I’m human, just not like you.
I hear what you don’t hear.
Do you hear me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I see what you don’t see.
Do you see me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I know who you are.
Do you know me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I hear what you don’t hear.
Do you hear me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I see what you don’t see.
Do you see me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I know who you are.
Do you know me?
The Boy granted me an interview in return for some Jaffa cakes. What can I say? He’s cheap. So without further a do.. here it is. Enjoy! 🙂
Question: What do you like to do the most?
Answer: You know! Playing Pokemon Moon! Duh!
Question: What is your favourite food?
Answer:. Chocolate digestives. You know that! *tuts*
Question: Who is your favourite person in ALL the world?
Answer: Mum, you know that too. It’s you. *theatrically rolls eyeballs*
Answer: Still you.
Question: What is your favourite TV show?
Answer: Pokemon Sun & Moon series.
Question: What’s your favourite book?
Answer: Diary of a Wimpy Kid Double Down cos at the first page Greg says “Hope you creeps are enjoying yourselves”. It’s really funny. *laughs hysterically*
Question:. What do you want to be when you’re older?
Answer: *throws his hands up in the air* Pokemon Master, of course!
Question: What things don’t you like?
*deep intake of breath* Vegetables cus they make my mind go pop, spotty bread, brown chips, black sausages, nuts, lime, black lollipops and Pokemon killing me.
Question: What do you like to wear?
Answer: Pokemon trainer clothes.
Mummy: Which are?
The Boy: Er, shorts and a top with no sleeves, backpack, cap and LOTS of Pokeballs.
Question: Mummy or Pokemon?
*looks shifty* Pokemon. Sorry Mum.
Question: What’s your favourite colour?
Answer: Yellow. YOU KNOW THAT!!
Question: Favourite animal?
Answer: Chicken? Don’t really have one so I’ll say chicken.
Mummy: What about owls?
The Boy: OOH YESSSS, OWLS! *starts hooting*
Question: What’s your favourite place?
Answer: Home. Ya gotta love home. *American accent*
Question: What is your greatest talent?
Answer: Singing and making Mummy laugh.
Question: What do you wish for?
Answer: To be a professional Pokemon trainer.
Question: What makes you nervous?
The Boy: “Shall I tell you what makes me nervous?”
Me: “Please do”
The Boy: “People cutting my hair”.
Question: What makes you smile?
Answer: When Mummy smiles (and my Pokemon)
Question: What age do you want to be?
Answer: Seven. Because I am seven. Actually, I want to be twelve so I can look cool because most people start their Pokemon journey at 11 years old?
*Mummy’s face goes screen-saver*
So there you have it, folks. As you can see, there is a Pokemon obsession going on and I intend to repeat the
interrogation interview every year to see how his likes and dislikes change. Crafty, huh?
Many thanks to The Boy for being a TOTALLY AWESOME Pokemon Master and most magnificent interviewee.
Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay
I’ve never been one for playgrounds..
Too crowded. Too noisy. A sensory nightmare.
The squeak of bare legs being forced down a hot metal slide on a summer’s day still makes me shudder as if there’s a hairy-arsed tarantula about to pounce on my face..
When The Boy was younger he hated playgrounds with passion. The first time we put him on a swing he like TOTALLY screamed the place down. Sure, children having tantrums are common place in parks but I’m talking TOTALLY LOSING HIS SHIT meltdowns where people stare at you because it MUST be down to bad parenting, no?
Playgrounds are a danger area for us because of the stimulus. Even now (aged seven) ten minutes is all he can handle before he starts to go into meltdown. Although the stimulus affects him, he likes the playground now. He is a sociable child but the problem is that he is too sociable and doesn’t understand the rules as is the case with autism. It doesn’t matter how young or old the other children are because they are all equal in his eyes and this causes problems..
For instance, on one occasion The Boy ran up to five teenage boys who were hogging the roundabout. He jumped on there with them as if he’d known them all his life. I hesitated to see how they would react to this little interloper but The Boy’s idea of play involves lots of incoherent shouting so it wasn’t long before the teens started nudging each other and laughing, the twats, though to be fair, they were just acting the way that most teenage boys act, it’s just that I’d have given anything for just one of them to show my son some compassion..
The Boy laughed back but had no idea that they were laughing at him. This took place in a matter of seconds but I’d seen enough but as I made my way to him the teens got up and just left him spinning on his own, not that it bothered him. As usual, he was oblivious as to what had taken place..
