Small and furry,
with only one eye
the reason for this?
I don’t know why.
White fur, pink nose
tiny paws with claws,
when she jumps off the sofa
she lands on all fours.
in animal form,
all the bad guys
you should warn.
A new crimefighter
on the beat,
she’s a danger
walking on four feet.
Sharp teeth, she bites,
when she jumps out her nest
to avoid being eaten
would be best.
Cold ears, long whiskers,
tell her you’re near,
is the one to fear.
and thus, I win at life.
I am diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. This is in no way a gift.
Let me try and explain a little of why.
I can’t keep my eyes open.
Well, I can, I must be right? I’m typing this, but my eyes are drooping and it’s not even six pm yet. The reason if that I was awake most of the night, suffering from insomnia, so I’m tired now, ready for bed. Except I know need to stay away, and I know that even if I went to bed now, I wouldn’t sleep anyway. Cause the insomnia is awful, to the point that I couldn’t bare another few days of this, so I went to the doctor today to ask (beg) for sleeping tablets. Tamazepam, in fact, as I’m slowly working my way through sleeping tablets as they stop working after a while. Already I’m building up a tolerance to the tamazepam, I don’t think they’ll be working by the end of this year.
Because I’m not sleeping properly, I’m struggling to get up and out of bed. Which means two things. I don’t take my medication at the right time, so I start shaking, and I spend a lot of time in bed panicking about getting out of bed. Suddenly it becomes the hardest thing in the world.
And I’m still shaking a bit.
My mood is slowly going downhill, and I miss cutting more and more as the days pass by. It’s a jealously thing too. My friends are cutting, I can’t help a little jealousy when sometimes it’s a harder to fight the desire than usual. Not that I blame my friends, and cutting wouldn’t help the insomnia, or the mood, really, but it’s still a default setting for me. Things are bad? Cut. Perhaps one day, it won’t even occur to me to cut, but right now, it’s still a work in progress.
My flat is a mess. This is the norm. I can’t keep on top of my own life really. Can’t look after myself. Which then, makes me feel bad, because I’m 29, I should be able to look after myself, feed, clean and clothe myself, keep a nice-ish home and so on. But I can’t. Various reasons. Mostly I’m just amazed I can’t get to the sofa without an assault course of rubbish in the way. I’m not proud of this, it’s a damn embarrassment, but I figure the trade of for not cutting/overdosing/being suicidal might be worth it.
I’m single, childless and have a hamster as a pet. All of those things I pretty much track down to my mental health. I can’t look after myself, let alone a dog or another bigger than a couple of hamsters. Even the hamsters suffer sometimes I think. Everyone in my orbit suffers in one way or another.
I’m single for various reasons, but mostly out of choice, I don’t even try to have anything other than a friendship, because I don’t think I could handle having another person in my life that much, and I don’t think I should inflict myself on another person. My friends and family suffer enough, why bring another person into the orbit of Rhi’s doom (must think of a better name than the orbit of Rhi’s doom).
And that’s pertly the reality of the situation, my life, and partly my self esteem problem, which is linked to my mental health.
Thank you, thank you so much for this gift that hurts me and everyone around me.
And all of this, is during what I can only describe as the best my life has been since I left home at 18. It’s been so, so much worse.
And this gift? This terrible, terrible gift has done so much worse and I still start to well up whenever I think about my friend Kirsty who killed herself just over a year ago.
This, of course, is all the bad things, what is the good? Can I attribute my poetry and writing, my drawings and weird watercolours to my mental health problems. Yes, no, maybe? Who knows, but if I had to give it up, and become a normal boring person, with a tidier house and a girlfriend/boyfriend, a kid and a dog, and Saturday nights in the pub, and watching soaps during the week, I think, I think I would.
Because I’d rather be with a loved one in a pub, than crying on my sofa, writing a rant about the gift that is my depression, anxiety and inability to be a useful member of society.
Of course, what I will say is this: If you think it’s a gift, relish it, use it, because you’re possbily better off than me.
There were flashes of colour over the grey city, like lightening, but swooping past windows catching the eye of every inhabitant in the tall tower blocks. No one was sure where there came from at first, there was a gap in the universe, and they appeared over the roofs and satellite dishes, their reflections in some of the highly polished glass set in the office blocks. Faces soon appeared, pushing curtains back and opening windows briefly, pressing faces up against the glass, or peering from behind sofas and armchairs.
