Untitled
A new day
But no new beginning for me
I paint over the cracks
That appeared over night
And step out into the world
All you see are the smiles
You never look close enough to notice
That the smile is painted on
And cracking at the edges
One day you’ll notice
The smile won’t be there
The eyes will be dead
You’ll realise then
You never really knew me
You never took the time
To peel back the paint
And see me dying inside.
I haven’t posted for almost two weeks as I have been in a very dark place. Logically I know that to write would help me release some of these feelings but finding the motivation has been very hard.
The assessment itself was pretty stressful and when my husband was brought in for some questions I fell to pieces. To hear him say what he did touched my heart as I thought he never really understood. But when I received a letter from the mental health unit I was distraught. Instead of the offer of health I have been discharged which has left me feeling like I am drowning. I asked my husband does that mean I have to hurt myself to get help. I have cut in the past and have managed to ignore the current issues I have but it gets harder everyday and the fact that I am on the highest dose of anti depressant and anti anxiety meds makes me wonder if they even care.
My meds especially the anti depressants are hard core. Effexor they are called Google them and see, supposedly the best on the market for symptoms but killer side effects if you miss even one dose. So on the plus side, if I ever get to the stage of lowering the dose I am in for a real fun time.
But anyway I am rambling and I apologise, I just find myself in a worse place than I was before the assessment. I know the national health is at breaking point but to turn someone away who is having thoughts of self harm surely shouldn’t happen.
I’d like to end this post on a high. I received my first message and follow from firstfloorluka. And I would like to thank her very very much. It’s nice to know there’s someone out there xx
The sun flashes brightOff the cold metal blade
As it tears across my pale white skin
The pink line left in its wake
Slowly Bubbles red
As it paints the picture of my life
on the canvas of my skin
So tomorrow morning I attend my local mental health unit for yet another assessment, to try and establish exactly what status I hold in respect to my mental health. Am I bipolar? Or just depressed and anxious?
So many thoughts are running through my head at the moment the largest being that for the first time my husband will be with me in the assessment. I’m the woman who always holds everything in, he doesn’t know how bad I am. And with him being in the assessment will I be able to be honest and if I am, will it hurt him knowing how bad I really am.
I never thought that this would be my life. I’m the girl who was the life and the soul of the party always fun and a laugh. Looking back I don’t even know when things changed when that girl disappeared or was she even real. It’s not as if I even want to be that girl. I just want to be someone who is living not just coping, someone who doesn’t constantly have the weight of the world on her shoulders.
I battle daily with my thoughts but I do want to be here I want to live. I want to love and be loved. I want to be free, so keep me in your prayers for tomorrow and any other day that you can. A problem shared is a problem halved. Thank you x
(Left to Right: Alyson Hannigan [Date Movie, 2006], Philomena Kwao, Essie Golden, Tess Holliday)
For the typical size 18 girl like myself, the summer months bring along the ever complicated dilemma: wear longer clothes that cover up “problem areas” but threaten to cause heat stroke, or throw caution to the wind and go for the shorts and tank top that show every jiggle and bump. Up until my senior year of high school, skirts and shorts were out of the question. The last thing I wanted was for everyone to see the bits of me that made me the most insecure about myself. It was a question of comfort. At least clothes left everything to the imagination; I would rather burn under the summer sun to please others than show everyone my chubby arms and legs.
And that’s when it hit me. It’s not like my body was a secret…
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How I want to feel like this….
Shall we talk about your body?
Your body, which used to be thinner. Which you took for granted, because it fitted into cheap, tight dresses. Your body, which took you up and down Brixton Hill, every day, twice a day, never unheralded by catcalls, the stream of men and their “Oh baby hey baby nice tits nice ass hey WHERE YOU GOING?”
Your body was a girl’s body, made from dancing and late nights and skipped dinners, of hopefulness and sleeplessness and sadness. It took care of itself, or rather, you didn’t care that it couldn’t. It wasn’t for you, and so you didn’t mind that you couldn’t always afford to feed and nurture it. The admiration of others was nourishment enough. You often went to bed feeling empty. You thought it was heartbreak. It was probably hunger.
Then your body became plump with love.
Late dinners and later breakfasts…
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Ruby Wax has caused a minor kerfuffle by suggesting that those us whom struggle with our mental health should keep it quiet from employers, and in fact, lie to them in order to protect ourselves.
How many of us have had, “a cold” when general misery has flattened us to our beds? Had dodgy trains when it’s really been a panic attack?
In a perfect world, we’d be able to tell the truth. And our employers would be able to respond compassionately and sensibly. But it’s not a perfect world. Nor is it some post-stigma world as Eleanor Morgan suggests in her response to Ruby Wax:
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Reading, like breathing, is a continuous process that’s made up of numerous discrete acts. (If you’re like me, the same is true of eating gummy bears.) Whatever style we write in — from the most traditional to the more experimental — our job as writers is to make the experience so smooth for our readers that they don’t even notice the little seams that hold it all together.
We do this in ways both big and small. We make sure our grammar doesn’t call attention to itself (unless we want it to, like in some forms of poetry). We keep our posts clean, and their format easy on our readers’ eyes. We embrace the screen’s white space.
Dividing your text into smaller units is another way to make the reading flow and engage and push your audience onward. I’m not talking about breaking down walls of text into paragraphs — unless you’re James Joyce you’re hopefully doing this…
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whatmomma 