The thing is that he stands out.
His autism is IN YOUR FACE, autism.
We let him go into playgrounds whenever possible as long as he’s not showing signs of overwhelm before he goes in. We know that he’ll get over-excited pretty quickly so he’s given a ten minute countdown and those minutes seem like hours, believe me. All this on top of my own sensory issues makes it a stressful experience..
The last time he went into a playground was a few months ago. It was the adventure type playground and he homed in on a big rope type roundabout that could take about ten children at a time. My heart sank because I knew what was coming. I have a fluffy sensory toy which I keep in my pocket to calm myself and I stroked it so fast, I practically rendered it bald!
The Boy scrambled on with no qualms whatsoever. Aside my anxiety, I had to marvel at his inability to be apprehensive in certain situations. So, there was a little girl stood next to him and he shouted away to her. He was totally animated but she just stared at him open-mouthed and then asked to be let off. Once again, my son had been rejected only it was me who felt the pain, not him.
OH and I exchanged ‘the look’.
When we’d entered the playground, it was noisy with children screaming and parents chatting. It literally took five minutes for the atmosphere to change. One by one the kids on the roundabout fell silent as they stared at the little boy who excitedly screamed out incoherent babble to nobody in particular..
Then the parents stared at him and started looking around to see who he belonged to.
Er, that’ll be us, folks.
We knew he wasn’t going to make ten minutes as he was seconds away from meltdown and I wasn’t far behind having one of my own, so we grabbed him and left.
I didn’t look behind me because I didn’t want to see the judgmental looks on the faces of people who haven’t got a clue about our lives or his. I’ve seen those looks too many times and each time it hurts. I physically and emotionally hurt for my son..
So, I slammed the gate shut and pulled him close, mentally effing at the lot of them for not seeing my beautiful boy as I see him.
The blessing is that he is unaware of the way people stare. I was aware from the age of five so I’m glad he’s been spared for as long as he has but the day will come when he does notice and being different and knowing you’re different is hard. You’re forever having to work at appearing ‘normal’ and I pray that my son remains oblivious of people’s intolerance and ignorance for as long as is possible.
Those five minutes in the playground are still bothering me, obviously because I’m writing about it months later. It’s in my head now, logged with all the other ‘incidents’ and it makes me sad that some people show more compassion for their cars than they do human beings, especially vulnerable ones who could really do with their support..
Here’s a thought..
How about people stop staring and start supporting these kids?
Why shouldn’t my son express himself in the way that is natural to him? He’s not hurting anybody. It’s not an aggressive reaction. What people see is happiness minus the filters. To me, it’s beautiful. He is beautiful. It isn’t him that needs to change, it’s society.
“How would your life be different if…You stopped making negative judgmental assumptions about people you encounter? Let today be the day…You look for the good in everyone you meet and respect their journey.”~ Steve Maraboli ~ Life, the Truth and Being Free
When you’re an adult, a wardrobe is just a piece of furniture. It’s somewhere to hang your clothes and store boxes of old photographs from when you were young and energetic, not to mention packing a full set of hormones. To a child, however, it’s a porthole into another world especially if they’ve read (or seen) The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe..
The plot, of course, is that four children are evacuated from London in World War Two and sent to live with a professor who lives in a large country house with big wardrobes. The youngest child, Lucy, has a root round the Prof’s house and finds a wardrobe which also happens to be a portal to a magical land called Narnia. Having pushed past all the moth-balled infused fur coats, she wanders out into a forest where there is a lamppost. Here she meets a dodgy looking bloke who invites her to his house for tea (always say no, kids) but it turns out that this bloke, Tumnus, intends to betray her to Narnia’s resident evil overlord known as ‘the White Witch’. The White Witch has ruled over Narnia for, like, ever, keeping it in a permanent state of Winter. This is to keep the Narnians in their place though it may be due to a bad case of hayfever she had once, who knows? Anyhoo, old frosty chops has an intense dislike for humans so the Narnians are under orders that, should they happen across one of the blighters, they are to turn them in or she’ll start removing fingers/claws/whatever. Tumnus is well up for a bit o’ betrayal in the beginning but changes his mind when he realises he likes Lucy. Oops! Now he feels proper shit that he wanted to hand her over to the Refrigerated One so he does the decent thing and takes her back to the lamppost which is where it all goes tits up. You know how it goes…
When I was about 8 years old, Mum and Dad bought a wardrobe for my room, well, actually it was a combi-robe which was a combined unit of a mirror, shelves, drawers and a single wardrobe. However, to me, it was more than a piece of furniture..
