Maybe crisis was the best thing that could have happened

Sometimes when I’m working with other multiples who are in crisis and feeling overwhelmed by their internal chaos and frightened and frustrated by their parts, I think to myself that discovering I have parts and then going through a few years of crisis might have been the best thing that could have happened to me. It’s a weird thought, because if I could take back years of homelessness, isolation, confusion, and pain, I would in a heartbeat. And yet, it provided an odd protection for me. I rallied, or rather, we rallied. To survive. And the thing we protected ourselves from, most of all, was a story about what it means to be multiple that would have crippled us.

I recall, back when I was working with a MH PHaMs worker, her sending around emails trying to find me a psychiatrist to work with. At my request she was asking for someone willing with to work with a person with DID without trying to integrate them at this stage. At the time I was homeless, caring for someone who was suicidal and often in hospital, highly vulnerable and under horrific stress. I was well aware that having parts was greatly helping me. While some parts were burning out, others would step up and take on our very complicated and painful life. We were running a complex relay where infighting and conflicts gradually made way for a deep mutual respect.

Like a platoon of soldiers in an appalling conflict, we started to bond. We started to realise how deeply we relied on each other, that we were all in this together, even the ‘crazy’ ones you would never have befriended back home, even the ‘useless’ ones you would never have chosen to have by your side in a war. You fought for them, you protected them, you demanded their respect, simply because they were your platoon. We might hate each other, we might not understand each other at all, we might be very, very different from each other, but we’re fighting the same war. We’re mates. So you don’t steal each other’s rations. You don’t play mind games with each other. You might yell sometimes. You might hold your hand over the mouth of the one who won’t stop crying, just until the enemy pass by. You might hit them when they bite you. But then you say sorry and you tussle their hair and when you find a box of pencils you save them for them.

Maybe over time you find they’re not as crazy as you thought. Maybe you find that when you’re kind to them they don’t cry so much and don’t screw things up so much. Maybe you get to the point where you can let them sleep next to you and when they can’t sleep for the nightmares, you sing a little to them. Maybe someday an old story comes out about them, about how they were in the war long before you, back in the early days. About how brave they were and how broken they were, and you realise that really, they were protecting you, all along. They look like crazy kids because they were young and they got hurt early and being brave wasn’t enough, and their army wasn’t big enough to win. So you hate them a little less and you make sure they get a bowl of soup when there’s soup to be had. It’s hard to be disgusted by someone, however weird, when you find out they’ve saved your life. Things change, they have to.

I was lucky because the war was still going on, so I didn’t see my parts as the enemy. They weren’t destroying my life, outside forces were still doing that. They were still trying to keep us alive. So the story never really fit me – this ‘once having parts was helping you but now it’s messing everything up’ story. I know it fits other people, but it didn’t fit us. We couldn’t afford to have our most useful way of managing crises removed from us while we were still in crisis. And we really couldn’t afford to abdicate responsibility to a shrink. So the ‘you must have weekly therapy for years to manage DID’ story didn’t fit well either. Most people couldn’t manage what I was managing, and most shrinks were rapidly out of their depth too. Some just denied the DID or laid the chaos at my feet – your life is a mess, you must be borderline. Which is a lovely cop out for the brutal reality that life can be extremely bloody hard at times, and sometimes that’s just bad luck. Some laid the mess at the feet of the DID – you will always be lonely and chaotic while you have it, you need to integrate as rapidly as possible. But I was watching friends and family burn out and fall away, where I could keep going. I was doing the impossible, every day. I could switch instead of freeze and face down the most violent and frightening person in my life – someone I had never seen anyone stand up to, someone who scared even the therapist. And I could do this because we were parts, separate, because we could switch to whoever had the most useful approach. I simply couldn’t deny the reality that having parts was currently keeping me alive.

So I had to build different stories. And the more I looked, the more I realised how narrow the old stories are. There are so many people they don’t fit. There are so many people who get lost in this idea that someone else – a shrink – is the best person to lead their lives, because they are broken and damaged. There are so many people trying to figure out their parts and fit them into frameworks of ANP’s or ISP’s or Protectors, and in such fear and pain when they don’t fit. When the stories fit they can be so liberating – someone else knows what I’m going through! But even then, they obscure. There is such uniqueness to each person. I have heard hundreds of stories of multiplicity and YES of course I tell people ‘such and such is common!’ when they feel crazy and scared, but I also constantly want to honour the diversity. Each story is so unique. And I’m so sad at the long, painful, tortured road so many people seem to have to take through years of treatment to get to a place that crises got me to so quickly – I’m blessed.

Even my most dysfunctional parts are trying to help us survive. That love is the best way to engage a system. That I’m not crazy or broken, or at least, no more so than anyone else. I can’t helping thinking how much quicker and less painful this road is if you don’t start with stories about sickness, brokenness, needing other people to help you survive. Maybe this is what happens, all over the world, in places where they’ve never heard of psychiatry. Maybe this is what happens to thousands of people who don’t quite meet the criteria for DID and never get that diagnosis, as they come out the other side of crisis and take stock. There are so many stories about multiplicity we never hear.

