Tag: depression

“OCD says”

It’s like a children’s game of “Simon says” except there’s no prize at the end, and it’s more like torture than fun.
This piece is designed to be read out loud, and quickly, and with a tone of withering desperation like you’re trying to cajole a toddler out of a tantrum, or into an entirely (inappropriate) latex romper suit. Enjoy.
TW: OCD compulsions and rituals.

OCD says put your leggings on like this. NO. No. For god’s sake, not like that. You were thinking something bad just then. You’ll have to do it again. Take them off. Put them back on again. But this time DON’T think of “the bad things”. Oh, the bad things? Would you like an example? YOU BECOMING GRAVELY ILL, YOUR FAMILY DYING HORRIFICALLY, BEING SICK, CATCHING RABIES, NEVER FINDING LOVE AGAIN, NEVER FINDING EMPLOYMENT AGAIN. I said DON’T think of them. For god’s sake. How hard is it? Take them off again. Put them back on again but this time, and really try this time, don’t think of the bad things. Okay one leg in well done, la la la la la think of the happy things. Next leg in. Oh shit your leg has got stuck. Take them off again and start again. How many times is that now? Four? We can’t finish on four. Best make it up to seven. That’s a safe number. Come on, off again on again off again on again. Happy thoughts, no bad thoughts remember? Almost there. Hold your breath. Okay done. Wait, but did you definitely only have good thoughts whilst you were putting them on? You weren’t metathinking of bad thoughts; you weren’t thinking about thinking about bad thoughts? Are you sure? Hmmm okay that was passable. But in case something does go wrong later in the day, we’ll know what to blame it on. Your shoddy incapability to get dressed EXACTLY AS I TELL YOU TO.

OCD says wash your hands. NO. No. Not with just warm water. Do you think that’s good enough? Think of all the germs you’ve just encouraged with that lovely warm water. It’s got to be hotter. Hotter. Turn the tap all the way. Is it steaming? Then it’s hot enough. I know, I know, it’s painfully hot. But I say so. So, continue please without complaining. Oh, you’re just using soap? Oh. Well. Do you really think that’s strong enough? Just soap? Find some detergent. Spray your hands with it. Spray your hands with it then run them under the hot water. Repeat. How many times? Seven. Obviously (you fucking idiot). How do you know that you’re really getting rid of all the germs though? Should we scrub them properly? I don’t know why I am asking you, you have no autonomy in this. Find a green scourer from the kitchen. NO. A brand new, clean one. Thank you. Back to the bathroom now. Spray, scrub, hot water. Spray, scrub, hot water. How will you know when you’ve really got the germs off? WHEN YOUR SKIN COMES OFF, OF COURSE. So, if you just keep scrubbing until the skin on your hands looks red raw. That’s it. Wait…hang on. Is hands just enough? What if there are germs on your wrists and forearms too? Better scrub those too. Go on then. Harder. HARDER. Do not stop until your skin feels like it’s been pan-seared. Done? HANG ON. Hang on. Under the nails too. Scrub there. Spray, scrub, hot water. Spray, scrub, hot water. Seven times, of course. Okay okay fine, run your hands under cold water for a bit to “make yourself feel better”. But just know, that if you get sick in the next few days, we’ll know exactly why, okay?

OCD says put your phone down like this. Your pinky finger on your left hand must be the last part of your body to touch it. But then your pinky finger on your left hand must be immediately touched by the side of your index finger on your right hand (the safest of the bad hand). And then your left pinky must by the first part of any hand to touch any surface after that. Go for the left leg. Just to be sure. Your right hand CANNOT, I repeat CANNOT, touch anything else other than what has already been specified. Why? BECAUSE THE RIGHT HAND SIDE IS DANGEROUS. We’ve been over this. BAD things will happen if your right hand touches things it shouldn’t. You remember the list of bad things, do we really need to go over them agai…OKAY HERE GOES – YOUR HOUSE WILL GO UP IN FLAMES, YOUR FRIENDS WILL DESERT YOU, YOU WILL DIE ALONE, YOU WILL NEVER FIND PEACE OR HAPPINESS AGAIN. Got the jist? Okay. So are you ready to put your phone down correctly this time? Remember, we’ve done this twice already. If you get it right third time, then excellent. If not, we’ll have to go all the way to seven again. Okay, hold your breath. Hang on! Remember not to think of the bad thoughts, or bad words, at the same time? Maybe sing loudly in your head a happy song that cannot in any way be construed to be upsetting or dangerous. A personal favourite of mine is Bob Marley’s “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright”, but it’s up to you. If you sing it loud enough in your head it will block out the bad thoughts. But remember, you can’t be aware that you’re singing this in your head to get rid of the bad thoughts, because that way, you’re still thinking in some way about the bad thoughts. Okay, are we all clear on the rules now? Deep breath, let’s go…

If you found that exhausting to read, welcome to OCD 🙂

sad girl chronicles pt. 1

It seems all I do these days is write about how sad I am. So I may as well chronicle it for your entertainment.

