...is for France.
I've lived not far from half my life in France, and nearly all my adult life so far. D is now going through one of his paranoid phases, telling me disturbing crap such as, "I need to prepare myself for a move to the UK in case I need to leave France one day and you should do the same as I guess you won't want to be far from the girls..." I have no idea what this means, in concrete terms, but I do know I'm going to fight it, tooth and nail.
I very, very much enjoy taking the girls to England every other year (wish it were more often, but it's so damn expensive), catching up with my very closest friends, J, M and H. The girls love going, there are children to play with, they all get along well, they really have fun. And they speak English (which is more than they ever do with me).
But I have no desire to go and live in the UK. For one thing, where on earth could I afford? Wherever it may be is likely to be a fair distance from J, M and H, so I'd know no one, have a job that brings me into contact with no one and the girls would be launched into English school life, most likely very much against their will.
So no. For me, it's absolutely not on the cards. I don't know what the laws are about this type of problem - separated parents with no official shared custody ruling from a judge, and one of whom wishes to move to some place far away... I guess I should find out, know my rights.
France is home to me, even though I don't feel even remotely French and have no intention of taking French nationality (I do, however, intend to renew Carla's GB passport and get one done for Lydie). Montpellier is a great city - not too big, not too small. And it has palm trees growing all over the place FFS.
F is for France and France is my home. And I think it always will be. For the foreseeable future, anyway. Screw D and his paranoia.
vendredi 18 avril 2014
AtoZ Challenge: E...
...is for Exhilarating.
Not, I am sure, a word many people would associate with me - I am not an exhilarating person (is that a "thing", does it even exist? My mind is fuzzy tonight...) and I rarely feel exhilarated.
But.
Today, not one, but TWO men told me I am beautiful and, however fickle it may be, it has left me feeling exhilarated. The first was a fellow inmate, a kindly old man (so, yeah) who saw me as we waited to be let into the dining room for lunch and said that I was "as beautiful as ever". I was flattered, but a little sceptical given that I was wearing black jeans that are too big and a fairly boring purple striped smock type thing. Plus, he's old. But still, the words were nice to hear.
Better still, Y and I were continuing on our tidy-my-flat kick (progress IS being made, it's just that it's kind of hard to tell. Still) and he found an unused notebook with a painting by Alphonse Mucha on the cover. I said I loved the notebook because Mucha is one of my favourite painters and because the picture is beautiful. It's this one:
And he said that the woman looks like me. I replied that I wish it were true because she's beautiful and he responded to that with the exhilarating, "she has red hair like you and you're beautiful too". My heart skipped at least one beat, possibly more. I mean, the resemblance is far from striking (I persist in saying she's more beautiful than I am, not to mention considerably younger), but oh, how nice to hear those words!
Tonight, as I prepare myself psychologically for filling in my year-late tax form, I can't help but feel more than a little exhilarated. Heh. Who knew?
Not, I am sure, a word many people would associate with me - I am not an exhilarating person (is that a "thing", does it even exist? My mind is fuzzy tonight...) and I rarely feel exhilarated.
But.
Today, not one, but TWO men told me I am beautiful and, however fickle it may be, it has left me feeling exhilarated. The first was a fellow inmate, a kindly old man (so, yeah) who saw me as we waited to be let into the dining room for lunch and said that I was "as beautiful as ever". I was flattered, but a little sceptical given that I was wearing black jeans that are too big and a fairly boring purple striped smock type thing. Plus, he's old. But still, the words were nice to hear.
Better still, Y and I were continuing on our tidy-my-flat kick (progress IS being made, it's just that it's kind of hard to tell. Still) and he found an unused notebook with a painting by Alphonse Mucha on the cover. I said I loved the notebook because Mucha is one of my favourite painters and because the picture is beautiful. It's this one:
And he said that the woman looks like me. I replied that I wish it were true because she's beautiful and he responded to that with the exhilarating, "she has red hair like you and you're beautiful too". My heart skipped at least one beat, possibly more. I mean, the resemblance is far from striking (I persist in saying she's more beautiful than I am, not to mention considerably younger), but oh, how nice to hear those words!
Tonight, as I prepare myself psychologically for filling in my year-late tax form, I can't help but feel more than a little exhilarated. Heh. Who knew?
AtoZ Challenge: D...