I’m not anti-integration! One of my favourite lines is from The Flock, saying that perhaps it will happen when and if it is supposed to. I have personally approached it, initially with great enthusiasm, and now with caution. I don’t see it as my goal. If it happens as a by-product of my living and healing, how wonderful! If it does not, how wonderful! Life is a strange and amazing thing. There is no one road, we all walk our own. But certainly, sometimes, when I’m listening to people taking on the standard stories about multiplicity, framing it as an illness, seeing their parts as the problem instead of their inexperience, self hate, or trauma as the problem, I’m so sad! It seems I was lucky that life gave me another kick in the teeth just after I was working this out, because it sure has helped us work together. It’s an odd thing to wish for someone else, especially someone already struggling, and it’s not really true. I don’t wish crises or suffering on others, but I do wish they have the chance to write new stories.

Most of all, I want people to be free from other people telling their stories for them! I want people to be free not to fit themselves into other people’s frameworks, but to find their own. I want them to have the chance to greet the possibility they have parts with courage and love and joy, instead of stories of terror, loss, and suffering. It all rather reminds me of a strange old prayer:

A Franciscan Benediction

May God bless you with discomfort,
At easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships,
So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger,
At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,
So that you may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless you with tears,
To shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection,
Starvation and war.
So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them
And turn their pain to joy. 

And may God bless you with enough foolishness,
To believe that you may make a difference in this world,
So that you can do what others claim cannot be done.
Amen

Rose has signed a lease

I’m still sick and exhausted, endometriosis is kicking me in the teeth, but my attempt to restart on the pill this month had to be abandoned due to immediate, severe depression. I can’t be sure it was related, but as I went through the same thing when I stopped taking it last year and that took 2 months to get over, I stopped it straight away. I’ll try it again in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, my pain levels are very high, and I feel like hell.

Rose has a virus that has developed into a chest infection, so she feels like someone ran her over a few times then stuffed her lungs with cotton wool. I feel like my bones have been drilled, fitted with bolts, and then clamped in a vice. We’re an awesome pair at the moment.

But – she’s signed a lease. Rose, my sister, and my friend and his daughter Sophie (my goddaughter) are all moving in together in a fortnight, to a house on my street. They’ll be only 10 houses away from me. 🙂 I’m staying put for now and will move in sometime later. This staged approach keeps the pressure off and the stress as low as possible for both Rose and myself. It gives us a home base for the move that doesn’t change, and staggers the introduction of our pets. It also puts off the nasty reduction in welfare that happens when you move in with a partner, until my work is successful enough that we can afford it. It’s actually happening! Some of the people I most love in the world will be a short walk away. I feel so blessed. Stressed out of my tiny mind and in horrible pain, but very blessed. There will be vastly more excitement when I’ve got through work tomorrow and recovered. I am so so sick of being sick. I have a studio to paint! 😦

Everyone was thrilled about signing the lease. And then immediately started getting panicky or depressed about various logistical problems with the move itself. I was reminded of how quickly this approach wears people out. I see it all the time in mental health work. You must take time to celebrate each victory, to enjoy it, before moving on to the next problem. You have to give yourself a break from the chronic stress and problem solving, have to make room for the peaceful feelings and the celebrations. It’s such an important part of resilience. Savouring the moment. Rose has signed a lease!

Living with Rage

If you love someone who has been hurt, you have to learn how to live with rage.

I’m used to living with my own pain and anger these days. I know where it hurts, I know what to do on those days when it’s going to drown me, when I need to burn it all down.

Rose has been badly hurt at times. When I hold her, when I hear her stories, I swallow back my own feelings. I’m just present. She hurts, or is afraid, or hates herself. I hold on, I hold onto her, onto hope, onto grief, onto love.

Underneath this is rage. Touch her again and I will kill you. Make her cry and I’ll scream your world apart. Tell her again how worthless she is and you’ll inherit a firestorm. She’s not alone anymore. She’s no longer the only one, a place you can leave your frustration with the world, your own inadequacy and impotence, without consequence.

It builds, over time, I find.

I’ve been in relationships where friend or partner insisted that I do not get involved when they are harmed. Once someone had my boyfriend against a wall by their throat and he still would not allow me to intervene. I locked myself in the toilet and cried. I was 16.

I once inherited everyone in the world of my partner. They had access to me. People I would never have shared time with, never have let close, never have trusted, had access to me.

I once turned into a single entity with my partner. We had to operate as a unit in all things. What they submitted to I must submit to. What they hated and walked away from, I had to leave behind.

