I'm holding myself at
gunpoint until I complete this entry.
Don't fret. It's a
metaphorical firearm. It's more of a
"no-breakfast-for-you-'til-you've-finished-this" sort of gun. My
reluctance to write couples with the white noise between my ears, making this
all very difficult. However, people are starting to notice my absence in life
and are worrying, and the absolute last thing I want to do to such kind folk is
make them concerned. You want to know what has happened to Lizzie? So does
Lizzie. Read on and see if we can't fathom it out together...
Since I last wrote, a
spiral appears to have opened up below me and my sorry arse can do nothing but
slide down it. Every time I feel I have a grip and might be able to climb back
up again, something will give me a shove and I'll continue to plummet. The
lower I slip, the less force I require to keep me descending. Enough with the
metaphor - I'm still ill, and The Verve appear to be right.
It's a toughie to
understand. Many people - including me - think "oh just SNAP out of
it". I've had it before and I got better. In the decade that has passed
since then, there were many times where I was low, but it was just the usual
run-of-the-mill downs that accompany the ups of life. Face it, they come as a
pair! You wouldn't notice the one unless you have the other. This is very
different to that and I see it. I comprehend that I am not well. I couldn't be
more fed up with it, and yet I have no fight in me. It's part of the illness.
Oh, but it's hard to write
today! I apologise for the stunted tone. I have to get this all out so you can
be reading it and making sense of my odd behaviour: The strange staring and
silence; the self-hugging, nervous creeping, and shoulders up to my earlobes
that make people think I am permanently cold; the lack of replies to emails or
text messages; the crying - god, the crying - and crumpling, even in public.
Leaving the house becomes more difficult. Minor panic attacks become more
frequent. I'm tired much of the time. I sleep a lot, and wake in the night
unable to relax. I surround myself with things that make me comfortable and
rarely go anywhere without several changes of clothing stowed away in my bag. I
must remind myself that these are merely symptoms of a cruel condition that
renders me powerless to deal with it, and NOT who I am.
There's more that you
can't see. This sense of hopelessness. Everything is pointless.
The total lack
of self-worth - that's a big one. I've never been a great one for blowing my
own trumpet. The occasional parp now and then, followed by embarrassment and
trying to pretend that someone else did it. The Big D has taken my
instrument, snapped it in half and lobbed the pieces into a steaming, tarry
pit. On Thursday I sat clutching my knees, tears streaming down my face,
repeating the phrase: "I am nothing. I am nothing." This is how I
feel right now. Worthless. And before you go all "Lizzie, you are NOT
nothing blah etc" on my ass, let me point out that, kindly though it would
be meant, it DOESN'T WORK. Your words would have as much effect as raindrops trying
to soak a duck. I am so convinced of my immateriality that I find it hard to
accept anything remotely nice that's aimed at me. This is somewhat puzzling, as
it's unkindly words and actions that have contributed to this mental
state. Recent events pool together to knock the wellness out of me, each one
hitting like a hammer on delicate glassware:
* The "Committee" Incident (see last entry) - SMASH.
* The "You Sing Flat" Incident (bandmates' feedback) - CRASH.
* The "You are selfish, cold-hearted and shallow, only interested in parties and
having audiences watch you perform etc" Incident (relatives' feedback) - SMACK.
* Being ignored by all
of the blokes I have contacted on the dating website, and worse - being BLOCKED
by the last one, with no explanation. I haven't looked at it since - THUMP.
Please note that these were
all incredibly distressing, and I'm not going into any detail as
reliving the episodes pains me. I also do not wish to pain anyone else by their
implication. Situations like this are beyond my control. The only thing I am in
charge of is my response to them. Not so when my little trickle of whatever it
is that keeps a person rational and content was already struggling. Now it's
dried right up and I don't know what to do to make it flow again. Each incident
has reminded me that yes, I am not significant.
