House Cleaning - Social Media Style

I know it's been a while since I've written anything. Too long. It's been a long nasty year for me. I've been battling those nasty little demonic bugs that eat away at your soul. Started 2016 trying to have more positive attitude. Doing all the little things that are "tools" in my arsenal to fight the demons. I even managed to find it in me to get a part-time temporary maternity cover job. In an office, so nothing I liked, but kept me busy and made feel like I was at least contributing to my family. But the storm was brewing on the horizon. I saw it coming. My husband saw it coming. I did what I could to try and keep what I knew was gonna end up most likely looking like the apocalypse in our world from occurring, but to no avail.

It's a very long story involving my husband's sister and her wedding (this past October). That in itself is worthy of its own blog, so I'll keep that one in storage for now. Problem was that this storm was coming. I saw it. I fretted about it. I told my husband I was fretting. But being the typical British stick his head in the sand and pretend it will blow over style, he didn't do much until it was too late.

Well the fuse was lit just before the Cyprus wedding (which we ended up not attending even though I was the only bridesmaid and he was to give away his sister). And then the apocalypse exploded this past Sunday, after the UK reception. Anyway, I lost it. Big style. On Facebook. I said some pretty nasty things. None of it was untrue, but I literally through ALL the dirty laundry out there to be seen by everyone who stumbled across it. Including all of his sister/brother-in-laws friends and family that I was "friends" with in the evil entity that is Facebook.

Let me back up one little step first. My husband and I got into it because I found out he was still friends on FB with the shit stirrer that was the spark for much of this discourse. He didn't see the problem (even though he knew what was going on with her & what pain she was causing me) and I flew into a rage. Started screaming and threw a dining chair. I continued to destroy said chair until it was kindling. Childish, but my rage had boiled over and better than the chair than him or myself. I sat in my garden seething as I tried to get my rage under control. I finally calmed a bit. And decided to go straight to the source of what was causing this.

I tried contacting said sister/brother in law via text since neither of them had been willing to meet with us in person in months. I aired my issues via text (somewhat harshly) with little response other than denials and lies. I became more agitated and my texts became beyond harsh. Then they stopped responding at all. And that's when I opened up Facebook.

Not sure why I thought that was a good idea. Clearly I wasn't thinking at all at that point. I was simply in a feral fight or flight frenzy. And I was done running and hiding. Things only got worse when I decided to start drinking. Made one more "dirty laundry" Facebook post about how all the lovely photos of my husband and I in Cyprus was a farce. How I was just trying to keep up the happy happy illusion. I then closed it down. I retreated into my dark world.

My dark BPD world of self hatred. I discovered my kitchen knives are in serious need of sharpening when I couldn't even make a mark on my arm when dragged across it. So went out to my art studio and got out my trusty box cutter. My left arm was first. Dragged the blade across dozens of times. Felt good. Went outside to sit in darkness and drink my beer and smoke my cigarette. Could feel my sleeve getting wetter by the second. Went inside to look. My entire arm was smeared and dripping red. It was beautiful. I needed more. Right arm. Little drops rising to the top of my epidermis, growing then trickling down in bright red trails. I couldn't wait. Left thigh, right thigh. Bliss.

Most of the night is actually a blur of reality and my manic frenzy. But I remember the blood.

The next morning, feeling horrible, not about anything I had done, just generally, I opened up Facebook. I had dozens of friends & family from the US sending me love and concern. Dozens more private messages and several missed calls. And one lovely UK "friend" calling me a cunt.

The last time I had been really ill was nearly 9 years ago. I found happiness back home when I accepted who I am, that I have an illness, let go of shame and guilt, and became honest with who I was. Some people didn't understand and quickly walked away. Some didn't understand, but chose to get to know me a bit anyway so I gave them the same chance. Some applauded my courage. I essentially "came out". It was liberating. I swore I would never put myself back in the closet. But I did. When I moved to the UK.