Then, I stood alone in a caravan, after all the years of trying so hard to be loveable and to make people feel safe around me, and I realised that I was in less pain now. It hurt less to be alone than to be the least important and valued member of a group that kicks downwards. I paid high prices for the illusion of belonging. I promised myself that I’d never let people treat me like that again. I’d rather be alone. I’d rather self destruct than let someone else do it to me.

Here I am, and this time I don’t inherit anyone. Respect is met with respect. Only those who love me get close to me. I don’t become a unit. I make my own choices about what I will suffer and why. I stand my own ground. And sometimes, I have to find ways to express rage, because I love her, because she deserves so much better.

And she deserves better than me too.

But how can you hate yourself when that’s hating someone she loves?

Sometimes I get angry with Rose. I thought I was hiding it well, discharging little bits in dark comments, sniping with tone or look. She called me out on it and the relief was huge. I’m not the only one watching to make sure things are fair and okay. It’s so much easier when we both watch. I’ve less power, less responsibility. I’m an equal. I saw a vision of myself as an abusive spouse, of where this could take us, and I cried bitterly. There was only one way out – painful honesty. Being real about the times we drive each other crazy. Being real about our limits. This was many months ago now, and I haven’t slipped since. Love and humility are a good match.

But I am finding that I’m losing my capacity to swallow my rage when she cries into my arms about something someone else has done. I know what it’s like to take it because you love someone. I know what it’s like to be forced to stand by. I don’t want to get into places I don’t belong. I don’t want to overshadow her choices. I don’t want to be someone else to manage. But I want everyone to know that she’s not alone. Those vile ones who took so much because once she was small and alone, watch where you leer. I loathe you more than you can understand. I restrain my violent impulses. I wake from nightmares and think of your faces, distorted with narcissistic self pity. Rage burns like fire in my bones.

Now, the wounds inflicted by those who lash out unthinkingly, who act out their petty frustrations and choose someone close to hand, someone they’re pretty sure will take it and won’t leave, how then do I hate those she loves? Where she forgives, I want to down the façade of unity. This time she has somewhere safe to run. This time there’s someone there to say ‘don’t hate yourself, you’re beautiful’. A place where your lies get washed away. I may not be there, I may not have my hand on your throat, but I’m watching. When she sobs into my lap about the names you call her, I’m listening. When you roll your eyes, raise your voice, curl your lip with that sneer, I’m clocking your contempt. When she swallows down an insult or doesn’t hear another assumption about how she’s just not trying hard enough and has it pretty easy I’m sharpening my teeth in the shadows. Don’t think things aren’t changing. Try that on me? Try that with her when I’m there? She has my heart, she carries it in her chest. I pay no allegiances beyond love, and I protect my heart.

It’s the simplest of things, to love those who love her, those who see what I see in her. To hate those who hurt her, her make her feel that she is somehow less, who use her as a place to ease the ache of their bones. And the rest – those of us who love but let her down? I’m watching you, just like I watch me. Make all the excuses in the world, but you had better mean it when you bow your head.

And me? I find it helps to have someone who doesn’t mind if you spit fire. The kinds of friends who just say ‘that’s messed up’ and don’t try to calm you down. A car is almost sound proof if you need somewhere to scream, or better yet, to scream along to music up loud. Break a few rules that won’t kill you. Direct the rage into making you look clearly at things you’d rather avoid. Clean up your act, clear out your own stressors. It’s okay to love, it’s okay to want to protect those you love. You can’t stop the fire but you can direct where it goes. Handle it with respect, with integrity. I read dark books and breathe turpentine. It passes, it eases. The scream fades in the air and a silence comes over, a space made for a different song.

She’s free, and I’m free, and we share pain and fury and grief and longing and fear back and forth between us like a complex knitting. She shares pain and I give her back rage. We are free and we are not free. We share terrible truths in the night. We see ourselves in each other’s hearts like dark mirrors. Love transforms these offerings, they are transmuted, purified by the process. An alchemy of broken hearts. At the end we are wounded, we are divine, we are human. We try to bring light. We try to bring peace. We lay down sword and tear and wing. We are restored to love.

Riding the avalanche

What a week.

Rose is sick, probably tonsillitis or a flu. I’ve done a huge fibro flare after work this weekend and been in more severe pain than I’ve experienced in a long time. I’ve also been wildly depressed and wound up meeting with a friend and crying on their shoulder for about 3 hours at a local pub. We’re running out of time for Rose to sign a lease before she winds up stranded with her current one expired. She, my sister, and my friend and his daughter, my goddaughter Sophie, are all putting in applications together for places near me. I wont be moving anywhere yet. Rose and I are both stressed out of our brains, sleeping badly and having nightmares. Rose keeps running into conflicts in her life with people who yell at her. I’m finding that my ability to be a patient support in the background is being severely tested. Yesterday between pain and illness and someone having a go at her while I wasn’t around again I really started to feel like I was losing my mind.

