Yet another up side to mental illness
I have found marriage FAR easier than I expected. To be honest, however, not a day goes past that I don’t want to slap my husband at least once. It’s all a matter of perspective (and he IS astonishingly good-natured, which certainly helps).
I think some mental illnesses make fabulous preparation for marriage. For instance, since everything in the entire world annoys and fills me with rage, I am quite good at sharing a house and room with a deeply peculiar individual (who reads this blog, and will be taking that as a compliment right now – as he should). He annoys me no more than my own existence, so that’s handy. Probably the toughest part of marriage is living together harmoniously – but since I’ve survived my own mentally ill company, I can now handle anything. (Particularly if it doesn’t involve leaving the house or getting dressed, which are still a bit difficult – conveniently, my husband quite likes it when I’m at home and naked.)
Mental illness also means you’ve already lost a great deal of what is most precious to you – your independence, your intelligence, etc – so whatever your spouse asks of you is relatively little, even if they want you to eat your own faeces – and, to be clear, this is not a request my partner has made. (NB: if your spouse actually wants you to eat poo, they probably have some issues of their own.)
Mental illness is also excellent training for being a parent of a teenager. Even teenagers can’t be more insulting or more consistently demeaning than the voices in your head.
Therefore, mental illness is excellent preparation for marriage.
On this basis, the best possible preparation for marriage is probably a year or so of imprisonment and torture. I’ll be recommending that to future generations then.
Stuffed
Yesterday and the day before, I upgraded “daily crying” to “crying in public”. I also received some very bad news yesterday (the kind that really is devastating, and will have an effect on me for the rest of my life – but in five years I’ll be glad it happened).
But generally I’m less homicidal lately. Yesterday I exercised control over my world by swapping a couch with our spare bed, so I don’t get so uncomfortable watching DVDs on my partner’s computer. Today I plan to make him throw away stuff. That always makes me feel like I’ve made the world a better place.
The doc reckons I have Giardia, but also wanted to do some tests (particularly since I was super careful about not drinking any Indonesian water, or ice, or eating salad, or brushing my teeth except with bottled water). I’ll start taking anti-Giardia pills at lunch today.
Stuffed Capsicum (serves two, or one hungry person):
1. Slice a capsicum in half and scoop out the seeds and ribs so it makes two little bowls. Roast them facing down for ten minutes at 200 degrees celcius.
2. Mix a small amount of cooked rice with crushed nuts (you can smash them to bits yourself with a potato masher), chopped tomatoes, basil, garlic and a teaspoon or so of either cream, butter or oil. You can also put in tuna, cooked chicken pieces, tofu, or almost anything.
3. Flip over the slightly-cooked capsicum halves and fill with the mixture. Cook another 5-10 minutes, top with grated cheese, and eat.
Since I’m using my parents’ internet, here’s a picture:
Snot Monster
Today marks the halfway point. Whatever happens, I’ll have chocolate next Monday.
I did a reasonably honest weigh-in today and got 78.8 kilos. If tomorrow is as bad, I’ll know something’s gone horribly wrong (probably my contraceptive medication, which I’ve been on for four months, would be the baddie). As a matter of honour, I’ll still stay off chocolate until March (official chocolate, anyway – I might get into the Weight Watchers chocolate milk mix).
The title refers to my constant crying.
Today is the 22nd of February, which means I sent “Farting My ABCs” to its chosen publisher exactly six months ago. The publisher’s website says it takes four months to make its replies, but I know from experience that it takes six months for each stage (that is, six months to read the first three chapters and request the rest, then six months to read the full book). “Farting My ABCs” is so short I sent the whole thing (which they specifically say is the right thing to do) so it’s possible it’ll take longer for that reason. Also I know the publisher is especially swamped at present (plus, the recent six months includes the quagmire that is Christmas time). So I estimate they’ll reply in about another month.
I estimate the other publisher I’m waiting on (the one where the book, “Stormhunter”, is getting discussed by the two heads of the appropriate department) will take another two months from now.
Further Naked Calisthenics
I discovered a new trick on the scales today, and allegedly now weigh 77.9 kilos. I can live with that lie.
Church was unusually difficult today. It was one of those mornings when I wish God would become corporeal so I could punch him in the face. At the same time, I felt he was the only one in the room who caught the slightly sarcastic edge to the songs. So it was like being tortured, but feeling okay about it.
I just found out I won a GPS-type thingy in today’s Australian Sun Herald Travel section – for a teensy bit of non-fiction writing I did. That’s pretty cool – and worth $450. Gotta love that.
Tonight I’ll be eating a potato bake, which isn’t at all healthy, but is delicious.
Peel and slice about a kilo of potatoes, stick them in a greased lasagna tin with chopped bacon and mushroom in the middle layer, then mix a cup of cream with some basil or whatever herbs you like, and pour it over the top so it trickles through. Sprinkle cheese on top of that, then cook it for about an hour with aluminium foil over the top – and a further 10 minutes or so without the al foil (I’m hazy on times and temperatures – it’s basically “Very hot, for ages”. C’est les potatoes).
Fruit Fear
I have fruit fear.
