..The Rain.
RETURNING TO ART, AND TRAUMA WAVES
29th May 2016
Today I woke up to the roar of rain outside my window. It’s been thundering and raining non-stop lately. I lay on my back, with my eyes closed, listening to sky tantrum. It was a stilling way to start the day.
I’ve decided to go back to work. I work at an art studio in central London, as a commissioned painter. We have a gallery opening coming up next month, and though I deeply enjoy my work, I’ve been away from it for a month now.
I had to take a sick leave last month. It started with my Anorexia growing overwhelming bad, in tandem with my PTSD. I couldn’t get out the door, suffered with bouts of insomnia and depression and days of not eating. I first took a week off work, but then had my leave extended when I felt too overwhelmed to return to work. I just couldn’t deal with seeing people or any sort of pressure. I needed to be in the quiet, by myself.
My PTSD is a result of a childhood of abuse. I often feel frustrated because what happened to me lies in the past, and yet it reaches into my present and torments me. Some days I think: “It’s not happening now, so why are you allowing it to affect your life? Especially now that everything is coming together for y
ou?” But I know trauma doesn’t work like that. It makes such a big dent, physically, mentally, spiritually in a person, that it doesn’t remain locked in the past.
I want to move on. But I’m learning that trauma from the past is like terrible, threatening waves behind me. I can try to swim away or against them, but I’ll end up exhausted. Instead, I need to let it wash over me, and wait, till it passes.
After listening to the rain for a while, I made some tea, and put ‘The World in You’, by Sedgewick on repeat. I’m nervous about returning to work, but I’m telling myself that if it’s too much, I can leave again. Feeling like I have an escape route makes returning a bit easier.
One day at a time.
Aria |
Art is a way of survival. It is my response to a mad world, where terrible, unspeakable things happen. Art is my response to shots fired, and bruises delivered, and burning, hellish memories. Art is my way of creating beauty out of the pain I am buried under.
Some people mock me when I reply “I’m an artist” in response to “What do you do?” Some says it’s not a real job – there’s no future or money in it. Some say I should get serious about my life and stop dreaming. But I get by just fine. I work for an amazing art gallery/studio in London, and get to live in a flat in the East end.
I love doing what I do. I paint my heart out every day, surrounded by culture and art and creativity-jostling bustle. What I would recommend to other aspiring artists out there is: do it! Do it if your passion burns for it every day. You just need to find that right context that allows you to be an artist, while at the same time doesn’t force you to starve and be broken all the time.
Art is what I breathe out each time I inhale the pain around me, inside me. I needed it to be more than a hobby. Now I’ve been working as a commissioned painter for over three years. One of the best decisions I ever made. Art is a real job.
Song of the day: Svannur, Røkkurrò
One day at a time.
Aria |
DRIFTING DOWN A RIVER
26th May 2016
It’s a hot, humid evening in London. There will certainly be thunder later, during the night. I am in my flat. I have just finished make some chai tea, and am sat on my mattress, reading, occasionally stroking a purring Bagheera.
It is on warm nights like this that I’m thankful I sleep on a mattress on the floor of my living room. It keeps things cooler. I’ve thrown open the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, and a warm breeze is passing through, the curtains waltzing to its flow.
I think I’ll sleep all night with the windows open. It may sound silly, but that makes me feel adventurous and wild. Indoor camping. Perhaps I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and hear the rain coming down. How magical it is to wake up to the sound of night-rain.
It’s been a slow, creative day. Painting, drinking tea, music-swallowing. I don’t mind. The slow pace feels like drifting down a river. No need to paddle or steer – just letting the water steer me.
Song of the day: Nocturne in E minor, by Chad Lawson
One day at a time.
Aria |
TREADING WATER
25 May 2016
The air is heavy, like there isn’t enough of it, or it’s tightly packed. It feels like there’ll be thunder later – 
which I look immensely forward to. I know many Brits complain about the weather. But I honestly love rain. ‘Bad’ weather is my favourite weather. And, London, she is particular charming when she’s soaked and gloomy.
