eating disorder, serial relationships – all for safety. Even though I was incredibly messed up, he stuck with me, but when we cemented the relationship again it only lasted 3 weeks. That was 3 months ago today, the 17th of October. I still love him, and I still miss him every day, but a big part of me hates him for leaving me again. I wanted us to last a really long time. I wish things were different but they aren’t.

So by the 15th of November I wasn’t keeping any food down and my arm was resembling a patchwork quilt from all the self harming. Everything had come to a head, and I wasn’t sane enough to be alone or look after myself. I hadn’t been for some time. That was when my therapist and psychiatrist admitted me to the Eating Disorder Unit at a psychiatric hospital for three weeks.

My time in there was well spent. I worked hard on myself. It took me two weeks to cry, but when I started in a group one day, I didn’t stop for a few hours. I was put on lithium too, a mood stabiliser. Even though I am diagnosed Bipolar 2, my shrink says there is hope for me to be free from it without meds eventually. I guess we’ll see.

So now I am eating properly and have been for two months. I am exercising, going to support meetings and generally doing a lot better. The non-existent self esteem is still a problem but I guess we’ll work on it.

So this is me, hoping that 2011 is a better year than 2010. Pretty much everyone I speak to had a ridiculously terrible 2010.

Jealousy

At dead of night, when strangers roam

The streets in search of anyone who’ll take them home

I lie alone, the clock strikes three

And anyone who wanted to could contact me

At dead of night, ’till break of day

Endless thoughts and questions keep me awake

It’s much too late

Where’ve you been?

Who’ve you seen?

You didn’t phone when you said you would!

Do you lie?

Do you try

To keep in touch? You know you could

I’ve tried to see your point of view

But could not hear or see

For jealousy

 

I never knew time passed so slow

I wish I’d never met you,

or that I could bear to let you go

At dead of night, ’till break of day

Endless thoughts and questions keep me awake

It’s much too late