Why?

This is the post excerpt.

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It is easy to ask why I have a mental illness. Why me? Why do I deserve it? Why should I struggle? Why should I be labelled?

But I would rather ask why do I constantly want to know why a bottle is called a bottle, to the point it keeps me awake at night? WHO decided that it’s name is bottle? WHO decided that that person got to decide that it was called a bottle. And why?! Why do I get SO angry when my cat stares at me waiting for me to open a door that she herself can open? I mean seriously. I get so irate about it! Like it’s a personal insult. From a damn cat!! Why do I hear the voices I hear? I know why I hear voices. But why do I hear these specific ones? Who decided that I am the crazy one. And not everyone else?! Who decided that therapists and doctors know it all and us patients should stand in line and do as they say?

And more importantly. Why can’t I laugh at myself? I constantly laugh. My son, who is six, named me “the village Crazy Lady” Ayer hearing the phrase in a recent film. And he is SPOT ON. If I am not extremely anxious and depressed. Hospitalised. Or asleep on sedatives. I am either eating a cheesecake for breakfast and then emailing the company who made it to complain, that the box states “serves twelve” but it only served me (honestly!) or I’m telling my Facebook bubble that ring fat is good because I conserve water. Because my hips touch the sides of the bath, making it seem a lot deeper when I get in. Meaning I do in fact save water. Takes less to fill my baths! Go me! Lol!

So here’s my blog. And all my questions. Some of my answers. And a lot of my humour.

Wixie. J

I Look At You And I’m Home

Did you ever get so tired you stop giving a shit? Mentally constipated. Exhausted. And fed up?!

This evening, those overly familiar feelings of depression and self loathing cane back. If you can imagine being mutilated, mentally? That is how I often feel. My mind was taken apart, picked at, my emotions were removed, jumbled up in some sort of tombola machine style contraption. And then put back in backwards. The chemicals that set the brain to work. Were taken out and put into mislabelled vials. So that the right ones are never in the right place. Never doing the right job. So now, I have odd amounts of chemicals and hormones flying around my brain and body in a frenzy, never quite sure what they’re meant to be doing, or why.

And this evening I was drained and depressed. Angry too. Because recently I was let down by my mental health team. Well, one member of it in particular, so now I have no support. Not professional support anyway. And my abandonment issues are back with a vengeance. Seriously. Not even good enough for them to care when they get bloody paid to!

The book “I Hate You Don’t Leave Me” encapsulates how I felt this evening perfectly. I wanted to cry over what tv channel me and my husband chose. Nothing was funny. Nothing was amusing. Nothing would help. But having the television off would plunge me into a deafening silence, so I had to have it on, even though every channel was irritating me to distraction.

At one point I was too depressed to go to the toilet. My stomach was hurting. Cramping. I needed a wee! I knew I needed a wee. I knew that just dragging myself up the stairs and using the toilet would stop the cramps and make me more comfortable. But I still couldn’t muster the strength to go. So I lay needing a wee for around an hour or so instead. I desperately wanted someone to take me to the toilet. Make sure it was safe to go up the stairs. Make sure it was safe to go into the bathroom. But when my husband tried to take me I refused to let him. And told him I am not a cripple. I am not an invalid. I do not need help. Even though I do DESPERATELY need help! Eventually I went. And so did the cramps.

I feel for my husband. I really do. I often wonder if it is harder to love and live with me than it is to be me? He can’t do right for doing wrong. If he suggests I take some extra meds to help me be calm and help me sleep. He gets told no. Gets told I am allowed feelings!!! I don’t need to be medicated for feeling something!!!! If he doesn’t automatically get extra meds when I do feel I need them however, I ask him why he doesn’t care? Why doesn’t he just know when I need them? Why can’t he read my mind? Surely if he actually loved me he could read my mind? But I look at him. And I am home.

If something or somebody upsets me and I react with that rage only BPD sufferers experience, and he tries to calm me, I ask him why he’s on their side? Why doesn’t he understand how upset I am? Why is he not taking the situation seriously!? Why is he not defending my bloody honour? Why do I have to calm down when something bad has happened?! If he says nothing; because he’s scared to tell me to calm down, I ask him why he doesn’t care? Can he not be arsed to say anything? Can’t he be bothered to ask if I am ok? So then he does ask. And I just say oh you’re only asking because I asked you to. And still. It isn’t right.

That must be so confusing and disheartening. And I wish I could be better for him. I wish I could be the best version of me. So that he could be the best version of him. And we could be the best version of us. Because I look at him. And I am home.