I feel less hungry today than I did yesterday – a sign my stomach is shrinking. This fills me with an immense amount of satisfaction. If I want to achieve my goal weight, I have to loose 1 kg every week. That should be more than achievable. I have certainly lost more in less time before.
I called Abby today. It’s been a while since I spoke to her last. I figured she might be mad because I said I won’t go clubbing with her anymore. After all, parties seem to be the only setting in which she wants to socialise these days. But, to my surprise, she was bubbly on the other end. She spoke of the last club she went to, and a guy she’d met called Greg, and how she’d coloured her hair again. (It’s blue now.) She didn’t seem at all put out by me leaving the last party early.
The sick leave which I took for exhaustion runs out on the 1st of June. I’ve been wondering whether I should go back to work then, or extend the leave. I’m not sure. I have ok days and bad days, and I have been getting ‘better’ since taking sick leave. By better, I mean it’s felt less like drowning, and more like treading water. I’m worried that if I return to work too soon, all of that will unravel.
I still have nightmares every night. I have adopted a routine of springing out of bed as soon as I wake. That way, the latent emotions left behind by the nightmares can’t take root in my mind, take hold of me, and I can shake them quicker.
Song of the day: Silver Hair, by Boom Forest
One day at a time.
Aria |
FRESHLY LAUNDERED LINEN
24 May 2016
It’s the second day of my new lifestyle and habit-making. I have to get over the ‘hump’ of 21 days. I managed to have max 500 cal. yesterday. I felt hungry at times – especially in the 
evening, but I managed. Green tea helps stifle the hunger pangs, as does brushing my teeth.
I also went for a walk. I didn’t want to. I stood staring at the door for many minutes before I was able to leave my flat and get out. And when I returned home I was so stressed and anxious. I just sat down on the floor mat and cried.
A good way to get through loosing weight and starving is keeping busy. So I did. Yesterday I spring-cleaned the whole flat. I gave Bagheera – much to his pleasure – a bath. He’s such an unusual cat. He likes water like a little kitty-mermaid. And Gatsby, my rabbit, got one two. Afterwords they snuggled up in a strip of sunlight on the living room floor, wrapped in each their towel.
By the end of the day I was so tired, every muscle hurt. Especially my back. But I know the 
activity is burning calories. And if burning calories can achieve a sparkling clean home, then bring it on. The whole flat smells of soap and vanilla and freshly laundered linen.
I’m trying hard not to ‘reward’ myself with food. After all, I’m not a dog. Food shouldn’t be a reward. It shouldn’t be the goal at the end of the road. It should be that bit of fuel to keep me going.
I had tea in the evening, while I sat on my mattress on the floor, reading.
Song of the day: Freshly Laundered Linen, by Boom Forest, Phox
One day at a time.
Aria |
HARD TO LOVE THESE BONES
23 May 2016
between). The first push is often the hardest…. until the ball starts rolling by itself.I know I won’t start loving my body just because I loose weight. But I think it will make me 
feel a bit more ‘at home’ in my bones. I will reach my goal weight by December of this year. I hope it will give me an inch more confidence. And if nothing else, at least I’ll feel smaller and I can ‘disappear’ more easily.
Some of my friends think I want to be skinny so I will be noticed and admired. The truth is,
I want to be skinny so I can be invisible.
Today I won’t eat. I’ll just have lemon water and tea. I’m about to go out the door for my morning walk, because I get back for a shower. I know the hunger and the detox will be hard. But I know I need to do this.
Song of the day: Paige and June, by Hauschka
One day at a time.
Aria |
TOMORROW I START
22 May 2016
The sky seemed all ‘rained out’ after yesterday. I felt groggy this morning – my face swollen and my joints achy. I have no idea why. It’s not like I did that much walking yesterday.
As I pulled myself up off my mattress and shuffled over to the window, I was met with a lightly foggy morning, with a potential for sunshine. I stretched and yawned, and despite it being 4:30 am, I decided to get up.