...is for Depression (duh, no brainer this one)
Its long, bony fingers grab you when you're least expecting it. They hold you tight, won't let go, not for anything. You shake, struggle, try to break free until the strength to do so is gone. And once it's gone, It has won, It has got you and you will be Its for life.
It is dark, a darkness that you never knew existed, a darkness that chills you to the bone.
It is fear, a fear that fills your days and haunts your nights.
It is a new way of life, a life that is beyond your control.
There is no escape, no way out, no hope. You just have to accept It.
My heart and soul belong to It, now and forever, Amen.
Its long, bony fingers grab you when you're least expecting it. They hold you tight, won't let go, not for anything. You shake, struggle, try to break free until the strength to do so is gone. And once it's gone, It has won, It has got you and you will be Its for life.
It is dark, a darkness that you never knew existed, a darkness that chills you to the bone.
It is fear, a fear that fills your days and haunts your nights.
It is a new way of life, a life that is beyond your control.
There is no escape, no way out, no hope. You just have to accept It.
My heart and soul belong to It, now and forever, Amen.
AtoZ Challenge : C
...is for CRISIS.
For that is what my life is in, right now and for the last Lord knows how many months.
There are things that have improved (I've not had a drop of Muscat since 2012...), but some things just don't seem to change. I still hoard medication, I still mutilate myself (though, to be fair, I have no recollection of doing it the last time as it was during the electroshock period. But I apparently hacked at my arms, both of them, with a pair of nail scissors - since confiscated of course - leaving the most hideous scars you can imagine, and these scars just won't go away, they remain red and horribly, horribly visible), I still spend way too much time writing soul-searching crap that no one will, or even should, ever read, I still have the fire of hatred for D burning inside me, consuming me, doing me more harm than good... The list goes on.
There is mental crisis, there is personal crisis, there is professional crisis. Crisis, in other words.
I guess I'm dealing with things a little better, I guess I'm less unstable (words carefully chosen: not "more stable", but "less unstable"), I guess I'm not quite at the bottom of the hole any more. But I'm most definitely not OUT of the hole yet.
For one thing, I'm still HERE. I'm allowed out, am being allowed to go home for the whole Easter weekend, and that's good, a positive sign, but Dr H still sees me struggling, the psychologist I saw on Wednesday saw it too, even C's psychologist (whom she refuses to go and see) could see I'm struggling, and I'd never met her before.
For another, there are still so many question marks - will I ever feel capable of giving my daughters a home, will that home ever be presentable, will my relationship with Y continue or (as I very much fear) come to an end once he decides he wants to start a family? Questions, questions, questions.
The world is in crisis - Syria, Ukraine, just about everywhere to be honest - and so am I. It's a good word for today.
For that is what my life is in, right now and for the last Lord knows how many months.
There are things that have improved (I've not had a drop of Muscat since 2012...), but some things just don't seem to change. I still hoard medication, I still mutilate myself (though, to be fair, I have no recollection of doing it the last time as it was during the electroshock period. But I apparently hacked at my arms, both of them, with a pair of nail scissors - since confiscated of course - leaving the most hideous scars you can imagine, and these scars just won't go away, they remain red and horribly, horribly visible), I still spend way too much time writing soul-searching crap that no one will, or even should, ever read, I still have the fire of hatred for D burning inside me, consuming me, doing me more harm than good... The list goes on.
There is mental crisis, there is personal crisis, there is professional crisis. Crisis, in other words.
I guess I'm dealing with things a little better, I guess I'm less unstable (words carefully chosen: not "more stable", but "less unstable"), I guess I'm not quite at the bottom of the hole any more. But I'm most definitely not OUT of the hole yet.
For one thing, I'm still HERE. I'm allowed out, am being allowed to go home for the whole Easter weekend, and that's good, a positive sign, but Dr H still sees me struggling, the psychologist I saw on Wednesday saw it too, even C's psychologist (whom she refuses to go and see) could see I'm struggling, and I'd never met her before.
For another, there are still so many question marks - will I ever feel capable of giving my daughters a home, will that home ever be presentable, will my relationship with Y continue or (as I very much fear) come to an end once he decides he wants to start a family? Questions, questions, questions.
The world is in crisis - Syria, Ukraine, just about everywhere to be honest - and so am I. It's a good word for today.
jeudi 17 avril 2014
AtoZ Challenge again, trying to catch up
B is for Bedlam.
