HOME[14.10.23]
Mental health focused personal essay & a 92 narrator 1970's book!
If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout
Dear Chasers!
First of all I am sending this on Saturday 14.10.23. That's one concrete fact that I can share with you for sure. Everything else is speculative, a little like my sanity. My ENTRANCE SONG for walking in on you today is: NANCY SINATRA'S - THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKING
I would like to apologise for the following errors that I noticed happened through complications I had whilst working on my newsletter which I ironically titled 'Simply 💕 Complicated' the problems I incurred were:
A music video I had embedded went astray and did not appear.
The free download link did not work.
My SoundCloud mix link failed to embed.
Unable to delete multiple subscribe now buttons that appeared at the end
Too busy and too much content
I admit that I felt utterly unmotivated and fed up with the difficulty of producing something interesting that I feel my chasers, my people would enjoy and I wanted so much to give everyone what they deserve which is something worthy but also a piece of me.if there's anything from the above list that interested you I can see about getting it to you.That's if you're still here!
I hope you haven't noticed that I made another huge mistake immediately afterwards. I spontaneously typed up a very uncouth, stream of consciousness 'note-to-self' post that I just called: Truth. It was me letting my guard drop and possibly losing all self control in the self-sabotaging in the heat of the moment. Under pressure, I felt like much more than just a silly ''oxymoron' and realised that Simply 💕 Complicated couldn't be the worst thing I have ever written.
Truth. At the time I felt relieved after posting it. I felt shatterproof and free. Like I had truly broken the ice. I am a Wabi Sabi work in progress. It seems that I have to first destroy myself to pieces and let the cracks show before I am remotely capable of turning my writing into something with more meaning and beauty.💗
Here's my attempt to write a “personal essay”. It's just my way of a Chasey Catch-up section where I will probably be complaining about my life! I do think it's nicer when I try and remain upbeat and positive! Sometimes I don't quite hit the mark and it's fine. Small steps.
I walked faster than I thought I would be capable of turning right and sharp left, so I had to catch that bus on time. I hadn't planned or looked at a timetable online before leaving home. I could have but it would have meant the chances of me missing the bus and messing everything up would increase tenfold. I am a spur of the moment impulsive person. Spontaneity is my favourite driving force.
I wish now that I was allowed to drive. As far as my knowledge goes, many people like me have strong medication which advises not to drive or use machinery. At least that's what I believed to be the 'reason' I am forbidden by law to apply for a driver's licence. I'm not actually certain of the accurate details.
Iit doesn't sound fair when I think - "I am not allowed to drive because I have paranoid schizophrenia". Who knows, I might get terrified behind the wheel, my suspicious delusions might make me believe the traffic lights are not real, I could be a dangerous driver by speeding to get away from the 'demons', the voices in my head could tell me to drive into a fucking brick wall. I'm not being totally pedantic as I know all these things could really happen, knowing me when I'm going through a delusional psychosis.
In all honesty, before my mental illness was diagnosed, I did have a number of lessons for driving and I was useless! I even remember the instructor said he didn't think it was for me but I could continue to pay for lessons I wanted. He's sorry for me but I don't have any spatial awareness.
I wasn't fully aware of the other drivers on the road. I'm not aware of anything. I didn't mind because I was actually too nervous and scared. My mum had given me something to calm my nerves. Some herbal something that just made me zone out and panic more. It was like I was frozen in a catatonic anxiety. Dissociated.
I caught the bus, surprised how I hadn't had to stand around waiting. The universe was working in my favour. I arrived at the mental health clinic. Signed my name in the date box and spent five minutes trying to figure out why I had nowhere to write the date. Noticed my mistake and corrected it. The nurse was waiting to administer my depot. injection. Aripiprazole.
"Your left arm this time", she said bluntly. I rolled up my right sleeve, ignoring the negative energy, and looked over to the portable privacy screen at the back of the room. How utterly miserable it must be to have to get the monthly shot of antipsychotics dispensed straight into your backside! I am most fortunate that my medication isn't limited to the arse. Others you can't have it in the arm muscles. I'm so lucky!
