Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘mental health


Posted on: January 31, 2014

Sorry I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been…coping. Just about, by the skin of my teeth, getting from one day to the next.

These past few days I’ve been feeling ill. Nothing serious, just a bug, but I feel all stuffed up and it’s stopping me from sleeping because every time I lie down I cough up a lung, so I know I’m being ratty and over-emotional.

I’m struggling at work. My performance has dipped. I’m alright at the simple, invisible, day-to-day things, but when it comes to anything involving confidence or chutzpah I just can’t do it any more. My boss keeps looking at me with his serious face and I feel like he’s gearing up to have a serious conversation with me and I am completely not in the right frame of mind for that. I can’t talk about myself at the best of times but lately I can hardly look myself in the face in the mirror without wanting to run away.

Today I came home from a busy, stressful, unproductive day at work. Feeling exhausted and vulnerable, wearing the dead-eyed, open-mouthed, nose-dripping stare of the cold-inflicted. Feeling sick. Feeling sorry for myself. Wanting to hide away. Told my parents I didn’t feel up to eating anything and was just going to bed.

Everything kicked off. I mean, World War 3 (only in my house alone we’re probably on World War 3 Million). My mum calling me an ungrateful bitch and threatening to force feed me. Calling me evil for upsetting her (is this what mothers do? I thought if your child was ill you would at least enquire what was wrong before making it all about you).

I really couldn’t cope. Couldn’t make my brain work properly. Couldn’t stop the horrible snivelling crying. Cut my arm with scissors for the first time in years. Hit myself on the head with my phone, which was probably a really bad idea as I now have a huge lump in the middle of my forehead and I don’t know how I’ll explain it (my phone still works though, it’s indestructible, although I’m not sure how that will help as I have no-one to contact).

All I can think about is running away. Got to leave, got to get away somehow, got to stop everything. I don’t know what to do.

I hurt myself last night. It’s been a while.

Read the rest of this entry »

Wherever I go, whatever I do, whoever I’m with, sooner or later, someone calls me crazy.

I know it probably says less about me than I think it does, and more about the fact that the easiest way to insult someone or make a joke at their expense is to question their sanity. It’s just, it’s always me.

People at work have been commenting.

A month, I’ve been there, and they’re noticing and commenting and questioning.

Okay, I admit it, lately I’ve been a little…boisterous. Tip-tap-tapping away on everything, and talking too loudly and laughing so hard and making jokes and talking to strangers as if we’re good friends, and being…fierce, never backing down, never letting people walk all over me, never accepting anything I have reason to doubt, and doubting it loudly and aggressively.

And people have been commenting. From a confused “I don’t know where I stand with you” to a teasing “you can get help with that”. From a laughing, exasperated “bloody hell, calm down”, to a probing “do you think of yourself as quite stable?” (“Stable as a horse!” I replied, and waited for the – crap – joke to sink in, so we could laugh and I wouldn’t have to think).

I can push away the questions and the comments relatively easily, if a little irritably, at the moment, because I feel strong and alive and energetic (sleeping badly but not noticing the lack of rest, just getting annoyed because I can’t keep still and I can’t switch off and it’s boring, lying around and wondering whether sleep or the ring of the alarm clock will come first). However, I am vaguely aware that I won’t always be so adept at responding to the way everyone so casually says crazy and mad and mental and you act like you’ve got multiple personalities when I’m around.

Fucking hell.

The mental health advisor is a very nice woman. She is kind and listens and has a calm voice.

But of course, she doesn’t have some new wisdom, some obvious solution I’ve been overlooking. She can’t do magic.

I spent the entire appointment avoiding eye contact and biting my lip and speaking in a croaky voice. Trying to be honest, but falling a little bit short. It’s a bit worrying, I suppose, when you’re making things seem not quite as bad as they are, and the person you’re talking to looks at you with an expression of worry and concern.

I tried, though. I was as honest as I felt I could be without having to curl up in a corner and weep. And I listened to her advice.

As anyone could predict, her advice is: go to the doctor. Get some medication. Consider taking some time out from uni.

And all the time she was saying it, I was nodding and smiling waterily, and thinking two things:

  1. No, no, no, no, no, that is not what I want. I can’t do it, I can’t risk it.
  2. Well, that’s it then. I suppose I’ll have to kill myself.

Which I don’t think was quite her intention, but it’s not her fault I managed to completely fail to convey my crippling and unwavering terror of asking for help.

