Am I Still Ill?

The Visit

Well how was it for you?

I was nervous arriving in the Visitor’s Centre of Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentonville. I had no idea about the processing that you have to go through in order to enter the prison visiting hall. A form must be filled in, which is then checked and you’re given a number. The room was filling up with people, families, kids. There was a small tea bar. You wait for your number to be called. I had been early, so this took 45 minutes or so. You go upstairs where you line up to have your ID checked, a picture taken and a finger print done. They give you a bright green wristband. All your extra stuff which you can’t take into the prison such as mobile phone and anything except a maximum of £20 in coins, you put in a locker.

Then you make your way to the next building, where the visiting hall is housed. On the way, you are frisked, including shaking out your shoes and on arrival you have your fingerprint taken again. You take a ticket from a machine. This turned out to be for the tea bar. ‘Your’ prisoner is waiting for you either in the large main hall or a smaller adjoining one. I was relieved to see M, all present and correct. I had pictured a glass partition or something, but the prisoners were free, sitting at low tables. I was glad we weren’t in the main hall. We hugged.

There was a tea bar in the main hall where you could buy rolls, chocolate bars, and hot drinks, but you had to wait for your new number to come up. M asked for a hot chocolate and a snickers bar, and I bought him a cheese and onion roll as well – I only had four pounds in cash, so I went without. M looked OK, but a bit ravaged and as if he’d lost weight, which he had. He was pleased to see me and we had a pleasant enough chat at first, I asking him lots of questions about what it was like inside.

He did tell me about the circumstances of his offence. I was relieved to hear it was at least someone he knew – who had been giving him some kind of verbals for a couple of years (they were at the hospital together). But what he did – my word. What a shameful, cowardly crime! There are crimes and crimes. His was a stupid one by any standards. I have no doubt that he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been on huge amounts of cannabis. It happened outside a mental health day centre, for goodness sake. He had gone there to do some artwork apparently! I tend to think he was on the hunt for a new woman to latch on to.

Luckily for M, psychopaths are kind of immune to shame and guilt. As out visit wore on he showed his true colours, when the charm is exhausted. He feels terribly sorry for himself. He is regularly getting trapped wind, stomach cramps and passing out on the floor, apparently. He can’t sleep at night, and the food is terrible. He had had a single cell up till then, but a cellmate, a young lad, had just joined him. We were allowed two hours to talk. Too long for two people really, well, at least these two people.

I left after one and a half hours. I didn’t want to listen to any more of his delusional, paranoid rantings about how much he was ‘suffering’. He didn’t talk much about Jehovah, or praying. He said he wanted to die. I had very little sympathy. He’s not really a fully human being. He doesn’t need sympathy, or deserve empathy, since he has none himself, and feeds off that of others. I am a useful source of gratification, news of outside, money etc. That’s all.

I don’t want to go again, dear reader. I don’t mind writing the odd letter/email, and I’ve sent in a bit of money for tobacco etc. There ends all responsibility, and he’s very lucky to get that. He disgusts me. He told me he’d written to his estranged family, whom he had cut all contact with for over a year.  Whatever his Machiavellian motives are, it’s interesting that it took prison to prompt him to write and apologise to his frail and housebound mother.

This is the guy I fell in love with and lived with for approaching for twenty months. Morally, emotionally and spiritually bankrupt. I have to take a long hard look at myself, especially as another likely psychopath is already sniffing around me, giving me all the old chat about how important I am to him, and how prison had changed him and made him think.

The redemption story which I am so susceptible to, and he knows it. Just like M, he has huge, innocent brown eyes that you can just get lost in, and that almost hypnotise you. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Don’t worry gentle reader. I am not about to get hooked again! I won’t let him anywhere near my house.

I’m off to my Women’s Group for a dose of sanity. It’s a beautiful day, if cold. Love,

Zoe x

Visiting My Ex-Path in Prison

Well, hello!

This afternoon I visit my ex, M, in prison. I’m kind of dreading it. I wonder if he’ll even show. If he does, what will we talk about? And afterwards, will I be left with healthy closure or more enmeshment with him and his problems? Did I make the right decision to even do this? I already wish I’d picked a different day/time, as I’m missing an outing with my Women’s Group to go and have our hair done at a local college. Instead I’m going to be searched and frisked, and walk into the intimidating environment of a prison… And M can manipulate for England. I need not to get sucked back in to his games. He will ‘present well’ as he always does when it suits him to do so.

I have been sleeping well, eating well. He told me he can’t. I have my freedom to come and go from home as I please. He does not. I can make myself a cup of coffee or tea whenever I want, and vape on my ecig. He will be running low on tobacco no doubt. I have my peaceful house where I am undisturbed by disturbing people, and can choose to see whom I like. He  is surrounded by disturbing people. There is surely some justice in this.

Though M is surely one of the most disturbing people in the damn prison! Like a coiled spring, he can erupt in serious violence at any moment. If those other prisoners know what’s good for them, they’ll leave him the f**k alone. I feel sorry for his cellmate, if he has one.

I knew he was dangerous and said so on this blog. In a text several weeks before he was arrested I warned him that if he continued the way he was, he would get himself locked back up.

He was already chasing another woman a matter of days after I dumped him for the final time. Narcissists and psychopaths need others to give them what’s known as ‘narcissistic supply’. They are parasitical in nature. And they won’t leave until they perceive you are permanently alienated and used up. When you begin to see through their games the writing’s on the wall.

It’s a peculiar and somewhat surreal thing to be doing, visiting this bastard who f****d me over good and proper. Many ‘experts by experience’ on psychopathy advise no contact whatsoever with the abusive ex. I’m seeking, as I said, some kind of closure. I hope this will be the only, and final time I will feel the need to visit him. My empathy gets the better of me. I can’t help putting myself in his shoes. Sadly, such scruples are alien to him. He can’t empathise with empathy. In its place is the grandiose sense of entitlement that will totally take my visit for granted.

I didn’t ‘get it’ before. Now I do.

Lots love, Zoe xx

Green Eyes

‘You’ve got more than I’ve got’. That’s not a pleasant thought or statement, and I would be very wary of ever saying it out loud. Envy is a horrible emotion. It degrades both the envier and the enviee, but of course, hurts the first more…Then again we are human. It’s up there with the other six deadly sins, but I don’t believe in all that. We can’t help what we are, we aren’t going to be killed or go to hell for it. But it’s good to recognise it for what it is, and to know that it’s not good and to be avoided/transcended wherever possible. It’s not the thoughts which are the sin, but how we act on them – or don’t.