I sat in the kitchen, oil-pulling and while checking emails, while Bagheera slept at the foot of my mattress in the living room. The flat was quiet apart from the distant cooing of pigeons on the adjacent building’s ledge. I’ve never been the biggest fan of Sundays. I’ve always much preferred Fridays and Saturdays.
Tomorrow will be my first day of my new lifestyle. I say lifestyle, because I don’t want this to be a diet. (I specified my lifestyle rules previously in my post on the 20th of May.) I know it’s going to hard, and I’m psyching myself up to it.
Habits take 21 days to form. I need to get through the first 21 days, that’s what I’m telling myself. The detox will be hard, and no doubt my body with struggle with addictions to sugar and all sorts. But I believe I can do it. No – I have to do it.
I put back on the weight I lost from being in the hospital. I can’t see my ribs any more. I’m at 73 kg now, and my goal weight of 50kg seems farther away than ever. Being fat and ugly is hard, and becoming skinny is hard. I need to choose my hard. I need to stop being so afraid – afraid of being hungry, afraid of struggle, afraid of my dreams. Tomorrow I shall only have lemon water and tea. Tomorrow I start.
Song of the day: Dreams Today, by Efterklang
One day at a time.
Aria |
RAIN AND A LONDON CAFE
21 May 2016
Rain is staining my windows, and London looks like a wet, blue fantasy world. Like fishing 
bobbins on a billowing river, umbrellas bob up and down streets. Street lights are mirrored in rippling puddles, which commuters and shoppers attempt to avoid, and children hunt out. A bit of rain isn’t going to dampen the spirits of London shoppers and tourists, and it certainly didn’t dampen my spirits as I went for my morning walk.
I love rain. Rain is comforting, magical, enshrouding. I imagine it creates a sort of watery curtain between myself and those I pass. When it’s raining, you’re allowed to bundle up, cover up, hide. You can escape into baggy rain coats and Wellingtons, hide under hoods and umbrellas.
It was perhaps because it was raining that I dared extend my walk into a coffee house visit this morning. Before going out at 6am, I packed a bag with notebooks, pens, music, and paints, and armed myself with my pink Wellingtons. It’s the first time I’ve really gone out anywhere public since I took sick leave. I walked for an hour into to centre of the city, before going to one of my favourite cafes.
It’s a little hidden away place, and was far from the bustling mainstream Starbuckses and Costas. The cafe lies in a building, high above the river, and it allows me to spy on the world. Because it was so dark outside, the cafe felt like a little candles in a dark ocean. It was magic, and it made me want to write and paint and daydream. So I did. For hours.
I did a sketch of a fawn, and some others that I was surprisingly pleased with. Customers came and went around me, but I felt like I was on a peaceful island, sat alone by the window, looking out and feeling glad. The cafe workers even put out candles on the tables, 
which gave the experience an even better feel.
When I get home this evening, I shall put on The Garden of Words, one of my favourite Japanese anime movie. It is magical, exquisitely beautiful, and all about rain and magic. Its like a moving work of art.
I shall curl up in bed with Bagheera, and drink tea and fall asleep. But for now, I am content with the rain staining my window and drinking my coffee and eating my ginger but biscuit. I’m proud of myself for going out today. Even though I wasn’t very social, at least I ventured outside. It feels like a good day. And good days are so rare and precious.
Song of the day: Ode, by Nils Frahm
One day at a time.
Aria |
INSOMNIA AND UNBREAKABLE RULES
20 May 2016
It’s 3am, and I’m up. I’m sitting at the kitchen bench, painting. Snuggled up in a large sweater, I’ve wrapped my
favourite faux sheep’s skin throw around my waist. The flat is cold and silent, and the only light on is the lamp on the kitchen counter. Even Bagheera and Gatsby are asleep.
Due to my bouts of insomnia, brought on by the PTSD, I often have strange sleeping patterns. If you can call them patterns. They’re more like messy dances of wide-awake tension and coma-like sleep, with nothing in between. It’s fine when I’m on sick leave, because I don’t have to worry about work or setting morning alarms.