I liked to sit in my wardrobe.
There, I’ve said it.
Thing is, I used to feel safe in there, especially if it had been a bad day at school.
It was a confined space, even for me, who was of Borrower proportions, but I could sit in my little wardrobe, close the door, and cry it all out without anybody knowing..
I was also familiar with The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by then, having read the book and seen it on TV so I would re-enact it because my imaginative play was always about acting out what I’d seen in life or on TV.
The concept of a magical world being accessible from inside my wardrobe fascinated me. What would I have given for it to be true? Only, in my magical world, evil witches wouldn’t be allowed because there was one of those at school masquerading as my class teacher..
A few years later we moved house and two things stopped me throwing the MOTHER of all meltdowns. One was Dad buying me the new Adam and the Ants LP and the other was the walk in wardrobe in my new bedroom. Never mind sit down, I could go horizontal in this one! WOOHOO! The wardrobe also had pretty brass knobs on which I liked to mess with.. which did not please my mother.
“Have you been messing with these ruddy knobs again, Madam?”
“Er, no” and I’d leg it downstairs as fast as my fluffy slippers could carry me.
One of my favourite wardrobes, EVER, was my Nan and Grandad’s because it was JUST like the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and yes I did shut myself in it until the whiff of moth balls put me into a coma, Not sure about Narnia but I did find a nice clasp handbag filled with various corn plasters and a few furry Polo mints..
It was easier to re-enact the story in an 1800s Gloucestershire house than in my 1960s built bedroom. More authentic, y’know? Well, as authentic as it can be until your mum walks in and bollocks you for ‘rooting’ through your Nan’s things..
I’m not sure how old I was when I finally stopped sitting (not a typo) in wardrobes. No doubt marriage and motherhood left me with little time to indulge my love of wardrobe interiors. Also, they were jammed full of cricket paraphernalia, old shoes and other such crap that builds up when one has to share their abode.
Then there was that incident where one of the kids mistook their wardrobe for the toilet. *shudders*
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Narnia existed though, eh? Without the resident bitch, of course.
How fabulous would be to have a really shit day and declare, ‘SOD IT. I AM OFF TO NARNIA!’ Though knowing my luck (and tendency for catastrophic thinking) I would most likely step out into the forest and be instantly mauled to death by a psychotic beaver..
Maybe I’m too old for sitting in wardrobes but I will never be too old to revisit Narnia via the book..
See you there?
“I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather, C. S. Lewis.”
C. S Lewis ~ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay
Have we become a selfish society?
It’s a YES from me!
*drags up a soapbox*
Wing-mirrors are more precious than lives, apparently. Drivers park on the pavement to the point of causing an obstruction in an attempt to prevent their mirrors being knocked or God forbid, broken, because we all know that people can replaced, right?
Living opposite a school we see this kind of douchebaggery every day. Parents blocking pavements and parking on the zig-zag lines despite school notices politely asking them not to and the NO STOPPING sign which forbids them BY LAW to park there. About twice a year the police will turn up and occasionally we get traffic wardens. Talk about rats leaving a sinking ship? Shifty looking parents breaking all kinds of records sprinting to their illegally parked cars!
As residents we accept disruption. It’s par for the course living by a school innit? What we don’t accept is parents parking selfishly then giving us a mouthful of abuse when we politely point out they’re illegally parked.
“Do you own the f**king street?” was one response to OH and I’ve had a straight “f**k off!” by one charming parent who almost had all four wheels on the pavement causing people to walk out into the road. Anybody would think we lived on the set of Shameless instead of a quaint old mill town. *sniffs*
There’s no need to block pavements. You’re driving a Clio dear, not a Sherman tank!
Unbelievably, a parent actually parked in my next door neighbours driveway. Not blocking it, she actually parked IN the driveway! I’d seen her park up and presumed she had permission to do so but then my neighbour turned up (who was usually at work) and judging by state of my neighbours face (and finger gestures) it was obvious that the parent had taken it upon herself to park there.
As Nan Tate would say, “WOT A FUCKIN’ LIBERTY!”
Just this morning there was a car with ALL FOUR WHEELS parked on the pavement rendering it impossible for pedestrians to get past. It’s a pavement for PEDESTRIANS yet the driver obviously considered it their personal parking space.