I went and visited nice people who fed me dinner and let me rant. I was pissed off on facebook. Then I came home with chocolate, milk, and the darkest book I could get my hands on at short notice (The Death of Bunny Munroe, by Nick Cave) and took myself to bed. This morning I checked in with Rose (still sick) and called Centrelink in the faint hopes I had miscalculated when figuring out that if we move in together we will need to add to our income (or subtract from our expenses) an additional $246 a fortnight, to be as broke as we are currently. Fantastic.

We’re waiting to hear back about another application. It’s sounding promising so far, and if this one comes through then things should be sweet with no one stuck between houses.

It’s good to wake up this morning feeling like I can breathe. Yesterday I woke out of nightmares into asthma and intense pain which is one of my least fun ways to wake up. Just taking things minute by minute at the moment, which is helping a lot. Letting myself off the hook. Trying to get a few dishes done. Breathing. Trying not to explode. One foot, then the other, then breathe. Losing my mind a bit here and there seems to be helping. Don’t try to stop the avalanche, just ride it down and try not to f*&% too much up on the way.

Ink Painting – Reza Barati

Reza Barati 2014

Australia has been moving back into harsh ‘detention centre’ policies for many years now. We have used these options many times in our short history. They are horrific, destructive places where people are completely disempowered and suffer a great deal. I once did a research project on our creation of an internment camp on Torrens Island, in which Australians of German origin suddenly found that their new home feared and hated them. There was no trial or right of appeal. Conditions started off reasonably but became brutal over time and under cruel leadership. I read letters the men sent, week after week, to local authorities pleading for better conditions and right of trial. It was painful to witness our brutality, and how readily we forget the shameful chapters of our past while holding other cultures accountable for theirs.

I’m heartbroken by the way we change the rules when things become ‘political’. People who are otherwise for kindness, for generosity, people who decry bullying and abuse, who try to lead decent lives, people who are angry when children are hurt by adults, somehow step back and start talking about the bigger picture, about deterrents and legality. Individual pain becomes irrelevant. Individual responsibility is diffused. The simplicity of the Golden Rule is left behind.

Reza Barati died recently in one of the Australian off-shore camps, at Manus Island. He was a person. He had a life ahead of him, people to love, a world of wisdom and mistakes and joy that has been taken from him.

I didn’t vote for this. I don’t want this. This is not being done in my name. I’m sorry.

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Ink Painting – From the stars

I sat up late last night in my studio, painting with inks again.

I’m sad and tired and can’t seem to shake it. World weary and weighed down. I thought painting might help. All my images were of grief. It did and it didn’t. It didn’t and it did. I re-read Greylands by Isobel Carmody. I’ve looked for furniture for my studio at local second hand stores. I’ve discovered that the name we were going to use for it is already being used. I’ve looked up new names, none of which quite fit.

My basil plant is huge and fragrant and full of bees. My sage is dying, despite all love. Life is strange and sad and my heart is full of broken glass.

I’ve painted this dead woman and her howling dog, she’s hanging from the moon and stars, tangled in the dreams she was weaving.

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Nightmares & changes

It’s been nightmare central around here lately. There’s changes and upheaval everywhere! The first step of the big move is happening, Rose is packing to move in with my sister, my close friend, and his daughter (my goddaughter Sophie)! This is heart stoppingly exciting, and very stressful for her. Like me, she’s been homeless more than once and is really afraid of making stupid decisions that might make that happen again. She’s also job hunting now that her ankle has mostly healed as she’s not being given shifts at her current casual job. So there’s plenty of fodder for rough nights there. As usual, some friends get it, some don’t. We’re both stressed and I’m doing my best to be supportive.

I did something a bit risky the other night when I came home shattered from a day at college and just zoned out on the net all evening… I read my way through a blog post about movies the writer had found really hard to watch or finish watching. I was gratified to see them list se7en, which I watched at 16 when my then partner stupidly or sadistically persuaded me it didn’t live up to the R18 rating and I’d enjoy it. I remember crawling into an empty room afterwards, huddling into a corner, pressing my face against the wall, and sobbing my heart out. I was a bit cautious about the article as movies easily set off nightmares for me, but as many of them were ones I’d heard of and which lose most of their disturbing impact in the description, such as Clockwork Orange, I read it anyway. Whoops.

The last several nights have been horrific. I’ve latched onto the idea of sadism and torture and murder and had a really rough time as my imagination has played out what I’ve read and added from my own bank of bad memories. It’s been really, really stressful. Hopefully I’ll let it go soon. What it has brought to my mind though, is that this used to be every day life for me. It’s astonishing that this has become something I deal with sometimes, not every night. Bit by bit, things change, wounds heal over. The hard work pays off. You can recover from PTSD.