First up, the origin of the word: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bethlem_Royal_Hospital
Second up, my version of it: http://www.generale-de-sante.fr/clinique-rech-montpellier
To be fair, there's not necessarily much that's truly Bedlam-esque, but if you look closely around this locked floor I'm on (which is admittedly less dramatic than the even-more-locked floor above me), you do catch a glimpse of what the real Bedlam may have been like. Most of the personnel are fine, some are truly horrible and utterly ill-suited to a job in a psychiatric hospital. Many of the patients are only mildly disturbed (and disturbing), but a few are completely off their heads, drooling, babbling, moaning, whilst others seem OK but then lose it completely, screaming, shouting, throwing furniture... I stay in my room with my nice, quiet, discreet room-mate and do my best to ignore it all. But it's not easy.
I've now spent 15 of the last 20 months here; it feels like home and that alone is enough to scare me witless. I take (well, mostly I don't actually, but I'm supposed to take) an anti-depressant, a neuroleptic, four anxiolytics and a sleeping pill, I've had electroshocks, I've had my scissors confiscated because of the damage I did to myself with them.
I am psychiatric patient. That is what I am, what I've become, what I will, no doubt, remain, in one way or another.
First up, the origin of the word: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bethlem_Royal_Hospital
Second up, my version of it: http://www.generale-de-sante.fr/clinique-rech-montpellier
To be fair, there's not necessarily much that's truly Bedlam-esque, but if you look closely around this locked floor I'm on (which is admittedly less dramatic than the even-more-locked floor above me), you do catch a glimpse of what the real Bedlam may have been like. Most of the personnel are fine, some are truly horrible and utterly ill-suited to a job in a psychiatric hospital. Many of the patients are only mildly disturbed (and disturbing), but a few are completely off their heads, drooling, babbling, moaning, whilst others seem OK but then lose it completely, screaming, shouting, throwing furniture... I stay in my room with my nice, quiet, discreet room-mate and do my best to ignore it all. But it's not easy.
I've now spent 15 of the last 20 months here; it feels like home and that alone is enough to scare me witless. I take (well, mostly I don't actually, but I'm supposed to take) an anti-depressant, a neuroleptic, four anxiolytics and a sleeping pill, I've had electroshocks, I've had my scissors confiscated because of the damage I did to myself with them.
I am psychiatric patient. That is what I am, what I've become, what I will, no doubt, remain, in one way or another.
AtoZ Challenge - the behind schedule version
Went back on Twitter for the first time in months and discovered that April is once again the AtoZ Challenge month. Hmm. I enjoyed doing it last time, and am more than a little peeved to have missed out, so I've decided to do it all the same, just 16 days behind.
So. A.
A is for awkward.
I'm not at ease in company, I'm not at ease on the phone, I'm not at ease on the rare occasions I have to go to L's school to pick her up (all those chic, bourgeoise mothers looking horribly "together", unlike me). I'm what you might call awkward, so it seems an appropriate word to start with.
A is also for April, a difficult month for me in terms of the past - this was the month D hit me for the first time, during our holiday-from-hell in Paris. This was the month that his paranoia went through the roof, precipitating his departure on 1 May 2010. But it's also the month of birthdays - my dad on the 14th, my beloved Tom had his birthday on the 15th, one friend on the 21st, another on the 23rd, my dear friend in South Africa on the 24th and my little hurricane angel L will be 10 on the 27th.
April is also the cruellest month according to TSE, though the famous April showers have been remarkably absent from the summer-like weather of Montpellier this year...
So. A.
A is for awkward.
I'm not at ease in company, I'm not at ease on the phone, I'm not at ease on the rare occasions I have to go to L's school to pick her up (all those chic, bourgeoise mothers looking horribly "together", unlike me). I'm what you might call awkward, so it seems an appropriate word to start with.
A is also for April, a difficult month for me in terms of the past - this was the month D hit me for the first time, during our holiday-from-hell in Paris. This was the month that his paranoia went through the roof, precipitating his departure on 1 May 2010. But it's also the month of birthdays - my dad on the 14th, my beloved Tom had his birthday on the 15th, one friend on the 21st, another on the 23rd, my dear friend in South Africa on the 24th and my little hurricane angel L will be 10 on the 27th.
April is also the cruellest month according to TSE, though the famous April showers have been remarkably absent from the summer-like weather of Montpellier this year...
mercredi 16 avril 2014
Blinking in the sunlight
Wow, it's been so long since I last wrote here...
