Wednesday, April 28, 2010
BLOG CLOSING: HAS MOVED TO germainedelarch.wordpress.com
Blog has morphed and transformed into Life Writ Large. Follow it here.
Monday, April 26, 2010
THE PATH FROM THE INTELLECTUAL TO THE EMOTIONAL
Sanity/recovery is about getting your truth from your head to your heart, from an intellectual concept to an emotional reality. And this transition is only possible through action. Having your truth as an intellectual concept only is useless and as good as a lie.
INTEGRITY, HAPPINESS, RECOVERY, HERAPY
The key to happiness/recovery is integrity. Therapy is only a tool to maintain integrity; nothing more, nothing less.
ATTITUDES TO LIFE
If you only want to make life bearable, adopt an attitude of compromise. If you only want to make life livable, adopt an attitude of acceptance. The only way to make life beautiful is to adopt an attitude of insatiable curiosity.
Friday, April 23, 2010
LIFE
LIFE: choosing life, means accepting that life is difficult, that no one and no thing owes me anything; that it’s up to me to get over my lost childhood and unmet needs; that I am going to go about actively fulfilling my own needs, and allowing others to fulfil them, and that although I lost my childhood and most of my early adulthood, I still have a life to live and I want to live my best life being my best self. I want to be my best self for myself and others so that I can receive their best selves and the best from the universe. And if the best is not forthcoming from others or the universe, then I will be in the best place to handle that.
DEPRESSION
DEPRESSION: being caught between deciding whether to choose LIFE or death. (This is different to clinical depression). In this state, I have spent 15-20 years actively mourning my unmet needs and lost childhood, blaming others for things unmet and lost while waiting for current and past needs to be met and found without actively seeking to meet and find them myself, or allowing others’ attempts at meeting and finding to take place. It’s a limbo, a stuck-ness, a self-inflicted purgatory where I have been the jailed and the jailor, bemoaning my fate while at the same time tightening the handcuffs, securing the bars. It took me this long to escape from the handcuffs and the bars because I spent so much time crying and thrashing, so much time screaming abuse and pleading with the jailor that I did not realise that I was the jailor and the jailed, which not only meant that my jailor self could release my jailed self, but that there were no bars and handcuffs to begin with.
CREATIVITY
CREATIVITY: I need to be creative in order to be happy. Creativity engages my intellect, my emotions, my passion, it is filled with meaning and it is who I am when I am honest with my self. There is no balance if I am not creative. Without creativity there is only DEPRESSION and DEATH. Creativity is my authentic self, it is LIFE.
HAPPINESS
HAPPINESS: is not Fairy Tale happiness or White-Picket-Fence-2,5-Kids ‘happiness’. Happiness is when I am in recovery, am honest and there is balance.
RECOVERY
RECOVERY: There is nothing more important than my recovery. I have chosen LIFE over DEATH, passion and energy over DEPRESSION. Recovery is the broad term under which all of the other terms and activities fall. Recovery is the only way I can achieve my authentic self and HAPPINESS.
BALANCE
BALANCE: this is a balance between the Emotional and Intellectual Self, the honest and dishonest self. Without it there is no authentic self. Without it, there is no RECOVERY.
MEETINGS
MEETINGS: the 12 Steps are not possible without meetings. Meetings provide a framework for the structure and routine of the 12 Steps, which in turn provides the structure and routine for the BALANCE between dishonesty and honesty. Meetings also help with the SOCIAL LIFE aspect of the Physical Life.
12 STEPS
12 STEPS: an inventory is not possible without these steps. They provide a structure and a routine and a BALANCE between dishonesty and honesty. The 12 Steps are not possible without MEETINGS.
INVENTORY
INVENTORY: I need to do a monthly, if not weekly inventory of my physical life and if I find something out of balance, then I need to trace it back to the dishonesty in my emotional/intellectual life. An inventory is not possible without the 12 STEPS.
AUTHENTIC SELF
AUTHENTIC SELF: my Self when I am living my best life; a self that harnesses energy and expends it on things that have meaning, things that engage my passion, things that are CREATIVE, life-giving and not harmful to anyone else.
HONESTY
HONESTY: Everything is interconnected, but the root of it all, is honesty.� And the person I need to be most honest with is my self. I cannot be honest with others until I am honest with myself.� Honesty with my self, means, being honest about my PHYSICAL LIFE. If there is something out of BALANCE in these physical, concrete areas, then there is something DISHONEST about my emotional/intellectual state. And once I’ve recognised that there is dishonesty, I need to do an INVENTORY of my physical life and trace it back to the dishonesty at the emotional/intellectual level. When I am dishonest, I am not my AUTHENTIC SELF. Only when I am honest with myself can I be authentic to my Self.
MEANING
MEANING: nothing means anything until I grant it meaning. And I need to structure my life according to a hierarchy of meanings, otherwise it is all pointless. The meaning right now is that things that help me with passion, HONESTY and RECOVERY are meaningful and make me HAPPY.
CONSCIOUS
CONSCIOUS: I need to be present, need to harness the energy of my passion and see the romance in the ordinary by being conscious of the MEANING inherent in everything I do.
BEING PRESENT
BEING PRESENT: is mostly about a lack of intellect. Even when I’m engaging my intellect, I need to be present while engaging it. In other words, I need to be CONSCIOUS of how beautiful and extraordinary the ordinary (work, writing, reading, watching films, conversation) is.
ROUTINE
ROUTINE: I need to create a routine in order to maintain sanity and PASSION.� Routine gives space for things that are sanity/self/recovery -maintaining. Without a routine, I become dismissive of these things and their importance because I ‘run out’ of time for them. I become wasteful, of time, of energy, of passion, of gifts. In order to establish a routine, I need to establish stable work hours as this takes up most of my time.
ROMANCING THE ORDINARY
ROMANCING THE ORDINARY: I am at my happiest when I am BEING PRESENT. And I am present when I am passionate and in love with whatever I am doing at any given time, whether it be work, driving, cooking, cleaning, writing, standing in a queue.
PASSION
PASSION: I’ve been passionate in depression. �I was passionate about being depressed, in pain, miserable. I threw myself into that role. On the other hand I’d lost all passion, become dormant, am now just waking up and passionate, romantic about life and everything in it - ROMANCING THE ORDINARY. Now that I’m in recovery, it’s about a HARNESSING OF ENERGY and channeling it into thoughts and activities that bring me joy, challenge and sanity.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
BEING REACTIVE VS PROACTIVE
Don't wish for things to be easier; wish for yourself to be better at handling things.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
REASON VS BELIEF
Despite our intelligence, our reason, our clinical and analytical minds, at some level we believe. It is this that keeps us sane.
Monday, April 19, 2010
HONESTY WITH SELF
Be honest with yourself, no one else is going to be. And even if they are, you won't believe them.
There is also no one who lies to you as much as you do. And as soon as you start being honest with you, everything that was difficult, an obstacle or holding you back disappears, because it was never there in the first place.
There is also no one who lies to you as much as you do. And as soon as you start being honest with you, everything that was difficult, an obstacle or holding you back disappears, because it was never there in the first place.
Friday, April 16, 2010
AUTHENTIC SELF & THE UNIVERSE
Another best thing about coming out of depression is that you can offer yourself and those close to you your best you; and in return, you get the best of them and the best of the universe. (And if you don't, you're in the best place to handle it).
GOOD/BAD TIMING
'There is no such thing as good or bad timing to a God with no beginning and no end.' AUTHOR UNKNOWN
FRIENDSHIP & BEING AUTHENTIC TO SELF
The best part about coming out of depression and being more authentically yourself than ever before is that you can offer your friends your best you, which makes the relationship so much more balanced. There's more of a give and take. And it's the best feeling!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
TODAY I STAYED SANE BY:
After leaving work at 10pm and hitting 1 of those 'islands' in the road, reminded myself that it probably was my fault as I was doing something ridiculous like digging in my pocket for my cigarettes, took a deep breath, phoned Roadside Assistance and enjoyed the quiet of the evening, the music on the radio;went with the flow. Instead of seething, kicking the tyre + blaming the street lights, the 'pointless islands' or having to work so late. Which would have made me insane, angry and resentful and would have caused more problems than solutions.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
AMENDS - INCUBUS
'You should make amends with you, if only for better health. And if you really want to live... why not try and make yourself..?' ~ Incubus (Thanks, Tracy! ;) )
THERAPY
BEING SHRINKWRAPPED CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH; CAN CAUSE CONFUSION, SUFFOCATION AND EVEN DEATH
When you’re depressed and/or (is it ever ‘or’) addicted, you are on a path, blindfolded, feeling your way around potentially hazardous terrain.