Then there are those who park in disabled or parent and child bays when they have no child or disability..
This is a genuine question I found on the internet..
“Hi, I parked at disable bay around 9pm at night and I was issued a ticket. Is that possible to issue parking ticket after working hours?”
The answer should be as follows..
Dear Mr/Mrs/Miss Selfish Twat,
Yes, I’m afraid you WILL be issued a parking ticket after working hours because people don’t stop being disabled after 5pm.
Car Parks R Us
People full of their own importance who shout into their phones in supermarket cafes while they tap away at their laptops. The woman in the far aisle buying cat food can hear EVERY word as can the elderly bloke with both his hearing aids turned off.
Dear Annoying Shouty Person,
I’m not interested in whose ‘brains you want to pick’ or if you’re thinking outside the box, inside the box or in someone else’s box. I just want to drink my Cappuccino decaf in relative peace. GO SIT IN YOUR CAR DAMN YOU!
They DON’T CARE about anybody but themselves.
The people who throw their McDonald’s litter out of car windows and flick their fag ends onto the pavement. They think the floor is a bin. These people care nothing for the environment (or world in general) and if there is a hell, I hope theirs is to flounder about in Satan’s maggoty- filled wheelie bin for ETERNITY!!!!
These people are littering the planet and killing wildlife and do they care? Nope.
When I die, I will hunt them down and empty the contents of their bins (especially the smelly food waste one) over them while they sleep. I’ll be the ‘Litterer Finder General’ patrolling the planet and ridding it of littering douche-bags. Consider it extended services to humanity..
These are but a few examples of how inconsiderate society has become but it wasn’t that long ago when people were law abiding, courteous and respectful. Those who died defending our country must surely be spinning in their graves at the state that society is in. They experienced horrors the likes of which the majority of us could never comprehend and for what? To give people the freedom to be selfish arseholes, that’s what!
Louts in General
One evening last year, I watched from my front window as a teenager spat on the floor TWENTY times in the space of a minute. NOT an exaggeration. He was draped against the school railings trying to impress two younger kids with his gobbing prowess. The last one was aimed at my car so I almost put the window through alerting him to my displeasure. The lad saw that I had the phone to my ear and probably thought I was calling the police so the the little shit legged it up the street as fast as his Nike’s could carry him. As it was, I was telling OH (who was round the sports and social club) to get his arse back round home, PRONTO, to deal with a yob who’d just violated my Yaris..
Somehow we’ve managed to spawn a generation who think they are owed everything for nothing. They hang around outside Co-ops being obnoxious and disrespectful. Some don’t know how to spell respect, let alone be act it. To think that lads, not much older than them, were prepared to die for their freedom?
It sickens me.
Of course there are exceptions. There are polite people. There are respectful people but they are becoming the exception rather than the rule. However, it would be wrong to lay the blame exclusively on today’s youth as a lot of older people wouldn’t know respect if it tapped them on the shoulder and announced itself. So maybe the problem is with society in general?
Do we, as a society, actually give a shit anymore?
I’ve lost count at the amount of parents who ignorantly sail past me as I stand with the door open for them at school and guess what..their children do EXACTLY the same!
Am I invisible?
It’s what it feels like sometimes..
Manners cost nothing. Respect? It’s free!
Is saying ‘Thank you’ really too much to ask?
My upbringing won’t allow me to lower myself to today’s standards or lack of. Also, the ghost of Mum would clip me one round the ear-hole if I so much as tried it. I just wish that people would consider others and stop being so selfish and rude.
Our standards. What’s happened to em? ~ Dot Cotton – Eastenders
Creative Commons Images Via Pixabay and Wikimedia Commons
I wake up with a racing heart..
‘Fer f**ks saaaaake!’, I whine, a bit pathetically.
This time it’s different though because I don’t fear the sensation. It’s unpleasant but it will pass. I’ve been here a hundred times before.
‘Don’t you DARE look at the clock!’, I warn myself, though I imagine it’s around four. I elbow OH in the ribs because he’s snoring like a bastard, then I make myself comfortable.
I close my eyes..
I breathe in for four seconds.
I hold my breath for four seconds.
I breathe out for four seconds.
I reach into the certifiable mess that is my mind and retrieve a happy memory of a sunny day on a beach in Wales. I remove the people from the memory so there is just me. No stressed-out parents, no screaming kids and no Mr Whippy van with his highly irritating mechanical chimes..