I’ve decided to get back on track with a eating-regiment. I think this will help me feel like I’m regaining some control over my life. The trick is to make for oneself unbreakable rules. My rules are as follows:
- I can eat max. 500 calories a day.
- I have to take one 1 hour walk a day (plus any other work out)
- Of what I eat, there must be 3 fruits or veg in the mix.
- No eating after 6pm
- I must drink 1 pot of green tea a day
- No binging/purging/ cheat days
I’ve written the rules on a post-it and stuck it on the fridge.
I know it’s going to be hard. I know I’m going to feel hungrier than ever, and the detox will feel terrible. But I also know that I am happier when I feel good about my body.If that is possible. I think it’s possible, at least, to feel better about my body. I don’t need to adore it, I just need to not feel so terrible and ashamed of it. The pain of feel fat outweighs (so to speak) the pain of being hungry. My goal is to reach 50kg by December 2016. So that’s 20 kg to loose in 7 months.
I’ll go out for my walk when the dawn is a little closer. For now, I’ll paint, and swing my legs off the kitchen bar stool, and feel the peace of steady brush strokes.
Song of the day: Pull Yourself Together, by The Boxer Rebellion
One day at a time.
Aria |
A PRE-DAWN ADVENTURE
19 May 2016
I’ve decided to go for a walk every morning. Before or just after dawn. I find it hard to leave 
the flat mainly because I can’t bear the idea of seeing people or engaging with them. I want to hide and burry myself in a dark room where no-one can see me.
During daytime in London, I can’t move through its streets without being met with the bustle of shoppers of office workers. But before dawn, I can put my hood up, stuff my hands in my pockets, have music in my ears, and just walk. Alone. Since I’ve gone on sick-leave, I can’t do much of anything. But the pre-dawn walk idea scares me much less than many other ‘pressing duties’. It feels more manageable, even in the state I am in now.
I went for my first walk yesterday. I got up at 4am, put my hair up in a messy pony tail, downed some lemon-infused water, and put on baggy sweats over my favourite pink Calvin Klein undies set. (They usually make me feel better, somehow.) I fed Bagheera, and then hit the streets.
As soon as I excited my building’s front door, a cool, crisp air hit me. It was still dark, and roads were void of their usual buzzing traffic. I turned off my street, and just walked. Down past the shops, through the nearby park, past the Whitechapel art gallery and my favourite fountain. I had Jónsi in my ears, and could see my steady breath in the pale gleam of street lights.
By the time I got back home an hour later, I was tired and rosy-cheeked. The sun was rising, and I just lay on the living room floor and relaxed, feeling sure I’d do the same tomorrow. We can’t change everything in the world by physically moving or travelling, but sometimes trying looks like putting one foot in front of another.
Song of the day: Go Do, by Jónsi
One day at a time.
Aria |
WHO YOU ARE IS FLUID
18 May 2016
Who you are is fluid, changing. This should exist as a warning as well as a hope. A warning to not take your identity for granted, or think it permanent, but rather moved by your daily choices. And a hope because whatever you may do, whatever you choices you might have 
made today, there is always a new chance tomorrow.
Song of the day: Cradle of Myriad Stars, Masakatsu Takagi
One day at a time.
Aria |
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TUMBLR, MY NEW TREASURE TROVE
17 May 2016
I’ve started a Tumblr page. And I’m already in love with it.
It feels like my treasure trove – a place I hide away beautiful things. Anime scenery, poetry, thoughts, quotes, heart-swelling music, piano tunes. I go there to add a treasure, or remind myself of beautiful things.
You can visit my site here: http://ariaforaria.tumblr.com/
Aria |
GINNY’S VISIT AND DRAWING A LINE
16 May 2016
I have a friend named Ginny. Ginny is very motherly, some would say. She fusses over people, micro-manages them, stalks their every move when they’re in her company. She brings food to every event, put sweaters on people because she insists they are cold, dominates the scene if someone is ill or injured. Some find this behaviour comforting – they excuse her controlling practices as being nothing more than an expression of care. I tend to think otherwise.