When you’re in therapy, the therapist can play on of three roles. There are three types of therapists.
Therapist Type 1. This therapist is what I call the ‘passive’ therapist. This therapist is obviously a fan of the anthropological belief that when you are observing a wild animal or an undiscovered tribe, your very observation of them can change that animal or tribesman’s behaviour. So they try to have as little influence as possible, staying as far away from the observed entity as possible, allowing the animal or the tribesman to believe that they are unobserved and can behave naturally. Of course the problem with this theory is that these observers do in fact change the behaviour of the said animal or tribesman by the very nature of their observation, their very stance as observer, the very fact that the observed is being observed. So, these therapists maintain a distance. They do not get involved in any way. They do not offer guidance, advice, sympathy or a negative or positive reaction to anything that you say or do. They believe that by doing this they are allowing you to find your way, your voice, your truth. The problem with this, in the blindfolded in dangerous terrain analogy, is that this therapist is tied to your waist by a rope, walking a few metres behind you. They can see where you’ve come from and where you’re going. They do not warn you about the cliff you’re about to step off, the snake you’re about to step on. And when you do step on the snake, or step off the cliff, they raise an eyebrow and inquire how the bone-shattering, skull-crushing, blood-spattering trip down the cliff was. How did you feel about it? As if this weren’t bad enough, they then, because they’re attached to you via the rope, cause you to be painfully conscious of their presence as an observer. And because they’re not aiding you in any way, or coming to your aid when you fall, you begin to doubt whether they are there at all and whether they can see the cliff, the snake, and if they can, why aren’t they telling you about it? Do they not care? So, this passive therapist causes great feelings of confusion, anxiety, betrayal, abandonment and you are left feeling unHELD (they love that word, but they never do it), uncared for, not seen. This therapist causes more harm than good, because you know that they can see the terrain; you know that they can see the position you’re in; you know that they’re aware of the pain caused by the falls and the bites; and yet they do, say and offer nothing. Being in the terrain, blindfolded, scared, unsure and lost is harrowing enough. But this distanced, aloof and impartial observer magnifies these horrifying feelings, doing nothing to alleviate them.
Therapist Type 2. I call them ‘active’ therapists. This therapist is very similar to Type 1. They have had the same training, but through some trauma of their own, are unable to maintain the appropriate distance so coveted by Type 1. They are not satisfied to be walking behind you, tied to your waist by a rope. They walk with you, next to you, sometimes ahead of you; and at times they hold your hand, give you water, nurse your wounds. They warn you of the obstacles as best they can, cluck and tut and pamper when you are hurt or weary. They are everything that Type 1 lacks. They sympathise, they hold, they cry when you cry, they laugh when you laugh. But they are just as damaging as Type 1. Due to their maternal instincts and nature, they lull you into a false sense that they will be there whenever you need them, that they will catch you when you fall, and that they will be there when you end your journey and you take your blindfold off. And this is misleading and hurtful and damaging. Because it’s a lie. They’re not lying, but out of necessity, due to the very nature of the journey of depression, they cannot help you; it is a journey we have to take alone. So the fact that they offer and promise help only serves to distract you from realising that the very, very alluring promise of their help and support and care is only holding you back from reaching your destination. When they hold your hand on the journey, they are holding you back, not leading you on. When they point out a cliff, it is the same cliff you will fall down when they’re not there; when they bathe your wounds, it is the same wound that will become septic because you cannot care for it yourself.
Therapist Type 3. I’ll call them ‘realist’ therapists. This type, unfortunately, is rare. And I have only come across two in my 10 years of psychiatric institutions, multiple therapists, psychiatrists and other ‘health care’ professionals. They make it very clear that the journey you are on is your own, that they cannot help you, and that you have to fall down the cliff, climb out by yourself, and nurse your own wounds. They are not in the picture frame of the journey at all. They are neither behind you, nor walking next to you holding your hand. They are a voice in your head. A voice that sympathises with the hardship of the journey while at the same time urging you on, because it is a journey that has to take place. They are like a good coach in an endurance marathon: they train you, they make you aware of the obstacles, the hardships, but also the destination; they stimulate hope while not underplaying the endurance it will take you to get there. They warn you about the injuries and they teach you to treat your own wounds. When you are struggling, they urge you on, not by helping in any active way, but they encourage you that you have the strength and the reserves to make it on your own steam. And when you are desperate and want to give up, or you are going too slow or have come to a screeching halt, they give you a good kick up the arse.
When you’re depressed and/or (is it ever ‘or’) addicted, you are on a path, blindfolded, feeling your way around potentially hazardous terrain.
When you’re in therapy, the therapist can play on of three roles. There are three types of therapists.
Therapist Type 1. This therapist is what I call the ‘passive’ therapist. This therapist is obviously a fan of the anthropological belief that when you are observing a wild animal or an undiscovered tribe, your very observation of them can change that animal or tribesman’s behaviour. So they try to have as little influence as possible, staying as far away from the observed entity as possible, allowing the animal or the tribesman to believe that they are unobserved and can behave naturally. Of course the problem with this theory is that these observers do in fact change the behaviour of the said animal or tribesman by the very nature of their observation, their very stance as observer, the very fact that the observed is being observed. So, these therapists maintain a distance. They do not get involved in any way. They do not offer guidance, advice, sympathy or a negative or positive reaction to anything that you say or do. They believe that by doing this they are allowing you to find your way, your voice, your truth. The problem with this, in the blindfolded in dangerous terrain analogy, is that this therapist is tied to your waist by a rope, walking a few metres behind you. They can see where you’ve come from and where you’re going. They do not warn you about the cliff you’re about to step off, the snake you’re about to step on. And when you do step on the snake, or step off the cliff, they raise an eyebrow and inquire how the bone-shattering, skull-crushing, blood-spattering trip down the cliff was. How did you feel about it? As if this weren’t bad enough, they then, because they’re attached to you via the rope, cause you to be painfully conscious of their presence as an observer. And because they’re not aiding you in any way, or coming to your aid when you fall, you begin to doubt whether they are there at all and whether they can see the cliff, the snake, and if they can, why aren’t they telling you about it? Do they not care? So, this passive therapist causes great feelings of confusion, anxiety, betrayal, abandonment and you are left feeling unHELD (they love that word, but they never do it), uncared for, not seen. This therapist causes more harm than good, because you know that they can see the terrain; you know that they can see the position you’re in; you know that they’re aware of the pain caused by the falls and the bites; and yet they do, say and offer nothing. Being in the terrain, blindfolded, scared, unsure and lost is harrowing enough. But this distanced, aloof and impartial observer magnifies these horrifying feelings, doing nothing to alleviate them.
Therapist Type 2. I call them ‘active’ therapists. This therapist is very similar to Type 1. They have had the same training, but through some trauma of their own, are unable to maintain the appropriate distance so coveted by Type 1. They are not satisfied to be walking behind you, tied to your waist by a rope. They walk with you, next to you, sometimes ahead of you; and at times they hold your hand, give you water, nurse your wounds. They warn you of the obstacles as best they can, cluck and tut and pamper when you are hurt or weary. They are everything that Type 1 lacks. They sympathise, they hold, they cry when you cry, they laugh when you laugh. But they are just as damaging as Type 1. Due to their maternal instincts and nature, they lull you into a false sense that they will be there whenever you need them, that they will catch you when you fall, and that they will be there when you end your journey and you take your blindfold off. And this is misleading and hurtful and damaging. Because it’s a lie. They’re not lying, but out of necessity, due to the very nature of the journey of depression, they cannot help you; it is a journey we have to take alone. So the fact that they offer and promise help only serves to distract you from realising that the very, very alluring promise of their help and support and care is only holding you back from reaching your destination. When they hold your hand on the journey, they are holding you back, not leading you on. When they point out a cliff, it is the same cliff you will fall down when they’re not there; when they bathe your wounds, it is the same wound that will become septic because you cannot care for it yourself.
