I’m not too sure where I am going with this post.
I talked here about my disability, which isn’t really a mental illness.
Except that sometimes, when I really loose control, it feels like it.
Every few months, reality takes so much strain on me, on my brain and its limited capacity to deal with emotions of all sorts, that I crash. And when I do, it’s ugly.
I’m actually ashamed of it, of what I say and do in those moments when my brain and body give up the fight for normality.
I cry, I shout, I hurt myself, I try to push people I love and who love me away.
During that time, I feel like I am mad. Two days ago I begged my boyfriend, on the phone, to get me admitted into a psychiatric ward. Whilst curling up in the dark on the kitchen floor.
Then I take a (very very light) calming pill and I sleep, I cut off from the world, loose myself in books, and rest.
I get better, get back into normality, into work and virtual socializing etc. until next time.
My close family, or at least my mum and boyfriend, won’t let me be committed. They prefer helping me through it and get better at my own pace, away from strong medication (I’m a light weight, normal strength stuff is too heavy for me).
I feel ashamed for what I put them through, and grateful for their love and care. I wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for them.
I don’t talk about my dad because he isn’t around. Thanks to his partner I have a great therapist, but I don’t want to get him involved. It hits him far too hard. We see each other once a month, when I see my therapist, and that’s it. It’s weird, I miss him, talking with him, learning from him, but he’s old (73) and I don’t want to cause him any more stress than what he causes himself and what life can cause him.
So that’s what I’ve been up to for the past few days: fighting my illness, breaking down, picking my pieces up and putting them together again. Until next time.