Things are difficult at the moment. But it’s not death pangs, it’s the birthing of a new life. It’s a price I can pay. There’s moments I’m one breath away from a panic attack. There’s moments I’m so content, in such peace.

Great arty news, awards and so on

I finally got back the marks for my Digital Media class last year – I think is the best result I’ve had for anything in my Visual Arts degree so far –

HD digi media

This is for the stop motion animation project I did in a small group. See more details about the project here. Apparently the animation is now being used as an example for future classes. Wow, nice!

Considering that my first involvement with the medium of film: Regeneration won an award in Canada recently, I’m wondering if this means I should give film/animation/digital media more serious consideration in my degree or arts practice?

It’s also making me think that I work well in teams, and to deadlines, despite what I’ve always believed. Maybe I need to seek out some collaborative art opportunities? 🙂

In other exciting news, I collected the keys to my new studio today! It’s been build and is ready and waiting for me to paint it. I’ve bought the undercoat and today Rose and I selected a top coat colour that will harmonise well with the black/white/blue theme already present. I just have to make time to get in there and paint it now! I’m excited and anxious and overwhelmed by admin and homework and many other things – but it is happening, and I can’t wait to show you the results!

Health & pain

Rose and I are carefully putting some thought into our health, moving gently around mindfields of food issues and body image and social pressure. We are finding some things that are working for us without triggering bigger problems than they solve, which is saying something. 🙂

So far, we’re eating a lot of rainbow salads and other good foods, without worrying about restricting anything. I don’t do well with restricting and am vulnerable to binge/starve behaviour. So this gentle approach is working well for me.

We’ve also started exercising regularly. Rose loves swimming and I’m finding, to my joy, that swimming seems to really suit me! I’ve swum a little over a kilometre last week without any significant increase in pain! The lack of load bearing on my joints seems to make a big difference. I love having an exercise buddy and I’m feeling excited about building my capacity and my fitness. I’m hoping to gently increase my quantity of exercise with swimming and walking Zoe.

Exercise is a tricky one for me, too much leaves me shattered with fatigue and pain. Too little reduces my muscles tone and slows my metabolism in ways that leave me sicker. This is a common dilemma for people with fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue.

It’s very important to me to maintain my happiness with my body, it’s taken me a long time to feel content and settled in my skin and I still have bad days at times. There’s no point in me being successful with a fitness goal only to have my brain collapse. My aim is some more energy and better conception/pregnancy.

Unfortunately the endometrioses seems to have returned and I’m once again very sick for days each month. This is forcing me to either return onto the meds, which are associated with slow but steady weight gain, or step up my plans for parenthood. I’m ambivalent and wrestling with the options. One possibility may be going back onto the meds with some dietary modifications to try and reduce their impact. It’s a hard call.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying all the extra swimming and hoping it will pay dividends in increased fitness and pain reduction if I pace it carefully. 🙂

Falling into colour

We’re exploring colour theory in Painting class at college and I’m loving it. Given permission – or rather, mandated to investigate different combinations of colours and ways of understanding the colour wheel, I’m in my element. I find that colours that I have an aversion to can be combined to create the most delicate and beautiful hues. I’ve bought a book about colour mixing and I’m starting, for the first time, to really understand the way colours work together. In a small way, at any rate. Here’s some samples of my experiments, I so enjoyed making these

This was blending different cool primaries together:

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This one was about making glazes to paint over an existing work:

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I was so taken by this wash of purples:

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Basic glazes: warm colour glazes over warm colour block painting. I liked the red over the yellow particularly.

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It doesn’t show up all that well in the photo, but this string of blends are each quite different:

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Some close-ups. I kind of fell into this work. Stopped noticing how ill I was feeling or the passing of time. Just the stroke of my paint brush and the colours blending. There’s something very peaceful about making art this way.

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Dissociation is a super power

“Please tell me there is an bright side to dissociation“. Someone found my blog the other day by searching for this phrase. It makes me ache with frustration and sadness!

Of course there is a bright side! There are so, so many bright sides. They get lost when we talk about illness, disability, deficits. When we share the ‘once it was helpful but now it’s a problem’ story. When we collapse a whole life into a single, painful narrative of difference and limitations. Dissociation can be horrific and devastating and I don’t make light of it or of the suffering people experience. But this isn’t the whole story! Let’s start talking about bright sides, shall we?

Not all dissociation is pathological

Dissociation has been broadly defined. This means a LOT of highly valuable, important skills are being included in the category. Some level of capacity to dissociate, when it is broadly defined like this, is actually essential in our ability to function. Disconnecting from things is helpful in our ability to focus. People who struggle to damp down any of their sensory input are overwhelmed and highly distracted by it. Being able to put aside most of the input (the sound of a fly buzzing, the prickly feeling of rough socks, the worry about your friend who isn’t talking to you, the slightly sick feeling after drinking too much water) to focus on something important, like an exam, is very helpful!