Therapist Type 3. I’ll call them ‘realist’ therapists. This type, unfortunately, is rare. And I have only come across two in my 10 years of psychiatric institutions, multiple therapists, psychiatrists and other ‘health care’ professionals. They make it very clear that the journey you are on is your own, that they cannot help you, and that you have to fall down the cliff, climb out by yourself, and nurse your own wounds. They are not in the picture frame of the journey at all. They are neither behind you, nor walking next to you holding your hand. They are a voice in your head. A voice that sympathises with the hardship of the journey while at the same time urging you on, because it is a journey that has to take place. They are like a good coach in an endurance marathon: they train you, they make you aware of the obstacles, the hardships, but also the destination; they stimulate hope while not underplaying the endurance it will take you to get there. They warn you about the injuries and they teach you to treat your own wounds. When you are struggling, they urge you on, not by helping in any active way, but they encourage you that you have the strength and the reserves to make it on your own steam. And when you are desperate and want to give up, or you are going too slow or have come to a screeching halt, they give you a good kick up the arse.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
MY THEME SONG FOR THE WEEK (PRIME CIRCLE)
HELLO (PRIME CIRCLE)
Release myself from holding back
I realise now my world's not flat
An open mind, an open court
Open runways open the doors
So deep, so dear
So much to do, so little time
I think this just might blow my mind
I hope there's nothing overlooked
Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
There's more to say, more to do
Just give me time, I'll get back to you
I hope there's nothing over looked
'Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
And I won't waste another day
Holding back on everything I say
You see I'm through, done now
And I'm happier
Something's got to change (got to change)
Something's got to go my way (my way)
I can't see it's all just a dream
You see, I'm inside out
I'm looking up but falling down
I can't see in you
So come on over, come and say your...
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
Release myself from holding back
I realise now my world's not flat
An open mind, an open court
Open runways open the doors
So deep, so dear
So much to do, so little time
I think this just might blow my mind
I hope there's nothing overlooked
Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
There's more to say, more to do
Just give me time, I'll get back to you
I hope there's nothing over looked
'Cause I just want to shout out loud
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
And I won't waste another day
Holding back on everything I say
You see I'm through, done now
And I'm happier
Something's got to change (got to change)
Something's got to go my way (my way)
I can't see it's all just a dream
You see, I'm inside out
I'm looking up but falling down
I can't see in you
So come on over, come and say your...
Chorus
Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello
To the world I can't see
I'm in a spin, I'm in a spin
I'm letting go once again
Now that I have been set down
I don't ever want to leave
These things are never all I see
Means so very much to me
Sunday, April 4, 2010
OTHERS' OPINIONS AND LIVING A LIFE OF INTEGRITY
If you are an extraordinary and exceptional person, do not censor yourself out of a need to protect yourself from others' criticism. Others' narrow-mindedness/judgements/misunderstanding of you, what you say, what you believe and what you do should not deter you from living your best life and doing what makes you happy. As long as your life is an act of integrity and a pursuit of happiness that does not harm anyone else, others' thoughts about that life are inconsequential.
Friday, April 2, 2010
TRUSTING OTHERS VS PROTECTING YOURSELF
Always remember that there is more good to another person than you think; but do not forget that there is also a lot of bad. It's a continuous and delicate dance of trusting others vs protecting yourself.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
AWARENESS OF PAST MEANS AWARENESS OF PRESENT
It's always good to keep in mind EXACTLY where we've come from so that we can keep in mind EXACTLY where we are now.
LOONY BINS
When I was admitted to Tara (for the 3rd time, in 2007), I did not tell them that I had been taking the Xanor, simply because I did not think it was an issue. I did not realise that I was physically addicted to the drug and that I would have very serious withdrawals. My blood pressure became dangerously high and I was exceedingly anxious, all of the time. The most disturbing symptom was that my skin, all over my body, was numb. You know when you play ‘dead man’s finger’? Or when you touch somebody else’s skin, and you can’t feel their leg or arm or whatever feeling your finger? Well, that’s what it felt like. My whole body, when I touched it, did not respond to that touch. My face could not feel the hand touching it. That freaked me out! And because I did not know the reason for these symptoms, I did not know how to handle them. And because the staff there did not know about the Xanor, they could not help me either. So I just became very disconnected, disassociated and thoughts of doing serious damage to myself entered my mind more and more. The staff had no option but to commit me.
Sterkfontein was a nightmare. I will enter into it in more detail in another piece, but for now, suffice it to say that it is summed up in the following: no stimulation outside of schizophrenics who cannot talk to you and nurses who lock themselves up in the office to protect themselves from the patients; Auschwitz-like bath scenes where everyone is stripped, in a queue, awaiting a supervised shower; communal toothbrushes handed out after the shower; being herded into a room after ridiculously early ablutions to await breakfast, only to be herded into the same room after breakfast to await lunch, and nothing in that room. Nothing. Just chairs, four walls, you and about 50 schizophrenics, and cigarettes. This meal, herding, sitting, smoking regime fills (what an inappropriate word for what seems like a vacuum of eternity) the day. Your cellphone, jewellery and all personal effects, including clothing, are stripped from you when you arrive. So you cannot even sms or phone your loved ones to tell them that you are there, which ward you are in and when they can come and visit. I clung onto my toothbrush, roll-on, cigarettes and a pair of underwear that I washed each evening as like the life-jackets that they really, really were. The other women had none of these luxuries, and it is no wonder that they could not maintain sanity when all individuality and dignity was stripped from them. And all of this in the face of the knowledge that you cannot sign yourself out or get a family member to sign you out. You are there until a psychiatrist thinks you are sane. And when no one can define ‘sanity’ or ‘normal’ outside of those walls, the thought that you’re in there until someone within those walls declares you ‘sane’ or ‘normal’ is not very comforting. Sheer panic was a feeling I lived with each minute of each day of the five very long weeks I was there.
But I survived. I overcame. And I am a better person for that stay. I still have post-traumatic –like flashbacks to that time. I cannot bear the smell of a burning cigarette butt because the patients were so desperate for cigarettes they smoked even the filter. But mostly it’s a highly original and show-stopping anecdote over a couple of drinks.
I found a story I wrote while I was in Helen Joseph’s psychiatric ward (very similar to Joburg Gen’s psych ward and Sterkfontein) and the immediacy of what I wrote that night in that ward might be more indicative of the experience of a psych ward:
“IN PHENIGAN’S WAKE 3.03.2007
(Phenigan is an antihistamine which, in large doses, is used as a tranquiliser in psychiatric wards, rather than the usual Xanor and its variants, as it is not addictive. I also think I am correct in assuming that it is cheaper, hence its ubiquity in South African governmental institutions.)
The difference between crazy people and normal people is not what you might think. It’s some of those things: yes, they see reality in ‘distorted’ ways; yes, they take blades to their wrists, steak-knives to their throats, they burn themselves down to the bone with cigarettes; yes, they hear the voice of Jesus and answer only to the name ‘Mary’; yes, they experience life mostly as a constant and unremitting shit-storm. Yes, they do and experience all of these things, and that’s what makes them insane and you normal.
But the real difference between the sane and the mad is the language they speak: the sane speak English, French, Chinese or Zulu; the crazy speak in the language of cigarettes. The societal structures, roles and conventions of the ward are much like society outside of these barred windows and doors. The power-play is just as present. Just as insidious.
Upon entering the ward, it is not your name, or even your reason for being there that is important, or of any concern. It is your cigarette status:
1. do you smoke?
2. if so, do you have any?
3. if so, will you give/sell (overwhelmingly option a) them to me?
Your status is determined within seconds. And word spreads. If you’re known as a carrier, you are approached constantly. Whether you say yes or no is inconsequential. They will keep asking, more so if you make the mistake of saying yes the first time you’re asked. It’s like feeding a dog off your plate one time. Just that one time. From then on, that dog will sit at your feet, staring pleadingly, then barking, sometimes ferociously, until you feed them again.
The hierarchy in this place is based on two criteria. The first, from the outsider’s perspective, seems to be the most distinctive: there are those of the frothing-at-the-mouth variety who are in a constant state of legal, governmental induced intoxication. They come off the street, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychosis induced by heroine, crack, alcohol or marijuana. Here, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychoses are perpetuated by seroquel, risperdal and lithium. You can tell them by the look in their eyes; the glazed, dead-pan marble. They have that constant look of being perplexed. As if someone has just asked them the meaning of the universe. Their mouths open, their heads down and slightly askew. They shuffle endlessly around the ward in shoes they’ve stolen from someone outside, or some unwitting and even more doped-up inmate inside. Or they walk around barefeet, their heels cracked and crusted from pacing the sleekly polished ward floors
Then there are the garden-variety of depressives, bi-polars, failed suicides: people who are just “Taking a bit of a break, a rest, to get their medication stabilised.” You can tell them from the street-clothes they wear. They only don their pyjamas at the civilised and agreed upon hour. Unless they smoke, or one of them are in your section of the ward, you only see them at communal gathering times: meal times or pill times. They seem strangely incongruous here, in this place, as if they’re undercover nurses, gathering info on the other patients for the matron. They are friendly, but quiet and keep to themselves.