We’d promised each other a lot of things over the years.
That we’d never leave.
That we’d always support each other.
That we’d always love each other.
That we’d always be adventure buddies.

I didn’t realise that these promises were conditional.
Conditional on my mental health remaining stable.
Conditional on me not becoming unwell.
Conditional on me not deviating from the adventurous, confident girl you fell in love with.

Well, I’m sorry I changed.
I’m sorry my mental health deteriorated.

But my promises were never conditional.
I loved you unconditionally.
And I still do.

Can anyone really ever promise anyone anything anyway?
Does it all amount to empty words and broken hearts in the end?
It seems that way.

I guess I’m just in disbelief that you can say “forever” one night, and the next morning break my heart. Forever.

Maybe some “forevers” do count.
But none of the ones I counted on.

phonecall with a counsellor

“Sounds like you have a lot to process at the minute”

Yes.

“Leaving your job…”

Mm hmm.

“That promotion, that sounded like it was something you were really passionate about…”

Yeah.

“And I guess you’re still processing your new diagnosis too?”

Yeah, I am. It’s a lot.

“And then having to deal with all the negative emotions that come with a break-up too?”

Yeah, that’s pretty hard.

“And then there’s the added stress of moving continents for the second time in a year.”

Yes.

“That sounds like an awful lot to deal with for one person”

I guess it is. You’ve summed it up quite well.

It is a lot to deal with. It’s a lot to process. I’m not sure I’m ready to move on yet. In any way, shape or form.

I think I just need to sit down.

renewing

I think I’m finally ready to share this one.

I heard somebody once say, that it takes
the human body 7 years to replace every cell
in an endless process of
dying and renewing
dying and renewing.
Which gives me great comfort that maybe
3 years from now
there won’t be a single cell in me
not one single part
not between my legs and not my beaten heart
there won’t be one single cell in me
that let you in.

Am I taking this too far?
Maybe I’m over-exaggerating but I saw
what you typed with hands that used to touch me
in that Google search bar.

It’s funny, in a disgusting twist of irony
that in college we’d rib you
that you liked younger girls.
But I saw what was hidden in your computer screen
I saw what you typed on sticky keys
and when I think about it like that
I don’t laugh
my stomach turns.

So maybe I’m not exaggerating
maybe it makes perfect sense
you didn’t feel what I feel so let me tell you how it felt;

You didn’t feel the shock waves of that night, that
cracked
my foundations.
Tore down the walls.
Like primary seismic waves
through the heart of my liquid core
every
cell
of my
body
shook.
You didn’t feel the aftershocks that
rippled
no, ripped
through the next 8 years of my life
with silent screams
and echoes in empty college halls of
it was your fault
it was all your fault
you were not good enough
you mustn’t be doing it right
you should be thinner, sexier, curvier, raunchier.

Or more tight.

Forgive me for being crass, or rude.
Forgive me if I’m too close to the line.
But you weren’t there when too close to the line became too close to the edge.

This is not what I signed up to.
I didn’t ask for this.
That warm summer’s night on the trampoline
sixteen.
A first kiss
that I thought was magic
everything that my playlist of country songs taught me it should be.
But not this,
not twisted and broken and tragic.

This is no eternal sunshine.
There is no magic button or cheat code
that could make it skip to the end.
No up up down down left right left right
B A start

So I’ll mend
I’ll fix and I’ll patch and I’ll tend
To this broken head and this broken heart.

And I’ll wait.

dying renewing dying renewing
I’m counting the days
til there’s no more
you in
me.

dancing pt. 2

They all say they’ll dance with you in the beginning.
We’ll move the furniture in the living room
and I’ll teach you,
I’ll say.

It’s all about tension,
between us two,
held in our arms.
Away and towards.
Stretch and contract.
That’s all dancing really is,
I’ll say,
The musicality of a connection between any two souls.
It’s art.