People who are struggling with severe and chronic dissociation, the kind that leaves you numb, confused, lost, unable to feel, taste, touch, smell, or remember the faces of the people you love, often think of these kinds of dissociation as existing on the other side of a continuum of health. That once they’ve got the ‘bad’ dissociation under control, and they’re back to ‘normal’, maybe then they will get to experience some of the good kinds.

I disagree. Those of us who are drowning in the kinds of dissociation that takes away instead of enhances our lives are closer to the useful kinds of dissociation than many regular people. We are well versed in it, we are used to it, we have a huge aptitude for it, and often we are only drowning in it now because we once stumbled across it as something incredibly helpful. Do we need skills other than dissociation to navigate life? Certainly! Does depending on dissociation exclusively leave us uneven and struggling? Of course. But, sometimes when I’m talking to people who are absolutely overwhelmed by intense dissociation, I talk about dissociation as a super power. Sometimes working on reducing it through grounding techniques and trigger management just isn’t working. Sometimes the first step is to learn how to live with it better, how to use it to your advantage, how to stop hating it and feeling destroyed by it. Sometimes we need to become better at being dissociative, rather than less dissociative.

We are so used to this idea that dissociation is bad. We are so used to this idea that our minds are damaged and broken, and that we need expert intervention to help us be more normal and functioning. Dissociation can be a terrible thing. But it can also be a gift.

  • Dissociation can be learning self hypnosis to turn off your experience of pain during a dental visit.
  • Dissociation can be letting go of the bad memories for awhile so you can have new experiences.
  • Dissociation can be the ability to attend uni and study despite homelessness and self harm and carer responsibilities and your dog dying.
  • Dissociation can be discovering that you have a part who has not experienced any of the loss or heartache, a part who loves like their heart has never been broken, who hopes and dreams and cares and helps to lead your whole system to better places.
  • Dissociation can be sobbing into the night, overwhelmed with grief at the loss of your child, and still being able to get up the next day to hug and cook breakfast for your other child.
  • Dissociation can be disconnecting from the panic and terror and the overwhelming smell of blood to be able to help out at the car accident.
  • Dissociation can be laying in her arms and touching her face and feeling the minutes stretch out to whole days, to years that you’ve lain here like this, alone together with no world intruding.
  • Dissociation can be not noticing you haven’t eaten all day because the book you’re reading is absolutely brilliant and captivating and you can see all the characters in your mind and hear them talking to each other and at night you dream about them.
  • Dissociation can be walking away from every cruel and unkind thing ever said about you and finding new ways to think about yourself.
  • Dissociation can be having other parts to ask for help, not being alone anymore through any of the hard things.
  • Dissociation can be a four year old inside singing you to sleep when you’re lying awake worrying about the world.
  • Dissociation can be going numb when you’re feeling suicidal.
  • Dissociation can be reliving the most wonderful, exciting, hopeful, inspiring moments of your life as if they happened this morning.
  • Dissociation can be smelling a perfume and vividly remembering your Grandma’s garden and the feel of her hugs.
  • Dissociation can be having a conversation on the phone with a sick friend, getting the lunch boxes packed, finding your shoes, filling up the cat food bowl, helping knot a tie, and getting out of the house on time to catch the bus.
  • Dissociation can be the way, for just a moment, while you’re swimming, or drawing, or listening to your favourite music, or watching him play, everything in the whole world is okay.
  • The ability to compartmentalise is what helps us to do our best in a situation. For a doctor to concentrate on a patients needs even though their marriage is rocky and they’re stressed and anxious about it.
  • Dissociation can be part of the experience of artists who lose time when they paint, and athletes who forget they are tired when they’re running, and happy nerds who don’t notice someone calling their name when they’re lost in a good book.
  • Dissociation can be about mindfulness. The ability to be captured by the movement of the breeze in the lavender bush, to taste every drop of beer and be immersed in the smell and laughter of other humans.

You can learn how to use your dissociation. If you can turn it on, you can turn it off again. You can learn how to trigger it, how to use anchors, how to dial it up and down, how to go with the flow. When to trust it, when to shape it, when to learn other skills. We have so much to learn! Something that can help you put aside overwhelming feelings, or not feel physical pain is simply amazing! We have this idea that you have to lose all of those things in order to be well, in order to not be overwhelmed by dissociation in a way that steals life. Maybe this is true for some of us. But I’d caution making that assumption for everyone. And if you’re stuck (at least for now) with some of the downsides of being highly dissociative, why not at least explore the upsides? Maybe we don’t overcome everything by fighting it.

There’s balances. My experience has been that using dissociation as a blunt instrument for every purpose has great costs. Choosing not to feel all the painful feelings often costs you all the wonderful ones as well. Containment often works better than suppression. Being guided by your own needs rather than imposing a schedule or ideas from outside. But if I told you that some people can choose not to feel pain when they’re injured, not to remember awful memories when they are busy getting out of that life, that some people still watch movies like little kids do, where the characters are real and make them cry, that some people find that doing their favourite thing in the world makes time stretch into something approaching infinity… you wouldn’t tell me these people are sick, you’d say they have super powers.