I was timid about how people would respond to my illness, so I kept it tucked away. I started testing the waters here and there with the people I had gotten to know. It seemed the stereotypical British concept of not talking about things that make you uncomfortable was alive and well. So I retreated. I lost more and more of myself with each passing day. Before I even realised it, there was hardly anything left I recognised. I had pulled all my old masks out, dusted them off, and became who people wanted me to be in those moments. I disappeared.

Well let me just say, a good old fashion let the world know how crazy you are on Facebook will weed out the vipers. So I got to house cleaning. I wasn't sure if wanted to see tomorrow, but I sure as hell knew all the ignorant intolerants had to go if I had a chance. Gays are allowed to be openly gay if they choose to be. So why couldn't I be openly mentally ill? Well we still have a long way to go on that one. Stigma and ignorance unfortunately still are the norm. I deleted and blocked at least 50 people. Probably more. Almost exclusively from everyone I met in the UK.

While I'm still unsure about tomorrow, I know I did the right thing. A few people questioned my actions. A few people still think I'm just "a little depressed" and I just need to "be happy". Like I chose this or something? Some people like to be miserable for misery's sake. Some of those people might need help but have never sought it. Some people do just need a little pep talk. Some people do get a little depressed from time to time. I'm not any of those people. I have a serious terminal illness. I can work on it. I can use tools to help myself. I can find a better place. But my reality is, this doesn't just go away and magically get healed.

I'm still here today, writing this. It's been a week. I made it a week. I'm still in shock. I'm reclusive. I'm scared. I'm tired. But I'm here. For now. Hoping for a reason for tomorrow. A reason to find the energy to put another piece of my shattered self back in place.

Hello Old Freind

Today is my 3rd wedding anniversary. I should be happy. But instead I lie here crying. Not because I don't love my husband or am unhappy in my marriage. But because the demons have awoken.

A couple months ago someone started shaking the foundation of my wellbeing. Someone not worth it, but damage was done. My over 8 years of mental stability and happiness has now crumbled to the ground. My illness is awake and dragging me through hell again. Uncontrollable anxiety, fits of rage, debilitating depression, obsessive thoughts, helplessness, and ideation that's put me on the edge of sanity.

When you are "well" you sometimes forget (or try to convince yourself you're cured) of your mental illness. I am Borderline and it took me 35 years of pure hell to find an existence where I was content with who I was. I knew I wasn't cured, everyday was still a struggle, but life was manageable, balanced. I was even happy, seemingly had it all. Nothing flashy. Part time job I enjoyed, small happy home we were slowly making "ours", a handful of good friends. People were actually envious of my life. If they only knew.

That tenuous grasp I had on life has slipped away. I blinked and it was gone. I'm at ground zero. Frantically trying to get my neurones to reconnect and remember exactly how I was able to escape my nightmare the first time and become a seemingly "normal" person again. It's like a child trying to catch bubbles. They look around and spy a big juicy one, they quickly run over and POP! It's gone. And no matter how hard you try, they always disappear.

I saw it coming. Slowly creeping up on me at first like a fog rolling in. I thought I was going to outrun it for a minute, but it was there, slowly enveloping me until I no longer knew which way to run. I breathed it in and it consumed my soul in an instant. The battle was over.

It's early, only couple months in. I'm gathering reinforcements (meds, doctors, therapists, etc), people and things I hoped I would never need again. Here I am. Slowly slipping away. Fighting like hell, but it's so exhausting. Sometimes a good day is just making it out of bed to the sofa. And other days I am able to get stuff done around the house, maybe make dinner, visit my bestie who is luckily my neighbour. I'm somewhat agoraphobic at this point. Leaving our house/garden is hard, and venturing too far away is paralysing. However every thought, feeling, and action is dependent on whatever the next moment brings. Everything is perpetually flying through my head, and if something bad takes hold for more than a few seconds, I'm suddenly fighting demons in my head and I lose all control of my actions. In a split second I can go from calm to sobbing on the floor, or flying around in a rage, or panicking so much I can't breathe. I'm tired. Just so tired.