This is probably as hard
for you to read is it is for me to produce. The reason I am doing it is because
I want to spread some sort of understanding here. If you haven't been
depressed, you have little idea of what this is like. Imagine the most
beautiful sweet shop you ever did see. Full of delights and treats, piled high
with more colours and flavours than Mr Wonka could imagine, even after a
serious acid drop trip. Chocolates filled with every possible combination of
fillings. Caramels, candies, creams: A veritable heaven of pleasure. (NB. If
sweets don't do it for you, insert your own simile here. This one works for me,
so I'm going with it.) Now imagine that there's a party going on inside the
shop and everyone you know is invited. They're allowed to help themselves to
whatever they want. They're tasting and sampling and laughing, and having the
best time ever, doing all the things you want to do. But you aren't among them.
Instead, you are outside, with your nose pressed up against the window,
watching it all happen in front of you and desperately wishing you could
participate. You're not just silent, you're crying, screaming to be part of it.
The irony is you have only to open the door and let yourself in. And you know
it. Just move to the door and pull it open. Go on... just a step. Some of the
people inside notice you and point to the door. They may even help you open it,
but they can't open it for you. Only you can't move at all. You can't even lift
your arms. You can only look on in despair and longing.
This is how it is. Mr D has
me in a headlock. I'm crippled by him, paralysed and he's gradually squeezing
the life out of me. (I assume he's male - they seem to cause me the most
trouble.) I feel as if I'm shutting down, gradually letting things go until
there is nothing left. Sleep is bliss.
 |
When I'm sleeping I can't remember a
thing about this lamentable situation. I sleep a lot, and I hate waking up. I
have considered how good it would be to stay asleep until all this is over,
waking refreshed and ready to face things. The problem is that time still goes
by and events will still happen while I'm comatose. Such as that big birthday.
Yep, there's only a
fortnight of my thirties remaining. It is traditional to wander down the old
"... and what have I got to show for it?" road at this point in life.
Well you already know where I am here, you've heard it all before: no kids, no
man, no money. No wedding ring, no house, yada yada. Bo-ring. There are so many
"I should"s in this situation. Yes, I should focus on what I
do have, not what I don't. Mr D says not.
Originally I was planning
two big parties, with my band providing music at each as that's what I enjoy,
whether I sing in tune or otherwise. It's more to do with giving people I care
about a fun evening, rather than having them watch me. Anyhow, I had set a date
for the first one - what would have been a dream come true: a huge event with
family and long-unmet schoolfriends reuniting. But it was all so hard - finding
a venue, convincing my bandmates they wanted to make the slog all the way over
to the South East (where the shindig was to be held) and finding them all
accommodation for the night. Not to mention actually getting people to come
along! Plus, I am broke - how was I going to pay for all this? I couldn't face
it, so I cancelled. I was devastated, but when July 18th came round, I was a
quivery mound of gloop, clinging to the stair carpet and wondering how I could
even have entertained the possibility of celebrating anything to do with me.
Someone told me today that
I am "a force of love, music and creativity". What powerful words! I
don't believe them, but I know that they are what I want to be, so I am holding
them to me, repeating them in the desperate hope that they will have meaning.
I hide away for many
reasons. One important one is that I don't wish to inflict myself on anybody. I
have little to say that is entertaining or interesting. Would you want to spend
an afternoon with a sadsack of a girl, who is making Eeyore look like Mr Happy?
I certainly wouldn't and I'm bloody stuck with her! I remember all this from
the first time around, back in 2000/2001. There is no happy answer to "how
are you?" and once the asker realises that no, I'm not OK, conversation
grinds to a halt. What can you say to me? I wish I could help you, but I don't
know. I usually receive a combination of sympathy, or suggestions as to what I
might try to get better, or invitations to coffee or for chats, or talk of how
this and that happened to so-in-so before. Suggestion-wise, I know exactly what
I'd like to do... it's being able to do it. Mentally able. It's overcoming the
lethargy and tiredness to get up and do a thing, and fighting the fears that
come with that. What if, what if, what if? So in conversation, I'm conflicted. I
know everyone is trying to help, but all I want to do is shrivel away and stop
putting a crimp on their day. Any crack at courtesy is met by my sense of worthlessness,
which bats it right back at its offerer and makes me feel guilty that I made
someone feel that they needed to make the offer in the first place. I can't
believe how much easier it was to have cancer than to have this!
