05/10/2019

So I haven’t written for a while. I’ve recently moved into a new flat and so the first five weeks or so were hectic as I spent most of my time cleaning and decorating. I did this with my parents which was something of a double edged issue. It was a complete an utter nightmare at times, and other times not so. And it was definitely better than it might have been a couple of years ago in terms of symptoms- I used to suffer terribly around my mother- she would bring the symptoms on to the point that usually after I’d spent time with her my day would be ruined, I’d either spend the rest of it ranting and raving at the four walls of my apartment or crying and crying and crying. I think she just doesn’t know how to relate to me, which I do find insulting- she can’t understand my mental illness and so she acts as though it’s not there and I’m this troublesome space she needs to keep moving, keep up with the room.. It makes me so very angry, because I feel as if I was brought up to be a certain way, a way which she won’t afford back to me. All I need is a little compassion- we’ve never been a particularly affectionate family, apart from my sister she is- but I’m not so much and neither are my parents and so it’s always stressful spending time with them.

I’ve started a new psychology course with a psychiatric nurse at the mental health centre I pick up my meds from and work with. She asked me whether I feel that my parents put pressure on me, and at first I said no, not really- because they don’t overtly and I am grateful for that. However theyr’e of a certain age and a certain culture which basically states we make our own destiny etc, and moreover because they only found out that I was taking drugs when I became ill at first, and this shocked them, I think they’ve basically always taken the line that it was her fault- she did it to herself and that’s that. At the moment I’m working with my doctor to try and stop internalising this notion because I beat myself up hard over it. I saw my parents on Saturday and it wasn’t good, I ended up scratching my arm because the pressure inside me was just too strong and that was the only thing I could think of to do to make it go away. It did go down, but now I’m left with this mark which I’m praying will go down before anyone notices it. It’s a nightmare, you know. I just have so much uncertainty in my life, and not a helluva lot of certainty or stability.

I know that most of what the illness makes me think is happening which then makes me so very angry or sad is my brains way of dealing with all the uncertainty in my life. I dont feel like I can work that out and so my brain provides a substitute problem.

I might write more about this because I think it might be helpful. I don’t usually let myself because.. in fact I’m not exactly sure why. But anyway, that’s it for now.