In the three years that I’ve known Ginny, I’ve been subconsciously slowly backing away from her. The last thing I need (or I’d dare to claim any person needs), is someone who asserts unwelcome, unhealthy control over them. This attempt at control has manifested itself in Ginny excessively fussing and nagging, rearranging my furniture, throwing out food from my fridge, speaking on my behalf to others, meddling in my finance affairs, relationships, and physically forcing me to wear a jacket outdoors.
Ginny doesn’t understand eating disorders or depression or self-harming. She thinks I’ve “made up all that about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”. She sees these things as two-fold. Firstly, they are voluntary choices, disgusting, and signs of weakness and human depravity. Secondly, they are new opportunities for her to further commandeer the situation and ‘fix’ it. This, naturally, fills me with dread. She’s the last person I’d want to be around while I’m down.
That’s why when Ginny barged in my door unannounced this morning, I felt a sudden urge to physically throw her out. After nearly banging down the door, Ginny 
burst into the hallway, and stomped right through to the living room.
“Well, I haven’t seen YOU in an age!” she exclaimed, not even looking at me. He tone was accusing, like I’d slighted her somehow. She was scanning the living room, likely for something to tidy or correct.
“Yes, it has been a while,” I said.
“Well, I’ve heard all sorts about you,” she said,” halting in the centre of the room, and placing her hands on her hips. “I heard, for one, you were in hospital! And you didn’t have decency to tell me. I heard it was a stomach thing? You must tell me exactly what the diagnose was. I could have made you the perfect brew for recovering, not that rubbish they give you there.”
I sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter. Suddenly I felt overwhelmingly tired.
“And secondly,” she continued,”Aria, you are ruining your life, aren’t you! Look at you. And you’re sleeping on a mattress on the floor? What’s that about? Like some sort of refugee in your own home! You’re moping around here. Brooke said you were on sick leave? Sick leave! Like you’re an old lady. All this self-pity. My goodness. You need someone to shake you out of it. You’re just so emotional sometimes – a proper Emo one, you are.” She paused for air. “Yeah, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the scars on your arms.” She pointed. “And you’re thin as a rake. I am here to feed you, whether you want it or not. God knows you need friends who actually act and don’t just endlessly enable your bad habits. Why on earth don’t you tell me these things!”
I tugged at my sleeves, and my stomach ached. Once the onslaught of words was done, Ginny stood waiting for an answer. Like a desperate mother who feels she’s loosing grip of her child, she panted, demanding, aggressive, afraid.
My instinct was to cower. But I felt an old, iron strength rise in me. I knew that strength well. It wasn’t stubbornness. It comes over me when I know something is ‘enough’. I knew this was a moment – a moment to put my foot down.
I stood up, looked Ginny dead in the eye, and forced myself to speak calmly and slowly so she’d hear every word.
“Ginny, listen very, very carefully to what I’m about to say. Firstly, you can’t barge over here without asking. Don’t ever do that again.” Her eyes widened.
“Second: your ignorance about my struggles is witness enough to why I don’t trust you. You are terribly misinformed about some of the things I, and many others, wrestle with every day. Your judgement is an insult. You really ought to read up on those things, because your incomprehension is damaging to those around you.”
“Thirdly,” I continued, “you’re being forceful and controlling right now. This behaviour is unacceptable. It is crossing healthy boundaries, and I won’t allow it. You may not tell me how to live or eat. That is not your right. Imagine if someone treated you like this?
“Fourthly, this is not friendship. If you imagine it is, then I don’t want it. You don’t have 
to like everything I do, or always agree with me, but you do have to respect me. Always.
“Fifthly, this is an example of why I don’t share personally things with you. Because you are not respectful, sensitive, kind, or understanding of them.”
