Poison in the Wounds

Ahhh, isn't life grand when you find out you're gluten intolerant and you have dreams about the people who hate you still hating you? I've had myself a good ol' laugh about that today XD

It's been a bloody freezing February. I even walked on a pond today. Telling my mother was a huge mistake as I was instantly berated for being so stupid. I could have slipped, or worse, I could have fallen under the ice.

But I didn't, did I? ;)

Didn't even go out as far as some people had (there were footprints in the snow. ((Hey, wouldn't that be a sprightly change to the footprints in the sand story? Wonder how God will answer to that one))). So all in all, it wasn't the wisest thing I've ever done, but the excitement made it bloody well worth it :P

Oh right, yes, about my angsty opening. Yeah. I had this dream last night of running into some old enemies in the city centre (and my sister turned David Tennant against me, but I'll rant on about that little bitch in a different post ((little scumbag...))). So, driven by Christian duty and willing to love my neighbour, I delicately opened a very awkward conversation with these people. As I expected, they were shirty and just plain rude. In case you asked, the reason for this being I had a falling out with their darling precious daughter Ashling five and a half years ago when we were twelve and they're far too proud to get over it. And before you wonder, yes - they are still the same in real life. My dreams are scarily accurate. The arrogant, holier-than-thou mother of this obnoxious family walked into my mother with her two younger daughters in the supermarket once. This occurred about a year or so after me and Ashling's incident, and she brazenly blanked my mother's polite and unpretentious greeting and then to add insult to injury, encouraged her daughters not to even look at her. Over some petty argument that occurred between me and her darling Ashling five years ago! You'd think they, allegedly mature and responsible adults, would be above holding grudges and even stooping as low as to treat my own family like dirt as a consequence, but no. They're revoltingly stubborn, vulgarly proud, spiteful and are actually really rather pathetic.

And I suppose I'm the same for carrying animosity towards them for the same amount of time (and bitching about them now), but they're not the ones who had the falling out as a contributing factor to depression, anxiety and psychosis. The worst part is that their daughter is so manipulative, they, along with the majority of the school, would never believe it of her that she would continue to bully me for the next year. What makes the cherry on top of the cake is that everyone simply ADORES the oh-so-innocent, oh-so-well-mannered, oh-so-smart and brainy, so very, very popular Ashling Baggaley, no-one would think she had a bad bone in her body. And if you did and she knew it, she was likely to go running to the teachers in tears.

If you know who she is, send my best regards to her and her lovely, lovely clan.

Afterthought: Who names their child "Ashling"? Just asking.

So discussing it with my mother is another unwise move I've made today. She immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was still brooding over it (which, secretly, I am, but not by my own intentions) and started a long, heated lecture on why it's wrong to "pick at scabs" and threw tons of other cliche metaphors in. She's good at that.

I quickly became angry and annoyed and walked away.

Anyway, I've decided to talk to my doctors about it. And, evidently, rant about it in my blog and whatever breathing space I have. Even I'm surprised that something so petty that happened five years ago has affected me so much. It's quite remarkable, actually, how one negative string of events can lead to such a cankerous thing such as depression and psychosis. This is why bullying should be taken seriously (Cold Harbour C of E Primary, I'm talking to you). People lose their lives to bullying and I was almost one of them.

It's strange, really. At thirteen years old, my mental health issues started. Fourteen, it got dynamically worse. Fifteen, it got a little better. Eighteen, people actually started to acknowledge that I have one or two issues. I'm guessing it has something to do with being noted as a legal adult. People start to take you seriously. To me, it's pretty exploitative and fascist, but as has been the majority of my life. Grown-ups were my sworn enemies as a kid. And now I'm supposedly one of them. Ouch.

Of course, there are plenty of other things on my mind other than a pitiful grudge with a pretentious, silly little girl - poison in the wounds, I suppose Nabokov would write - that I have not yet dealt with. There are more hurts that lie in my past, fears I have for the future and my overall hopelessness of the present that lingers like a heavy shadow over my head, but turning eighteen has opened a few more doors. Progress is finally being made. One day, I'll come back here and have a fully-fledged, fiery rant about the injustice of being left to my own defenses throughout my sad little childhood, but today is not that day. Lucky you.

Through all these issues I've been given to handle, I never thought I'd be able to attain a boyfriend, let alone keep one for three months running now. The one I had before only stuck around for a month because he was immature and melodramatic and ended up exploiting me and my little problems (bloody hell, I could write a novel about THAT one!). I suppose it helps if the person you go out with is your best friend beforehand. And I KNOW it helps if you don't LOOK for a boyfriend. It's a weird subconscious thing - you stop looking for boyfriends, and suddenly, they come a-flocking. Anyway. He says he thinks I should get more help than I am now. He once offered me some of his sleeping pills when I began to get nightmares for days and days on end. As he's from a large family (and as the statistic that one out of four people will suffer mental health problems stands), he has some knowledge of mental health issues, and I take his word seriously. My New Year's resolution was to get efficient and beneficial help for every last scrap of mental health issue I may have, regardless of what some narrow-minded, superficial, therapy-is-for-the-weak people might say. So far, so good - I've had hypnotherapy for a phobia which has actually been more practical than all the therapy I got for three years beforehand :D

And now, a spiritual word. All religion-haters/anti-Christians, look away. Now.