I was scanning my ‘matches’ on the dating website match.com, and came across a very nice and decent sounding man who waxed lyrical about his interests, and his love for his three children who he shared 50/50 with his ex-wife. I considered replying, but then I thought ‘if he knew I’ve got just one boy, and he is refusing almost all engagement with life, in foster care’, what would he think? Is it acceptable to start an email to a stranger with the words ‘You’ve got more than me’? No, of course not, but if I were to be totally honest and upfront, that’s what I’d say…

Envy is a soul-destroying, shameful emotion that makes you feel pretty terrible about yourself. But I’m not gonna deny, I’m troubled by it more than I care to admit.

Today’s confession out of the way I’ll give you a quick update. I saw my boy on Monday. It was his Looked After Child Review, which is held every six months or so. It was great to see him (it had been well over two months). After the long and rather tedious (though important) meeting with his foster carer and assorted social workers, he came out with my Mum and me. We went for a nice lunch at a good little cafe/restaurant, where we both had veggie burgers with chunky, handmade chips (delicious on a cold and rainy day), then we popped into a crystal and new agey shop where my boy picked out some small stones he liked.

It was so good to chat with him about M’s plight (J felt for him), psychology and psychopathy, in which he shares my interest (that was revalatory: my boy likes to understand what makes people tick!) and the last time we met, which ended as badly as it could short of actual blows being exchanged. My boy is like me. He doesn’t bear grudges. He prefers to analyse what went on and why, and he had some interesting things to say about me and my underlying motivations. He wasn’t wide of the mark either!

Also he made it clear to me that he DOES hold himself partly accountable for his situation, and recognises that it is not a desirable way to be, and he isn’t happy doing it. He has been consistently asking for therapy and the social workers are going to try to put that in place as soon as possible.

We parted as friends. I parted from him deliberately while we were still amicable with one another (both of us agreed about that), and caught the train home to London. I felt as if a weight had been lifted off my chest. My son can be very pleasant, impressive and charming, and he DOES have interests; he also engages well with the professionals, and even his foster carer says he is a nice young man.

With all my faults J, and my definite shortcomings as a parent, I will always love you and want the best for you.

I ordered a Henry styled hoover online, and managed to hoover the downstairs floor of my house. It’s sucks brilliantly, unliike my last one which constantly lost its suction, got blocked and needed emptying every five minutes. It was a useless ‘bagless’ Vax, and had started cutting out after a few minutes. I dumped it in the wheelie bin, after one measly year.

Never again. I look forward to a long and profitable working relationship with my yellow Henry!

Is that information too mundane for this blog? Well, these things do count. My house has been shamefully neglected lately, as I couldn’t bring myself to care about cleanliness and tidiness. Henry is helping me to tend to my home environment again.

I am pretty boring at the end of the day…

Maybe J will join me and my Mum for Christmas day. I hope so. I really do…

I phoned up Pentonville Visiting Line and arranged to go and see M tomorrow afternoon. I have a lot of mixed feelings about this, but hell. I can’t help putting myself in his shoes though I’m aware he would be unable to do the same for me… I’ve told him via the site ’emailaprisoner.com’ that I’m concerned for him as a friend and not his girlfriend. There won’t be any kissing and cuddling.

I hope it will help me toward some closure, and that it will cheer him to receive a social visit. I would also like to hear his viewpoint on what happened to get him incarcerated, the precise circumstances of which will surely affect how I feel about him. But I don’t know if he will want to talk about that and I can’t push him or press him on it, that would not be fair given his predicament. I will have to be tactful and diplomatic and stick to neutral topics if he wants it that way.

Lots of love, Zoe xxx

Alone again…Naturally.

Anyone remember that ancient number, from the seventies or suchlike? The funny is thing is, I can’t remember any of the song except for this mournful refrain.

I spent the day surrounded by people. Lovely people. Funny, talented, positive people. My theatre group, who I was rehearsing, and then performing with. It does me no end of good to be around them, but when I finally came away after quite a successful performance, my mood slumped again. I knew I was going home to more loneliness. And I’m sorry to keep whingeing on about it, dear reader. I probably need to get a grip of myself. I’m going to end up pissing people off. It’s not as if it’s an uncommon complaint, these days. I know the sort of things I need to do, and I’m in the process of sorting out some counselling so that I can further explore the possible underlying causes of my loneliness.

No missive had arrived in the telltale brown envelope in that familiar handwriting. Seems like even M – in prison, if you please – can’t be bothered with me.

But heck. I’m STILL an infinitely precious, valuable, wonderfully complex and multilayered human being. Those reading this blog for the first time will be thinking to themselves ‘Wow, what a narcissist!’ The rest of you will know that this is my way of saying that every human life is sacred, and that no one person is worth more than another.

The Home Treatment Team were trying to contact me today without success. I just don’t hear my new phone’s ringtone at all. So I phoned them back. They wanted to bring me some medication as I was running out, but I’d already been to the GP to put in a prescription request. Doubtful whether they can, in all honesty, offer me very much more than that. Anyway I started the week badly, but it improved. I didn’t think I was going to be up to performing today, but it all came together. That was an achievement to chalk up. Sometimes NOTHING seems to make me feel any better though. It’s as if all these wonderful external things can’t quite penetrate the invisble perspex bubble that surrounds me.

The Bubble of Doom.

xxx

To Do or Not to Do

Hi all.

Well, Home Treatment are a no-show so far. Just as well I’m not suicidal – yet. Shortfalls in services (and lousy ones) are looming large for me at the moment. I’ve just written another letter complaining – again – about my care coordinator, asking for a change and to go on oral meds. This time I am going to ask who I should address it to this time, since the last one, to the consultant I never see, met with no response whatsoever.

I’ve been bearing up, luckily. Lamictal and Risperidone seem to be doing their job of keeping me somewhere in the middle, most days. Depression and anxiety loom much larger than mania these days. Maybe this is why I am finding it progressively more difficult to get any response from the services. I may feel sometimes out of place in the drug and alcohol services, but they have virtually saved my life for the last year or so. Apart from my therapy group and Dual Recovery Anonymous, they keep me going.

However. I am starting to fret a little about my almost total non-productivity. I’m posting on this blog more and more, because there is so little else and it’s a fantastic outlet in the absence of anyone else I can share ALL my concerns with.

I’ve got some sort of mid-life crisis going on. I’m 50, and facing the probability that hopes of  paid work are receding rapidly. Anxiety, moodswings and M made me retreat and withdraw from the world as we know it. The levels of anxiety provoked by volunteering one afternoon a week at the local Oxfam Bookshop seemed out of proportion and to outweigh the benefits of doing so.

At the same time, as I described in my last post, I am realising that I need to focus more on others’ needs. I’ve got to get my head from out my backside and forget myself for at least a couple of hours every week, then build it up to four or six hours, etc.

