not the slide
My boyfriend has Psychosis. It means that he sees, hears and talks to people who aren't actually there. At least if they are, they are very very quiet and very very small, as no-one else can see or hear them...I can't anyway.
It only happens when he's been drinking heavily and is therefore either dangerously intoxicated or starting to withdraw. Which currently is most of the time right now, and it's a worrying, and often disturbing experience for anyone around him, watching a fully grown man sit and have an animated conversation with people that only he can see.
During Psychosis he loses touch with reality. He only sees and hears the scenarios in his head that to him are real conversations, but to everyone else are the red flags that indicate that his drinking is once again spiralling out of control and that he is mentally and physically extremely unwell and in serious need of professional help.
Sometimes he talks to me too, but not very often - at least not to my face. In reality he talks to me all the time...it's just that I'm very rarely in the same room when the "conversation" gets going. I'll be in the kitchen or the bathroom maybe....he'll be convinced that I'm sat there next to him on the sofa in the living room. But when I try to say as much he accuses me of lying and playing games with his head...when in reality it's not actually me playing headgames at all. It's vodka and the copious quantities of it that he continues to drink that's busy distorting his reality.
It's upsetting to see and hear him like this. Talking away to himself for hours on end...having full-on conversations with these imaginary people that aren't actually there. But if I try to hold a conversation and tell him that he's talking to himself he doesn't believe me.
Especially when it's 3.00am and I can't sleep because his imaginary friends are keeping him up all night again...He's usually having a 'discussion' about me and how he's scared that he'll lose me if this carries on. Which he will if he doesn't get help. Because seeing and hearing him like this is excrutiating...I actually can't take much more. His alcohol induced mental problems are starting to consume us both.
The whispered conversations are horrendous...the look on his face when I try to explain to him that there is no-one in the room breaks my heart. Because he genuinely doesn't know what is going on around him.
It makes him paranoid.
He thinks that I have an agenda. That I'm filming him / recording him...taking photos. For the record I'm not. I wouldn't. Although I have to admit that it has crossed my mind...because maybe then he would see what everyone else sees...that he's talking to himself. But it would terrify him. The thought makes me sick. Its not an option.
My boyfriend desperately needs help. He's very very sick. He's been hospitalised several times because of his addiction. But he refuses to see the doctor more often than not...presumably because he will be told in no uncertain terms that he needs to stop drinking. Which he continues to do on a daily basis and which is slowly but surely killing him...because he physically and mentally can no longer do without it.
So the talking continues and every day he gets worse. He no longer needs me to talk to... his friends are all consuming. If they tidied up after him too then maybe I would be more tolerant. But they don't...they just continue to talk cod-shit, which he in turn talks back...24/7. Unless he's asleep...
It makes him incredibly hard to be around and even harder to listen to. I constantly have to leave the room just to breathe for a second. Ever increasingly I'm leaving the flat completely...because I need some space from him and some real conversation...with real actual people.
It's breaking my heart...I'm at my wits end and I'm ready to leave. I love him so much but I have no idea where to go from here. Except home. He doesn't even know if I'm there or not anymore... I may as well be invisible...except that if I was then maybe he would talk to me more...
My boyfriend needs help. Without it he will die. He can't carry on like this. His body is screaming for him to stop drinking alcohol. It can't keep up with the strain that he's under and his head is slowly turning to blancmange. Things have to change...because at this rate, as much as we all love and care for him, one by one everyone else will leave him too....for the sake of their sanity if nothing else.
So my boyfriends imaginary friends had better be loyal...because if he continues to refuse the help that he needs, then those invisible mates of his will be all he's got left...which is heartbreaking...
When I was a kid I loved Weebles.
These, along with Lego and Play-People were my absolute best things. I loved them. I didn't have a favourite, but if I absolutely had to choose between them all then Weebles would win hands down.
Don't get me wrong, Play-People were cool. They were better-looking for a start. They could do more - plus they could live in the houses I built for them out of my Lego bricks, so in the versatility stakes they pretty much nailed it... but Weebles? Well they were something else. In a league of their own. Because Weebles were hardcore.
It didn't matter how hard you flicked them or how rough you played, those badboys were indestructible. You just couldn't keep them down.......and believe me I tried - usually by flicking them as hard as I could, a manouvre which would floor a lego-man immediately, but which didn't phase my Weebles. A serious wobble for a few seconds - a minute at most, and they were up again in no time.....while my lego men and Play People lay in crumpled heaps on the floor. Totally K.O'd.
So Weebles are resillient little fuckers.
I'm finally starting to value myself.
It's hard work.
It goes against everything I've ever know or been told. It feels weird.