There are, of course, the liminal – those that are difficult to distinguish and place in one of these two categories. You warily strike up a conversation, trying to determine whether you’re dealing with a pseudo-nurse or a psychopath. And trust me, it’s fucken difficult! If someone in a nuthouse tells you their name is Andrew and they’re a librarian or a fashion designer, how do you know he’s telling the truth? You don’t. There is no truth in here. The only truth, the only meaning and stability is the Brooklax-induced certainty of meds and mealtimes.
It is the second criteria for the hierarchy of this place which is the more powerful, the more insidious in the hierarchisation of the ward. It is this criterion that determines your place in the caste system. It is the same criterion as in the larger society – the haves and the have nots: those that have cigarettes, and those that don’t.
It is this 5cm cylindrical carcinogen that wields the power, regulates the ward, determines the rules. It’s the same as in prison. Cigarettes become the power tool, the bartering chip, the only intelligible language. It’s strange, isn’t it, this common element of cigarettes in the institutions of jails and nuthouses? I have my own little anthropological theory about that. (My meds make it difficult to concentrate, think and remember, but I know my little theory had something to do with the prison and the loony-bin as microcosms of societal structure and interaction between humans. I remember some ingenious thought I had about cigarettes being the lowest common denominator of the unhappy, the rejected, the scapegoated. I remember thinking that Claude Levi-Strauss would have been proud.)
More than any sedative or mood stabiliser, it is the cigarette that determines the placidity or paroxysms of madness of the inmates. The first rule is, do not, under any circumstances carry more than two cigarettes with you. You learn this rule within the first half an hour from one of the arse-licking pseudo-nurses. So you walk into the cramped, un-airconditioned smoking cell and you light up. The vultures appear from their wards, as if the meal-time bell has been rung, scurry, then settle, begging you for just one cigarette. “Just one gwaai, my sister, just one, my people are coming tomorrow and its been so hard without a smoke, so hard, so hard, they’re coming tomorrow and I’ll give you a cig sister and they’re bringing coke too and I’ll give you some coke too, thank you sister thank you so much, they just left me here with no clothes no cigarettes but they promised they’re coming tomorrow, tomorrow or the next day, maybe Saturday but they definitely coming sister and then Ill give you something sister god bless you.” Depending on your mood, or more to the point, just to shut them up, you either give them the cigarette you’re not smoking, or you break it in half so that you can get rid of two crazies at one time; or, you simply shake your head, let them watch as you smoke both, leaving them behind to fight over the smouldering butt.
Which group do I belong to? The mouth-frothers or the garden-variety pseudo-nurses? Well, I have cigarettes. I don’t hear voices (William Burroughs’ doesn’t count. If it were Jesus’ or Alistair Crowley’s, that would be a different matter). I realise that the fact that I’m in a loony bin might be a bit incriminating in terms of my sanity status. And I know what you’re thinking. Unfortunately you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
Sterkfontein was a nightmare. I will enter into it in more detail in another piece, but for now, suffice it to say that it is summed up in the following: no stimulation outside of schizophrenics who cannot talk to you and nurses who lock themselves up in the office to protect themselves from the patients; Auschwitz-like bath scenes where everyone is stripped, in a queue, awaiting a supervised shower; communal toothbrushes handed out after the shower; being herded into a room after ridiculously early ablutions to await breakfast, only to be herded into the same room after breakfast to await lunch, and nothing in that room. Nothing. Just chairs, four walls, you and about 50 schizophrenics, and cigarettes. This meal, herding, sitting, smoking regime fills (what an inappropriate word for what seems like a vacuum of eternity) the day. Your cellphone, jewellery and all personal effects, including clothing, are stripped from you when you arrive. So you cannot even sms or phone your loved ones to tell them that you are there, which ward you are in and when they can come and visit. I clung onto my toothbrush, roll-on, cigarettes and a pair of underwear that I washed each evening as like the life-jackets that they really, really were. The other women had none of these luxuries, and it is no wonder that they could not maintain sanity when all individuality and dignity was stripped from them. And all of this in the face of the knowledge that you cannot sign yourself out or get a family member to sign you out. You are there until a psychiatrist thinks you are sane. And when no one can define ‘sanity’ or ‘normal’ outside of those walls, the thought that you’re in there until someone within those walls declares you ‘sane’ or ‘normal’ is not very comforting. Sheer panic was a feeling I lived with each minute of each day of the five very long weeks I was there.
But I survived. I overcame. And I am a better person for that stay. I still have post-traumatic –like flashbacks to that time. I cannot bear the smell of a burning cigarette butt because the patients were so desperate for cigarettes they smoked even the filter. But mostly it’s a highly original and show-stopping anecdote over a couple of drinks.
I found a story I wrote while I was in Helen Joseph’s psychiatric ward (very similar to Joburg Gen’s psych ward and Sterkfontein) and the immediacy of what I wrote that night in that ward might be more indicative of the experience of a psych ward:
“IN PHENIGAN’S WAKE 3.03.2007
(Phenigan is an antihistamine which, in large doses, is used as a tranquiliser in psychiatric wards, rather than the usual Xanor and its variants, as it is not addictive. I also think I am correct in assuming that it is cheaper, hence its ubiquity in South African governmental institutions.)
The difference between crazy people and normal people is not what you might think. It’s some of those things: yes, they see reality in ‘distorted’ ways; yes, they take blades to their wrists, steak-knives to their throats, they burn themselves down to the bone with cigarettes; yes, they hear the voice of Jesus and answer only to the name ‘Mary’; yes, they experience life mostly as a constant and unremitting shit-storm. Yes, they do and experience all of these things, and that’s what makes them insane and you normal.
But the real difference between the sane and the mad is the language they speak: the sane speak English, French, Chinese or Zulu; the crazy speak in the language of cigarettes. The societal structures, roles and conventions of the ward are much like society outside of these barred windows and doors. The power-play is just as present. Just as insidious.
Upon entering the ward, it is not your name, or even your reason for being there that is important, or of any concern. It is your cigarette status:
1. do you smoke?
2. if so, do you have any?
3. if so, will you give/sell (overwhelmingly option a) them to me?
Your status is determined within seconds. And word spreads. If you’re known as a carrier, you are approached constantly. Whether you say yes or no is inconsequential. They will keep asking, more so if you make the mistake of saying yes the first time you’re asked. It’s like feeding a dog off your plate one time. Just that one time. From then on, that dog will sit at your feet, staring pleadingly, then barking, sometimes ferociously, until you feed them again.
The hierarchy in this place is based on two criteria. The first, from the outsider’s perspective, seems to be the most distinctive: there are those of the frothing-at-the-mouth variety who are in a constant state of legal, governmental induced intoxication. They come off the street, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychosis induced by heroine, crack, alcohol or marijuana. Here, their schizophrenia, paranoia and psychoses are perpetuated by seroquel, risperdal and lithium. You can tell them by the look in their eyes; the glazed, dead-pan marble. They have that constant look of being perplexed. As if someone has just asked them the meaning of the universe. Their mouths open, their heads down and slightly askew. They shuffle endlessly around the ward in shoes they’ve stolen from someone outside, or some unwitting and even more doped-up inmate inside. Or they walk around barefeet, their heels cracked and crusted from pacing the sleekly polished ward floors
Then there are the garden-variety of depressives, bi-polars, failed suicides: people who are just “Taking a bit of a break, a rest, to get their medication stabilised.” You can tell them from the street-clothes they wear. They only don their pyjamas at the civilised and agreed upon hour. Unless they smoke, or one of them are in your section of the ward, you only see them at communal gathering times: meal times or pill times. They seem strangely incongruous here, in this place, as if they’re undercover nurses, gathering info on the other patients for the matron. They are friendly, but quiet and keep to themselves.
There are, of course, the liminal – those that are difficult to distinguish and place in one of these two categories. You warily strike up a conversation, trying to determine whether you’re dealing with a pseudo-nurse or a psychopath. And trust me, it’s fucken difficult! If someone in a nuthouse tells you their name is Andrew and they’re a librarian or a fashion designer, how do you know he’s telling the truth? You don’t. There is no truth in here. The only truth, the only meaning and stability is the Brooklax-induced certainty of meds and mealtimes.
It is the second criteria for the hierarchy of this place which is the more powerful, the more insidious in the hierarchisation of the ward. It is this criterion that determines your place in the caste system. It is the same criterion as in the larger society – the haves and the have nots: those that have cigarettes, and those that don’t.
