When I first started this blog just under three years ago I wanted to show that you can still live a life with a mental illness. I wanted to write about my achievements, personal and creative, basically sticking two fingers up at the notion that my head could stop me having fun.
Times and diagnoses have changed, I've gone from being told I have mild depression and anxiety, to OCD, to Bipolar to Borderline Personality Disorder. I'm playing diagnosis bingo, next stop must surely be psycopath? I'm still trying my best to poke fun at my situation but it's getting harder and harder to laugh. The blog, when I feel inspired enough to write or actually have something new to say, has completely changed to what I never intended it to be, a long drawn-out woe is me about being mentally ill. I wanted to write about living when actually all I'm really doing is existing with a mental illness.
To be honest I really don't know if this blog is worth keeping, sorry to the 1 or 2 readers I have, it's pretty fraudulant now. Who wants to read about me slowly losing my grip on sanity or using my old cutting crutch? Does anyone actually need to know that it takes all my energy to actually get out of bed each day, knowing that I really don't want to be around people? That my napping at every possible oppourtunity isn't laziness but one of my few chances at shutting off the world, even that doesn't shut off the constant grinding voice inside telling me that I'm a curse on the people I love. I try my hardest to focus on sorting things out for other people, I don't have a chance because every time I start to achieve something, be it in work or for myself it gets sabotaged by my brain. So I work my hardest to help other people achieve their goals ready to back off when I'm no longer needed, no-one needs an inconvenience. Unless of course there is an opening somewhere for a professional village idiot? I am very gifted at falling over (whilst sober) and babbling incoherently. Answers on a postcard or in the comments below!
In a bizarre way being like this is just normal now, it's like a comfort but obviously not. It feels almost like part of my identity now, I don't know what's Jen and what's BPD. If it was 'cured' would there be anything of the original 'me' before I became ill left? Or have I actually always been skewed and we just didn't know, so am I actually just illness and not Jen at all? I feel like I'm going round and round like Alice talking to Absolom and he keeps asking "Whooo are yoooou?" - no wonder Alice In Wonderland is my favourite book!
I research everything I can about BPD from blogs to deeply detailed and boring medical reports trying to find a glimmer of hope that something can be done. I can tell you in detail about all the different therapies that can be given and where to find them, everywhere except this neck of the woods apparently - the nearest specialist place is in Burgess Hill (unless I have megabucks to check myself into The Priory who offer an intensive treatment programme - how rock n roll!). Knowing that this is basically it really doesn't raise the spirits much as you can imagine. No wonder I have such a chocolate addiction! And yes as people frequently tell me, I'm sure I would be so much happier if I excercised, cut out the crap food and lost weight. But what's the point? If I'm stuck with this prognosis just let me wallow in Areo and Twirl Bites wish a dash of KitKat Chunky! At least my taste buds will be cheerful!
I guess the last thing to research is whether my mental illness qualifies me for some kind of hat allowance ........
Love Jen
XxxX
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