Like I'm pretending..... which I am. Obviously. But I'm secretly hoping that the 'fake it till you make it' approach rubs off......and then one day I won't have to pretend anymore.
Thats the cunning plan anyway. It's pretty much the only one I have to be honest. So I'm giving it a go.
Published as "What happens in detox" - Ivory magazine. February 2018
I'm not pregnant.
In case I was wondering....Which I wasn't. Mainly because they hadn't told me that I was being tested for that when they insisted on me providing a sample. They were supposed to be looking for drugs....
Which they found. Obviously. There's not much that gets through a piss test in detox. Luckily for me they were prescription. Which meant no naughty step (always a bonus) - because I was so drunk when I arrived that steps of any kind were to be avoided like the plague....I didn't really trust my legs to be able to do the maths.
Instead I found a chair, sat on it and stayed there until the staff came to check me in... Safest option all round to be honest.
My feet are freezing.
They literally feel like two blocks of ice.
I have my heater on, I'm fully clothed. I'm huddled under two double duvets in my bed. I still can't get warm. Because my caravan it appears, isn't built to withstand winter.
Neither unfortunately are homeless people.....
I try to see the best in people.
Even when I know that it's futile.
I keep looking for the good in someone even when I'm being treated appallingly - I'm the kind of woman who would find something loveable about a rabid dog. In fact if I thought that I could get near it I'd probably take it home.....
But the last fourty-eight hours means that I'm starting to learn from my mistakes. So thats progress.
I'd only popped out to the shop.
The fridge and the cupboards were bare. We needed something for dinner and so I left him in charge of making the bed while I went on a quest to feed us both.
When I got back, my boyfriend was drunk.....I'd only been gone fifteen minutes.....
It's my coping mechanism.
It keeps me focussed. Keeps me balanced. It keeps this topsy turvy head of mine in check.
Because when I write from the heart it comes from a dark place. A scary place. A place full of turmoil and tears and regret..... a place I have to stay in until of this bad stuff comes out. Out of my head and eventually out of my mind......
It's going to take a while.
It's alright for Beyonce.....wriggling around blasting out "All the single ladies" and then scampering off home to Jay-Z.....but what about the rest of us? Us 'actual' single ladies, who don't have a Jay-Z or any other kind of guy for that matter, to get our groove on with or snuggle up to once the lights go down......what about us?
What if you don't even own a leotard? Or sexy shiny shoes like Bey? Well, maybe you did.... once. A long time ago......when you were still young and foxy, with the whole world at your feet and when you didn't give a shit about imaginary lumps and bumps or cellulite.......What if anything even remotely resembling foxy hasn't made an appearance from your wardrobe in a very long time.....because everything that does has been tucked away on a shelf somewhere gathering dust - along with your self-esteem and your confidence after the last disastrous relationship you had eventually bit the dust.....
Because I'm a single lady at the minute and trust me..... it's really not as glamourous or as exciting as Bey makes it look in that video.....
I'm a mess.
I'm stood in his kitchen surrounded by bags, frantically trying to repair my ravaged face. I know that it will be dark soon anyway but there is absolutely no way that I'm leaving the house like this. I'm upset granted, but I still have standards.....
Ten minutes and some frantic sleeve wiping later and I'm heading out the door and down the stairs. I didn't stop to say goodbye. My head was obviously pre-occupied with the black smears around my eyes and I'm mentally giving both barrels to R*****l..... because this latest mascara of theirs is seriously shit......
I used to spend my life looking for Elephants; Those hulking great things that weigh a ton and could squash you or I as easily as either of us could swat a fly. Because you know where you are with elephants. They do what they say on the tin. Plus, you can generally spot them coming a mile off......unlike the mice....
I used to think that mice were cute. Insignificant. Those teeny, tiny furry things, all quivering whiskers and curious faces. A bit of cheese here, some stray crumbs there and mice will happily hoover your carpet and be your new best friends forever....
Yeah right. Fuck that shit.....because mice are motherfuckers. They are the ones doing the damage while you are busy looking for elephants....
Imagine watching a car with no brakes about to hit a brick wall. At 100 mph.
Now imagine that behind the wheel is your best friend. No seatbelt, and seemingly oblivious to the danger in front of her and literally a split second away from self- destruction unless you can do something.....like stop the car.
Which is impossible.
And so all you can do is wait for the inevitable. And hope that she gets out alive....
I was driving that car. And I wanted it to crash. Because it had to. I needed all of the craziness to stop. And so I put my foot down. And kind of closed my eyes....
I have an appalling track record with men. It is truly, ridiculously, horribly bad.
Misogynists, psychopaths, sociopaths. You name them, I met them. Then I dated them.