It is this 5cm cylindrical carcinogen that wields the power, regulates the ward, determines the rules. It’s the same as in prison. Cigarettes become the power tool, the bartering chip, the only intelligible language. It’s strange, isn’t it, this common element of cigarettes in the institutions of jails and nuthouses? I have my own little anthropological theory about that. (My meds make it difficult to concentrate, think and remember, but I know my little theory had something to do with the prison and the loony-bin as microcosms of societal structure and interaction between humans. I remember some ingenious thought I had about cigarettes being the lowest common denominator of the unhappy, the rejected, the scapegoated. I remember thinking that Claude Levi-Strauss would have been proud.)
More than any sedative or mood stabiliser, it is the cigarette that determines the placidity or paroxysms of madness of the inmates. The first rule is, do not, under any circumstances carry more than two cigarettes with you. You learn this rule within the first half an hour from one of the arse-licking pseudo-nurses. So you walk into the cramped, un-airconditioned smoking cell and you light up. The vultures appear from their wards, as if the meal-time bell has been rung, scurry, then settle, begging you for just one cigarette. “Just one gwaai, my sister, just one, my people are coming tomorrow and its been so hard without a smoke, so hard, so hard, they’re coming tomorrow and I’ll give you a cig sister and they’re bringing coke too and I’ll give you some coke too, thank you sister thank you so much, they just left me here with no clothes no cigarettes but they promised they’re coming tomorrow, tomorrow or the next day, maybe Saturday but they definitely coming sister and then Ill give you something sister god bless you.” Depending on your mood, or more to the point, just to shut them up, you either give them the cigarette you’re not smoking, or you break it in half so that you can get rid of two crazies at one time; or, you simply shake your head, let them watch as you smoke both, leaving them behind to fight over the smouldering butt.
Which group do I belong to? The mouth-frothers or the garden-variety pseudo-nurses? Well, I have cigarettes. I don’t hear voices (William Burroughs’ doesn’t count. If it were Jesus’ or Alistair Crowley’s, that would be a different matter). I realise that the fact that I’m in a loony bin might be a bit incriminating in terms of my sanity status. And I know what you’re thinking. Unfortunately you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
REMAIN CURIOUS
"Do not grow old, no matter how long you live. Never cease to stand like curious children before the Great Mystery into which we were born." - Albert Einstein . [Thanks, Tracy! :)]
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
FIND A JOB THAT IS NOT 'WORK'
Finding a job that fulfills you, excites you and where you're making a difference is a very good way to stay sane.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
BEAUTY
There is soooo much beauty in life, in things and in people. And once you become attuned to that, you see it everywhere.
Friday, March 26, 2010
SMA (SELF MUTILATORS’ ANONYMOUS) SHARE:
SMA (SELF MUTILATORS’ ANONYMOUS) SHARE: 26.03.2010
Self-mutilation is complex. Addiction is complex. Depression is complex. Life is complex. I am complex. To give you an overview of my life and my journey with these diseases would not do justice to any of these. So I’m going to focus on certain themes and aspects of my journey.
To explain how it was then, I’m going to read you a piece I wrote a few years’ ago. I’m a writer, so I have shared my thoughts with a pen and a piece of paper more than with an actual human being, so it makes more sense in my head, is more real to me, coming from what I’ve written, rather than memories. Because once it was written down, I blocked it out. So bear with me.
HOW IT WAS THEN
“How do you explain your choices to people? How do you explain yourself to people? It’s hard enough trying to understand yourself. My natural introspection, aided by numerous therapists, dragging me kicking and screaming towards the abyss that is selfhood, had made me internalise others’ questioning of my need to puncture and ink my body.
My tattoos are a sign, a symbol, a writing on the body, of difference. A statement. Every human being longs to be seen as unique, as different, as noticeable. In essence, we do not want to be invisible. In my more adult moments I realise that this need can be satisfied in less exhibitionist ways, but the fact is that my piercings and tattoos make me feel more confident about myself, less exposed.
It’s paradoxical, I know, because I’m attracting attention and therefore making myself more vulnerable, but what I’ve realised is that I’m using the very human habit of judging people by their looks to my own advantage. I’ve read that in pre-modern cultures, tattoos were worn to ward off evil spirits, to protect the wearer. Warding off, protection… I cannot allow you to get to know me, so I do the judging the book by its cover trick in reverse and repel people who are not psychologically aware of the implications of my adornments.
People normally assume that freaks who are tattooed and pierced are looking for attention, when in actual fact they are donning a very useful façade: it presents a “fuck you” attitude beneath which I protect myself from other people. Protect me from them getting beneath the outer layer and seeing me for what I am: an innocent, gullible, little girl from Welkom who is aching to be touched, loved, known, accepted.
By assuming this persona I repel people who have pre-conceived notions about difference, about what is ‘abnormal.’ In this way I only have people in my life who are emotionally intelligent enough to understand that my piercings and tattoos are only a small part of who I am. That I am contradictory and complicated. That I am innocent and gentle and in need of love.
Of course it also makes me quite lonely. The eternal contradiction that is the human condition: wanting desperately to be loved, accepted and understood, and the utter fear of rejection.
I don’t know what came first. People not mattering, or people scaring me. Either way, I managed to get to the age of twenty-three without learning basic social skills, rules or functions. I could approach someone when it was absolutely desperate, but talking to them for the sake of talking to them? I saw no need. So I got through school and university with my distinctions and cum laudes and that was all that mattered.
Until I realised that it wasn’t. Until I realised that I was lonely. Profoundly lonely. That I had nothing outside of my family and my books.
I realised that I had lost childhood, the teenage years, my early twenties. Yes, I was extremely well-read and well qualified, and would probably go onto become an illustrious academic in one of the top universities, but I had no idea how to relate to anyone outside of my own thoughts. I had vicariously and voyeuristically lived the lives of all the characters in all the books I had read, but outside of their worlds, there was nothing.
I had no memories of my own. No stories or silly anecdotes to discuss over an alcohol-laden table of a restaurant in Melville. No memories, no stories, no experiences. No me.
How do you relate to people, ask them “Do you come here often?” if there is no self to listen to their answer, no self to answer their questions.
I decided that I had had enough of being non-existent, invisible, hollow. I decided to experience. I decided to start collecting stories and anecdotes and memories. And don’t think that it was for some shrink-wrapped Oprah Winfrey-like need to “find out who I am.” It was just so that I could talk. Just so that I could be heard. That I could be interesting and notice-worthy and likeable… and less lonely.
That’s how it started. But as soon as I began making friends I realised that friends did not fill that void, did not make up for the loss. I needed someone to love me. This started a horrifying journey of addictions like overeating, bulimia, sex with strangers and self-mutilation.”
I used to tell myself about the scars, piercings and inkings of self-abuse, and any party that showed concern, that I was tattooing and piercing visible parts of my body because I was different. I was not like everybody else. I didn’t want to, didn’t need to, get a job like everyone else where you wear a skirt and blouse and carry a briefcase.
I told myself that it didn’t matter if people stared; it didn’t matter if people shied away from me; it didn’t matter if people openly confronted me for looking like a Satanist, a freak.
In fact, my attitude was, “Fu*k them! If they can’t bother to get beneath the surface of my skin to see how amazing I am, then they can go to hell. In fact, my appearance is like a secret handshake. If you can’t see that it is symbolic of my difference, my bravery, my intelligence, my artistic-ness, then you’re not worth knowing.”
And it worked for a while. I found jobs where people were willing to accept the way I looked because of my skill. I kept the friends that knew and loved me for my uniqueness and intelligence.”
That’s the end of the journal entry. So while I made friends, found lovers, I systematically and very professionally created a barrier between myself and others with these addictions.
Part of this barrier was not letting people in totally. Another part of the barrier was not believing that the people who said they were my friends actually were my friends, that the people that said they liked me actually liked me, that the people that said they loved me really loved me. And I achieved this by believing that they didn’t see the whole of me. And that if they did they would be horrified, run away screaming, and hate me.
My self-mutilation was a symptom of this dance. I hurt myself to get people to look after me, to take care of me, to worry about me, to hold me in their arms, tell me everything was going to be ok and that they loved me. And while it was all of this, it was also a way of separating myself from those very same people. Because part of me knew that no matter how much they looked after me, no matter how much they worried and held and reassured and loved, I would not let myself feel it.
And I would not let myself feel it, because if I did, then I would make myself vulnerable, and then they would hurt me, disappoint me, leave me, abandon me. Cutting and burning and piercing and tattooing myself was my way of saying, “Look, I know you’re going to hurt me; but look, you will NEVER EVER EVER hurt me as much as I’m hurting myself.”