Aderyn, bright red and laughing, the sound a screech, stuck her talons into the side of one building, bits of bricks and concrete falling to the pavement, smashing into the tarmac. She wanted to put her head into one of the windows, but no one would open up, no one would even come close and she chuckled again, calling out to Idris, flapping his green wings slowly so could hover above her, watching.
“They are afraid of me.”
“Come away from there Aderyn,” Urien called out, his voice deep enough to cause a slight ripple in the air, the last of the sunlight from the little town they had left behind shining on his hide, changing it from black to purple. The largest of the four, Urien made Heddwyn look tiny in comparison, the little dragon was still growing, his hide still pale, with spindly legs and small wings, barely a year old but had followed the others through to the other universe anyway and would’ve followed his brother Idris into the darkness.
In their town, in the centre of the little community, they were waved off, four dragons off on an adventure, passing through the gap that had appeared on the edge of their known space, past the houses and flowers. They would be missed, people were be afraid they would never return, but Urien was determined, confident even, that he would survive, they would all survive.
On the streets of the grey city, people were screaming, the sound low at first, but building steadily as more people looked up, more people realised what they were seeing.
Cannes kissed skin,
but not by me
I crave the chance
to touch and take in
those little sighs, stolen,
not belonging to me,
but to the man
on your arm when you leave,
kiss on his cheek
not on my lips.
Jealousy does not strike
I’m not really
the envious type,
just a dreamer with desires
sparked by skin and smiles
sad words in your soft voice,
my own sad sighs,
I know what I’m missing.
I’m a woman of easy attractions
encouraged by continued affection,
you always take the seat
next to mine
though I always offer,
just to be sure
the connection is continued
if only for two hours
every two weeks
and I sigh as we break apart.
Like the rest of the normal working humans I take the weekends off.
Except I don’t work.
Well, I don’t have a job, doesn’t mean the rest of the week isn’t hard work. So I take the weekend off from trying, from being a normal human, sociable, awake, whatever.
Everything is a challenge, trying to sleep, being asleep, waking up, getting up, being up. Seeing people, being surrounded by people, talking to people. Leaving the flat, being in the flat. Everything has it’s own issue, and while they’re not all constant, because if they were, I’d be a gibbering wreck, but still every day has it’s own little thing.
So at the weekend, I don’t try. Don’t go out, don’t bother, don’t do anything. I spend at least Saturday being the social outcast/hermit I desperately want to be at times. I sleep in late, leave me phone on silent, don’t go out further than the little shop at the bottom of the hill. I don’t tidy up, or eat properly, or do anything properly really. I suffer through the panic and depression without actually doing anything, I don’t fight against the pull on my heart, my concentration, the ache in my legs.
I don’t nap, I should never nap, it screws up my body clock cause it stops me from sleeping at night. Not that I usually sleep well at night, but still, on occasion at the weekend, I risk it all and nap. Not often, because of everything, the insomnia causes me more stress over the week than anything else sometimes. Anxiety is worse when I sleepless, the depression too, so sleep is pretty important.
I don’t go out on Saturdays often, or I try not to, Saturdays are the busiest days, out in the real world at least. Instead of subjecting myself to the increased population of Aberystwyth and it’s surrounding areas, I stay inside stay away, take the day off from the twists and turns through tourists.
Anyway, so, I take the weekend off, cause sometimes, everything else is as hard work as my full time job was. Except, while I was working full time, I was also going through all this crap too. No wonder I was drinking, self-harming, and generally loosing the plot.
The beach, while empty in this picture, is full of kids today. And while I’m not against an empty beach, there is something satisfying about a beach full of people enjoying themselves. I tend to go before the adults come to drink on the beach in the early evening, I find that a little unsettling. Not sure why.
But right now, in the middle of the day it’s nice, not peaceful in any way, but nice.
And I have a book, and some water, and some painkillers. What more could I need?
Anyway, not the point.
I got up yesterday and found she had been bleeding. I wasn’t sure where from (i.e, from her bum or her vagina), but the vets open surgery thingy-majig didn’t open ’til half five so I couldn’t do much, and by time I’d gotten back from my appointment with my OT it had dried up and she seemed fine. In face she seemed fine when she was bleeding, like it wasn’t actually happening. It was the same when she hurt her eye, she carried on like it hadn’t happened.
I’m not even sure she really notices she only uses one eye until I check it.