Fruit is a dangerous food. It might look good and smell good, then be incredibly sour. One grape might be heavenly, and the next rotten. This fear haunts me daily, as I attempt to eat a correct dietary amount. When I can’t handle fruit at all, I drink juice (dried fruit also tends to help, or any fruit that’s prepared by someone else).
Recently I’ve developed a fear of chicken (yes, hilarious, I know). I attempted to deal with it today by buying a pre-cooked supermarket chicken to have on a sandwich with avocado. (Based on the idea that anything cooked by someone else is bound to be fine.)
Just thinking about my long-since eaten lunch now makes me feel sick. Our living room and kitchen are filled with the smell of roast chicken, and it’s FREAKING ME OUT. As soon as I finish this I’ll be fleeing to the bedroom until further notice.
My fruit fear is going well, so I guess I’ll freeze the remaining chicken and let it lurk in my freezer until a saner day. (And, of course, subtley add it to everything my husband eats: “Like a cuppa, sweatheart? It’s extra nutritous today. . .”)
I weighed myself this morning. It didn’t go well. Still optimistic about tomorrow, though.
Paranoia Girl is so right
I emotionally crashed on Tueday. It was Australia Day, so my partner and I chose to celebrate our anniversary mainly on that day, with our traditional picnic, plus seeing “Sherlock Holmes” (which I reviewed over at http://twittertales.wordpress.com) and going and eating Chinese for dinner.
I freaked out for no reason around 11am, and stayed freaked out all day, unable to make basic decisions or generally enjoy the enjoyableness of the day. It sucked a lot.
But, setting aside my mentalness, I feel pretty good. My renewed peacefulness and excitement about God is still there (under the public crying and urges to pull out my own eyeballs). Today I bought loads of brightly-coloured booze for my birthday, and also didn’t eat my usual pile of chocolate. I had a milo, which is practically fasting for me. I keep a careful eye on my drinking, because (clearly) I have an addictive personality. Thus far, however, I can use small amounts of alcohol (like one or two standard drinks – strictly AFTER work) as a substitute for large amounts of lollies (like 300 grams).
Just now I wrote a short story (a tad desperately, since I REALLY need to finish a twittertale ready for February 1, and it isn’t happening). It’s not a happy tale (it’s white trash crime), but finishing a new story always makes me feel good, which generally leads to more writing.
I’m gonna go attempt a 7-day twittertale, just to buy myself some time.
First – more booze. (I predict a problem in the future. . . but it IS really good for switching off my editor side.)
Cloudy with a chance of mental illness
On Sunday I had a religious experience. It was very strange and happiness-inducing and rather awkward to fit into the middle of life’s usual mundanity. It’s frightening how much God means to me, while also being reassuring (partly because God is the only possible constant in life, and partly because much of my self-identity is tied to Him).
It’s creepy because. . . because I felt (and still feel) so darn happy. I’ve got nowhere much to go but down. (So you see my sunny optimism lasted the experience.) I’m also aware the happiness is a side effect of seeing God (however briefly – fear is another common side effect, but that’s a topic for another day). It’s not the main effect. So am I really completely changed? Or is this as real as a change in meds? And am I going to crash and burn? How badly?
I spent two years searching for God at about the same time as I hit puberty (my family is Christian, but I realised quite clearly that if I was going to be Christian, I needed to meet God for myself). Those were by far the worst two years of my life, even though I was pretty sure I’d eventually find Him. Searching for God really highlights how horrible life is without at least the occasional glimpse of him. It’s much worse than unrequited love, and much worse than being mentally ill.
But when I was twelve, suddenly He was there, and He was obvious, and He’d been there all along. He was so OBVIOUS, and a lot of the time He still is (even if I hate his guts).
Those two years of pain are precious to me, because if God gets silent for long periods, I now know it’s not forever. But I still think of that age (I found Him at about twelve) as when I was at my spiritual best. I wanted to become a full-time aid worker to Indonesia, and nothing – really nothing; I thought boys were a foolish distraction from what really mattered – meant anything to me if it didn’t have anything to do with major world-changing God stuff.
For the last six months, I’ve been unable to read the Bible aloud or pray aloud or go to church, because I’ve been too angry at God. I’d just cry with rage every time. It was sort of okay; I knew it was an emotional place, not a real one, and that when I was able to see clearly God would be there and the relief would be exquisite.
I haven’t fundamentally changed since my days as a God-obsessed twelve-year old. While being concerned about not becoming one of those deeply irritating “Christian” types (you know exactly what I mean), I’m so pleased that God is still everything to me. Maybe that was the main point of Sunday’s experience. All the badness of the last few years happened without making a dent in who I am.
If I could internalise the concept that I’m everything to Him – then I’d REALLY be getting somewhere.
Wedding Belle
My partner and I married a year ago today.
We’ve lasted a year, which seems like a good start – although mostly it seems like not very long at all. I certainly don’t have the hang of it yet. (Maybe this time NEXT year. . .)
Overwhelmingly, marriage is easier than I expected. The first couple of months were scary, it’s true, but overall my partner has proved (again) that he is good at everything. His worst fault is his forgetfulness, the flip side of his very valuable calm. (He has ADD, and I have an anxiety disorder – which actually works pretty well in combination.)