I told myself that this made me impenetrable, that it protected me from being hurt from them. And the truth is, it did protect me. Yes, I got hurt, because I also self-mutilated by choosing people that I knew would hurt me. But I didn’t really get hurt, because I never made myself that vulnerable.
TODAY:
After a decade of piercing and tattooing most of my visible skin, I am now without a job and can’t find one because of the way I look. And I have two friends. It was the friend thing that made me realise that I have pushed people away emotionally.
And then I realised that the way I look was simply a physical extension of that emotional pushing away. The piercing and tattooing was the ultimate way of alienating myself from everyone and everything in my life.
So, what is wrong with piercing and tattooing? Absolutely nothing. It has to do with motive. And my motive was self-harm. Without acknowledging it, I KNEW, on some level, that tattooing and piercing myself where everyone could see it in the society that I live in, in the time that I live in, would only alienate and isolate me.
Yes, society is narrow-minded. Yes, people are judgemental. But what can I do to change that? Nothing. And in the face of this knowledge, I went and turned myself, knowingly – on some level – into that which society was the most narrow-minded and judgemental about!!!
In doing this, I have protected myself from other people. I have protected myself from intimacy and thus, from getting hurt. But, a decade later, I now realise that I have hurt myself far more than anyone or anything ever could or ever will. And I have to acknowledge that, own that, and try to remedy that.
I am not rich. I cannot go for tattoo removal. But I have taken a step that I NEVER thought I would. I have taken out my visible piercings.
And does that make me less unique, less intelligent, less artistic? No. Does it make me more employable, less threatening to people I meet, more acceptable to society? Yes. And being more employable, less threatening, more acceptable is NOT about conforming; its not about agreeing with the narrow-mindedness. Its about being able to move more freely in a world where in order to live my best life I need to find a job; where I need to interact with people; where I need my friends.
So today I sit here and the only person who has hurt me on a soul level, is me. I have been successful in avoiding the pain of others, but in the process I have hurt myself more than any human being ever could, can or will.
But I’m not proud of this success. It’s not what I want anymore. Now that I’ve stopped hurting myself in physical ways, I realise that while I’ve built a pretty good wall around myself and I’m safe from others, I’ve succeeded in closing out not only others, but any peace with myself, any fulfillment of career ambitions I might have, any real friendships and any real loving, nurturing relationships. And in so doing, I might as well be living on an island I am so lonely. I might as well be sleeping 24/7 I am so uninvolved in life. I might as well be dead. But I don’t want to die. I want to live. And living means allowing some measure of vulnerability, some measure of letting people actually see me, and this means putting an end to physical, emotional and spiritual self-mutilation.
So I am on a path to nurture myself rather than hurt myself. I want to do things that are good for me, rather than things that help me to avoid life and thus cause pain to me. And I can’t put into words how much better I feel. I cannot remember the last time I felt this good, but it has been many years.
So I want to encourage those who are in recovery from their addictions to persevere, because it’s worth it. And I want to promise those who are in active addiction to trust that it gets better once addiction is overcome and once we actively choose living over existing.
Self-mutilation is complex. Addiction is complex. Depression is complex. Life is complex. I am complex. To give you an overview of my life and my journey with these diseases would not do justice to any of these. So I’m going to focus on certain themes and aspects of my journey.
To explain how it was then, I’m going to read you a piece I wrote a few years’ ago. I’m a writer, so I have shared my thoughts with a pen and a piece of paper more than with an actual human being, so it makes more sense in my head, is more real to me, coming from what I’ve written, rather than memories. Because once it was written down, I blocked it out. So bear with me.
HOW IT WAS THEN
“How do you explain your choices to people? How do you explain yourself to people? It’s hard enough trying to understand yourself. My natural introspection, aided by numerous therapists, dragging me kicking and screaming towards the abyss that is selfhood, had made me internalise others’ questioning of my need to puncture and ink my body.
My tattoos are a sign, a symbol, a writing on the body, of difference. A statement. Every human being longs to be seen as unique, as different, as noticeable. In essence, we do not want to be invisible. In my more adult moments I realise that this need can be satisfied in less exhibitionist ways, but the fact is that my piercings and tattoos make me feel more confident about myself, less exposed.
It’s paradoxical, I know, because I’m attracting attention and therefore making myself more vulnerable, but what I’ve realised is that I’m using the very human habit of judging people by their looks to my own advantage. I’ve read that in pre-modern cultures, tattoos were worn to ward off evil spirits, to protect the wearer. Warding off, protection… I cannot allow you to get to know me, so I do the judging the book by its cover trick in reverse and repel people who are not psychologically aware of the implications of my adornments.
People normally assume that freaks who are tattooed and pierced are looking for attention, when in actual fact they are donning a very useful façade: it presents a “fuck you” attitude beneath which I protect myself from other people. Protect me from them getting beneath the outer layer and seeing me for what I am: an innocent, gullible, little girl from Welkom who is aching to be touched, loved, known, accepted.
By assuming this persona I repel people who have pre-conceived notions about difference, about what is ‘abnormal.’ In this way I only have people in my life who are emotionally intelligent enough to understand that my piercings and tattoos are only a small part of who I am. That I am contradictory and complicated. That I am innocent and gentle and in need of love.
Of course it also makes me quite lonely. The eternal contradiction that is the human condition: wanting desperately to be loved, accepted and understood, and the utter fear of rejection.
I don’t know what came first. People not mattering, or people scaring me. Either way, I managed to get to the age of twenty-three without learning basic social skills, rules or functions. I could approach someone when it was absolutely desperate, but talking to them for the sake of talking to them? I saw no need. So I got through school and university with my distinctions and cum laudes and that was all that mattered.
Until I realised that it wasn’t. Until I realised that I was lonely. Profoundly lonely. That I had nothing outside of my family and my books.
I realised that I had lost childhood, the teenage years, my early twenties. Yes, I was extremely well-read and well qualified, and would probably go onto become an illustrious academic in one of the top universities, but I had no idea how to relate to anyone outside of my own thoughts. I had vicariously and voyeuristically lived the lives of all the characters in all the books I had read, but outside of their worlds, there was nothing.
I had no memories of my own. No stories or silly anecdotes to discuss over an alcohol-laden table of a restaurant in Melville. No memories, no stories, no experiences. No me.
How do you relate to people, ask them “Do you come here often?” if there is no self to listen to their answer, no self to answer their questions.
I decided that I had had enough of being non-existent, invisible, hollow. I decided to experience. I decided to start collecting stories and anecdotes and memories. And don’t think that it was for some shrink-wrapped Oprah Winfrey-like need to “find out who I am.” It was just so that I could talk. Just so that I could be heard. That I could be interesting and notice-worthy and likeable… and less lonely.
That’s how it started. But as soon as I began making friends I realised that friends did not fill that void, did not make up for the loss. I needed someone to love me. This started a horrifying journey of addictions like overeating, bulimia, sex with strangers and self-mutilation.”
I used to tell myself about the scars, piercings and inkings of self-abuse, and any party that showed concern, that I was tattooing and piercing visible parts of my body because I was different. I was not like everybody else. I didn’t want to, didn’t need to, get a job like everyone else where you wear a skirt and blouse and carry a briefcase.
I told myself that it didn’t matter if people stared; it didn’t matter if people shied away from me; it didn’t matter if people openly confronted me for looking like a Satanist, a freak.
In fact, my attitude was, “Fu*k them! If they can’t bother to get beneath the surface of my skin to see how amazing I am, then they can go to hell. In fact, my appearance is like a secret handshake. If you can’t see that it is symbolic of my difference, my bravery, my intelligence, my artistic-ness, then you’re not worth knowing.”
And it worked for a while. I found jobs where people were willing to accept the way I looked because of my skill. I kept the friends that knew and loved me for my uniqueness and intelligence.”
That’s the end of the journal entry. So while I made friends, found lovers, I systematically and very professionally created a barrier between myself and others with these addictions.
Part of this barrier was not letting people in totally. Another part of the barrier was not believing that the people who said they were my friends actually were my friends, that the people that said they liked me actually liked me, that the people that said they loved me really loved me. And I achieved this by believing that they didn’t see the whole of me. And that if they did they would be horrified, run away screaming, and hate me.
My self-mutilation was a symptom of this dance. I hurt myself to get people to look after me, to take care of me, to worry about me, to hold me in their arms, tell me everything was going to be ok and that they loved me. And while it was all of this, it was also a way of separating myself from those very same people. Because part of me knew that no matter how much they looked after me, no matter how much they worried and held and reassured and loved, I would not let myself feel it.