I used to joke to my friends that I could pick out the badman out of a crowd of a thousand identically dressed, identical looking men....whilst wearing a blindfold. Only I wasn't actually joking. Because I really, honestly could. I can. I do.
Which isn't something that fills me with glee.
Because my bad men aren't exciting, or alluring like the ones in the films.
My bad men are trouble... spelt in bright red capital letters.
So this is a story about a man.
A funny, intelligent and articulate man who has recently snowballed into my day to day life. Out of the blue. From Nowhere. Completely unexpectedly, and completely unannounced. I'm still attempting to process it all. It's kind of a complicated story. Involving an extremely complicated man.
We crossed paths via social media. He'd followed me on twitter. I checked his profile and clicked onto one of his blogs. And time kind of stopped for me. Literally. As I re-read his words and struggled to take in exactly what this guy was telling me.
Because as I read this blog it was clear that this guy had had a plan. Which didn't involve following me (or anyone else for that matter) on twitter if it had worked. He wouldn't have had time to sit about surfing the internet and making new aquaintences. He would have been way too busy being dead. Which is kind of a full time job once you've comitted to it. And from what I could see he was pretty comitted. Up to his neck in it actually.
Anyway. Long story short.
Despite his well thought out and carefully articulated plan, involving ingesting enough prescription medicine to knock out a small country, washed down with copious amounts of tepid white wine, coupled with the fact that nobody actually knew quite where to find him whilst all of this topping himself on social media business was going on, (which didn't help the emergency services who were at this point frantically attempting to locate him), for some unknown reason, somewhere along the lines that night it didn't quite work out.
Mainly because he found himself very much "Not Dead" . When he woke up very much alive on an acute psychiatric ward. From an induced coma. With tubes going into places that really should only allow for stuff coming out. Along with various other pleasantries that had been carried out in a desperate attempt to save his life.
And that's how the weirdest friendship in the world began. I sent him a message. He messaged me back. The rest is history.
He's bringing out stuff in me that I can't describe.
I feel an incredible protectiveness towards him. We are similar in lots of ways and share the same history. I'm hearing my story but told by a man and from a mans perspective. We are both alive when we didn't actually want or plan to be. And dealing with the implications of that. Our similarities are beyond weird.
We talk every day.
I try and walk the line between keeping him cheerful and making conversation that isn't going to be too overwhelming. There's a lot going on in that head of his right now what with him still being alive and all....
I take the piss a lot. There is no elephant in the room during our conversations. It's how it should be. And I send him stuff. Snapchats. A song from the movie "Suicide Squad". I call it "My cheer up song." It's a private joke. Thankfully, he thought it was funny too when I explained. We share the same dark humour at times.
He has an adopted sunflower.
He didn't get a say in it really. I just gave it to him. It lives in my bathroom where it gets plenty of sun. He gets regular updates and photo's - as though he's signed up for some random charity or other off the TV. "Look Nick - here's "Sunflower" chilling out on my windowsill." ( He doesn't have a name. He's just "Sunflower"), or "Nick, check out Sunflower and his brother in this pic. Your's is kicking ass. He's grown loads"....
Although obviously Sunflower is a metaphor, Sunflower is real. He is growing. Every day I see tiny changes in him. My friend is growing too. He might not always think so but he is.
I've known him no time at all, but I have the greatest respect for this guy and I wish that I could do more to help. I want him to be well. And far away from a psych ward. Being comfortable in his skin. Being happy. But that's not my job to do and not my thing to wish for. It's his. It has to be his.
I don't have a magic wand. I can't just wave something and make him better. It's not that simple. Only he can decide where he goes from here. To a Penthouse or a Park bench. It's a 50/50. It's going to be a long haul. But if this guy is half the guy I think he is, he'll do it. With bells on. He just needs to cut himself some slack.
In the meantime, I'm honoured to know him. It's like I see into his soul. And hopefully my chit chat helps. So for now the songs, the snapchats and the crazy Sunflower photos are staying on the menu. To try to compensate for the terrible hospital food. While he puts himself back together however he sees fit. Until he doesn't need them anymore. Maybe because he'll have his own garden again and can grow his own Sunflowers. No internet intervention necessary.... Or no garden at all. It's up to him. It's his life. And gardens are over-rated anyway.
Basically, what I'm trying to say to this man is this. That the past is the past. It's happened. It's gone. Nothing and no-one can change that. And despite his best laid plans for his life at that point, fate appeared to have a different agenda when the shit hit the fan for him that night. And maybe there's a reason for that.
So he's alive. With a fresh clean slate. If nothing else resonates right now, it's a start.
Also known as a beginning.
But if I did have a wish for this friend of mine, it would be this.....That you would choose to begin Nick.
"I'm quite a damaged person".....