At the recreational centre for suicide survivors, self-harmers and sufferers of mental health issues I go to, there is a distinct lack of God. Many who go there either have no faith or hate religion.

And personally, I can't say I blame them for it.

I myself am a huge hater of religion. Religion is a pretentious, self-righteous method of attempting to get to a deity through good behaviour and rituals. Religion doesn't even touch the heart of man as faith does. And how many times I myself have questioned "Why should put all my faith in a God who would allow this stuff to happen to me?". In my current chapter in life, I harbour strong resentment towards the church for repeatedly failing to support me through my trials and sufferings - judging me for my failure to commit myself to the Lord (despite sometimes not being able to get out of bed in the mornings let alone go to church) and looking down on me for having issues in the first place. This I take immense issue with. Didn't Paul, one of the most well-renown Christians of the Bible have "a thorn in his side"? A man so holy and faithful would even be subjected to suffering. And yet today, I'm indirectly accused, because of having a few thorns of my own, of not being a good enough Christian? They would judge me for feeling a little bruised by issues that ALL HUMANS are vulnerable to? Has it ever occurred to them that the only difference between a Christian and a non-Christian is that a Christian is guaranteed a place in heaven? Has it ever popped into their narrow minds that a Christian has just as many sins as a person who isn't a Christian? We're all human. All guilty of sin in front of a perfectly righteous judge. All vulnerable to issues, physical or psychological. But it seems to me that in every other vicinity, you can be a Saint Peter or a Saint Paul or even the next Abraham or Moses and people will still think you are bound to Satan.

The hypocrisy and corruption of structured religion sickens me. I guess I'm either a nihilist or a communist. Personally, I prefer the latter. But then, what's an anarchist? My politics suck.

I look at these people at the recreational centre and sometimes I actually feel my eyes welling up and my throat clenching. Sometimes I really feel the urge to cry. The reason for this being that I'm so moved and so amazed at how strong these people are. There's this one girl who I think - I think - suffers very badly from an anxiety disorder. She's rather pretty with thick blonde hair and very pretty blue eyes. And she's an excellent cook. It seems to me that worry has worked some premature lines into her heart-shaped face, giving her the air of someone older and wizened by the natural shocks of life. She's always hunched at the shoulders, is rather frail-looking and her normal speaking voice only ever reaches the volume of a rather loud whisper. She always struck me as a very beautiful person, inside and out, with such a fragile demeanor that even blowing on her would cause her to shatter. I'm awed by her strength. God only knows what horrors she's been through to wittle her down to such a vulnerable-looking character, and yet here she stands, at five feet tall, hands wringing, knees bound together and with the ability to keep smiling, smiling, smiling at absolutely everyone she meets. Honestly, how incredible is that?

I was once told by a good friend of mine that I was a very strong person. That most people in my position would have given up by now. I argue, of course, that I have tried to give up - three times. Didn't work, but I still tried, didn't I? My boyfriend once said how inspired he was by my faith - how it's sustained in spite of what I've been through. I argue that I still have my moments of ill faith. Even as I write this, I feel my relationship with Jesus is somewhat fractured based on the things that have been going on lately.

Though I would gladly argue against it, maybe - just maybe - there's an element of truth in what they say. Not everyone suffers mental health issues. But it's not out of weakness that people suffer them. Far from it. Anyone who thinks that people who have mental health issues are weak, prepare to meet my enormous Goth boots on their ass. People with mental health issues are not in any way, stretch or form weak. If anything, they're stronger than those who don't have these afflictions. People who have seen the darker side of life don't always live to tell the tale. Living with a sickness in your head is hard. It's like treading deep water - you do your best to keep your chin up, but you're always afraid and out of your depth. And eventually, you feel desperate. Eventually, you think of giving up trying. It takes a strong person to tread waters as deep as mental health problems.

So when I'm asked why I still trust God even though he's "let me suffer", I always say that I suffer this stuff with pride. Like Paul, I will boast all my hardships. It gets hard, I'll admit. Sometimes it isn't easy, sometimes I get desperate. I have some really bad days and some days are more bearable than others. But I don't bear these days alone. God's with me too, and so far, when things have reached their worst, God's always managed to carry me out of the suicide patch one way or another. I honestly don't know how he's done that. Sometimes I don't know why he's done that either, seeing as I convince myself I'm too "weak" to carry on. But that's when he reminds me how wrong I am for assuming that of myself. "I don't make trash," he says. "I mean, forgive me for blowing my own trumpet, but I'm an artist. I make some pretty cool things. Heck, I made the frikkin universe. I don't make trash. If you think you're trash, man have we got a problem here! If you think you're trash, you're wrong. Because I made you. And I'll let you into a secret. You're not in any way, stretch or form, weak. You're not sick because you're weak and you're not weak because you're sick. You're sick because you're strong enough to get sick. Best part is, we're gonna have one helluva time once you're all fixed up and ready for the big show!" By that, I think he means ready for when I fulfill my dreams of being an actor. We have a good laugh then, me and God. It is, after all, nothing short of an adventure to live with him :)

Anyway. I've rambled enough and I'm now about to make my third unwise decision of my day - indulge in a McDonald's. Saturated with processed fat - and gluten. But it's hard to care when it tastes so good and you're craving it sooooo bad.