When I paused, the room was dead-silent. Ginny’s face was a whirl of emotion, her mouth left slightly open.
“Finally,” I punctuated, “you may leave. Right now.”
“Well, I never…” she began.
“Leave now,” I repeated. “If you want to apologise, you can do so later.”
She marched towards the front door, and slammed it behind her.
After she has left, I sunk back down in the stool, leaned my head against the counter and cried. I hate conflict. Always have. I understand it’s necessary. But this doesn’t cancel out the hurt it brings, or the hate of it. I would have made the same decision again. I knew I did the right thing in creating those boundaries. But I just don’t have the strength these days to fight those sort of battles. I’m too tired to fight people right now.
Song of the day: All the Pretty Girl, by Kaleo
One day at a time.
Aria |
MAGICAL NIGHTS IN LONDON
15 May 2016
Despite being away from the art studio, I’ve been doing a lot of drawing. Drawing clears my mind. It help me focus on what’s in front of me. My pencils scratch the surface of the 
page, with my earphones in, and Bagheera purring in my lap.
I had an apple and a banana today. I don’t know whether I’m proud of that or disappointed. It’s always hard like when you have an eating disorder; even if you do what experts tell you is healthy, you are robbed of the feeling of satisfaction or achievement. Even if I eat healthily and enough, I’m not going to feel happy about it. I hate that about having Anorexia. I feel like I just can’t win.
Today I had no phone calls. No friends, no workers, no boss, no Dan. That felt good. I’ve forced myself to leave my phone on (out of some weird sense of having your phone on being ‘normal’). I’m glad it hasn’t gone off.
It was sunny nearly all day. My flat heated up from the rays hitting the windows. It actually felt like proper summer. Below I could hear Londoners going off to work; Hackney carriages and cockney men shouting near the pub, and scooters, and pigeons flapping.
My flat building is off a main street, tucked away in a corner in East London. It feels smack-bang 
in the middle of the city, and yet private somehow. I really like that. I used to dream about living in a city. I imagined being a recluse artist with heavily Leftist ideas, and a distinctly hippie air about me. I envisioned being up every night, leaving the windows wide open, letting the city ambience drift in, playing jazz in the background, painting, sipping on wine till the sun came up.
And to be fair, that is often how my days (or nights) go. I think tonight I’ll throw my windows open and paint on the floor, and let London sing to me.
Song of the day: In your own sweet way, by Wes Montgomery
One day at a time.
Aria |
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CAN’T GET OUT THE DOOR
13 May 2016
I know some exercise would probably do me good now. Let off some steam, get the blood pumping. But I just can’t get out the door. In fact, I can hardly move much at all. It’s like the 
anxiety and fear has made a home in a my bones and I simply can’t bring myself to go out. I can’t see people.
The sunlight feels abrasive. I need the curtains drawn and the room cool and peaceful all day.
Song of the day: Always Remember Me, by Ry Cuming
One day at a time.
Aria |
THE WORST THINGS ABOUT SICK LEAVE
12 May 2016
Usually I keep the stress of all I have to do at bay. I sweep it under rugs and shove them into cupboards. But some mornings, like this morning, the whole avalanche goes on a hunt to bury me. All the people I need to contact, all those I let down, the weight I have to loose, the work I am late on, the missed work-
outs, all the cancelled or postponed plans.
Like whiny children they all yell at me, each demanding attention. I can’t possibly see to them all. I can’t even do one of them. And I choke and freeze and curl into a ball. I feel ill under it’s forceful weight.
The worst thing about being on sick leave, or out of action for a while, is that you know you have to come back eventually. And that thoughts is so terrible that true rest becomes out of the question. You know that people are going to expect you to catch up when you get back – to return fighting. Because, after all, you’ve been on holiday haven’t you? Yes, it’s not like I’m perpetually fragile and that outlasts my sick leave.
It’s these kind of mornings that make me want to run away forever.
Song of the day: Reel, by Dmitry Evgrafov
One day at a time.