And I would not let myself feel it, because if I did, then I would make myself vulnerable, and then they would hurt me, disappoint me, leave me, abandon me. Cutting and burning and piercing and tattooing myself was my way of saying, “Look, I know you’re going to hurt me; but look, you will NEVER EVER EVER hurt me as much as I’m hurting myself.”
I told myself that this made me impenetrable, that it protected me from being hurt from them. And the truth is, it did protect me. Yes, I got hurt, because I also self-mutilated by choosing people that I knew would hurt me. But I didn’t really get hurt, because I never made myself that vulnerable.
TODAY:
After a decade of piercing and tattooing most of my visible skin, I am now without a job and can’t find one because of the way I look. And I have two friends. It was the friend thing that made me realise that I have pushed people away emotionally.
And then I realised that the way I look was simply a physical extension of that emotional pushing away. The piercing and tattooing was the ultimate way of alienating myself from everyone and everything in my life.
So, what is wrong with piercing and tattooing? Absolutely nothing. It has to do with motive. And my motive was self-harm. Without acknowledging it, I KNEW, on some level, that tattooing and piercing myself where everyone could see it in the society that I live in, in the time that I live in, would only alienate and isolate me.
Yes, society is narrow-minded. Yes, people are judgemental. But what can I do to change that? Nothing. And in the face of this knowledge, I went and turned myself, knowingly – on some level – into that which society was the most narrow-minded and judgemental about!!!
In doing this, I have protected myself from other people. I have protected myself from intimacy and thus, from getting hurt. But, a decade later, I now realise that I have hurt myself far more than anyone or anything ever could or ever will. And I have to acknowledge that, own that, and try to remedy that.
I am not rich. I cannot go for tattoo removal. But I have taken a step that I NEVER thought I would. I have taken out my visible piercings.
And does that make me less unique, less intelligent, less artistic? No. Does it make me more employable, less threatening to people I meet, more acceptable to society? Yes. And being more employable, less threatening, more acceptable is NOT about conforming; its not about agreeing with the narrow-mindedness. Its about being able to move more freely in a world where in order to live my best life I need to find a job; where I need to interact with people; where I need my friends.
So today I sit here and the only person who has hurt me on a soul level, is me. I have been successful in avoiding the pain of others, but in the process I have hurt myself more than any human being ever could, can or will.
But I’m not proud of this success. It’s not what I want anymore. Now that I’ve stopped hurting myself in physical ways, I realise that while I’ve built a pretty good wall around myself and I’m safe from others, I’ve succeeded in closing out not only others, but any peace with myself, any fulfillment of career ambitions I might have, any real friendships and any real loving, nurturing relationships. And in so doing, I might as well be living on an island I am so lonely. I might as well be sleeping 24/7 I am so uninvolved in life. I might as well be dead. But I don’t want to die. I want to live. And living means allowing some measure of vulnerability, some measure of letting people actually see me, and this means putting an end to physical, emotional and spiritual self-mutilation.
So I am on a path to nurture myself rather than hurt myself. I want to do things that are good for me, rather than things that help me to avoid life and thus cause pain to me. And I can’t put into words how much better I feel. I cannot remember the last time I felt this good, but it has been many years.
So I want to encourage those who are in recovery from their addictions to persevere, because it’s worth it. And I want to promise those who are in active addiction to trust that it gets better once addiction is overcome and once we actively choose living over existing.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
AVOIDING BEING AN ENABLER: ADVICE FROM ALANIS MORISSETTE
"Not The Doctor" - Alanis Morissette, from Jagged Little Pill
"I don't want to be the filler if the void is solely yours
I don't want to be your glass of single malt whiskey
Hidden in the bottom drawer
I don't want to be a bandage if the wound is not mine
Lend me some fresh air
I don't want to be adored for what I merely represent to you
I don't want to be your babysitter
You're a very big boy now
I don't want to be your mother
I didn't carry you in my womb for nine months
Show me the back door
Visiting hours are 9 to 5 and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and oh
Mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom
You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor
I don't want to be the sweeper of the egg shells that you walk upon
And I don't want to be your other half, I believe that 1 and 1 make 2
I don't want to be your food or the light from the fridge on your face
At midnight, hey
What are you hungry for
I don't want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don't want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and I'm afraid of heights
I don't want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window
Visiting hours are 9 to 5 and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and oh
Mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom
You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor
I don't want to live on someday when my motto is last week
I don't want to be responsible for your fractured heart
And it's wounded beat
I don't want to be a substitute for the smoke you've been inhaling
What do you thank me
What do you thank me for
Visiting hours are 9 to 5 and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and oh
Mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom
You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor"
"I don't want to be the filler if the void is solely yours
I don't want to be your glass of single malt whiskey
Hidden in the bottom drawer
I don't want to be a bandage if the wound is not mine
Lend me some fresh air
I don't want to be adored for what I merely represent to you
I don't want to be your babysitter
You're a very big boy now
I don't want to be your mother
I didn't carry you in my womb for nine months
Show me the back door
Visiting hours are 9 to 5 and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and oh
Mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom
You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor
I don't want to be the sweeper of the egg shells that you walk upon
And I don't want to be your other half, I believe that 1 and 1 make 2
I don't want to be your food or the light from the fridge on your face
At midnight, hey
What are you hungry for
I don't want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don't want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and I'm afraid of heights
I don't want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window
Visiting hours are 9 to 5 and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and oh
Mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom
You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor
I don't want to live on someday when my motto is last week
I don't want to be responsible for your fractured heart
And it's wounded beat
I don't want to be a substitute for the smoke you've been inhaling
What do you thank me
What do you thank me for
Visiting hours are 9 to 5 and if I show up at 10 past 6
Well I already know that you'd find some way to sneak me in and oh
Mind the empty bottle with the holes along the bottom
You see it's too much to ask for and I am not the doctor"
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
ATTITUDE
After 4 months of unemployment I was hired to a PERFECT job today. And it wasn't because of my qualifications. It was because I went in with a different attitude: "These people do not OWE me a job because I don't have money for groceries and I have 2 degrees. I need to sell myself by being confident, sincerely engaging, friendly and prove my qualifications, not with my CV, but through who I am and what I say."
AMENDS:
I've been staying sane these past two weeks by apologising for past hurts (and there have been a lot) and for when I'm wrong in my present life. Honesty with yourself leads to honesty with other people, and its a VERY liberating feeling.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
TODAY, I'M GOING TO STAY SANE BY:
going for a job interview, and despite being desperate for it, giving it my absolute best without feeling entitled to the job, and thus angry and despondent if I don't get it. Going with the flow!
Monday, March 22, 2010
TODAY I'M GOING TO STAY SANE BY:
giving myself a break from cleaning (it's a holiday in SA) and I'm going to surround myself with people, and animals, I love and who love me back
SANITY & NEGATIVE PEOPLE IN OUR LIVES
The more 'insane' one is, the more we surround ourselves with negative people, or no people at all; so sanity involves surrounding ourselves with positive people and drawing boundaries with those that are negative.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
LEARN TO LAUGH AT YOURSELF
ALWAYS, always take yourself not too seriously. Feeling that you are more important than you are tends to make the things that happen to you on a daily basis feel insurmountable and deathly.
Friday, March 19, 2010
AWAKENING
obviously, i am doing A LOT of thinking. it's like those nights before
a maths test where your head is full of figures. i was thinking about
my insomnia and how it has coincided with the veil of depression being
lifted and i realise: i have been asleep on so many levels for over a
decade, and now i'm awake and there is so much life to live and so
much unconsciousness to catch up on. how can i possibly sleep?
i have an interview with this teaching thing on tuesday next week.
i have written amends letters to mommy, charne.
i have written amends letters to my friends.
i am sharing at the self-mutilator's anon next week fri.
for the first time in my journey i want to get better, without doubt,
reservation or half-heartedness.
a maths test where your head is full of figures. i was thinking about
my insomnia and how it has coincided with the veil of depression being
lifted and i realise: i have been asleep on so many levels for over a
decade, and now i'm awake and there is so much life to live and so
much unconsciousness to catch up on. how can i possibly sleep?
i have an interview with this teaching thing on tuesday next week.
i have written amends letters to mommy, charne.
i have written amends letters to my friends.
i am sharing at the self-mutilator's anon next week fri.
for the first time in my journey i want to get better, without doubt,
reservation or half-heartedness.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
EXPRESSING INDIVIDUALITY & SELF-HARM
I used to tell myself, and any party that showed concern, that I was tattooing and piercing visible parts of my body because I was different. I was not like everybody else. I didn’t want to, didn’t need to, get a job like everyone else where you wear a skirt and blouse and carry a briefcase.