Anyway, I decided not to take her to the vets, and then I got home around 11 last from a BBQ in the rain (we’re British, what can I say), she had been bleeding again. When I got up for some water at four, more blood, this morning I got my arse out of bed for nine-ish to take her to the Saturday morning open surgery thingy-majig. The last time I got up that early it was to travel acorss the country.
So I take the hamster to the vet, John Downes, a huge man, whose hands are three times the size of my little hamster. He looks at her, we talk, he gives me cream. Which has a sticker with my hamster’s name on it, which cracks me up no end.
That’s not the point of this story.
The point is that apparently, my hamster looks funny.
The vet’s exact word was blocky.
And she walks a bit funny, and while I could attribute the funny walk to constantly jumping/falling off furniture, I’m pretty sure she’s always walked that way. The bit about her looking funny was a surprise though, cause, well, she looks like a hamster. My mum has always said that she looks like a bruiser or a body builder. She’s got strong forelegs, so she just looks a bit buff, I just figured that was normal for a Russian dwarf, I’ve never had one before.
I assume it’s all the climbing she does. Pretty much since I got her, she’s sepnt 50% of her life out of the cage, either in the ball, on the sofa, on my bed, climbing, running, sleeping. A lot of climbing.
Apparentely looking like a little furry white thug isn’t normal. And the fact she only uses one eye doesn’t help, the left one is permentely closed now. Not that she’s borthred about that either.
She’s the most easy going hamster ever, until she can’t come out of her cage. Then she is evil hamster.
Anyway. Blocky. I always suspected my hamster was a bit different. She’s not even botthered by having cream put on her bits. The vet said to distract her so she wouldn’t like it off, and I did that, but she didn’t even consider it.
In fact, what was more distressing about this entire thing is probably once again, being shoved into her ball, into a bag, carried across town and then surrounded by animals that could and would, swallow her whole. Then manhandled by a giant. After being manhandled by me a couple of times too.
I’m surprised she’s still ‘talking’ to me. She certainly hasn’t bitten me. Though I did give her a bit of red pepper, her favourite, so that may have placated her a little.
Listen to me, I’m trying to placate a hamster! I only bought her cause I got the cage from the second hand shop for a fiver. I was gonna get rats.
I’m not a fan of reality.
I’m sure I’ve said this before, it’s a long standing feeling, I’ve always been a day-dreamer, and I’ve always managed to take it to the next level.
And then some.
I don’t actually exist in reality all of the time, actually I’d say I was only Rhi about 50% of the time. The rest of the time I’m someone else, somewhere else. It’s been this way since I was a teenager, younger maybe. It’s a coping mechanism, it’s easier to be somewhere else, than to be here, be me. Especially when I can’t sleep, if I had to lie there and think about my own life and being me, I would be having breakdowns every week. More so when I was a teenager and I barely slept at all. I was a proper insomniac from about the age of thirteen to nineteen, and lying there, being all angsty and hormonal, well, I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.
It’s partly why I write, to create little places, people, worlds, a million different things I would rather be doing. I would rather be, etc. That, and I have too many words in my head.
Anyway, I started thinking about this again, because a friend sent me a link to a behind-the-scenes video of Castle.
I don’t really do behind-the-scenes stuff. I think it’s because it’s basically the reality behind the tv sows, behind the fantasy created by those tv shows. I’ll watch deleted scenes, for shows and films, but I’ve never watched anything with the dvd commentary on, or the making-of films and tv shows because I’m just not interested in the reality of it all.
The only thing I have an interest in when it comes to the reality of a tv show are some of the actors and actresses. Amanda Tapping, Hugh Laurie, Stana Katic, Nathan Fillion, Robert Downey Jr, Olivia Wilde, I could go on. I have a little more interest in these people, than I do in the making of the films and tv shows that they’re in. They in turn create little fantasies of their own, which sounds dirtier than I intend it to be, but I think you get my point, right?
Music and books are seperate again, I have zero interest in the people behind the music, I have favourite bands, but that’s because I like the music. As long as they don’t do anything completely awful, then as long as the music is good I generally think they can do whatever they want. Like everyone else in the world.
Books I’m more interested in the process of writing, the ‘making-of‘ so to speak, because I’m a writer myself. I’ve read Stephen Kings – On Writing, a great book, and I’ve got plenty of books about writing, cause I’m trying to finish my own book.
Anyway, so reality, not for me. Which is a t-shirt I used to have, but lost in the blackhole that’s in mybedroom.