And they oblige at first.
But they never make good on their empty words.

Promises of holding each other close,
as the music slows.
Promises of a lively jive,
or a passionate salsa.
Promises of
3 and a half minutes of
of heart racing
of flirtatious chasing
of chests barely touching
of electrifying
bachata.

When the whole room falls away around you both.
And all there is, is you two.
And the rhythm guiding your movements,
And the air in between your bodies,
And everything else fades to black,
And,
And,

They bottle it.
Say they’ll do it another day. Another time. They’re not in the mood. Or they’re too tired.

Okay, I’ll say.

I metaphorically put the furniture back to its original place,
turn the music off,
and the TV on.

the night we met

I wrote this several months back. Back when we were still together.

Take me back to the night we met.

We met a long time before that night.
But that night, I felt, was the first time
we properly saw each other.
Up until then, we’d kept it largely
platonic, sometimes suggestive, but
never too far. Nothing that would get you
into trouble.

But that night was different.
We both caught each other off-guard.
We didn’t have a screen, or snapchat filter,
or school email, or professional duties to hide
behind.

We were unfiltered.
Apparently you’d seen me first.
But I saw you when I came downstairs, you
were at the bar.
It was instinctive.
I went straight over to you without
hesitation and we hugged. Which I think
caught us both off-guard.

We were both wearing plaid shirts, and
we both made a comment that we had
coordinated outfits.
Then your friends came over and made the
same comment.

It was easy.
I was magnetically drawn to you, and it
was so clear and obvious.

I wish I could’ve stayed talking to you at
the bar all evening. But I had friends to
get back to, and so did you.

But we bumped into each other again that
night at the Wetherspoons. My eyes kept
trying to find you all evening.

You were like an island in the middle of
a shipwreck. I felt I was constantly
swimming against the tide, fighting to
keep my head above water.

But with you, I could breathe easy. It was
effortless.

So, I’m sorry that it hasn’t stayed that
way. You told me tonight that you miss
me. I’m right here, but I’m not. I’m not the
same anymore. For the first 6 month of us
being together, I didn’t think about my
past once. I was so happy. So content.

So, I thank you for that.

But slowly, it crept back in.
And I’m furious that something that
happened so long ago, is tearing apart
something so wonderful. It makes me
hate myself, for not being able to deal
with it and move on.

I wish none of it had ever happened.
But I can’t change that now.
No amount of wishing will ever undo.
What he did.
What I didn’t do.
What neither of us did.
And everything inbetween.

“I had all and then most of you, some, and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met.”
– Lord Huron

I never thought I’d write those words about you.

a rant about weight loss

TW: weight loss (with numbers), disordered eating, body image

I’ve lost weight. Not healthily. Not intentionally. But as a by-product of extreme anxiety and stress-induced IBS. I haven’t had an appetite. I was gagging every time I tried to eat. And when I did eat eventually, I’d only eat about half of the food on my plate before feeling sick again. And I’d have an upset stomach up to 6 or 7 times a day. It was unhealthy. (I’m using past tense because I am now back in the UK and my appetite and metabolism seem to have returned to normal.) I would get head rushes just standing up. I’d feel weak and unsteady. I’d had to stop running because I didn’t have the physical energy.

I have lost a stone and a half in about 5 months. This bothers me. For numerous reasons:
a) People feel the need to comment on it
b) People automatically assume it’s 1) intentional and 2) a positive thing
c) Do I like it, secretly?

a) People feel the need to comment on it.
I’ve had several people openly make comments about my body in a public space where my colleagues or acquaintances are within earshot. It is not okay to openly make comments about a person’s body size, shape or anything else. It draws attention to the recipient, usually unwanted, and also draws the attention of everyone else in the room to start scrutinising your body and making their own silent judgments. Or that’s what it feels like.
I had a (male) colleague say “Wow, have you lost a lot of weight? You look like you have!” in front of a staff room of other colleagues. Now, I get it, he thought it was a compliment. He’d assumed I’d been intentionally trying to lose weight and therefore had been successful and wanted to express some backwards and unsolicited form of congratulations. BUT THAT IS NOT HOW IT SHOULD BE. No-one should ever think it appropriate to make comments about perceived weight loss to another person, especially in a public setting. You don’t know what that person is going through. You don’t know whether they’re ill or not. You don’t know if they have a history of disordered eating and distorted body image *raises hand*. If you don’t know for absolute sure, you don’t comment. I wanted to respond with something cutting like “Yeah, I’m actually trying this new weight-loss program called “my life is being rapidly overtaken by anxiety” paired with a complementary program of irritable bowel syndrome. You should try it – if I recommend a friend you can get a 10% discount”. But, embarrassingly, I just said “Thanks” and I hate myself for it.
That particular comment made me very self-conscious. I thought – did he think I needed to lose weight before? Was I perceived as being overweight before? Should I strive to maintain my new body shape, or worse continue to shrink it?
I also had a (now very recent ex) boyfriend, in an intimate moment, say he could actually feel it on my body, the weight I’d lost. (Although, to be fair to him, he was upset by it because he knew how ill I’d been.)