I told myself that it didn’t matter if people stared; it didn’t matter if people shied away from me; it didn’t matter if people openly confronted me for looking like a Satanist, a freak.
In fact, my attitude was, “Fu*k them! If they can’t bother to get beneath the surface of my skin to see how amazing I am, then they can go to hell. In fact, my appearance is like a secret handshake. If you can’t see that it is symbolic of my difference, my bravery, my intelligence, my artistic-ness, then you’re not worth knowing.”
And it worked for a while. I found jobs where people were willing to accept the way I looked because of my skill. I kept the friends that knew and loved me for my uniqueness and intelligence.
After a decade of piercing and tattooing 80% of my visible skin, I am now without a job and can’t find one because of the way I look. And I have two friends. It was the friend thing that made me realise that I have pushed people away emotionally.
And then I realised that the way I look was simply a physical extension of that emotional pushing away. The piercing and tattooing was the ultimate way of alienating myself from everyone and everything in my life. I might as well have gone to live on an island.
So, what is wrong with piercing and tattooing? Absolutely nothing. It has to do with motive. And my motive was self-harm. Without acknowledging it, I KNEW, on some level, that tattooing and piercing myself where everyone could see it in the society that I live in, in the time that I live in, would only alienate and isolate me.
Yes, society is narrow-minded. Yes, people are judgemental. But what can I do to change that? Nothing. And in the face of this knowledge, I went and turned myself, knowingly – on some level – into that which society was the most narrow-minded and judgemental about!!!
In doing this, I have protected myself from other people. I have protected myself from intimacy and thus, from getting hurt. But, a decade later, I now realise that I have hurt myself far more than anyone or anything ever could or ever will. And I have to acknowledge that, own that, and try to remedy that.
I am not rich. I cannot go for tattoo removal. But tonight I have taken a step that I NEVER thought I would. I have taken out my visible piercings.
And does that make me less unique, less intelligent, less artistic? No. Does it make me more employable, less threatening to people I meet, more acceptable to society? Yes. And being more employable, less threatening, more acceptable is NOT about conforming; its not about agreeing with the narrow-mindedness. Its about being able to move more freely in a world where in order to live my best life I need to find a job; where I need to interact with people; where I need my friends.
I told myself that it didn’t matter if people stared; it didn’t matter if people shied away from me; it didn’t matter if people openly confronted me for looking like a Satanist, a freak.
In fact, my attitude was, “Fu*k them! If they can’t bother to get beneath the surface of my skin to see how amazing I am, then they can go to hell. In fact, my appearance is like a secret handshake. If you can’t see that it is symbolic of my difference, my bravery, my intelligence, my artistic-ness, then you’re not worth knowing.”
And it worked for a while. I found jobs where people were willing to accept the way I looked because of my skill. I kept the friends that knew and loved me for my uniqueness and intelligence.
After a decade of piercing and tattooing 80% of my visible skin, I am now without a job and can’t find one because of the way I look. And I have two friends. It was the friend thing that made me realise that I have pushed people away emotionally.
And then I realised that the way I look was simply a physical extension of that emotional pushing away. The piercing and tattooing was the ultimate way of alienating myself from everyone and everything in my life. I might as well have gone to live on an island.
So, what is wrong with piercing and tattooing? Absolutely nothing. It has to do with motive. And my motive was self-harm. Without acknowledging it, I KNEW, on some level, that tattooing and piercing myself where everyone could see it in the society that I live in, in the time that I live in, would only alienate and isolate me.
Yes, society is narrow-minded. Yes, people are judgemental. But what can I do to change that? Nothing. And in the face of this knowledge, I went and turned myself, knowingly – on some level – into that which society was the most narrow-minded and judgemental about!!!
In doing this, I have protected myself from other people. I have protected myself from intimacy and thus, from getting hurt. But, a decade later, I now realise that I have hurt myself far more than anyone or anything ever could or ever will. And I have to acknowledge that, own that, and try to remedy that.
I am not rich. I cannot go for tattoo removal. But tonight I have taken a step that I NEVER thought I would. I have taken out my visible piercings.
And does that make me less unique, less intelligent, less artistic? No. Does it make me more employable, less threatening to people I meet, more acceptable to society? Yes. And being more employable, less threatening, more acceptable is NOT about conforming; its not about agreeing with the narrow-mindedness. Its about being able to move more freely in a world where in order to live my best life I need to find a job; where I need to interact with people; where I need my friends.
ADMITTING MISTAKES
Sanity is very much dependent on admitting when you were wrong in relation to others, even, and especially, when you wronged yourself.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
HOW I'M GOING TO STAY SANE TODAY:
Having coffee with a friend who will make me feel better about the path that I'm on, rather than seeing other friends or groups of people who fuel my insecurities.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
THE RELATIVITY OF PAIN
Did you catch Oprah today? There was this woman who had her face eaten off by a chimpanzee. She can't breathe out of her nose, is blind, can only eat through a straw and has lost 9 of 10 fingers. She still gets out of bed every day to take a walk. The rest of us have no excuse.
TODAY I STAYED SANE BY:
keeping up with the rituals I've been following this week. Each day that goes by that I do those simple things makes me feel better. I can't remember the last time I felt this good. It's been years.
HONESTY & RESPONSIBILITY
Lying to others is one thing, but lying to yourself and inhabiting that lie is death. And when you don't even acknowledge that you're living a lie, it's like playing Russian roulette.
I had to acknowledge that I was avoiding pain by avoiding decision-making. I was avoiding the pain of the difficulty of losing weight by avoidant behaviours like making bad food choices, not exercising. I was avoiding the pain of having too many dogs in a small flat by not neutering my male dog and keeping the puppies because I didn't want to experience the pain of letting them go. I was avoiding the pain of the tremendous difficulties in finding a job, having to humble one's self to such an extent, by pretending that I was looking for a job by sending cv's via email instead of getting up off my ass and looking.
The instantaneous pain of not having that chocolate, walking around the block, saying goodbye to a puppy you love more than most people and eating humble pie by looking for a job, any job in this recession is far less painful than the pain of avoiding things and living a lie.
I had to acknowledge that I was avoiding pain by avoiding decision-making. I was avoiding the pain of the difficulty of losing weight by avoidant behaviours like making bad food choices, not exercising. I was avoiding the pain of having too many dogs in a small flat by not neutering my male dog and keeping the puppies because I didn't want to experience the pain of letting them go. I was avoiding the pain of the tremendous difficulties in finding a job, having to humble one's self to such an extent, by pretending that I was looking for a job by sending cv's via email instead of getting up off my ass and looking.
The instantaneous pain of not having that chocolate, walking around the block, saying goodbye to a puppy you love more than most people and eating humble pie by looking for a job, any job in this recession is far less painful than the pain of avoiding things and living a lie.
MAKING AMENDS
"In order to be honest with yourself and to live honestly you need to apologise to those that you've hurt. And it might not be in ways that are normally considered 'hurtful', like stealing, cheating. You might have been irresponsible at work, slapping those that have entrusted you with a job in the face. And at the time your reasons seem right, principled. But in retrospect you were just being immature, and a total asshole. And once you make those amends, you have to let go of your ego; you can't wait for a response, hoping that they're going to forgive you and welcome you back with open arms. They might be laughing behind your back. They might never change their opinion about you. But you have to do it for yourself, as difficult as it is. And it IS difficult."
Monday, March 15, 2010
TODAY I STAYED SANE BY:
Cleaning the kitchen so as not to let dishes pile up for more than one day; eating breakfast instead of starving the whole day and then gorging everything in sight at night; cooked supper for myself and my partner - it always makes me feel good to make something that she enjoys; I sent an email of apology to someone that I had hurt with my behaviour.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
TODAY I STAYED SANE BY:
Getting up before 9am; taking responsibility for the fact that I have too many dogs and took the puppies to a pet shop; cleaned the flat up from top to bottom; bought healthy food; ate healthily; drank water; taking a nap.
Ways of Staying Sane
Whether it's making sure you brush your teeth every day, taking the dogs for a walk, not oversleeping, going to meetings, knitting, exercising or watching comedies, each one of us has learnt that many things make us feel better in small ways each day. And those small happinesses then make general contentment and sanity easier. Share your inspirational joy-giving/sanity-saving activities, thoughts, people, etc.
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