I also wonder whether I could cope with working from home. I would love to do a little job that involved writing or editing/proofreading. I’m quite good at presenting a tidy, finished piece of work. Maybe I could help people with English as a second language in making applications or something like that. Or help them with their English in some kind of educational capacity. Or offer a typing or editing service for students’ essays or theses. Well, I know that might be a bit of a long shot these days. It’s just a thought.

I don’t think I’m able to do a voluntary job where I am too exposed to the public. I could never mentor young people. I’m not sure about befriending. Moodswings could make that difficult. But I need to not find reasons not to do something, but just try and give it a bash. I would rather work with a computer screen and bits of paper. I could be some sort of researcher. I applied to The Samaritans wondering whether I could answer emails for them, or help out with admin.

Then there’s the book I hope to write. I could at least make a start on that. But that might leave my head firmly up my own arse.

I’ve been less haunted by thoughts of M, languishing in that cell, since I wrote him the emotional letter of the other day and cried over it. I heard he will likely be there until at least January. I never realised just how shit his life was out here in ‘the community’, that he would (seemingly) willingly swop it for a life inside. Maybe it’s the only place he feels ‘safe’. Ironic, that.

Or maybe with all his criminal thoughts he feels it’s where he belongs. If I’m ever tempted to do that ‘poor me’ thing, I have him to reflect on. I’m free to walk out of my front door and go pretty much anywhere I please, even though most of the time I am reluctant to do so. However – I CAN. That’s surely got to mean something. Just like the Tiger of my Chinese birth sign, I cannot abide being locked up and confined. I wouldn’t last five minutes in prison, though I know Holloway has nothing like the reputation of Pentonville. Women prisoners seem to be treated far more compassionately than the men. One of the ways our gender works to our advantage.

I basically think most prisons are barbaric, period, and while coasting on a manic high I just want to open the doors and let them all out. But when in my right mind I have to recognise that society has a legitimate problem with some offenders, and they need to go somewhere. I think the emphasis needs to be on rehabilitation while they are in there, and that overcrowding is totally unacceptable. Many should not be there on grounds of mental health alone, and many others simply do not need to be there, as they are no real danger to the public.

I can’t help thinking that M is already batshit crazy, and is very likely to become more so as time goes on. Prison for someone like him seems a cruel and unusual punishment indeed. I could be wrong though. His social worker doesn’t seem to be overly concerned for him, and described him as ‘settled’ when he visited! He said he ‘presented’ well, in court on Friday, whatever that means. M can always ‘present well’ when he chooses.

But who really cares about M? Only me, it seems. I have not had a letter or a phone call from him. Doubtless he’s got other stuff on his mind. Maybe he doesn’t need me as much as I thought.

It defies belief how alone a person can be without going stir crazy and murdering someone or himself. He hurt someone, but it could have been a lot worse… He never laid a finger on me, and I never saw him be violent to anyone else either. That’s why I was so stunned to hear what happened. I really didn’t think it was in him to do such a thing. I still know very little about the actual circumstances. No doubt he will eventually tell me, complete with exonerating himself from all blame!

Love, Zoe xxx

ps: Stats have been unusually high lately. Thanks for reading everyone.

Angels and Demons

Eventful day, in many ways.

Appointment with psych plus Community Psychiatric Nurse. Horribly derailed. I made the cardinal error of complaining to the (new to me) doctor about the CPN and saying I wanted to change. New doctor was a patronising cow, not to mince words. She baby-talked to me. She tried to ‘humour’ me. She tried to ‘praise’ what I said, hoping to pacify me. She might have listened, but she did not ‘hear’ me.

I felt bad about my complaints about the CPN, but she frankly deserved them. She and the doc seemed to be making a HUGE issue about referring me to the Home Treatment Team or one of the Recovery Houses. CPN’s favourite phrase: ‘It doesn’t work like that’. She seems to think that referral to said services is a sought-after privilege which it is her job to guard.

I kid you not, the patronising cow of a doc told me ‘There are people much worse off than you’. She didn’t know me from Adam. She even asked if I was hearing any voices! Clearly she had only glanced at my notes.

I got so fed up with their double assault on my patience, I walked out.

I went for a coffee in a local cafe and sat with my anger and disgust for a while to ponder my next move. Always so alone. Trying to get help. Alone. Struggling with a serious mental illness. Alone. Trying to head off another devastating breakdown. Alone. Always, always. Alone. I can’t look to my CPN for anything more than a needle in the buttock. She’s passive and negative about everything I try to suggest, including my application for a personalised budget.

There was only really one place to go after that. St Ann’s Hospital. I managed to get the bus there, saving on taxi fares. I wandered around, lost, for a while, looking for the building that houses the Home Treatment Team. Found it. Asked on reception to see them. Lady made a phone call. Told me I needed to go to my GP. I went silent and still. Then broke down in tears and hurriedly left the building.

Called lousy CPN again. She said I’d put her in a ‘difficult position’ by leaving the meeting with her and the psych. I kept saying, then shouting, ‘what am I going to DO?’ She mumbled something incomprehensible. I knew I was very far from being Flavour of the Month. It was so very far from communications with my previous two care coordinators. I was starting to realise how lucky I’d been, back then. Now I was getting a taste of what so many others have to endure.

After first suggesting that I would need to return to her again, she finally agreed to call the Home Treatment Team. Um. How difficult was that? I went back into the building to wait. A nurse I’d known for about fifteen years came out. Never have I been more pleased to see a psychiatric nurse! He is one of the very best, and beloved of many patients. Somehow he infuses his interactions with genuine care and concern. He knows something of what I’ve been through. He knows I’m not some malingering twat who wants a free holiday at the Recovery House, or a comfy chat with some psychiatric nurses. He told me the Houses are rubbish anyway (sort of what I thought). Nothing like our late, lamented Crisis Unit.

At last I felt heard. That was all I needed. The Home Treatment Team will visit tomorrow evening. They would have come in the morning, but I have Peer Support Group. Simple. Why did the psych and CPN make it so goddarn complicated??? And knowing the HTT as I do, there is NO WAY I would normally ask them to visit. Usually I’m trying to get rid of the buggers.

And then there was my epiphany moment. As I dried my tears sitting out on the step of the building while waiting for the damn CPN to get her act together, I heard a voice from behind me. He said ‘how are you sweetheart’ or words to that effect. Turns out he thought I was someone else. Well, I’m always doing that, so I understand.