Aria |
IGNORANCE ABOUT SELF-HARM IS HARMFUL
7 May 2016
Self-harm is not the origin of pain or harm to a person. You can’t stop a person from cutting and think the pain has therefore gone away. Self-harm is a symptom of an underlying, deep mental anguish. Imagine someone’s mind is a cup. When that cup is so full of suffering, it will flow over. When the mind is under so much weight and pain, it needs to find a way to cope. This spills over into a physical manifestation of the underlying mental pain.
Firstly, cutting oneself produces endorphins, along with other chemicals like adrenaline. For individuals who suffer from depression, they can have periods of being in pain, and yet feeling completely numb. Like they either can’t feel anything at all, or they can only feel pain. For them, cutting can be like a man pinching himself to make sure he’s awake. It’s an attempt to feel something, or feel something apart from that one ache. The rush of endorphins and adrenaline can along momentarily alleviate the chronic pain, or at least distract from it.
Physical pain has a very sobering, ‘waking up’ affect on the human being. It makes one more alert.
Secondly, there are in such agony from their mental pain that they would even swap it out for another type of pain. In the cases of self-harm, this would be physical pain. Physical pain is easier to identify, control, manage and witness. It can make the self-harmer feel like at least he’s back in the driver’s seat, or has regained some form of control over his pain. This is often done to combat a feeling of helplessness.
Thirdly, there are those who do harm themselves physically because of their volatile relationship with their body. This can, for example, be linked to an eating disorder or a history of physical or sexual abuse. The victim associates pain, shame, terror and de-humanizing with their physical body. And therefore the anger and hatred they feel towards the event, and perhaps themselves, is taken out on their body.
This is not to say there are not those who self-harm in an attempt to end their life. Self-harm can lead to suicide, or be attempts at achieving it. But the problem is that there are 
many people who self-harm is a way of coping and surviving – not the opposite. When their actions are judged as being destructive, due to ignorance about self-harm, people who think they are ‘helping’ or ‘intervening’, may do immense amounts of damage.
Imagine if you’re in such mental agony that you would do anything to take back some control in a situation that’s making you feel utterly helpless. So you cut yourself. Then someone intervenes and says you’re a harm to yourself. They say you can’t be trusted with yourself, and therefore loose your right of choice and freedom. Basically, although the second party think they are helping you, they are in fact thrusting you back into a feeling of helplessness. They are worsening your situation by taking away any little sense of control or freedom or choice you had. This mistake can have disastrous, even fatal, consequences.
Song of the day: This place is a shelter, by Olafur Arnalds
One day at a time.
Aria |
I’M NOT A SACK OF CHEMICALS
5 May 2016
Abby called me, and I made the mistake of answering. The conversation led to her discovering I am on sick leave. “Whatever for?” she said. “I’m tired,” I answered. “So have a nap,” she said. “It’s not that sort of tiredness, Abs,” I said. “You just sound fucking depressed,” said Abby. “Just get some anti-depression pills, and you’ll get better.”
Some people tell me if I’m depressed, I need to get my chemicals under control. “It’s all a chemical imbalance” they say. But they don’t understand. It’s not that I’m sad for no reason. I’m not sad for no reason. My sadness is not caused by chemicals or hormones or levels. I’m not just a sack of chemicals. I’m a person. And I’m sad about actual things. I’m shaken and left trembling from events – and rightfully so. There are some things we are meant to be sad about. Because they are sad!
Everyone’s so busy numbing themselves. Like if you numb the pain, there is no pain there. Or if you drown out the hurt with noise, then the hurt is healed. But the hurt is not healed and the pain is not really gone. It’s just numbed or pushed under an avalanche of something else. Distractions.
And I don’t want to be distracted. I don’t want to be in denial or on the run from the truth. Truth is worth hurting for. And the truth is that terrible. sad things have happened to me. Is not losing one’s childhood sad? Is not having an 
abusive father sad? And a mother who enabled him for years – is that not unearthly sad? Is it not sad that the pain of the words he yelled and the threats and hits won’t fade fast? Is it not sad that the two people who were supposed to love me most in this world – my own parents – made me doubt that I was loveable at all. The most natural, normal, healthy thing to do in response to these events is to be sad.