Facebook too is a
challenge. Everyone squeezes the best from their lives and uses it to paint
their pages. Whenever I log on I see engagements announced, babies born,
wedding anniversaries celebrated - they are particularly abundant this time of
year, along with holidays to interesting places. I want to be happy for you,
believe me I do, but Mr D puts his evil filter on everything. Instead of
"Wow, that's wonderful! Like like like!" I think "Look at these lucky
sods. Why isn't that me, eh? EH?" The opposite is also true - if I am
reminded of those who have a much worse lot in life than me, the voices in my
head all join together in a chorus of "You see? Look how fortunate you
are, silly moo. You have a roof over your head and all your faculties. You are
not persecuted by anyone other than yourself. So stop whinging. And put down
that Mars Bar."
I was listening to this
the other day:
The most notable comment
was Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff - recently MBE'd cricketer. Apparently
he was at the top of his game - Captain for England
I must confess to being
scared. When I was in this situation before, I had fallbacks. I was living with
people who paid the rent/mortgage so that I didn't have to worry. Their income
also fed me and kept me warm and safe. All I had to do was exist until such
time as I got well. It took a good couple of years, during which I lolled
around munching comfort food and becoming Just like Jabba. Part of that was the
fault of the antidepressant fluoxetine, which made me eat most things that
weren't nailed down, and some that were. When I went to see the doc last week,
I was in the worst state yet. She upped the sertraline tablets to 150mg - three
times the dose I started with, almost a year ago to the day - and said that we'd
review it in a month to see if I needed something else. The pattern I'm
noticing is that it works beautifully for a bit, then (about six months later)
I come crashing down. I could not bear to be taking something that makes me
mainline Pralines'n'Cream like there's no tomorrow, and yet I may not have an
option. Being overweight makes me incredibly miserable indeed. In fact, it is
one of my biggest fears. So I'm frightened from the point of view of my
bathroom scales, and also my bank balance. (See what I did there?) The
crosswords keep me going. They just cover my rent, electricity, council tax and
most of my monthly outgoings. Not including food. Nor petrol, nor my car. I am
running out of money because I cannot go and find the extra work that I need to
do. I cannot do it because Dirty D is stopping me. Two circular and weighty
issues that have me quaking in my size 16 nix. (Size 16. For now.)
 |
| Fluoxetine: Sponsored by Cadbury, Pringles and Haagen-Dazs |
The weather is not helping
much, though it seems to be improving. A week ago last Friday, the day when it
rained so much that I swear I saw Noah rushing off to the docks, I forced
myself to go for a walk. Walking has proved helpful in the past and, as I
hadn't executed any exercise for a bit, I thought I'd try. The metaphorical
hand of my parent self grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me out the door,
clutching an umbrella and a backpack full of comfort clothes, and yelling:
"Get on with it!
It'll make you feel better."
Parents are sometimes
wrong.