Something in the way he spoke – not creepy, not coming on to me – made me turn and have a look at him. A shortish, plumpish black guy around my own age, but full of life and vitality, in the hooded uniform of the London streets, complaining of the cold. We fell into conversation somehow, and I told him my latest sob story. He immediately came back with a few ‘professional neglect’ stories of his own, all of which concerned other people he’d tried to help.

Turned out he was bipolar (which I could have guessed). Had a bad memory for names. Was there to accompany a patient who presently emerged. His concern for others was manifest. He put me to shame. We chatted, and I found myself smiling and laughing, my tears forgotten. I told him I thought he was great. That I knew I was too isolated and got caught up in my own problems, forgetting those of others. He showed me what, on some level, I already knew. That the answer lies with reaching out to others in need. To putting my own troubles to one side and doing what I can for someone else.

That was my epiphany moment. I loved that guy. He was like an angel, sent to point the way for me in my hour of need. He went off with the patient he was accompanying. I called ‘thanks for talking to me’, after him. I wanted him to know he made a difference. He blew me a kiss over his shoulder. For that moment, he was the incarnation of love. Not sex, not romance. Of love for others, expressed in actions. Being there for others. Caring, and showing it.

Nothing dramatic, my epiphany moment. Just an everyday story of angels.

At home, later on. I wrote a letter to M. By hand this time, as it’s probably nicer when you’re incarcerated. I cried as I wrote it, reminding him of our long morning walks in Enfield. Those good times we shared which I will never forget. I enclosed a cheque for £20. I went down the road to post it before I could change my mind. I know he’s probably a psychopath. That he’s probably a ‘black heart man’ as the Bunny Wailer track goes.

But hell. He was there for me, when I was locked up and sectioned on the ward.  No one else was. He was there for me through my loooong depression, and through my mini-mania. Likewise. He rubbed cream on my boil, and bandaged up my sprained ankle. Rubbed Vicks on my chest when I was full of cold and flu. I can’t erase that sweetness from my memory. I can’t erase all the good times from my memory, and only remember the bad times.

I know it’s sailing close to the wind. I know it’s inadvisable. But we’re illogical creatures, we human beings. Sometimes nothing makes sense except a simple cry from the heart. In the letter I told him I’d pray for him. So now, I’m off to pray.

I’m an Addict

I’m addicted to the Internet.

A friend emailed me yesterday to say she was cutting her Internet connection for the same reason. Brave lady. She thought it was contributing to her social phobia and reclusive behaviour. Snap.

I’ve more or less said as much in recent posts. I’m developing a problem here. I ‘should’ (that word!) probably do the same. But I don’t feel able to.

I suppose I still do get out to my support groups, shopping and the occasional coffee with a friend. But when it comes to contemplating voluntary work my anxiety levels get the better of me. I am beginning to live in a way that mirrors my son’s behaviour to a certain extent.

I took a trip down to Kent to see my Mum on Saturday evening, and stayed overnight, coming back yesterday evening. I am becoming increasingly unable to cope with Sundays. Still reeling from the news about M.

I know I’m depressed and therefore thinking negatively, but I mentally went through those people that I call friends, and realised I didn’t like any of them.  Nor can I think of anyone I like enough to develop a new friendship with. That statement demands a caveat. This is not about the precious, infinitely valuable human beings I call my friends. This is about me. I don’t like myself. I don’t like the ‘me’ I’ve become.

This has been developing for a while. I constantly find reasons not to see my friends. I’m not coping well with human interactions. I avoid making and receiving phone calls. Real time conversations scare me, partly I guess, because of the loss of control. When I’m out I’m always on my Smartphone. This is my comfort zone, and I would be in denial to say it wasn’t a problem.

Even the dating sites, such an obsession to start with, have lost their appeal. I’m OK with swopping a few messages, but the prospect of meeting any of them sends me into fight or flight mode.

No wonder I’m lonely, folks.

What am I achieving through constant internet surfing? Even support groups only just about keep me ticking over. I avoid one to ones outside of the relative safety of the group.

Still not cleaning my house. Even M used to do that. He was always out and about. I miss the old days, prior to his relapse onto marijuana. He encouraged and motivated me through my protracted depression, and looked after me and kept me safe during my mini-mania. We’d go out in the car, take lengthy walks. I loved hearing his key in the front door. And he’s now incarcerated. And that makes me re-evaluate the whole nature of our relationship. He just couldn’t hack life in the outside world, and now I’m going the same way.

As his deteriorating behaviour after his relapse demonstrated, he was still very much an addict. Total self-sabotage. How he must have hated himself to commit such a thoroughly self-destructive act. Much worse than anything he’d done in the past, yet he is 46 with surely less testosterone coursing around his body. And not on crack, as in his younger days.

Then there’s the obsessive need for tea and coffee, far exceeding my actual thirst. Not to mention the e-cig, which I drag on constantly while at the computer, and clutch in my hand on my anxious forays outside. I’m drug and alcohol free, but in many ways I’m still an addict. Living for short term gratification, or should I say, existing. It’s really not much of a life.

If I was even tempted to start thinking ‘I could have saved him if I’d stuck with him’, I would have to admit that he had already become impossible and intolerable to live with. He had sunk deep into a self-centred, narcissistic, chaotic and addicted lifestyle that left no room for any other human being with needs and desires of their own. It had become increasingly obvious that he was only using me – another means to fill the hole where a soul should be. Which raises the question, what did I think I was doing with him, if not much the same?

Well, this morning I have to go out. I’ve got my depot injection, plus an appointment with the psych. I have to ask some sticky questions, one of which is to come off the depot, go on oral meds and change my current care coordinator, who is utterly useless. Another of which is to ask for a stay in one of the new Recovery Houses. I need help. This I know.

And this blog. It’s pretty self-centred, isn’t it, in all honesty? Emotionally I guess I’m still an adolescent.

Hard truths. When I become all misty-eyed over M, obsessively and endlessly search the web for God knows what. I’m still in flight from the harsh reality. But I’m not psychotic. I know it’s still there.

I know, I know, it’s serious.

Greetings from Enfield

I came up here for sentimental reasons, and am blogging from my Smartphone, so I’m not sure if it will work. M’s court case was today and I wasn’t able to find out what happened to him. I hope to God they aren’t going to leave him to rot in Pentonville.

I was becoming stir crazy at home on my own so I got the bus up to Enfield where M and I used to spend a lot of time back in the day. I know, I’m sentimental as hell. I know he screwed me over and I’m much better off without him in every possible way. What can I say folks! Loneliness can really mess with your head.

Z x

Separate Yet Connected

Separate yet connected. Well, today I managed it. I didn’t see a soul but I used the phone, text, email, letter and internet and didn’t miss going out at all. Correction. It wasn’t I who managed it. It was we. Me and my Higher Power.