I change the weather from hot to warm, because I can.
Editing done, I start to walk along the beach, seeing myself in first person perspective, just as in life. Though it has to be said that my feet are hideous..
There are sand dunes to the left of me, cliffs behind me and the golden Welsh sands stretch out before me. I walk for a while then turn to face the ocean..
I love the sea. It has the ability to take my life within minutes, yet can soothe my frazzled mind. The only snag is I can’t swim.
I watch as the waves roll in and out, synchronizing them to my breathing. Then I become aware of my bare feet sinking into the cool sand and a catastrophic thought creeps into my mind. I see myself being dragged under by deadly quicksand. This is because Mum, bless her, nearly ended herself on a beach in Bournemouth. Thankfully, all she lost was a flip-flop and her dignity.
The seagulls fly above me but there’s no danger of them crapping on my head. Nor are there any Carling cans and fag-ends jammed into the sand ruining my view because this is my special, no shit allowed, place.
Suddenly I feel something cold on my leg and look down to see a beautiful Lurcher with his nose pressed against my leg. He has golden fur, the kind that’s comfortingly rough. His eyes are caramel brown with more love inside them than you could ever imagine..
He starts to dance around me, nudging my leg and woofing like a mad thing.
He wants to play..
A piece of driftwood appears, as if by magic, and I hurl it into the sea with all the finesse of a shot-putter, not that he cares. Off he bounds into the waves, barking excitedly. He finds the driftwood and brings it back to me. ‘Again?’ his eyes implore me..
So I indulge him, again and again until I have to tell him to sod off because my arthritis is giving me gyp.
He hurdles the waves, like Usain Bolt, only with fur. He is uninhibited and for a moment I envy him because he isn’t scared of anything..
After a while he tires himself out and makes his way towards me. I crouch down to his level and stroke his face. He makes this noise, like he’s singing, only it’s more of a howl. It’s dog-speak for ‘I’m happy’.
Miraculously, his fur has dried out. How did that happen? Because it can, that’s why.
I put my face to his and breathe him in. He smells like sunshine. His aroma comforts me and I can feel my heart rate slowing right down. This moment lasts as long as I need it to, then he gives me one last look with those beautiful eyes before he ambles off towards the dunes..
I gaze down to see two sets of prints in the sand, one of hideous size 4 feet, the other of paws.
My four-legged friend is nowhere to be seen. No doubt he is lying in the shade somewhere chasing rabbits in his dreams..
A gentle breeze stirs up so I walk some more, watching as the clouds pass along the blue sky like big balls of cotton wool. If heaven exists, I want this to be mine.
My heart rate has returned to a steady beat and my breathing to normal. I am calm.
I stare at the ocean one last time then make my way towards the dunes where there are a set of steps. In reality, those steps lead to some public bogs that reek of piss but I edit that bit out because, well, it’s a bit shit.
As I climb the steps, I congratulate myself because Fear didn’t win this time. I showed that little shit who’s boss, i.e. me.
By the time I reach the last step, I am opening my eyes and blinking in the sunlight, or dinge, whichever is applicable. Back to life, back to reality..
The brain is a powerful thing. Thoughts can destroy and heal you in equal measure. My brain frustrates me on a daily basis with it’s catastrophic thoughts yet the memory of a much loved friend, who died over ten years ago, has the power to heal me.
The memory is real and it’s a privilege to have, just as it was a privilege to share part of my life with such a loving creature.
The first time I saw him in my guided relaxation, he simply appeared without me having thought of him. Did my subconscious bring him to me? Or did he find me?
Either way, I am grateful because each time I wake up panicking, I go to my special place and there he is, waiting for me.
Three days ago I stood outside my local cafe and hesitated before I opened the door.
‘Just sodding well go in, you loon!’ I bollocked myself.
I walked in and sat down at my usual table and within minutes the cafe owner was at my side, notepad in hand.
“Nice to see you! What can I get for you?”
‘Tea and toast please’
Five minutes later I was drinking my tea and was overcome with a sense of achievement.
I sent OH a text..
In the cafe. ON MY OWN! *smiley face*
I’ll forgive you for thinking ‘what on earth is the idiot on about now?’ but what if I was to tell you that it was the first time in over 12 months that I had been in ANY cafe on my own?
Being autistic, going into any public places requires effort due to my sensory and social issues but this post isn’t about my autism, not directly anyway.