I ended up having 12 electroshock therapy sessions, and Dr H and Y both seem to think they did me some good, though I just remember it as being a wretched experience I wouldn't wish on anyone. It also seriously, seriously screwed up my memory: I've just read the last few blog posts and I don't recognize any of it, I don't remember writing it, I don't remember the Valium or being in the "open" part before being transferred to the "locked" part. Hell, I didn't even remember that I had a blog until a couple of days ago...
And so much has happened, so much I don't remember.
I'm still in the hospital, still in the locked part. I do get permission to spend the afternoon and early evening at home, allowing me to a) not come back here till about 9 pm and b) conveniently "forget" to take my 6 pm medication (the punch-you-in-the-head ones, Mianserine and the very scary Abilify), meaning I haven't taken it at all in a couple of weeks at least. I suspect this pathetic act of rebellion is going to have the predictable unfortunate consequences, but I truly hate taking medication, so I've decided to just go cold turkey.
Y is still living in my flat, and we are now back to being more than just friends, though unfortunately I have no recollection whatsoever of how that happened. I'm just glad it has. I know, deep down, that this relationship is doomed - he's only 30, he's going to want to start a family and I just don't know if that's something I want to go through again (even assuming that it's still a biological possibility) - but for now, he is the light in my life, he makes me feel special, safe, loved, and boy do I need that...
On 28 February, we decided that Tom's not eating merited a trip to the vet's. She decided she needed to keep an eye on him for a few days. We visited him the next day (Saturday) and he seemed a little subdued, but otherwise OK. On the Monday, as I came back to reality after my latest electroshock session, I got a phone call from the vet to say that Tom, my sweet, beloved Tom, had passed away. Even now, more than 6 weeks later, I still feel the pain. Yesterday would have been his 17th birthday, and I miss him more than any words I write could ever express.
We did get another cat, a 6-month-old black kitten we named Zorro. He's very cute, very, very cute but oh, so scared of everything. I've talked about him to Dr H, who said he can't understand, given how hard I find this thing called living, why on earth I would take on a psychologically damaged cat. To which I could do nothing but say that I obviously didn't know how damaged he was when we took him on...
The world still seems a pretty dark and unwelcoming place - I can feel myself falling apart whenever I'm alone. The eyes on the rooftop outside my bedroom window at home make it difficult for me to sleep there because I can feel them watching me. Y tries to make light of it, tries to convince me that they're not real, but even though I know that, I can't help it, I can feel them, staring, watching.
We've been trying to tidy the flat, with limited success. It makes me feel a certain amount of relief that this tidying process has finally started, and I like seeing the (tiny) bits of progress made. But the enormity of the task still overwhelms me.
That said, most things overwhelm me. I don't know if it's because I haven't been taking my medication, or if it started before that (I think it did, but it's hard to tell, even harder to remember when your memory seems to be made of cream cheese), but the bad thoughts are back, the pill hoarding is back, the erratic sleeping and eating is back. Dr H is talking about increasing my medication (rather a joke, given that I don't take most of it, just 3 anxiolytics I can't avoid and a sleeping pill that doesn't work) because he sees me as fragile. And I feel fragile. The nervous mannerisms are back, I can't stop them, can't prevent them. I cry at the drop of a hat, I'm in pain again, desperate to be let out of here, aware that Dr H says that that's what he's working towards but that he's putting it off again for now because of this damn fragility he detects.
I'm sorry, I know I'm jumping from one subject to another, that this post isn't even "poorly constructed", it's not constructed at all, it's more like a stream of consciousness.
I want to get out of here, I want to be home with Y, I want the girls - and particularly C - to start being nice to him, to accept that for now he's an important part of my life and that he alone makes me feel something approaching happy. I want the medication to just go away (not my hoard, I'm guarding that preciously, just in case), I want Zorro to let me touch him, stroke him, hold him. So many wants.
I will try and write here more often, now that I've remembered I have a blog (of sorts). But 2014 is now 3 and a half months old and there's still no real improvement. The psychologist I also have to see told me today I'm punishing myself, but I don't understand what she means. She did ask me if I'd ever been happy and you know what? I couldn't pinpoint a single part of my life about which I could say, honestly, "oh yeah, I was really happy then". My life continues to be a waste of everyone's time, especially my own. Which is why I don't intend for it to continue much longer.