As usual at the moment, I felt crap when I woke up. I felt like I needed fairly urgently to talk to someone one to one. I considered going to Central London to a walk-in counselling service like the one at St James’ Piccadilly, or The Samaritans head office. Hmm. Too far. So I made a couple more phone calls to try and locate someone nearer. My care coordinator or a guy at the local day centre.

Then I phoned K, dramatherapist and Dual Diagnosis Specialist extraordinaire! I realised that maybe I didn’t need to say as much as I thought I did. I was ‘coming to terms’ all in my own good time. K made me laugh and things didn’t seem so goddamn serious all of a sudden. I stopped my whingeing. She helped me reassemble the bits of Humpty Dumpty. Bless her. If they could only bottle what she does – crush it up and put it into pills. Gotta love her.

Can’t do any of this without you Higher Power. Can’t do anything much without you.

The postman brought a handwritten letter from Pentonville Prison. Poor M. He feels ‘defeated’. He didn’t try to say any crap about still loving me. In fact, he just sounded like he was writing to me mainly to stave off boredom, and to have an outlet to the outside. Banged up 23/7. Tomorrow he has his hearing at Wood Green Crown Court.

I spent the rest of the day reading some ‘Hub’ pages from a lady called mistyhorizon. First, very lengthy, article about ‘Living with a control freak’ (sorry, I can’t provide a link for some reason) described her relationship with a psychopath. I found her virtual ‘company’ very conforting as I became totally absorbed by this fascinating story, which, of course, I could relate to, and which actually made me feel as if I’d got off very lightly ‘only’ having had to deal with M.

She also writes at length about depression, which has prevented her from being able to work for some time. Is it real or a modern invention as some sceptics would have it? Haha. I don’t think I’ll dignify that question with a reply, except just to say…whatever. Why can’t non-depressed people simply be thankful that they have been spared and have the humility not to judge the less fortunate?

Besides, what about Robert Burton’s ‘Anatomy of Melancholy’? That’s hardly a modern invention. I dunno what these folks’ beef is, really. How about manic depression and schizophrenia? No such thing as them either? Nothing much that’s new about mental illness, as far as I can see.

I wrote M a letter, and attached it to an email to his social worker. Later found myself recalling the feelings of intoxication I had with him, as if he were indeed a drug. If I could access that intoxication now, or have it in pill or liquid form, I think I would at least be tempted. Knowing that, like all drug addiction, it would end in tears would probably cause me to refrain.  I’ve learned my lessons well. And M is safely locked away from me. I’ve got the chance to get well and truly clean.

Zoe x

Gutted

Oh God. I called M’s social worker this morning and he called me back this afternoon.

I’m still in shock. It’s a serious offence.  He’s in Pentonville, not the psychiatric wing,  just in the general prison.

I can’t say more at the moment: confidentiality.

[Pentonville is the most violent prison in the UK for prisoner assaults.]

After talking for about half an hour to the social worker, I had to go into my therapy group. I felt depressed, angry and in shock. I cried. The group wasn’t much help today – I just felt even worse about myself, because I didn’t care about the other people’s problems. I called a cab to get home.

I’m in tears writing this.

That’s it really.

Devastated.

Morbid Musings

I’ve been looking up the statistics for life expectancy in bipolar patients. We can expect to die 10-15 years earlier than average. My thoughts? I should be so lucky.

I tend to hope I will die young regardless of whether I’m doing well or struggling, like now. Life’s damn hard already. How will it be improved by the ailments and growing frailty of old age?

I don’t want to commit suicide however. That would be a worst case scenario. I’ve explored the possibilities thoroughly. None of them is acceptable. I believe we go somewhere else when we die. (Hopefully not with our present identities. Don’t for a minute imagine I want to take ‘me’ with me!) I have a feeling that the manner of my death could partly determine that. I’m a vegan who wants to ‘do no harm’. That includes ‘to myself’.

I’ve been fighting depression for a week and a half now. My ex, M, is now in prison. I no longer feel in any way good about that, and am a bit ashamed that I ever did. I still don’t know anything about what he did, except that he was involved in a violent incident of some kind. I tried to contact his social worker, and left a message on his answerphone.

I know I’ve been saying I’m less apt to feel sorry for people these days. But on this occasion, you will probably understand that I can’t help it. We were so close. OK, he had no conscience, and probably has no idea how to love. OK, he brought it on himself to a large extent, by relapsing on to quantities of cannabis. But still. He’s too vulnerable to be in prison. I feel so sad that it’s ended like this when I had such high hopes, psychotic though I may have been.

I gravitate to the internet as my current addiction of choice. In this I am not a million miles from what my son is doing. It’s my comfort zone. Anything else takes effort. I’m all registered at the gym, but still haven’t been. I stubbornly refuse to clean my house. The lawn remains unmown. Hopelessness has seeped down into my blood and bones. What is the bloody point.

Loneliness is a recurring theme, and it isn’t purely explained by life circumstances. Many people have less social contact than I do and don’t seem to suffer  intense episodes of inner anguish, agitation and panic over it. Hey, how would I know? But I think it’s partly down to my own propensity to avoid intimacy. I need it, and I flee it all at the same time.

I don’t need indiscriminate social contact. Often it just exacerbates the isolation. It’s me that needs to change. To let down those walls. So that when alone, I carry other people with me, in my head and heart. I try to face the fear. To demonstrate to myself that it isn’t going to kill me. Really, I have no choice in any case. This is what life is offering me right now.  And, at least potentially, it’s a gift.

So, I’m down. But by no means out.

Acceptance and Faith

Hi Peeps. Yesterday morning I made the decision not to spend the day depressed. Every time a negative thought process threatened to overwhelm me, I simply replaced it with something positive. This may not work so well when the depression concerned is more of the organic variety (and has already taken hold), but when there are obvious triggers and there’s still a choice, this CBT lark can really work!

Along with this is a focus on acceptance of my reality and faith that my life is unfolding in line with the divine plan. The universe is pushing me toward less dependence on other people, and more on my Higher Power. Sometimes there is just no alternative. I am literally brought to my knees. Other people’s input is still essential but one is often left with stuff that others cannot really help me with, no matter how well-intentioned they may be.

I’ve been angry with my reality and fought it tooth and nail. Acceptance and faith are the antidote to this anger which so easily turns to depression when it can find no other outlet. They are probably also key in my avoiding another temporary flight from reality itself, otherwise known as psychosis.

It is eminently possible for me to become all I can be, despite having a troubled son, struggling with loneliness and having a major mental illness which makes it all but impossible to work for my living. For me to take this on board and work on acceptance can only do my son good. Wallowing in despair and raging at life is not good role modelling for him.

