Felicity Banks

The Fear

October 18, 2009 at 1:53 am (Mental illness)

Yesterday I had an epiphany.

Everyone has certain friends they don’t like – people you quietly wish would leave your friendship group, but you know they never will.

Pause for a related tale:

When I was fifteen or sixteen, I had a crush on a boy. (Mostly because he’d fallen for me, and was incredibly good-looking AND incredibly romantic, AND one of my best friends). Since I was already deeply in love with someone else, I made the decision not to go out with him – but I was very tempted. I’ll call the TDH (tall dark and handsome) crush Fred.

Some months passed, and by chance I discovered that Fred was making up stories about mutual friends of ours. I was lucky enough to stumble across information that made his dishonesty absolutely clear.

I’ve never been a fan of people who make up lies (my biological father, apparently, used to do exactly the same thing – making up unneccessary lies that were sometimes less attractive than the truth). I quickly realised that he was probably making up stories about me, too – some of them based on true secrets I’d told him.

Trust is vital in friendship, but I realised I still enjoyed his company. All I had to do to remain friends was never tell him any secrets, and to accept that a lot of what he said was completely made up. It was like a friendship with one piece taken out – and it worked surprisingy well.

And back to the present:

Since I became a basket case, friendships have been a lot harder to maintain. There are two I’ve deliberately chosen to draw back from – one because her own anxiety brings me down the instant I so much as think of her, and one because I know one day she’ll get annoyed and write about my many flaws (specifically and by my real name) on facebook.

Three other friends have hurt me badly in various ways – but they’re very close friends, and deeply embedded in friendship groups I can’t leave. So for about a year now I’ve been struggling to know what to do – how to reconcile their cruelty with our unbreakable friendships.

Their cruelty didn’t bother me so much – my weakness does sometimes bring out a bad side in others – but I was very ashamed of my own inability to just let it go.

Finally I realised that I wasn’t angry with them – I’d forgiven them long ago – I was simply afraid, knowing I couldn’t trust them.

So all I have is another few friendships with a piece missing. I can handle that!

I’ll probably always be afraid of them, but so what? Sometimes getting in or out of my car is so conceptually difficult I have a panic attack.

I’m not a bad person for still having negative feelings about bad people. And now I can live with my conscience, I can endure them, too.

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Blood

October 7, 2009 at 10:52 pm (Mental illness)

PG for mention of adult content.

I (more or less) achieved something today I’ve been trying to do for around thirteen years. It wasn’t major book publication. It was donating blood.

I always seem to have a cold or some other minor illness, or a recent tattoo, or a bad medication. Plus it’s simply an unfamiliar task (yesterday, I mopped two and a half rooms for the first time. It took all day, and I only managed it by using no soap or bucket – just cold water from the tap. Even in my own house, an unfamiliar task spins my world into disarray. Either that, or cleaning is just a health risk).

My husband and I went to donate blood some months ago, and there was some reason I couldn’t do it (a cold, I think). He did, and I at least got to know what the waiting room etc looks like (making the place slightly more familiar).

It really creeped me out even then. I think it’s that doctors (if they’re any good) do a convincing job of seeming to care. Most of the time I feel I’m able to hide my craziness behind the simplest of facades – but not with doctors. Weird but true. Also there’s SO much occupational health and safety stuff that I feel certain something horrible is about to happen (OH&S always has this effect on me – it was arguably the number one reason I decided to quit regular classroom teaching).

I tried to set up an appointment for last Monday (public holiday), so my partner and I could go together. Not surprisingly, it was closed. But I made an appointment for just me, today. Even at the time I realised it was dumb.

I’m a little anaemic, plus anxiety makes me sluggish and unco – as if I’m drunk, sometimes. And there was no knowing if I’d have a weird first-donation reaction like fainting or something. (I’ve had dozens of shots, but have become less and less able to deal with the slightest bit of pain or blood. I’m turning into a friggin’ GIRL!)