The anxiety which has shadowed me from birth morphed into Panic Disorder in 2014, then General Anxiety Disorder and after three years of my body being constantly flooded with stress hormones, I had a nervous breakdown.
Definition: A nervous or mental breakdown is a term used to describe a period of intense mental distress. During this period, you’re unable to function in your everyday life.
At the peak of my illness, I visited my GP ten times, A&E twice and the out of hours GP service twice – this was in a period of two weeks. EACH time I was convinced I would be admitted to hospital. EACH time, I was told it was anxiety.
When it came to symptoms, I had the works with my entire body from my scalp to my toes being affected. I felt sick ALL of the time and kept spontaneously retching. On one occasion I sat in the GP’s office retching violently into a cardboard bowl. She said I had a gastric bug but I’d been retching for the past three years (just not in public) so if it was a gastric bug then I was breaking some kind of record! Another time I was walking down the street and retched so hard I actually vomited over myself.
My weight dropped into the 7 stone range and my muscles were starting to waste. I was starting to look like Skeletor, only less sexy..
My bowels woke me up at 4-5am with a ‘MOVE IT OR YOU’LL SHIT THE BED’ cramping in my lower regions. I’d also wake in the early hours shaking violently, not that it woke OH. Nothing short of the house blowing up would have roused him from his coma..
I couldn’t tolerate drugs, even painkillers. Come to think of it, even vitamins gave me gyp.
Palpitations? Don’t start me.
My mouth was sore but with no visible cause because I checked via a dental mirror NUMEROUS times. Yes, REALLY! You do things like this when you are mentally ill, see. You spend hours inspecting yourself and prodding your poo. Dignified, no?
I had test after test but all came back clear.
‘All those doctors can’t be wrong, Sweetie’, OH said.
‘They just haven’t found the cancer yet dearie.’ countered Fear.
By far, the most debilitating symptom was the feeling that I was losing my mind..
My grip on reality can be iffy at the best of times but this was in a different realm completely. I struggled to go out or be on my own. My stims became more noticeable and I had no control over them at all. My rocking went from my usual subtle movement to virtually falling off the chair-rocking and my lips were sore from frantically picking the skin off them. I couldn’t see a way out and in my worst moment I actually wanted to be sectioned.
Yep, you read that right. I wanted to be thrown in the big house where they could put me to bye-byes and be there for me 24/7. I understand now just how poorly I was and If I hadn’t have turned myself around when I did, I may not have had any choice in the matter..
I threw everything at getting better. I did relaxation and yoga. I cut out sugar, caffeine, alcohol, gluten etc but none of it helped for long because I wasn’t accepting how I felt. I was fighting Fear ALL the way..
The breakthrough came when I was told I would have to have a colonoscopy. I was SO convinced I was coffing it that I accepted my fate AND all those weird and unwonderful sensations. I told myself to enjoy what time I had left because Fear could eff right off if it thought it could rob me of that too. With support from OH and a few good friends, including one who’s had a breakdown of his own, I began to see blue sky even in the shadow of my imagined death.
I stuffed food into my mouth and didn’t dwell on how crap it made me feel. I lived alongside Fear and accepted whatever it threw at me. What had I got to lose?
I started to put weight on and my tummy started to rumble again. I FELT HUNGRY!!
I told myself constantly that ‘whatever happens to me. I am here, NOW’.
Then my bum got invaded courtesy of the NHS, and everything was fine. I wasn’t dying (HURRAH) but I had to face the fact that I was mentally ill..
My weight is now back up to 8 and a half stone and my heart isn’t pounding all the time. The anxiety will always be there but I’m not in crisis anymore. I have taken steps to help myself, the biggest and most important being ACCEPTANCE.
There were many times when depression tangoed with the anxiety and I thought I would slip further into insanity but my mind is stronger than I could ever have imagined. It’s healing itself, especially now I understand that magic word, acceptance.
So, yeah, I went to the cafe alone. It was a GINORMOUS step and I’m PROUD of me. I know that recovery is a long process and there will be setbacks along the way but that’s ALL they will be because I’ve accepted fear for what it is.
We need fear. It stops us from being reckless but fear should work for us, not the other way around. That jumped up little git needs to know it’s place, innit.
If you are reading this and are struggling with mental illness, know that you CAN get better. It’s your thoughts that have put you where you are and it’s your thoughts that will set you free.
All Images Via Creative Commons