Children are great motivators. My son was born for a reason. Sometimes those things which rock our equanimity at its foundations can turn out to be the greatest gifts.

Spiritual development calls me, its imperative growing ever louder the more I try to shut it out. And I have this in common with everyone else. When I accept loneliness and don’t let it panic me, it opens up another channel. This too, is a gift. It’s fighting the inevitable that causes the pain and fear.

Today I choose to embrace life and not to fight it.

Zoe x

Neither Best nor Worst

Hello Peeps. I had a depressed week. Wondered if it was going to turn into a depressed month or year. Not a pleasant prospect. But there have been a fair few potential triggers. The end of a troubled, troubling relationship. My son continuing to do a lot of nothing at the foster carer’s and possibly refusing to see me (this turned out to be untrue). And on Thursday, M comes back to haunt me, not in person, but in the form of four policemen coming to my door looking for him.

They even searched upstairs. Asked what he had done, they just said ‘a violent incident’. Well, I phoned up his supported house on Saturday night, after finding his mobile was ‘unavailable’ and heard that he continued in police custody.

Which would have been the cue for me to start feeling sorry, and responsible for him in some strange way. No. He would not return the compliment. He is not my son. J is my son. The buck’s going to have to stop with him this time. He didn’t have to start smoking cannabis for all he was worth after the great achievement of four years clean. Always shifting the blame. Citing ‘demons’, or other people’s abuse. Self-righteously invoking Jehovah, Hell and Damnation on whoever happened to be passing.

There’s mad, but there’s also bad. I often haven’t wanted to believe that. Surely there is good in everyone if we dig deep enough. Well, maybe not. Such indiscriminate hatred and resentment toward the human race is bound to end badly.

So maybe I’m a little less cuddly and fluffy in my views these days. Maybe a sadder, wiser and tougher me intercepts whenever I am about to start feeling sorry for someone. What use is my pity to them anyway? They, like me, are a wondrous and infiniitely valuable human being. Credit them with some strength and resilience as well as the vulnerability I so readily see.

And maybe I’m also less inclined to wallow in self-pity. I don’t like that trait, it makes me dislike myself and leaves me needy for others’ approval because of the inner emptiness it breeds.

And regarding my son J. I am neither the best, nor the worst, mother in the world. All or nothing thinking, one of the thinking errors according to the Cognitive Behavioural Therapy creed. Tough love does not come easy to me at all, and never has, and I am in awe of those parents who manage to apply firm boundaries to their teenage children. That’s the maternal guilt, overcompensating for feeling like such a terrible failure as a mother.

I woke at five this morning. Had my coffee and my ecig. Read to the end of a book on sociopaths called ‘Dark Souls’. Written for their ‘victims’ who are left retrieving the bits of themselves that have been so carelessly splattered from floor to ceiling. Who need time to heal. Realised I was no longer depressed. Or that, maybe I could, on this occasion, choose instead to embrace whatever life still holds for me. That I’m actually, worth it. And that if I put myself firmly on my own team, the loneliness and neediness will abate and I will make peace with myself.

No triumph. No tragedy. Just life itself, continuing to flow all around and in between me. The infinite possibilities. Nothing inevitable about it. One of depression’s most noxious lies.

This morning I’m going to see my support worker. He is unfailingly positive toward me. I will draw strength from that, showing myself the same unflagging support that I can give to others, when at my outgoing best. Then down to central London to lead the DRA meeting. Yesterday I thought I wouldn’t make it. As usual I had succumbed to the Sunday blues. But now it’s a new week and a new chance.

Those Dark Souls, being already spiritually and morally dead, aren’t really able to make such a choice.

Poor M, indeed.

False Alarm and More Drama

Well, it turned out that my son’s social worker had mixed up her dates, and there was no Review meeting for my son yesterday after all…Plus, she went down to see him, and he didn’t raise any objection to my coming to the meeting, which is in two weeks time. So I got all upset and triggered over nothing.

I’ve been pretty down this week. Back to those feelings of worthlessness and culpability (with a fair helping of helplessness) over my boy, that kept me depressed for 16 months recently. Have to, once again, keep reminding myself that I am a wondrous and infinitely valuable human being, and that I am not wholly responsible for my son’s difficulties. I can bear my part of the responsibility, but there are multiple players in any situation. I learned that in my therapy/life skills group. Taking all the blame on myself is bound to make me depressed.

If I hadn’t been in such a desperate state I would not, of course, have stuck with M all that time. And talking of M…on Thursday four police came to the door, looking for him. They didn’t even have his home address, but somehow had found mine. They even searched upstairs for him. I asked, what’s happened? They told me he’d been in a fight. Which could have meant anything. How badly was he or the other person hurt?

At first I felt vindicated, and almost glad they were on his case. Today I feel sad and worried for him, and have tried to contact him on his mobile, but it’s unavailable. I think the most likely place to search for him would be the hospital.

I think the break-up with me (plus his excessive cannabis use) might have sent him even further over the edge than he was already. His anger, rage and paranoia made it probably inevitable that he would get into some kind of trouble. Could have been drug dealers. I don’t know.

No more drama in my life, sang Mary J Blige. 50 years old, and still the drama comes to find me out, though really, it’s no longer my stuff.

I had written letters to his mental health team expressing my concerns, and they seemed to have basically ignored me, as they let him stop his injection and go on oral meds. A crazy thing to do at that precise moment in time. Now they can realise I was right to be concerned. I was not some vindictive ‘woman scorned’. He never scorned me in any case. It was I who ended it.

The whole thing is desperately sad.

I’ve got drama group today. A good thing to seek out some distraction. I’m depending quite heavily on a close female friend  for comfort and support (she’s in the throes of a breakup too, so we support each other), but God, I feel so lonely sometimes. No wonder I clung to M for so long. I drive myself stark staring mad sometimes.

The weekends – and the dreaded Sundays – come around so quickly these days. The loneliness of Sundays by contrast seems to stretch out into infinity.

Horrible sense of stigma and being set apart from others, even in my support groups. I tell them the whole story, then wonder what they’re really thinking. Probably thankful that their own situations are not as dire as mine.

Well, Id better get going. Thanks for reading folks. I so appreciate it…

Love Z xx

More Son Trouble

Hello peeps. I woke up feeling pretty low this morning. I heard somewhere that sleep tends to leave you feeling more depressed. It’s a diurnal thing. Anyway, once I was up I felt better as I always do, though still a bit frustrated regarding some developments yesterday.