b) People automatically assume it’s 1) intentional and 2) a positive thing
I’ve had friends make comments that suggest I should be pleased with my weight-loss – despite me explaining to them the toxic causes of it. I even had my Dad say – when I told him I’d lost over 10kg – “Well, that’s not a bad thing!” Implying that I had weight that needed losing? Implying that it’s a good thing that I’m smaller now, and should be happy to be so?
I’ve had friends say “I wish I could drop a stone and a half that quickly”. No. No, you don’t. Not by the means I’ve lost the weight. I don’t want congratulations – when I confided in my friends about the weight loss I wanted support and sympathy. Not jealousy. I was terrified I’d keep losing the weight like I did when I was 14, that I’d become dangerously underweight again. I didn’t want a pat on the back.
And I know, women have just internalised all the messages we receive from the media about how our bodies should look, so can I really blame my friends for responding in the way they did?

c) Do I like it, secretly?
And finally, the hardest part of all – do I actually secretly like it? Am I secretly glad I’ve lost the weight, even if it was unintentional and achieved by very unpleasant means? Despite of my new found feminism, body positivity, health-at-every-size attitude, I can’t seem to shake that lingering shadow in the corner that whispers “Skinnier is better and you know it. Skinnier is sexier, and sexier is more power and control. And that’s what we crave, isn’t it?” It’s insidious. But it’s still there and I can’t overthrow it with all the bopo-insta in the world. There’s something hard-wired into me, that says I should always strive to be physically more attractive. I know why. But that’s not something to get into right now.

On a positive note, in the three days since my return to the UK, my appetite has returned, and my IBS appears to have abated *touch wood*. And the sensible, rational part of my brain knows that the healthy thing to want is for my weight to stabilise, or even increase.

Oh, sensible rational brain, please come through for me this time.

1000 more goodbyes

You’ve just left. After the most emotional night.

You just texted me saying “I’m breaking”. I am breaking too. Shattering into a million tiny pieces.

My heart hurts.

This evening, just before the rain came thundering down, you hugged me from behind as we looked out across the city. We could see the high-rise of the apartment complex you’re staying in. I asked which way your window faced. You said the other way. And we both sobbed.

I wish I could’ve just stayed there forever in your arms. Suspended in time. Just the two of us, Just how it should be. Just how it should always be.

But you had to leave. I’d made you tea. You said you’d leave after you finished your tea. Then the rains started. You said you’d go when the rains stopped.

I said I didn’t want you to finish your tea and I didn’t want the rains to ever stop.

But they did. And you left.
After another emotional goodbye. Where you told me it wasn’t my fault. Where you told me not to blame myself. Where you told me you’d always be proud of me. Where you said you’d be there for me if things got really bad and I wanted to hurt myself. Because you still love me. And you still care for me.

We kissed. Which we shouldn’t have. But I pressed my body into yours and I felt the earth fall away beneath me. No floor. No apartment. No Thailand.
Just us. Joined. One team. One unit. Together.

It physically hurt me to stop kissing you. To stop holding you. And to let you go.

We’ll see each other again. Probably, unfortunately, in work tomorrow. But it won’t be the same.

I hope we have another night like tonight. Even though it hurts. Another night where we bare all and cry into each other’s shoulders.

Where we say all the things we should’ve spent years saying.

I’ll part with you 1000 times more if it means 1000 more nights like this with you.

I am heartbroken.

dancing

We’re dancing on the edge of a precipice
Except you have both your feet
Planted firmly on solid ground
And I keep pirouetting closer to the edge.
Light-footed
And fragile
A swift breeze would do it
One loose rock under foot
It would be quick.

But there you are
Still.
Both my hands in yours
And your feet
My anchors.

There are daisies growing in the cracks of this landslide.