The nurse was watching me for a minute while loading the six inch needle. It's the bigger one she muttered. I couldn't understand why this time the new nurse was acting so weird with me. I put it down to her being another annoying uncompassionate person in the wrong profession, In my head I called her a c*nt and carried on with the mundane task of the situation. Daydreaming about the day, the bus ride, the anxiety, the fuck up with signing my name.
Then she came over and I was close enough to the needful to feel it's sharp little nib - when suddenly I remembered that I write with this hand, it's not my left arm…wait! Phew! Almost made a huge mistake there. You see once you have the injection the liquid goes straight into the muscle and for a week afterwards it feels like a dead arm.
That's why they still advise you to bend over for it. So each month you change arms, left one month and right the next. If I would have taken it twice in the same arm I could've ended up in more pain than usual. If the swelling increased too I would have an arm twice as thick. I'm a proud and round body shape so with one giant arm, I might have ended up looking like a teapot. I received my jab and prepared to go.
On my way out she told me that I am going to be transferred to another medical centre immediately by which, I need to familiarise myself with the route in time for next month. I am a person who struggles travelling and being in public crowds around busy transport. It's part of my condition. I nodded agreeably. Then asked casually though to ask why the transfer. The strange atmosphere I had felt on walking in the room, the way she had addressed me, her tone of voice being quite offensive, all became clear when she answered.
Apparently, we had met before. I had come to the clinic for the first time (my CPN had previously visited my home to give me the depot) and I had a meltdown with her refusing to administer my medication. She remembers that I had arrived too early. My account was different. I recalled being told anytime after 11:00am and no later than 1:30pm. I remember that I arrived at 11:30am and was in a state of anxiety as I had gotten off the bus at the wrong stop. Was lost without credit on my phone. No data to use Maps or GPS. Had to get help from passer's by. Strangers! I'm hardly a people person. I was so stressed. Below 👇 is a stunningly beautiful good example of me ugly crying.
So,after walking down a long road for twenty minutes I was fuming (with myself) to the point of screaming. So when I was told I had to come back at 1:30pm. I hit rock bottom and burst into tears and begged to be given my medication. Actually, pleading for my voice to be heard. It wasn't my mistake. The nurse was standing right in front of me then, as she did now, I had cried to her to please give me my medication (depot injection). She'd said no because I hadn't listened or didn't understand her instructions. That's brutal.
So, I hadn't recognised her before because the ‘traumatic experience’ at that moment, had forced my brain to box the memory off to an archive in my head that I wouldn't be given access to anymore. I smiled and nodded. I was a bit pissed off with myself for not responding differently. I hate confrontation but I didn't think I'd ever forget anybody who had upset me. Maybe the doctors have a point about my attending CBT therapy. They previously suggested that I may have another mental health disorder called DID. I hate the schizophrenia label and don't want any more letters or words attached to my name!!
I did however go online and Doctor Google: *dissociative identity disorder* None of the facts were absolutely new to me. I still wasn't sure if I even believed in these things. It's too odd. Then a friend recommended I read an old book written in the 70's or 80's by a person who had the condition which was then called, multiple personality disorder of MPD and it's written from the perspective of her 92 personalities!
I looked it up and bought the book. It was quite expensive but I found a cheaper used copy from eBay. It's called: When Rabbit Howls by Truddi Chase. I haven't sat down to read it yet. It sounds quite heavy and triggering for me. I can't say with confidence that I have triggers. I just know I am not ready to read about some of the topics. Also, ninety two narrators! What! I am not sure if I wish to officially recommend this book to anyone else especially as I've read the blurb about it and have been advised to 'read with caution' as the details are extremely disturbing. The reason it was brought to my attention is for the book containing the psychologist's account and other medical professional's opinion and knowledge into the condition itself and the level of insight is said to be quite fascinating. For now it can remain unread sitting on my shelf. That's all from me for now. I think I might ‘pour myself out’ a nice cuppa!☕