While I was at my friend M’s in the afternoon I heard from my son J’s social worker. There is an important meeting regarding my son this Friday. And I will only be able to attend it if J agrees. I have a feeling he will not agree, as I am still persona non grata since the last time I saw him, when we had a massive row at my place culminating in my calling the police who delivered him back to the Social Services, who then returned him to the foster placement in Kent.

When my Mum dies (she is 80 now) I will basically be all my son has got. I fear that Social Services won’t be seen for dust after he turns 18. Who is going to have to pick up the bits then? I will, as always, be left holding the baby. And in terms of his living skills and general attitude, J is basically still a baby. At this rate he will be totally unable to live independently.

As you can probably gather, I feel angry – toward Social Services, toward my son and to the whole sorry situation. I expect some of you are thinking, well you can’t really blame your son for the poor parenting you have given him. But I will then say, he has had many advantages that other kids in care didn’t have, including family who remained involved, loving and concerned throughout. We never missed a contact, which took place every two months. I doubt that all kids in care are isolating themselves in a room and totally refusing to engage with their education and future, or failing that, assessment for mental health problems and some form of treatment.

I would understand it if you felt sorry for him. I did the same until I saw the way he behaved for the sixteen months that he spent, first with me, then with my mother. I’m afraid I am now compassion-fatigued as regards my son. He seems sublimely unaware of the heartache and worry he is causing us by his behaviour. I was triggered into a sixteen-month depression when I saw the state he was in. It is never far from my mind, though I do all I can to remain positive and distract myself from his problems.

I’m also annoyed that Social Services only let me know yesterday that this important meeting at the foster carer’s was taking place this week. I spoke to my Mum this morning, and she hadn’t been told at all.

I never chose this. This is by far the worst and most serious thing that has happened to me as a result of my mental health problems. My own life is hard enough to cope with. I’ve had to take sole responsibility for a child as well, a child who now has significant problems that are impacting on everyone around him. The ‘sperm-donor’ excuse for a father was happy enough to have unprotected sex with me (once) while I was psychotic, vulnerable and supposedly being cared for in hospital. Not happy though to step up to any of his responsibilities regarding the consequences of his actions. Ill as I was, I clearly remember asking him to use protection, but he refused. Any men reading this, just be grateful that you are not a woman before you start identifying with my son and feeling sorry for him.

What am I really angry with though? I’m angry at life itself I guess, at the hand of cards I’ve been dealt. Please try not to judge me dear reader. I can bear my share of the responsibility but it can’t and shouldn’t all devolve on me.

Zoe

The Cat in the Hat Came Back

More cat -related drama. You won’t believe this, but it won’t be the first time I’ve looked like a dick on this blog, haha!

After coming and purring on top of my recumbent form in the night/early morning Amber promptly disappeared again! Please bear in mind she’s a 15-year-old homebody when the cold weather is on us, as it is now. As the day wore on and her cushion on the sofa near where I sit at my PC remained cat-free, I was getting more and more alarmed. Reading up on what can happen to cats when they get a scare was scaring me all the more.

The huge debate over whether cats should be kept indoors or allowed outdoors, with the majority going with indoors-only, claimed my attention for a couple of not-so-happy hours. I had never seen the big outdoors from a cat’s perspective before. It’s a jungle out there, when you’re a cat. Danger from dogs, foxes, other cats, disease, injury, cars and even worse, sick people who love nothing better than to catch and torture or kill cats. Then again some well-meaning senior might start befriending my cat, giving her choice tidbits and resulting in her having no need to return home.

So there I am feeling guilty as Hell for my neglectful ways…even though it’s a benign neglect, and I was caring enough to get my Amber from a shelter when she was already 9 years old. Could I now be responsible for her disappearance or death by allowing a dog to chase her (yesterday) as well as allowing her the freedom of the garden/neighbourhood by means of a permanently open catflap?

It was 7.30 pm and, feeling miserable as hell having called and called for my Baby Girl outside and placed objects and food strategically in the back garden near the catflap, I went to make myself a drink in the kitchen. Then I catch sight of her feline form in the hallway…she was sniffing the carpet hyper-vigilantly. Yesterday’s incident was a genuine trauma. That damn dog would have killed her or mauled her at the very least if she hadn’t managed to escape through the catflap. She had gone to ground underneath the bed in the spare room, and I hadn’t thought to check!!!

I know. I’m an idiot. I’ve never been so happy to see my beloved old lady, cranky and sedate tho’ she can sometimes be. She still hasn’t touched her food. I don’t blame her one bit for being scared out of her wits. Her life was in danger. And it’s Guy Fawkes Night to boot. What a night for your cat to go missing!

Reader, I locked the catflap. She’s going nowhere else tonight, even if it means a trip to the supermarket to buy cat litter and a tray. I think I need to start keeping her in at night, especially in the firework season which can last all of November these days. I don’t want her disappearing as so many other cats in this neighbourhood have – you see the sad ‘missing’ posters pinned on the trees regularly. Someone’s much-loved pet. Adored by the whole family, child very upset, etc. I took my Amber for granted, even slightly resented her for sitting on her cushion all day long snoozing instead of entertaining me. Not any more.

The awful thing about these missing cats, is the not knowing. The fear you have of them suffering, locked in someone’s shed by accident, or worse. Maybe injured by a car or animal and left to die slowly. Catnapped by a sick person and tortured to death, savaged by a dangerous dog for its owner’s sadistic amusement or sent to an experimental lab. Sorry to raise such horrors in your mind reader. I don’t like to contemplate such things either. I am so relieved that my Baby is safe and well.

She’s tolerated a lot from me, and yet she doesn’t leave for aforementioned old lady’s choice treats. Thank God she’s a common tortoiseshell moggy and not some fancy Bengal cat like my Mum’s pair of kittens. The dangers are even worse for them, plus they’re not so scared of people as she is. She wouldn’t be easily befriended.

Given that my own son now hates my guts and that he was taken from me at the age of eight, and that abandonment (mine, and others’) has been a recurring theme in my life, maybe you can see why it would have been a terrible blow to lose my cat at this juncture,  for whatever reason. I want her to die peacefully in her sleep, or euthanized if she becomes too unwell.

That’s another thing. She hasn’t been to a vet in years. It’s time she went for a check-up. I will phone up the animal shelter tomorrow and see if they can see her, or whether I have to go to the dreaded RSPCA place in Finsbury Park. Damn it, I’m not going to that mad place to queue for hours with dogs all around, causing her even more stress. I’ll pay for the vet at the end of the road to check her out. And count myself very lucky that in the seven years I’ve had her she’s only had a bit of gingivitus and required a tooth or two to be taken out.

I’ll wait till she’s over her trauma and eating normally again before I subject her to the ordeal of the dreaded cat basket.

Phew. I’m happy again.