Probably the things that will always need careful negotiation (one partner constantly giving in is bad) are how to deal with living together (where do you live? who cleans? how clean? where does stuff go? what happens with buying and preparing food?) and how to deal with finances. For me, the most important thing was that the house has to be tidy all the time (it helps me remember things, and lets me feel safe), and my partner had to do a reasonable amount of regular cleaning without being told (a mother-child relationship is never attractive). He’s got a LOT tidier over the last year, and I’m starting to get a bit messier (which is good). Our money isn’t great, but we do have savings now, which is pretty good considering I can only earn around $15,000 a year. He buys less stuff than he used to, and when he wants something enough to mention it I pretty much always agree that our budget can handle it – even if my spending habits pre-marriage were dedicated to survival (rent and bills, then petrol, then social obligations and minimal writing expenses, then food – nothing else).
Our home is a safe place for me, and I’ve never felt the panicky urge to get out (as in so many other share houses). Surprisingly, sharing a room has been quite easy – mostly because we are extremely respectful of each other (and he has his own extra room next door for all his messy/useless/old crap, which was a genius move on our part).
Before we married, I lived in a tiny flat that had fungus issues, poisonous water, and a leaking toilet. I was no longer able to support myself (with or without government benefits), because my mental illness robbed me of my self-control. In Jane Austen’s day, a woman needed to marry to gain her independence. That has been true for me as well.
I hate being financially dependent, and I struggle daily with my lack of novel publication, but marriage has given me a physical and metaphorical safe place where I can recover from the years that came before this, and grow back into being a reasonable sort of human. The worst part of our marriage is my mental illness, which blocks my positive emotions, limits my movements, and basically makes me selfish and inflexible (and also violent, it turns out. Since we now live together, he doesn’t get to miss seeing my worst moments, either). Fortunately my partner never questions me when I say I can’t do something, and is always gracious about instantly helping me in any way I ask.
Violence is never acceptable in any relationship, and (although I never hurt or intimidated him) if it happens again I’ll continue switching medication until it stops for good. He doesn’t think it’s serious, but I do. That’s a line I never thought I’d cross, and I will never accept in my marriage or anyone else’s. For any reason. But I *think* it’s over now I’ve switched contraceptive meds.
I was discussing fairy tales with a student the other day, and realised that there really is a little bit of truth in the idea of having a wedding at the end, followed by “happily ever after”.
Once you’re married, that’s it. Your old life is over, and a new one has begun. Whether it’s happy or not depends largely on who you are and how smart you are about communicating your heartfelt needs, and on finding happiness outside of your partner (who can never meet all your needs). But I think we’re biologically designed to devote our life and body to one person, and it takes a special person to be happily single.
I don’t see our marriage as permanent, though. Divorce isn’t an option (unless someone cheats or turns abusive), but this relationship is a gift. Our lives and marriage could change drastically or end at any moment. Next year might be just like this year, or it could be completely different. Nothing bad has happened to us yet, so I hope we can still treat each other well and support each other when something goes wrong. For now, though, “happily ever after” is quite a good description of married life.
I can’t imagine myself being able to survive marriage with anyone else.
PS a highly appropriate quote from the sleep talkin’ man: “Yeah, falling in love is WONDERFUL. Especially when it’s with me.”
Sigh of a ninja
It’s 3am and I can’t sleep. This makes me want to eat chocolate.
I wish I could write more gooder.
Paranoia Girl with supersonic hearing?
I had friends over today. It was excellent. We ate a pork roast (crusted with hazelnut and apricot), a potato bake (with extra bacon and cream, and home-grown tomatoes), and chocolate fondue – and we played Settlers of Katan.
On two separate occasions, while making light conversation, I paused suddenly and then excused myself even more apruptly with a mumbled excuse. Shortly afterward, I reappeared looking furtive, then continued to socialise as if nothing had happened. My reason? Food poisoning.
But I like to think it was a *little* like being an on-call superhero.
In other (arguably related) news, the whole idea of living as a hero and inspiring other heroes through my books (and through my epic failure to get quickly published) is definitely still ringing true for me. This is important, because it makes life worth living – rather than something I endure as a grudging favour to loved ones.
Yesterday I made it to my local church for the first time in about six months – I had stopped going because I was so angry at God I always ended up crying in the car (then spending the afternoon in a metaphorical and/or literal fetal position). Although I noticed myself being tetchier than usual, it was okay. Okay is a vast improvement.
I’m not BFFs with God like I used to be – but, to be fair, that’s probably a rational thing. Friends do everything in their power to help you to not be in pain, and God just doesn’t work like that. I feel more intrigued than angry now – God is the author, and I’m the character. What fascinating (and probably unpleasant, but oh well) thing is going to happen next?
(The answer is: more waiting. Two of my best-chance publishers are late to reply to two full-length books, which means either could call me with an offer any day. But they’ll probably wait about three months, then email me to say they’re not making an offer. My life story is a repetetive one, thus far.)
Pain is always easier when it means something. Mine means I end up with a better story. What more could I want?
Felicity Banks 