Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Well, my voices are almost constant – but this has been a while now. I get tired of them, but falling in love – it pushes your whole body out of balance. I’m flooding myself with feel-good hormones, I’m worrying over silly little things….
I suppose I’m starting to balance myself out, but I did an interview with The Express about psychosis. I hope, I sincerely hope it has helped someone out there feel less alone, because it left me feeling paranoid and stressed out.
Whoever does media on a regular basis – I applaud you. My words have been taken out of context, my ‘story’ has been sensationalised and changed to fit a few punchy paragraphs (hardly necessary, given the drama that has plagued the last few years!) and the most important part, in my opinion, has been glossed over.
The recovery. The years of hard work and struggle I have put in to get myself to this position – to the point I feel that one day I could be independent, I could look after myself alone and I could achieve everything I hope for.
And that is the part that, I think, really matters to other people with psychosis. It’s the part that matters to me. The horror stories of your worst moments do shock and stun people into trying to comprehend the terror of living with something like this – but learning how to live again: that’s what I want to read about. That’s what I want to know.
There are still so many moments of doubt in my life, and there are so many times still I feel like I’m going to be trapped in a sort of limbo for the rest of my days but the small battles I win, the longer time goes by and I don’t completely fall apart…
There’s no point looking at an image without seeing the work behind it. It doesn’t help.
Anyway, on another topic…
Disassociative symptoms. I had a rather severe disassociative episode on Friday. I rarely get ‘negative’ symptoms anymore, but I’ve been stressed. The ups and downs of trying to fit into another persons life and have them fit in mine, the uncertainty of working somewhere that can’t be bothered to tell me if I have a permanent job – and me being too chicken-shit to actually ask about it. The article.
It must have been too much for me.
I felt like I was in a dream. Nothing felt real. I checked out. I could barely react to things, I seemed slow, unresponsive, sluggish.
The world looked wrong, even now I’m still trying to drag myself out of the remains of it, I look at things and they don’t seem quite connected – my hands seem independent of my body if I watch them flutter across the keyboard now and I still feel slightly slow, like I’m waiting for something to jerk me out.
But with plenty of sleep and the affection of a good man I felt safe.
So there’s another hope that rather than fading has shone brighter because every little relapse that doesn’t end in disaster is something I can chalk up in the ‘win’ column and know that I can cope a little better.