The fight is real. I hate that so many people still don't understand mental illness, don't believe in it, or put stigma on it. I hate that part of me still feels the need to hide my illness from the world in shame. I know it's difficult to understand sometimes. My husband admits he completely underestimated what it could become if things got bad, and now things are bad and he is frantically trying to make sense of it all. You can't truly appreciate what it's like until someone close to you goes through hell and you're trying desperately to hold their hand while they are desperately trying to push you away. We don't want you to leave. We are just so scared.

I will just keep fighting and praying.

Happy Anniversary honey. I do love you no matter how much I may push you away. Just hold on and I promise to come back to you. Someday.

Is it okay to have a bad day?

Seriously, is it okay? And not only is it okay, is it sometimes good to let yourself have a bad day?

Let me give you a synopsis of my life changes. I'm an American. I married an Englishman last August and moved to the UK to be with him in November. Though I've become very close to his family, all of my family and friends are 4,000 miles away. I'm not working, but I am looking for a part time job (that's all my illness will allow me). I'm fairly isolated, but not really by choice. I need a certain amount of social interaction, not a lot, but some. I had learned to cope pretty well with my illness the last several years. I had a part time job which got me out and gave me a sense of accomplishment and belonging. And my close friends and family were there for support and the occasional lunch date. But now...

...I feel lonely. Very lonely. I am able to talk to my sister and mother on a somewhat regular basis and email and write friends. But it's not the same. My husband is amazingly supportive, but he can't do it all and frankly I think he is just now coming to realise how bad my illness really is. I had explained it to him at length, told him my stories, and gave him things to read to help him understand, but it's different when you see it live in living colour.

The last few months the distance and isolation have worn me down. I've been slowly slipping into a depression. I'm treading water, and I'm exhausted. While my husband is wonderful and supportive, he can't play all the roles. He can't be my sole source of interaction. He does get me out some for a lunch or card night at his sister's house. Little trips into town so I can peruse the charity shops, a type of shopping trip I actually enjoy. But over the last few months, I've started to feel guilty about all this. He's out working for ten hours then has to come home and entertain me. I can see the fatigue in his face. I can tell he just wants to come home, sit on the sofa, and sip a glass of wine and let the stress of his work day fade. And so I feel guilty.

I have learned a lot of natural techniques for handling my illness. I don't take medication with the exception of an occasional anti-anxiety pill. (I know the topic of meds is a hot button, so let me state that I neither support or admonish the use of meds, it's simply my choice.) I engage in short activities that distract me and give me small senses of accomplishment. I paint, bake, hike, and play video games (don't laugh, it's a great distraction). Most of the time, I enjoy these activities and look forward to doing them. However, when my illness creeps up on me, it takes a ton of energy to do these things. I have days when washing the dishes exhausts me and I'm ruined for the rest of the day.

So my guilt for making my husband feel like he needs to entertain me all the time has made me try to hide my growing depression. The depression makes me not want to do anything and I'm fatigued. To fight the depression, I make myself do my activities which exhausts me more and the joy they usually give me is tainted. I keep struggling to stay "up" but the spiral down has begun. Crying spells, anxiety attacks, catatonic time loss, hysterical outbursts, appetite changes, and erratic sleep patterns are taking over.

I've done what I consider to be the cardinal sin of mental illness. I hid my feelings. I stuffed down the growing anxiety and pain. I didn't allow myself to have a bad day and now I'm paying for it. I also have been keeping my feelings from my family back home because I don't want them to worry, so they don't even know what's happening now. And now it's getting so bad I feel guilty I haven't told them. It's just a big vicious cycle isn't it?

My husband clearly knows that I'm not well now since the last couple weeks have been a nightmare. We are struggling but working to get through it. In my lucid moments, I remind myself that it will get better. That I have found joy and contentment. That I have a wonderful loving husband. That it's spring and the world is beautiful. We are spending a week in a cottage in Wales next week and I'm hoping the time together and majestic landscape will help bring enough balance back into my life that I can get back on track.

Living with my illness is better than drowning in it.