Aaaannyway. . .

The preceding night and morning I ate a LOT and drank (water) even more – as per the web site instructions.

I got hopelessly lost on the way (already having a panic attack – crying, and unable to remember even the simplest directions for more than half a second), but luckily stumbled across the right street, and even parked in the right place. That was the first hurdle. The second was getting a parking permit from reception, putting it in my car, and going back in.

This is the kind of thing I find really difficult – not sure why. On the way out I dropped the ticket at the door, struggling to not cry, to carry my bag, and to push the door open. As I picked it up, I stumbled into the door and a nurse (or someone – I averted my face) asked if I was all right. I wasn’t able to answer.

Put permit in car. Closed and locked car. Went back in. Picked up folder with form in it. Filled out form (no I have never had man to man sex). Another hurdle down.

Waited, reading a book I’d prepared earlier and eating lollies I’d also prepped.

Had my “interview” where they follow up on the form (“Are you SURE you’ve never had man to man sex? And how recently have you not had man to man sex?” – okay, I admit they didn’t follow up on that bit) and also prick a finger very slightly to test your iron levels (which for me they did twice because the first reading was incorrect). Didn’t cry. Mentioned anxiety without crying. All good. Managed to take off my jacket without braining myself or the nurse, or flailing enough to damage expensive medical equipment (clothes freak me out, too. Especially heavy outer clothing).

The nurse could tell I’d drunk a lot because my blood was flowing beautifully. Yay for gushing torrents of blood.

She gave me a first-timer sticker for my shirt, so people “know to keep an eye on you”.

Went into the big room with the comfy chairs and the ominous arm-rests. It reeked of efficiency, competence, and sanitation. I actually liked the fact that the chairs look like dentist’s chairs – dentists are usually borderline psychotic (in my opinion) and don’t really care if you’re in pain. I like that.

Sat down fine, and was more or less okay as they put a strap on my upper arm and poked at my veins while I squeezed a foam ball.

Blood is life-force. Every writer knows that. I’d tried not to think of the symbology of what I was doing – having my life-force sucked away in the goriest possible way not involving CGI monsters. Naturally, I failed.

Oh, and of course I had to try to keep still. (I’ve heard that’s the toughest aspect of Chinese water torture.)

The instant the needle went in my arm, I cried – quickly attracting a small crowd. I was very lucky – I was still able to speak (“it’s just anxiety, no it doesn’t hurt, nothing’s physically wrong”) and I was mercifully snot-free (since there was no way I could blow my nose).

Someone fetched me a drink of water (with a straw) which actually was extremely helpful – symbolically, the intake of water balanced the outtake of blood, so I felt that I wasn’t losing anything.

Unfortunately, it turns out I was wrong about my anxiety being only crippling and humiliating to me. It turns out it slows blood flow, too. The staff got some blood, but it was so sluggish they thought their machine was either broken or about to be broken, and they gave up.

So. . . fail. But success too, because they have enough of my life-force to tell me my blood group “for next time” – which is something I’ve always wanted to know.

I cried plenty more in the recovery room (weeping into my free strawberry milkshake and chewing morosely on my jellybeans of shame), and SMSed my husband to please leave work and take me home – which he did.

For obvous reasons, I’m never going back.

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Losing It

September 21, 2009 at 6:10 am (Mental illness)

I mentioned in “A Day” that I’d had some violent urges. On Friday (the day after that entry), when a number of things went wrong at once, I threw my laptop down the stairs. Also, my husband was coming up the stairs at the time (coming to help me, in fact).

My laptop is my most precious possession – it has ALL my writing on it (mostly backed up, but still). My husband is my favourite person ever.

I’ve never done anything that could harm a person before – or anything that I thought was likely to harm an object (not even a plate, which I believe is traditional).

I always get about half a second of rational thinking in moments like this. All I managed to think was, “This is bad. Throw slowly, and try not to hit him.”