That's my reality and the one phrase that is currently going around and around in my head as I attempt to stop yet another epic melt-down from taking over me today. So, instead of doing what I want to do, which is cry uncontrollably and rage at all that is wrong with my life, I'm doing what I know is best for me and what will allow me to deal with all of this shit sensibly and responsibly.
I'm writing. I'm turning to my blog and I'm morphing into "Just a girl" as a healthy way to deal with my emotions. Because it's the only way that I can stop myself from going into full-on melt-down, when anything goes a little bit wrong. Or massively, horribly, incredibly wrong even. Like they have today.
Writing as "Just a girl" allows me to lay myself bare to the world. Without fear of judgement or reprimand. Which is important to me. Because this means that this way, I get to tell my story, my way, how I see fit, to the best of my ability, without attracting hordes of pointy fingers, graduates from the school of chinese whispers and a fuck-load of "I told you so's". Not that I really care about pointy fingers and chinese whispers but at least this way, the majority of people don't actually know who they are pointing at when they talk about me. Which means that I don't take it personally.
And as for the "I told you so's"......don't bother, its fine. Because me being me means that I probably knew the outcome of whatever it was all along....which means that I beat you to it....and just chose to do it anyway. In case I was wrong....which obviously I wasn't.
So spare me.
So tonight I'm upset. I'm disappointed and I'm angry.....and now I'm thinking about the other things that I worry about, because, to be honest, if I'm going to have a melt-down, then I may as well get my moneys worth.
And so I'm telling you some things that scare the shit out of me....The things I haven't told you yet.....
I'm in bed with my boyfriend. And not in the way that you think.
Because I'm writing this blog as a way to keep calm while I'm keeping an eye on him. While I'm upset and I'm worried and I can put into words just how heartbreaking this whole fucked up situation is.
My boyfriend is ill. And he's struggling right now. He had a relapse three days ago. Quite a big one. It's knocked him for six. And now he's struggling to function properly again. I'm trying to be supportive and I'm putting a brave face on things but I'm struggling too. Seeing him so confused and upset and in pain is breaking my heart.
The bucket next to the bed is a flashback for me. I used to have one too. For the inevitable morning sickness that came after the days and the nights before. For the times when I was too sick or weak to do anything except lift my head and attempt to rid myself of the contents of my stomach....basically to make room for more of the shit I was going to throw down my neck for the rest of the day.....not because I wanted to but because I needed to....
This is addiction. And I want to talk about it....
So he's coming to see me. This amazing "blast from the past" super-cool person of mine.
Because it's going to be amazing. Me and him. A hotel room somewhere. And an absolute whale of a time guaranteed. All arranged lastminute.com which is always how we roll.....
A "Hey _____ I've been thinking. I've missed your face. And I'd really love to come see you again .....are you gonna be free between ____ and _____? (Him)
(Me) "What's there to even think about? Do it. Come see me. Get in the car and get down here....will be amazing. So yes. I'll make sure that I'm free....'cos I've missed your face too..." kind of conversation.
And so he's coming. To see me. In two weeks. I'm turning cartwheels.
Fuck. I'm turning cartwheels.
I need to do a risk assesment....
I hate facebook messenger - It's the bane of my life.
Especially when I've messaged someone and can see that they've been online since but that they haven't actually looked at it yet. Because then my mind goes into overdrive, and I can feel myself slowly starting to morph into Glen Close, as I start to drive myself crazy with a million and one scenarios trying to come up with a plausible reason as to why they haven't actually bothered to read it yet.
Because there was nothing on the news today announcing that there's been an earthquake, or torrential flooding or that a previously undetected giant mineshaft is currently opening up in the back garden of where they live. There hasn't even been a thunder storm or a power cut which could help to explain the lack of contact. Which therefore leads me to only one obvious conclusion. That they just don't want to talk to me right now- because I'm not that important.
Which makes me feel terrible.
Which then makes me want to message them more, in order to elicit a response in an attempt to prove to myself that my original theory was wrong.....
Which does nothing but make me feel needy and stalkerish, which in turn makes me feel exactly like the type of woman who would go scampering off into the kitchen in search of a saucepan big enough to pop some poor unassuming bunny in.
Which really isn't me at all.
My first thought, is that he's not supposed to be here. Here, in the South-West....where I am. He's supposed to be in London. Where he lives and stuff...
My second thought is "Why didn't he say something sooner?" .....
My third thought is "Thank Fuck he didn't say something sooner". Because if he had have done, we would have made a mess of things. Absolute guarantee on that front, because following up on feelings in rehab isn't the wisest of moves.....and we were both spoken for back then anyway.
But now that we are out, both single, and all fixed and stuff.... well that's a different ball game....