24 Hours Ago, Give or Take
It feels like being trapped in a car, careening downhill with the brakes cut. That’s what it feels like.
Still able to put on a brave face, hey. Still able to function. I mean, I’m still weird as all fuck but I can manage to be acceptably weird in long enough doses that – oh, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Or I do. I’m saying that I lie, or pretend. Maybe they’re the same thing.
How the fuck am I meant to prepare for a race when I’m in inpatient care? That’s what’s going through my mind at the moment. Every time the level of support I am offered goes up, I get worse. Worse and worse. I just tried pulling my hair out. If I go to work tomorrow I’ll pretend everything is fine.
But I can’t go into inpatient care because I can tell you for a fact Maudsley don’t have a 25m training pool in their basement, and I very much doubt they’re going to let me rack up my turbo trainer in a cleaner’s cupboard. Is this how addiction starts? Is this what’s keeping me out of hospital? Fucking sports?
Everyone’s gotta have something to hold on to and that’s just what mine is. Swedeman is just under 4 weeks away. The question of whether I’ll be fit enough to race it is pretty nebulous: fit how? Physically? I’ve not been sleeping well but no-one has in this heat, so seems a bit pathetic to complain about that. I’ve barely been eating and had to resort to getting advice on social media for that one. Do you know where they lack of food hits you? I can still manage the easy and moderate efforts in sessions, but top-end speed isn’t reduced so long as it just doesn’t exist. The strength isn’t there.
Psychologically? I have a capacity for not knowing when to quit (see: current debate on whether I should be getting a taxi to A&E). If I can get to the start line I will get to the finish line. That’s how it works.
It sounds ridiculous, and I’m cognizant enough to recognise that. But really, what else do I have to hold on to
Anyway, that’s as far as I got with this post. Anyone fancy a trip to A&E? I don’t have the balls to go by myself. (No worries I found someone)
Listening: Suffocate For Fuck Sake – N (le gilet fraternal) / Ever felt sad?; I guess if Blazing Fires… and it’s themes of loss and learning to live with it was 2016, and In My Blood and what makes a person’s worth was 2017, then this re-release has to be 2018.
Reading: so many online leaflets about what to do in crisis
24 Second Ago, Give or Take
Okay, let’s try this again. That there above was my attempt to write anything coherent last night. It probably does not need explaining, therefore, that last night was not the greatest.
Let’s back way up to the last post and go from there. Things have continued on a predictable scale. The suicidality has continued, with the added bonus of sleep and diet now being disrupted as well. They were touched on above by yester-George so let’s skip on a bit.
This ended up last night with me being in a bit of a state, sat on the floor in my flat softly wailing “Ohh fuuuuuuuuuuck” repeatedly while tugging at my hair. Y’know, like anyone who has just realised they would be missing that night’s Love Island due to an impending nuclear holocaust might do. I gather that Love Island is Very Serious Business to about 50% of the adult UK population right now, so I’m guessing this is a suitably grave metaphor.
Cue one A&E trip. It took a while to get me to that point – and a number of calls to crisis lines that didn’t go through – but eventually a couple of friends and I bundled into a taxi towards Tooting. I have long-held reservations around public mental health care in this country and would’ve jipped out if it were just me alone going, so I owe a massive thanks to Sarah, James, and the soon to be christened Barry Kayleigh Kerry-Barnard (it’s a working title) for the company.
To cut a long and boring story short, A&E was a distressing waste of time. The hour (?) I spent with the psychiatric team I think would be best described as passive-aggressive, and at worst as outright confrontational. Apparently the crux of my problems is that I just need to change the way I think, obviously. Well, no fucking shit, Sheila Sherlock – the whole reason I am here is because I am trying and failing at that. Can’t eat? Again, I just need to change the way I think. I was asked for my views on medication, told them that I’d got rid of it because I was prone to compulsions to overdose, and immediately got recommended an outpatient appointment to talk about what antidepressants and sleeping pills they can chuck at me. Think I’ll give that one a miss.
Y’know, it’s hard not to blame myself in part, because when they asked what I was there for I couldn’t answer that. And when things got uncomfortable, which was pretty much immediately but in increasing amounts, I did my usual thing of putting a face on and maybe wasn’t as open as I could have been. I’m not sure if that’s the shittiest bit at all, that I can’t work out if it’s meant to be my fault or not.
Anyway, fast forward to this morning. Very little sleep (approx. 29 minutes of deep sleep according to fancypants McTriathlonwatch), up in time to jump on the turbo, force feed myself some porridge and head off to work. Had a catch up with work, who know what’s going on, and things are being sorted.
So that’s the biographical bit, and brings us up to now. Or as much as I have the energy to explain. Key learnings: not dead yet. There has been a couple of quandaries that have come up as a result of today, but right now I’m really tired, and it’s bin night, and I think if I act quickly I just about have the energy to manage bin night before I melt into a puddle on the floor. Expect a follow up by the weekend.
Listening: Low – Just Make It Stop; Low is always calming and pure, even when the twee music is weirdly disconcerting with the anxious vocals
Reading: Daniel Regan – I Want to Live; 1) is it still reading if it’s primarily photographs 2) is it crass to annotate a photography book