I didn’t hit him – my husband actually moved in front of my bag and stopped it with his foot. He certainly didn’t feel threatened. My laptop (in its padded laptop bag) was fine too. But saying “it’s all good” would be wildly innaccurate.

It’s bizarre and frightening that I would actually throw something – especially my beloved laptop – at a person. It’s weird and embarassing that the underlying cause of my current stress is that a publisher is taking a long time to reply (which is a good sign – but one I’ve had almost twenty times before). It just isn’t a good reason for me to find myself so far over the edge. (On the other hand, like many other writers, I’ve been working toward a big break for over a decade.)

Nonetheless, here I am. There’s a good chance the publisher will reply today or tomorrow. I guarantee I’ll feel better when they do, even if it’s a rejection (that’s just how I roll, people). In the meantime I’m wandering around the house resisting the urge to scream and punch things, and I’ll probably stay that way a few days. 

I’d better take me some happy pills tomorrow.

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A Day

September 17, 2009 at 12:18 pm (Mental illness)

I’ve been meaning for a while to detail an ordinary day in the life of a crazy person (that’d be me, for those who haven’t been paying attention).

Today is Thursday, which means that I have two and a half hours of tutoring – that’s a big day. I’m slightly more stressed than usual due to my partner working a lot of overtime (he seems fine but I’m stressed on his behalf), the long months of waiting for Harper Collins’ reply, and my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary a week and a half ago (I take a long time to recover from things).

I awoke at 8:00am as usual, feeling frightened. This was because I was teaching at a school today, and I was nervous for various minor reasons (which also gave me nightmares). I remembered NOT to eat nuts for breakfast (important when visiting a school, where breathing nut-breath can cause anaphylactic shock). I’d gained another twenty twitter followers overnight (good, except I suspect I’ve attracted the attention of spambots rather than humans). Patched up a rung in my right knee-hi with nail polish (all my other knee-highs were in the wash).

By 9:20am I was at the school with plenty of time to spare, despite taking two wrong turns on the way (it’s about 5 minutes from my house, involves only four turns altogether, and I’ve already been there several times. Oh well).

The class went well. (Although I don’t think anyone actually went home and followed me on twitter, which in theory was the point.)

Went to my parents’ house (while they’re on a second honeymoon) to use their clip art and printer (making certificates for a writing competition – my second attempt at certificates, since our home printer is about as helpful as a customer service line). Noticed a car out the front, and mentally braced myself for my parents (parents are innately scary – I always have my most severe panic attacks in their house). I rang the doorbell to warn them (so they can put clothes on/hide their lover/sweep the dead goats under the rug, paused a second, and let myself in. The cleaner was on her way to the door, and when she appeared I scared both of us by screaming in shock. (She has bought a new car lately, which is why I didn’t recognise it – I had though it might be my parents’ rental car.)

Oh well.

The certificate-making was surprisingly easy, but the parental printer didn’t work.

Oh well.

I bought lollies at the local shop – 150grams chocolate coated peanuts, 200g natural confectionary jellybeans, a mini peppermint freddo and a mini caramello.

I considered staying at my parents for a few hours until I had to go to work, but was too scared my parents would drop by (it’s worth noting that I get on just fine with my parents). So I drove home. (This is trip # 1 to the North side today.)

On the way home, I ate enough jelly beans to feel sick. I left them in the car in order to stop myself eating more.

Ate lunch, ate the two smaller chocolates, and started on the peanuts while reading. Felt sick from choc-coated peanuts. Slept. Awoke muddled and frightened, and considered cancelling my first hour of tutoring. But it was the one that pays in cash, so I didn’t. Just went to work, with a stress-headache (I’ve been getting stress headaches since my partner and I got engaged last year – there’s nothing more stressful than a wedding, and I haven’t really recovered yet.)

Trip # 2 to the North side today.