Rain & poets

Whew, it’s wet and humid here! I’ve just finished putting a casserole on to cook in my slow cooker. I have a bunch of friends coming round for dinner tonight. Next task is peeling a bag of spuds. I usually stick to easier meals like home made pizza but I wanted to do something a bit special tonight, it’s the first time my little goddaughter Sophie will be visiting my place!

The weather is crazy wonderful here. It’s been pouring with rain for a couple of days and lots of South Australia is beyond damp and into deluged. I’m happy as a duck. I like rain. I like being able to turn the fan on at night, huddle under my blanket, and stick out one foot for temperature regulation. If just my toes are poking out I’m cool. If half my calf is exposed I’m a little warm.

Weather is one thing that almost always makes us switch. I love it. There’s a fatigue that sets in when it’s been the same for too long. Life starts to feel flat, to stretch before me like a road going nowhere. Then a shift in the weather will spin my carousel round again and someone else comes out and breathes in deeply and we feel alive again. I love the weather. I love not being able to control it. I love that it intrudes into our lives in ways we try to prevent. It insists we pay attention to it, insists that we feel something. I love storms and rain and wind and lightening. I love going down the beach in crazy weather and screaming into the wind. I love staying up late with a hot chocolate and watching the lightening. I love the whisper of someone who has been forgotten about, left behind in the hustle of our life, especially our new life, so focused on accomplishment and productivity and efficiency and being adult.

Rain brings out the poets. It always has. Yesterday I was melancholy in that bitter sweet way that makes you want to savour it. Last night I sank into bed after cleaning the kitchen, and fell into a dream where my front yard flooded, and I started to pull trash from it only to find that there was no soil beneath the plants. A cave full of water and tree roots and water pipes lay under everything. Cold, and strange, clear water running. In one dream I fell into it and the sodden earth and lawn collapsed onto me. Their weight was intense, constricting my lungs, the feel of mud squeezing around me, making a perfect mold of my limbs. In another I sat by it, lifting this curtain of green things with my shovel to gaze at a world under my own world, unsuspected and singing to me.

I want to sleep outdoors again. I miss my caravan. Miss being deafened by the rain. I’d love to have a tent or yurt out in the yard and on good nights, nights when I’m not too sick or too scorched, to go and sleep there, listening to the night wind and the trains running in the distance, and the possums looking for dinner. There’s so much life here, if we don’t wall ourselves off from it.

 

Making marks

I was really sick at at college on Monday. Shaky, exhausted, nauseated, and really struggling to focus. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, and my plans to park by the tram stop and get in that way didn’t work out because all the parks by the tram stop were very time limited and didn’t give me enough time to get in and back again. In Drawing class we were investigating different ways of making marks with willow and compressed charcoal. I really struggled to stay focused and keep getting teary and needing to slip away to cry. I hate not being well enough to enjoy college. My tutor at the end of the lesson asked me if I was bored and I’m glad he did because I was glad to clarify that I was just sick!

I kept trying to figure out what was making us so sick, (apart from the usual) and if it was a parts based thing and we could switch. Sometimes I felt better for a bit when music was playing but I couldn’t seem to stabilise and make anything work. I think I need to find out replace my MP3 player and eight that helps keep me anchored if that was the issue. In the end I just let it roll over me and did my best to get through the day. Sometimes taking the pressure off is the best you’re going to get.
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It’s an interesting process to see how many limiting ideas I have about art, and how little I let myself experiment when I’m anxious about the cost of the materials. How every piece must be good enough to justify the time and money spent on creating it. It’s not surprising that I find myself blocked and shut down with these mindsets. I’m hopeful about clearing my head more so I can be more creative and explore my favourite materials.

These were some of the marks I made with this process that spoke to me:

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Rose was wonderful she made me this great lunch, dropped me off and picked me up after college. I was fragile and distressed so she took me home and read Harry Potter to me until I slept.

Photos of Glitter tattoo Body Jewellery

Other things I get up to when I’m not here blogging… 😉

Sarah K Reece's avatarSarah K Reece

One of my favourite parties of the summer was this fantastic girls Glitter tattoo party. It was a birthday for girls in that pre-teen to early teen bracket who are ‘too old’ for face paint and not yet old enough to have it in a spirit of youthful irony!

I was hired for an hour and 7 girls attended. Each chose a stencil tattoo to have applied with their favourite colours, then came back to have it decorated into a body jewellery design, and lastly received a sparkly ‘ring’ as well. When I left, they were all having a great time dancing. It’s a pretty special way of having a great party without a lot of fuss and preparation!