She’s seen medication save lives, she says. Which is all very well, and I don’t doubt it, but medication made me want, even more, to end mine. I believe her that medication works for some people. I just don’t believe that it’ll work for me.

“Do you feel better for having asked for help?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “A bit. I think”. No, I feel worse, I feel like I’ve ripped my heart out and asked you to stamp on it.

Then she finished it with a little pep talk about how depression’s so common and people get through it and I shouldn’t give up.

Then I walked very quickly back to my room and bawled my eyes out.

She was nice. She wants me to go back in a couple of weeks. Presumably so I can tell her about how I haven’t seen a doctor and how I don’t plan to – ever – and how everything is utterly shit and never going to improve because I can’t do what I have to do, and even if I could it would probably only make things worse, which is why I can’t in the first place, because I know now not to take for granted the idea that things can’t get worse, because they always can.

Talking about it is too painful. I can’t shred myself  into tiny pieces, just on the off-chance that someone will be able to sew me back together, rearranged in a slightly better way. It’s too much of a risk.

I probably won’t go back. Hopefully, now that I’ve investigated my options and seen that all roads lead to endless depression, I’ll finally gather up my strength and kill myself. I get the feeling that that wasn’t the aim of the appointment, but never mind.

So: go to a doctor – which in my experience won’t stop me wanting to die, and will probably in fact make me want to die more – or just die, as soon as I can.

Put like that, why on earth should I choose the former?

I’m okay. It’s just…post-appointment meltdown.

I’ve got volunteering this afternoon. It might be a terrible idea to spend time with people when I feel like this, but you never know, it might take my mind off it.

I’m alright now. A bit low, a bit teary, nothing serious. I have an absolute monster of a cold.

This past month or two, my moods have been…extreme. Read the rest of this entry »

I went to a meeting for my course today. A relaxed, friendly meeting, no work required, just saying hello and trying to find a time for regular meetings. The people seemed nice and the course seemed interesting.

And I was anxious to a degree that was truly horrific.

My voice was too loud, I stood out too much – I wanted to hide, wanted to run away, but I stand out, I always stand out and people stare, and hate me, and I try to smile, try to be friendly but it’s just a grimace. I kept glancing at the door, calculating my escape. Passing some papers to the person next to me, my hands were shaking. I felt like crying. I could feel their eyes on me. I felt like I could almost hear their thoughts – at least, I could guess what they were. The lecturer kept looking me straight in the eye, like she was keeping an eye on me, like she felt sorry for me, or frightened of me, and was trying to make sure I kept quiet, didn’t do anything stupid. But I couldn’t do anything at all apart from shake and panic and, as soon as possible, get the hell out of there.

I fucking hate this.

I can’t do it.

And it’s fucking Mental Health Awareness Week on campus, and there are posters and leaflets everywhere, and it makes me uncomfortable. Partly because I am all too fucking aware, but mostly because I agree with the cause, I like what they’re trying to do – raise awareness, reduce stigma, help people to help each other, get people interested, reduce the sense of taboo around the whole subject – but then I feel like a hypocrite because all I do is hide away and pretend it doesn’t exist and make pathetic attempts at seeming normal.

I bought sleeping pills, and once again the whole debate inside my head resumes – do I take one, or a couple, tonight, in an attempt to actually get some sleep and function tomorrow? Or do I save them up, and get more, and more and more, until I’ve got a huge pile of them, and take them all in one go, washed down with a bottle of vodka, and never have to worry about any of this again? Or do I act sensibly, and just throw them away, as I obviously can’t be trusted to follow the packet’s instructions?

I can’t live, I can’t die. What do I do?  All I can think about is dying. It’s all I want, I don’t want to live anymore, I can’t do it, it’s all too much and I mess it up and it hurts, and I’m just so fucking weak.

I wish I didn’t exist. I wish I’d never been born. My life isn’t worth it. Whatever small happinesses I’ve had, they are not enough.

I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this.

I’ve had a nice holiday, a good holiday. Not really an ideal holiday – depending on my state of mind, my ideal holiday consists of either a) me, some sunshine and a big pile of books, or b) me, my friends, a lot of friendly strangers and a lot of alcohol. Listening to my mother constantly worrying about things that haven’t happened yet, and even if they didn’t happen, wouldn’t be worth worrying about, isn’t likely to be something I want in a holiday.

But yes, it was nice. Read the rest of this entry »


My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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