Even with my iPod giving
me its best calming music, I was on edge. My right shoe filled up with water
almost immediately, and I unevenly squelched the route until the left one
joined it. The rain was cold, wet (well
dur) and prolific. I silenced my 'Pod in preference for raindrops bouncing off
the brolly, but this only served to make me feel more agitated. The whole
venture was a mistake.
 |
| Minging in the Rain |
Despite this, I never
turned back. I forced myself all the way around, sometimes crying, always
yearning to be back home. I was cold, soaked, tired, hungry and lonely. All
such sad words. Reaching for a positive spin, I reminded me that as soon as I
got in I could get warm and dry, rest and stuff my face - all of which might
take my mind off the loneliness, which is out of my control. I should point out
that it's not necessarily lonely for company. Those invitations for coffee/a
drink/a chat are very real, and in good supply. Apart from the fact that I am
very dull, drinking only decaf tea or water, I don't feel like talking. I'm fed
up with going over and over this bollocks. As I said, I wouldn't want to talk
to me! No. I am lonely from being single. I want to find someone who loves me.
I want, I need, to be loved. Conversely, I have a massive need to give
love. So it's GOT to be two ways. It's ridiculously difficult to find. Especially
as the dating website activity has ground to a halt at the moment. I mean, how
can I possibly sell myself to another person when I can't even sell myself to
me?
But I digress - back to
the walk. I caned the last mile or so, reasoning that the more I legged it, the
sooner I could stop. The second I was home, the panic attack set about me like
a tsunami. OK, it was only small - more like a tidal wave. I saw it approach
and felt it hit, washing over me in a torrent of fear. I took off everything
that was sopped and left it in a soggy pile by the still-open door. Then off I
went round the kitchen, pacing up and down while my breathing got faster, hugging
myself and stroking my shoulders, repeating:
"You are safe now,
you are safe. No-one can get you, you are safe."
I threw my damp near-naked
self bedwards, and grabbed hold of the ted. Poor Bracc. He's well within his
rights to demand overtime, even danger money. I'm cuddling him so tightly he's
getting squashed out of shape and I have to keep plumping him up! (Woe betide
any future partner... ) However, he'd be worth every penny. Much bear-squeezing
later and calm arrived, enough for me to get on with feeding and resting. The
only good thing that came out of this sorry episode was the five-figure number
on my pedometer. I suppose I should be grateful that at least there was
something.
So what the hell am I
going to do? The drugs aren't going to solve this, they can only carry me
through. I loathe them and their necessity. I tried a guided meditation session
in the (very local) community centre. It was an interesting experience, right
on that relaxing/stressful cusp. I was a bit rubbish, hiding from the rest of
the group, staring moodily window-wards and saying little. When the woman in
charge asked my email address, I reeled it off: thewizzylizzie@gmail.com.
"Funny that, 'cos I
don't feel even the slightest bit wizzy these days."
I doubt I would have had
the guts to go again this week, but the choice was out of my hands - they've
broken up for the summer and won't be back until September.
I'm trying to hang in
there with the musical theatre rehearsals, though that's also proving
difficult. I originally became part of such a thing as a result of my first
encounter with Mr D, so I know it's important to maintain it. However it's
getting beyond Scissor Sisters now, in that I don't feel like singing either.
Last week I didn't even feel like being. It's Calamity Jane - such a
cheerful musical too, which doesn't help. Everyone else just blows in from the Windy City
Something that I do
look forward to - probably the only thing - is the weekly boot fair. Yes, the
boot fair. Held on a field within easy walking distance from my home. I'm
getting used to it, though I still hide under the brim of my sunhat, earphones
wedged in as far as they will go as I browse. I'm learning to walk away if
something is too expensive or to tentatively knock a seller down. To boldly
haggle where no Lizzie has haggled before. It amuses me to go through the
unwanted goods of others. I don't buy much, but I find it interesting to see
what is on offer. The sort of things that will get me reaching down the side of
my rucksack for a few coins are generally craft items - fabric, beads, buttons
- and really cheap jewellery, that I can either wear as is, or refashion.