I ended up having 12 electroshock therapy sessions, and Dr H and Y both seem to think they did me some good, though I just remember it as being a wretched experience I wouldn't wish on anyone. It also seriously, seriously screwed up my memory: I've just read the last few blog posts and I don't recognize any of it, I don't remember writing it, I don't remember the Valium or being in the "open" part before being transferred to the "locked" part. Hell, I didn't even remember that I had a blog until a couple of days ago...
And so much has happened, so much I don't remember.
I'm still in the hospital, still in the locked part. I do get permission to spend the afternoon and early evening at home, allowing me to a) not come back here till about 9 pm and b) conveniently "forget" to take my 6 pm medication (the punch-you-in-the-head ones, Mianserine and the very scary Abilify), meaning I haven't taken it at all in a couple of weeks at least. I suspect this pathetic act of rebellion is going to have the predictable unfortunate consequences, but I truly hate taking medication, so I've decided to just go cold turkey.
Y is still living in my flat, and we are now back to being more than just friends, though unfortunately I have no recollection whatsoever of how that happened. I'm just glad it has. I know, deep down, that this relationship is doomed - he's only 30, he's going to want to start a family and I just don't know if that's something I want to go through again (even assuming that it's still a biological possibility) - but for now, he is the light in my life, he makes me feel special, safe, loved, and boy do I need that...
On 28 February, we decided that Tom's not eating merited a trip to the vet's. She decided she needed to keep an eye on him for a few days. We visited him the next day (Saturday) and he seemed a little subdued, but otherwise OK. On the Monday, as I came back to reality after my latest electroshock session, I got a phone call from the vet to say that Tom, my sweet, beloved Tom, had passed away. Even now, more than 6 weeks later, I still feel the pain. Yesterday would have been his 17th birthday, and I miss him more than any words I write could ever express.
We did get another cat, a 6-month-old black kitten we named Zorro. He's very cute, very, very cute but oh, so scared of everything. I've talked about him to Dr H, who said he can't understand, given how hard I find this thing called living, why on earth I would take on a psychologically damaged cat. To which I could do nothing but say that I obviously didn't know how damaged he was when we took him on...
The world still seems a pretty dark and unwelcoming place - I can feel myself falling apart whenever I'm alone. The eyes on the rooftop outside my bedroom window at home make it difficult for me to sleep there because I can feel them watching me. Y tries to make light of it, tries to convince me that they're not real, but even though I know that, I can't help it, I can feel them, staring, watching.
We've been trying to tidy the flat, with limited success. It makes me feel a certain amount of relief that this tidying process has finally started, and I like seeing the (tiny) bits of progress made. But the enormity of the task still overwhelms me.
That said, most things overwhelm me. I don't know if it's because I haven't been taking my medication, or if it started before that (I think it did, but it's hard to tell, even harder to remember when your memory seems to be made of cream cheese), but the bad thoughts are back, the pill hoarding is back, the erratic sleeping and eating is back. Dr H is talking about increasing my medication (rather a joke, given that I don't take most of it, just 3 anxiolytics I can't avoid and a sleeping pill that doesn't work) because he sees me as fragile. And I feel fragile. The nervous mannerisms are back, I can't stop them, can't prevent them. I cry at the drop of a hat, I'm in pain again, desperate to be let out of here, aware that Dr H says that that's what he's working towards but that he's putting it off again for now because of this damn fragility he detects.
I'm sorry, I know I'm jumping from one subject to another, that this post isn't even "poorly constructed", it's not constructed at all, it's more like a stream of consciousness.
I want to get out of here, I want to be home with Y, I want the girls - and particularly C - to start being nice to him, to accept that for now he's an important part of my life and that he alone makes me feel something approaching happy. I want the medication to just go away (not my hoard, I'm guarding that preciously, just in case), I want Zorro to let me touch him, stroke him, hold him. So many wants.
I will try and write here more often, now that I've remembered I have a blog (of sorts). But 2014 is now 3 and a half months old and there's still no real improvement. The psychologist I also have to see told me today I'm punishing myself, but I don't understand what she means. She did ask me if I'd ever been happy and you know what? I couldn't pinpoint a single part of my life about which I could say, honestly, "oh yeah, I was really happy then". My life continues to be a waste of everyone's time, especially my own. Which is why I don't intend for it to continue much longer.
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