Yes, I want a way to keep living. And I want to find a way to cope and function. But I won’t do it in a fog of medication. That makes it sound like meds can fix what happened. It makes it feel like the point of everything is just to fix me, or get me close enough to seeming fixed. Like my sadness is so uncomfortable to the rest of the world that it needs to be painted over.
When I talk about feeling depressed and being sad about what happened to me, it’s terribly painful when the listener immediately jumps to solution-hunting, instead of just listening. Can’t they just hear the words I’m saying and, in empathetic silent, sit with me? Or at least just agree that it is sad?
As much as I’m in terrible pain, I’m not going to numb myself. I’m not going to run from the feelings – feelings which are valid and honest and right. Why should I? To put othersat ease? To appease the pressing expectation of at least seeming ok?
No, I won’t.
When I say I won’t, I have friends responding with the words: “Well, don’t you want to get better?”
It’s not that I don’t want to get better. It’s that this cannot just be fixed. The point is not getting better. The point is not getting ‘back to normal’, whatever normal is. The point is that, wherever you’re going, honesty is a good place to start. I want to be honest. I was to admit to the pain. I want to acknowledge it’s there. I want to mourn. And it’s no-one’s right to tell me how long that mourning may take, or how messy that mourning is allowed to look.
Song of the day: Friends make garbage, by Low Roar
One day at a time.
Aria |
TURNING MY PHONE ON
2 May 2016
I managed to turn my phone on today. It was hard. I didn’t want to. I held the phone in my hand imagining he flood of texts and phone calls that would assault me as soon as I turned it on. The very idea made my heart thump in my chest and caused a cold sweat. I can handle so little. I can take so little.
But I turned it on. The blitz of pressing voices came as expected. “Where are you?” “Are 
you alright?” “I heard you were ill. Try this new pill…” Brooke called, Abby called, and so did Dan.
I ignored most the messages. I wouldn’t answer half of them. In fact, as a cleansing ritual, I deleted most of them. I only answered one – Dan’s. Since his unexpectedly showing up at my door, and our conversation, I’ve felt more comfortable around him. He said it was ok that I wasn’t ok. I know he doesn’t know my story, doesn’t know how I feel or what’s happened to me. But him telling me it was ok to not be ok made feel sigh in relief.
It’s not like I trust him suddenly. I don’t. But it made me want to be a bit kind, a bit more forthcoming than I could usually manage with someone. So I texted him: “Thanks for the chat the other night. My cat hasn’t eaten me yet. Hope work is going well.”
After I’d sent that text I turned the phone back off. That’s enough for one day.
Song of the day: Can you see Jane? by Patrick Doyle
One day at a time.
Aria
DAYS IN THE BAY WINDOW
1 May 2016
My flat has bay windows and wooden floors. It has one open, minimalist industrial-style kitchen, a living room with roof-to-floor windows, a bathroom with a bath, and a spacious bedroom at the rear with a walk-in cupboard. In short, my flat is a real treasure. I still don’t know I managed to bag it.
On sunny days like today, I inhabit the bay window. I sit there and draw, taking advantage of the good light and the natural warmth of the sun. (It also helps with keeping the heating bills down). Sometimes my cat Bagheera joins me, dozing off, or pawing at my moving sketching pencils. I got Bagheera as a kitten. Like the flat, Bags is a rare beauty – a Benghal cat with a kind personality and an exotic look.
My new bunny, Gatsby, and Bagheera have been getting on better than I could have hoped. Sometimes they take turns chasing each other around while I’m working. In the afternoons they nap together, and even share food. (Although Bagheera has not taken to dandelion leaves yet.)
It is good with days like these. Sketching, sipping tea, daydreaming out the window.
Song of the day: Threnody, by Goldmund
One day at a time.
Aria |
ARIA FOR ARIA 