Similarly clothing, especially as even charity shops are becoming too expensive
for me, so that avenue of pleasure is, for now, closed. The first week I
attended, I bought a jar of buttons for £2 and spent a happy afternoon going
through it, sorting them into colours and packing away, for future crafting
purposes. (Pinterest has a LOT to answer for. Sometimes I find that owning the
materials is more fun than making anything out of them. You have the
possibility without the commitment!) I enjoyed going through the spoils of my
purchases that I've returned each Saturday since then. I don't have to justify
this. It gives me pleasure and it harms nothing more than my bank balance, and
the amount of free space in my wardrobes. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't
sit in cafes and sup overpriced coffee, nor go out to cinemas or gigs. My vice
is a few pre-loved DVDs a week, and some beads to play with while I watch 'em. Oh
good god, I'm going to become one of those hoarders, aren't I? The kind that is
found crushed under a pile of Encyclopaedia Britannica and all the Guinness
World Record books since 1972. It's better than being eaten by your cats. Or is
it?
The one thing that really
bags my billy about the boot fair though, is how rude people can be. The number
of times I've had folk barge me out of the way, or push in front when I am
clearly browsing. Last Saturday the following occurred which almost ruined my
usual BF buzz: While perusing a stall, I came across a small box of dolls' clothes.
Crouching to inspect them, I realised that they were vintage, 60s or 70s,
possibly Barbie/Sindy. I had a good look, and found a couple of Sindy labels on
them to confirm. They were in OK condition. What fun it would be to have a
rummage through and ID them, to see if they matched any of the partial outfits
I had. I've got a bit of a collection and a smattering of knowledge - I was
going to love it. It is precisely for finds like this that I go to these
events! Just as I was preparing myself to ask the price, I felt a tap on my
shoulder. Someone I knew from the Dursley theatre group. He's also a member of
the Open Door club - an organisation which provides social activities for
adults with learning difficulties.
"Oh hello, R" I
said.
"What's that you've
got there? What, old dolls' clothes? What do you want them for?" he asked,
in his typical fashion.
I didn't want to reveal to
the stallholders that I collected as I was worried it would push the price up.
"I... er..." I
mumbled.
"How much for the
dolls' clothes?" He interrupted.
How sweet, I thought.
He's finding out for me.
"Call it a
fiver."
A fiver? Great! Sold.
But before I could get to
my cash, he'd handed his money over to the lady, who duly gave him his change.
Right in front of my eyes. While I was still holding some of the the items.
"Er, hang on R... I
wanted those..." I trailed off. What was the point? I put the dress I'd
been looking at back in the box and walked away, so disgruntled that I
abandoned my water bottle on the ground.
OOo I was fuming. What did
he - a middle-aged man - want with a box of dolly dresses? Huh? And what
on earth was the seller doing not giving me first refusal? Is that how this
works? She seemed to know him too, though I could have been wrong. I'd been
barged out of a purchase that would have made my afternoon. I seethed all the
way around the next two rows of cars, unable to let it go. Why had I not been
firmer and insisted that they were mine? Had I given him a concession owing to
his condition? Had she? It's one of those things that I'm never going to be
able to forget now. Dammit.
Despite all this, I seem
to be doing well talking to strangers. While out the other day, a chap parked
next to me, and seemed to be having trouble opening his car door.
"Are you all right
there, sir?" I asked, gently pulling the door open and offering him
support, "Would you like an arm?"
He laughed.
"That's what my wife
always says."
"And I bet you always
decline, don't you!"
With difficult he unfurled
himself from the driver's seat, and stood ready to cross the road. He did look
unsteady on his pins, and moved awkwardly.
"I've broken both my
hips", he said, apropos of nothing.
"How did you manage
that?" I expressed the appropriate concern.
"I fell."
"Oh dear! Was it the
drink?" I joshed.
"Yes!"
He saw the joke, hurrah. My
turn to laugh. What a wit I am.
Of course, as I stood and
watched him stagger across the road alone, clutching coins in his hands,
desperate to get to the shop on the other side, a gentle breeze blew the waft
of a recently-consumed brandy breakfast my way. And it wasn't yet 10am . Poor sod.
Ah well. Where do I go
from here? I don't kno