This evening was no different. It was his fault nothing on the television was good enough to watch. Also his fault that I couldn’t just have it switched off. It was his fault that I got more irritated and upset because he dared to tell me I would get better one day. Because it seems obvious to me that I won’t. 28 years later I am still no better. With the 28 year long apocalypse in my mind resembling the actual apocalypse in the movie “28 Days Later”. Does he not know the statistics? Does he not know that I KNOW I won’t get better. Just like I KNOW that he doesn’t care. Doesn’t he know that I KNOW that I am in that 10% of people with BPD that don’t heal?!

With other illnesses, if your partner held your hand to reassure you you would get better. You would probably shed a tear or two. Hug them. Thank them. Relax a bit. And maybe have a nap. Me?! Well I get offended. I think god, don’t you realise how ill I am?! Obviously not. You wouldn’t belittle it and tell me how I will get better soon if you did.

And when I start to calm down. Hours. Sometimes days later. I feel ridiculous. I feel stupid for thinking all that daft crap!

There have been times I’ve been alone. Nobody to sleep next to. Cuddle. Cry on the shoulder of. Talk to. Vent to. Rant with. So you’d think I would be glad that now someone IS here to tell me it’s all going to be ok. And I love him. I love who he is. I love what he is. I love his eyes. His hair. His smile. His wit. His intelligence. His patience. His hugs. His sense of humour. His cooking!! I adore his cooking!! But when I am in that frame of mind I can’t see one step ahead. Never mind see that I could get better one day.

After all. When you TRULY don’t believe for one second that you ever will. Why would you believe someone else when they say you will just to make you feel better?!

But still even when I am in the depths of despair. Even when all hope seems lost, and even when I think sod it. I give up totally. I look at him… And home.

Today I am Minnie.

I woke up today, after an hours sleep, to the familiar sounds of my husband and children roaming about the house. And for a second I felt normal. A mum waking up to a busy house after a night of tossing and turning, making lists in her head and worrhing over peculiar things only mums worry about! But that normal feeling only lasted a minute or two, because you see, today, I am Minnie.

Today I am my inner child. She has a name. Minnie. Because I see her and hear her all day and night. And I have done for years now. She isn’t as real to me and the air we all breathe. The water flowing down every river. And the birds singing their wake up call every morning. So instead of continuing to try and flush her out with hospitals and numerous medications, like I hadn’t done for yesrs, I started to embrace her.

She looks like any other child. Long dark curls. Little white dress. Little black booties. Shiny eyes and red lips. And by “any other child” I mean anybody Victorian child. Because Minnie, is very Victorian.

There is a reason for her Victorian appearance. But I won’t go into that right now.

The more I embraced and welcomed Minnie into my life. The more I recognised why she is here and why she does the things she does. The more I listened to her words and watched her tantrums. The closer to her I became. For a while, Minnie was my life. Everything was about Minnie. And what Minnie wanted. Said. Feared. Screamed. Remembered. And needed. And it came to a point where I started to become her (and Alice, but I will introduce her to you at a later date)

There are times when I am no longer Jodie. I am Minnie. People often think I named her Minnie, because she is a “mini me”. But the reason for her name. Ian in fact, the meaning of the name “Minnie”… “longed for child”. I always felt I was never wanted. Or needed. And felt that I never mattered. I was never important. And I wanted Minnie to feel that she most definitely is! So I have her a name that means just that. Longed for. Loved. Cherished. Wanted. And needed, and so very important.

So she crept into my life more and more. Until she was sometimes, completely in control of me. Times like today. Today, I am Minnie. I feel afraid, buy I am not entirely sure what of. I feel unsure. And alone. I feel as though I could just curl up in a ball and cry for hours. Tormented. And these are Minnie’s emotions.

So I have turned on the fairy lights and closed the curtains. Locked the door. And hidden under my quilt. Like a child would. Because today. I am Minnie. I have put my hair up. Just how she likes. With her bobbles. Put on her pink t shirt. And her pink hoody. Got her flowery blanket. And today. I am Minnie. Today. I help Minnie heal a little more. Today. I cry if I need to. Because it is ok to cry. Today. I laugh at cartoons and disney films if I need to. Because today. I am Minnie. And today. I don’t have to be ok. I don’t have to pretend I am fine and have it all figured out.

Because today. I am 3CA40E89-07E7-4356-9398-F6DED044D56FMinnie.