My Cat is Alive and Well

Oh, thank Heaven peeps. She finally returned in the middle of the night and came to perch and purr on my recumbent form as I lay sleeping. I’ve never been so pleased to see my darling Amber – and she had obviously forgiven me for inadvertently allowing a dog to chase her and scare her out of her wits. If only we humans were so forgiving and came back to love us after the transgression! Well, it always helps when the person realises they have transgressed. It’s no use trying to forgive someone who thinks they are as pure as the driven snow.

Ex M, ex-friend A, and ex-partner R all spring to mind. And heck, my Dad springs to mind. Even I spring to mind. I’m not sure that when psychotic I wasn’t the consummate sociopath, except that I was no liar and not much of a schemer. But I did have the overweening sense of entitlement, the grandiosity, the short-term thinking, the lack of respect and consideration for others, the promiscuity, the narcissism and so on and so forth.

Actually R was around here yesterday and we had a nice afternoon together. I guess there’s been some forgiveness on both sides, but we are only friends. Nothing else will happen. I don’t think either of us would want that. Too much water under the bridge. Twelve years was plenty time to decide if we were suited and the answer was a resounding no!

We walked up through the Palace Park to the lake and R kindly took some pics of me with my digital camera, so that I would have some up to date photos to post on my profile on ‘No Longer Lonely’. He’s good at taking pics. He’s taken some of the best ones of me over these many years. He is good at putting the subject at ease and coaxing a smile out of them.

I’m a little irritable today. I feel like skipping DRA which I have been attending religiously week after week just lately. The journey’s a bit of a killer…all the way to WC1 and a 20 minute walk from Oxford Circus. I’m glad I got through another Sunday though.

I regard the kitchen with it’s visible evidence of meals cooked, bread cut and drinks slopped, think about cleaning it then decide against it. I just don’t CARE enough. There’s only me here and I’m short-sighted and rarely wear my glasses indoors. When I DO put them on I am duly horrified by the dirt and mess, but that doesn’t make me want to clean. Just to take them off again. Ignorance truly is bliss. That’s why I need a personal assistant. She will (hopefully) motivate me and give some moral support as I attempt to keep my house reasonably ship-shape.

It’s still my safe and cosy little hidey-hole. I often have to force myself out of it. Like this morning, I have to go and get my depot injection from the mental health centre. I have to psych myself up to go. My comfort zone is here with my PC, books and trusty Radio 4, plus an unending supply of tea and coffee accompanied by regular puffs on my ecig.

I live in a two bedroom house because of having a son. Next year I will have to pay back a portion of my benefits each week because of ‘under-occupancy’. I’m going to be worse off before we even start factoring in the government’s changes to benefits. Disability Living Allowance is being scrapped in favour of Personal Independence Payments, Income Support is being replaced by Employment Support Allowance, and the Severe Disability Premium is also being axed. Everyone is going to be assessed, and those of us considered genuinely unable to work are not going to face a cut as such, but our money is going to be frozen so that it doesn’t go up in line with inflation. This is what I gleaned from my attempt to research the matter online.

All for now…

Zoe x

Is my cat dead?

Well, R (my ex) came round today with the dog so that we could go for a walk in Ally Pally. There was a moment of high drama after they arrived when she chased my poor, elderly cat out of the catflap, with what looked like the instinct to kill. Truffle is a Fell terrier: they are bred to kill small mammals. Amber still hasn’t returned and I’m just hoping she hasn’t died of a heart attack. I feel guilty for not ensuring she was out of the house when the dog arrived.

R managed to find my digital camera (yes, I wrongfully accused M of stealing it), and we took it with us so he could take some pics of me to upload onto No Longer Lonely. The dating website that so far hasn’t lived up to its promise.

I enjoyed R’s company, and he helped me out with a few little jobs. Disconnecting an over-zealous smoke alarm. Putting Google back as my default search engine. Replacing the batteries in the thing that sparks up the gas cooker. All things that I shouldn’t have a problem doing for myself, but I just prefer to have someone (usually a man) to do it for me. I’m not your modern, independent-style woman, skilled with power tools and assembling flatpack furniture etc. Technology baffles me, and if I were in the habit of losing sleep, I would lose sleep over just how I will cope on my own when things malfunction, when I’m scared even to replace a lightbulb or change a fuse.

I’m OK with the traditional womanly tasks. I cooked us a nice lasagne. R talked to me about his feelings of confusion over where his life is going. I appreciated that. Inside I still felt a tightly wadded ball of sadness and grief. I hang out a lot of the time with ex-addicts. And I notice how full of hope their lives can be when they move into recovery. And though I benefit from being around positive people, there are times when they just remind me of what sets me apart and makes me feel like the eternal outsider.

I would be so relieved to see the cat right now. Surely the dog  can’t have killed her? I’ve put food outside for her and left the back door open to encourage her back. If she’s dead I wouldn’t forgive myself.

And when in doubt I just pour myself another cup of tea. I really could use a good cry. Please don’t let my cat be dead.

x

Saturday Night’s Not Alright

A sad and lonely Saturday night. Despite all M’s duplicity and glaring faults, I don’t half miss having someone around. I saw him quite by chance today. He got on the same bus – we were both shocked. I just know he’s on the hunt for a new woman. I feel sorry for her, but what can I do? I wrote a letter to his mental health team to warn them that I think he takes advantage of vulnerable women, but their hands are probably tied too.

I was on the way to my Theatre Group. I felt a bit lonely despite being surrounded by nice, sparky people. I couldn’t help noticing that most of them felt positive, happy etc. There were two others, one a close friend, who didn’t feel so good.

It’s just been one of those days. I signed up to the website that Seaneen mentioned, called NoLongerLonely. You can (apparently) find penpals and friends on there, as well as dating etc. I sent a few emails last night but have only received one reply so far. Naturally this has started me thinking my profile puts people off, and I’ve been trying to tweak it a bit. The photo isn’t brilliant either, and it’s five years old. I just haven’t got any recent ones.

I think M might have stolen my digital camera. I haven’t laid eyes on it for ages. The Playstation 2 is also missing – that disappeared more recently. That he could have blatantly thieved off me like that was really the final straw.  I tried to end it with him so many times. Now of course I regret taking him back all those times. You know what? I KNEW it wasn’t going to work out. I KNEW he would cause me only heartache. But part of me was still in love with the sh*t.

I find loneliness so hard to bear.

I managed to have a little weep earlier. Good times will come again. They always do. You win some, you lose some. Please pardon the platitudes, I’m depressed and my words are leaden. I’ve arranged to see two friends tomorrow so I (hopefully) won’t have another attack of Sunday blues from being all alone.

Love you, peeps.