Bear with me

Do you bare with someone, or bear with someone? One makes me think of nakedness, and the other of a grizzly. I guess “Bare with me,” is kinda suss, like an invitation for someone to strip off with you. Bear it is.

Which brings me to my point – bear with me, I’m in a weird space and I don’t know if any words are going to come. I feel like there’s a maelstrom (nice word, huh?) within me. A heaving, swirling, torrent of gunk eroding my brain. Like a sewer in my head. Nice. But I don’t have time for it – I have to ignore it, but I can’t. So I feel like that scene in the movies where the person is standing still while everything is moving in fast forward around them.

I’m sad and tired and kinda fed up. I’ll get over it.

I saw extended family today. Uncles x2 and aunts x3. It was awkward and weird and I don’t fit. I’m the square peg. Square peg with awkward arm scars. Buttherearen’tenoughandIamembarrassedatmypatheticnessand inferioritybecauseofit. But no one gets that. AndIthinktheyaresoinsignificantthatpeopleprobablydon’tevennotice soIamjustmakingsomethingoutofnothingandbeingapatheticnicompoop(withemphasisonthepooppart).

Yes, I’m weird and I’m sorry that I’m this stupid. And I can’t say anything of import or what I’ve actually done this weekend, or how I feel because it’s all lost and it doesn’t matter anyway because life feels pretty pointless right now. And maybe I am being a negative Nelly and over-exaggerating and getting stuck in the same old cycle but I can’t see how to be different. I don’t know what to do to make things change and maybe that sounds stupid but I’m so frustrated and I know I’m dumb and slow and thick as a flipping brick, but I CAN’T GET IT! I can’t unbelieve things and I can’t think about certain things differently because I still think about them automatically in the original way and I can’t argue with it because it’s so BIG and it sits on my chest and smothers me.

I need to go to bed.

Suicide bomber

Last week I was like South Africa – prejudiced against myself like the whites were against the blacks during the Apartheid. This week I am a Muslim extremist – hating myself with the passion of an ISIS militant’s hate for the west. This is according to my psychologist who I saw this morning. And yes, the session was as awkward and uncomfortable and unsettling as I thought it would be.

Then I read this: (seriously, go read it) and I realised I am a suicide bomber who hasn’t pressed the trigger yet. And you know why I don’t? Because I know the wounds the shrapnel causes – the strips of flesh and blood it shears away, the holes it rips into hearts. So I stay and stay and stay even though I just want to die, and I feel it’s what I deserve. But I can’t because of all that shrapnel.I have to find a way to diffuse the bomb.

I guess if I’m a Muslim extremist, then my mind is Iraq and I’m stumbling around through a war zone with explosives and desert and misery and I can’t focus on it all at once. It’s overwhelming. I


Terrifying treatment

I’m sad and beginning to fret.

Tomorrow I see my psychologist, which for me is like going for an operation and being kept awake for the whole thing. There’s no anesthetic. Blood and guts of my psyche is pulled and stretched and splattered all over the place and when I leave it won’t all fit back in again. In fact it screams at me to let it out again – to be purged, but this time through a self destructive method I won’t get into.

I hate seeing B and I hate myself for how I act, for what I say and think. I don’t know how to feel comfortable in that space or with him. I have been seeing him since my latest hospital admission but each time am still as nervous and uncomfortable. I have told him I get anxious about seeing him and that I don’t know why and it’s nothing he’s doing. I can’t even say hello without internally freaking out about how I’m looking, what I sound like, how I seem, what he thinks. I analyse everything. And I hate the feeling of him looking at me. I hate being seen. And I can’t stand someone knowing things about me and looking at me like that and wondering what that look means and I know it means nothing, but then I think it should – he should think and feel negatively about me because that’s what I deserve. If he doesn’t think and feel those things it’s because he’s a good person, or I have manipulated the situation to make him think differently. This goes on and on and it’s exhausting, meanwhile I also have to answer his questions. I have to speak. I have to say what I’m thinking and I don’t know how to say that I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I am stuck and I don’t know what to do and I don’t think I can fix this.

It’s the night before I see B and I can’t stop thinking about how awful it will be – which will probably only enforce in my mind the fear and discomfort. Why does my head play these mind games with me?



Tonight is the first night since I went to hospital that I’ve been alone. I was admitted on July 4 and was there for four weeks. It is now September. Two months of my life have been spent in limbo. More than that, really. It feels my whole life is panning out in some kind of limbo land. There is no definable beginning of the crazy for me, and I fear there will be no end either.

But for now I should not wander down that path of thought. I should instead appreciate the peace and space. I should try not to fret about the way my heart is hammering a nervous beat in my chest, and instead get ready for bed. I should try not to think about the week ahead, and instead just be here, now.


I’m doing this thing I’ve heard people do – take a lunch break. And you know what? Fuck feeling guilty. I would feel guilty if I flipped the freak out and smashed someone in the face because their voice was irritating me and I couldn’t take it anymore and snapped. That I would feel guilty for. So, while I take a lunch break to prevent assaulting my coworkers, I refuse to feel guilt.

I wish I could refuse a few other things I’m feeling. My heart feels like it’s jumping all over the place. I’m jittery and sick in the stomach. The familiar weight is smothering me. I’m miserable and angry and scared and frustrated and trapped and all over the place. I’m making bad plans and thinking bad things and all the while attempting to work and focus and concentrate on fitting the stupid headline in the hole about the stupid story that isn’t worth the paper it will be printed on. Rewriting stupid press releases that are out of date. Looking at the clock, scared. Wondering how I can be here and be here and be here until the end of the day.
How is it that I haven’t exploded? That I haven’t dropped dead? My heart shouldn’t be capable of beating when I feel this way.
Lunch break isn’t helping with these things. In fact it gives me time to feel everything. So I will go back, hoping some miracle finds me. Saves me. Takes me away.

Mad, bad, sad

Mad, bad, sad, mad, bad sad, mad bad, sad. These words often worm their way into my head and repeat over and over – a twisted mantra. The more I try not to think of them, the more insistent they become. Mad. Bad. Sad. I don’t know where they came from. All I know is they churn me up inside and make me want to cry. I feel weak and helpless. Scared. Young. These words wound me, or rather, come from a time of wounding, and their repetition serves to pick at the scab.

Mad,  bad, sad.

These words make me not want to be.