Stepped out of the car and realised my right shoe, perhaps feeling companionable toward my right knee-high stocking, was broken. I ignored it, except for walking carefully (which I have to do already, because panic-attack and/or medication uncoordination makes heels difficult these days).

Spent a large portion of the lesson chatting with the student. Could arguably call it “holistic” teaching.

During the next lesson I managed to check my email twice (did I mention Harper Collins haven’t replied yet?) Unfortuantely, that student has an assignment due Monday (which – hallelujah – she HASN’T lost this time), and I’d left two important pieces of paper at home (despite writing about them in my diary). I phoned my husband (who I knew was seeing a friend this evening) and asked if his friend lived on the Northside. The friend doesn’t, but my partner suggested he meet me in Belconnen with the two pieces of paper. I told him not to worry.

My third student was wriggly but good. She said I had what looked like possum tracks on my face (this is because she’s been studying Aboriginal culture – and because I write on my hand to help me remember things, which frequently transfers to my face).

Then I went home to pick up the two vital pieces of paper. A car tried to zoom around me on a form one lane (scary) and another beeped nearby (not at me, I think, but my first reaction was anger – then I thought how fun it’d be to smash my driver’s side window with my head. I remembered the last time I’d smashed a car window – also in panicked anger – and decided not to). Ate the rest of the jelly beans, and felt sick.

I was at home for ten minutes. I did a little tidying, pushed my knee-highs down around my ankles so my blood could circulate for a bit, ate a small amount of my dinner, and checked my email (nothing from Harper Collins). By sheer good luck, my husband was still home, so I got a welcome-home smoochie. I was holding up well until he asked how I was, when I immediately (and unexpectedly) cried. (But only for a second.)

Went back to my student’s house. Ate the rest of the choc-coated peanuts and felt sick. (Trip # 3 to the North side today.) Gave her the pieces of paper, and reminded her of various things which she’s probably forgotten by now.

Realised as I left that my knee-highs were still bunched around my ankles. Oh well. On the Tuggeranong Parkway (Canberra’s only 100 kmh zone), I felt a flash of curiousity about what it’d be like to put my foot down and drive into the line of cars in the other lane. By now it was dark and raining heavily, and I was hallucinating a little (which isn’t related to mental illness. I think it’s a mild sleep-apnea thing. Interestingly, I don’t hallucinate when on anti-depressants). It’s rare for me to get those flashes nowadays, but there have been times (generally when off chocolate) when I’d have to write stuff like, “Don’t injure self” on my hand (so I’d remember I didn’t actually want to do that stuff).

Arrived home. Ate. Watched trashy TV (20 to 1 most outrageous rock stars). Cried when they played four bars of Pink’s “Dear Mr President”. Wrote twittertale blog.

Called husband to see if his friend can print the certificates. Friend doesn’t have a printer, but husband said he will make arrangements elsewhere tomorrow (you can kinda see why I married him, huh?).

Now it’s 10:00 o’clock, and my husband’s on his way home to watch a “Buffy” episode before we go to sleep.

And that’s a day in the life of a mental.

Just don't make her angry

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Chucking a Sickie

September 9, 2009 at 10:52 pm (Mental illness)

I don’t like staying home like a scared little kitty – but I can see the up side. Jealous, anyone?

Today I’ll be eating lollies, reading books, and recovering from a monster week (not that it’s over yet, but I’ve cancelled most of my work for the rest of this week).

It’s never good when I try to do too much. I get angry, violent, uncoordinated and incoherant. Also I cry. My mental-management skills are improved to the point where I almost never cry in front of people, but just save it up until I can go home (or at least into another room). Still, that just leaves me crying at home, which isn’t quite the effect I’m aiming for.

So: books, candy, and a long stretch at home with almost nothing to do. If it was something I’d actually chosen for myself, it’d be perfect. And who gets perfection, anyway?

Okay, SHE is perfection.

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