Glitter body jewellery is superb for active events such as dancing and festivals. It stays on despite heat, movement, and sweating so belly dance concerts, swimming carnivals, and nightclubs are all perfect opportunities…

View original post 33 more words

Ice cream cake

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A friend of mine had a birthday recently. Rose and I made her an ice cream cake. It’s not too difficult, provided you don’t try to make it in 42C weather, so consider yourself warned!

We bought a nice quality vanilla ice cream, let it get a bit soft, then mashed treats into it. We went for chopped jelly lollies (they freeze into little rocks so be sure to chop them), peanut M&Ms, and chopped raspberry licorice logs filled with chocolate. We swirled some chocolate fudge sauce through it, and mixed up a second lot with ground cardamom and cinnamon, chopped Turkish delight, and flaked almonds. Then we poured it into a big basin and froze it overnight.

The next day I tipped it onto a plate and decorated it with fresh whipped cream, strawberries, raspberry M&Ms, a chocolate ‘Happy Birthday’ disc, and halved fruit flavoured macaroons. Everything is glued to the ice cream using a chocolate sauce.

It was a success, it’s a very rich dish and you only need a small serve! But it’s very simple, and great for a hot weather party. 🙂

Music is my drug of choice

Last night I went out to a new goth club. It was over 40C again here yesterday and I was bone tired, with that hot, angry restlessness that makes relaxing not just difficult but very unsatisfying. I met up with my shrink earlier in the week, who told me that I’m stressed and driven because I’m involved in so many ‘start up’ projects, all of which are high risk and take loads of work. She suggested that every project needs money and at least one partner to make it work without it killing me. I also met up with an amazing guy from Scotland, Ron Coleman, who said roughly the same thing but with a whole lot of practical suggestions and details about how the hell to do that. Damn exciting!

My shrink and I also talked about ‘adult days’ which are days where I have to be responsible and run things. It’s not that great a way to describe them, since some of my adult parts are decidedly not useful on adult days (like me!) and some child parts are, but it’s what we’re working with at the moment. I wind up with too many of them. It becomes like a parent who never gets a break, stuck in parent mode 24/7 and starting to crash. I don’t get a lot of days off from this. Everything gets scheduled. The anxious driven-ness can turn even fun and play and friends into work, something we have to do. There’s not a lot of room for going wild in any form.

Last night I went to a new goth club, and let a little bit loose. Many multiples will tell you that different parts handle things like alcohol differently. My system seems to have two settings – can’t handle it at all, no upside, no good feelings. The first drink makes legs prickle and any more make us sick. Or there’s me. I can’t seem to get drunk. I’m 30 (or at least, the body is) and I’ve never been drunk. We’ve been psychotic. Or high from allergic reactions. But never just gone out and got a bit plastered. This irritates me. I pushed things a bit last night and found that I never seem to get to a place where I feel anything. I don’t get sad, or giggly, or feel more relaxed. I just drink things, which to me taste like cordials. To the rest of my system taste like kerosene, mainly. At some point, if I drink enough, I throw up. That’s so bloody disappointing. I’m sitting in a club, dressed up, that mix of hyped and insecure that’s just begging for some alcohol to wash away the sharp edges, and I’m waiting to feel something. Nothing kicks in. I find myself thinking wistfully of the last time we had a local anaesthetic at the dentist and took all evening to get our head screwed on straight again.

Then Nine Inch Nails comes on and lights a fire in my bones. I get up to dance next to a speaker pounding bass through my body like an electric current, the air tastes of smoke machine and I’m shortly deaf in my right ear. And it feels fantastic.

I love the contrast between the expectation and the reality of places like this. There’s no Matrix style stripped back nightclub full of harsh and frightening people. There’s young ones and oddballs and freaks having a good time in a safe place. A few dancers have come from a fancy dress party. One is super friendly and still has green body paint in his eyebrow. We commiserate about how difficult the green is to wash off. Another is still wearing his Crocodile Dundee outfit. He is fearless and theatrically acts out each song. During Billy Idol’s White Wedding he’s on his knees proposing and bouncing himself off the floor with one hand. People laugh and smile at each other, close their eyes to dance. The room has no air conditioning and feels like a furnace. I’m sweating everywhere. Even my wrists are beading sweat to drip off my finger tips. We dance and escape to the air con downstairs or the crowded beer garden, then dance again. I can’t dance as much as I’d like, so I take photos and amuse myself by irritating people following me on twitter who are used to sensible, thoughtful tweets about mental health.

Weirdly, this morning, no hangover. I’m the brightest and most cheerful person in my house. Considering that most mornings we feel pretty crap, and some mornings we get a really bad fibromyalgia ‘hangover’, this is weird, nice, but frustrating. I’d swap in a heartbeat, it would be much better to have the kind where you have a decent night first and no one to blame but yourself.

So, for now, I’m chalking that one up as a highly successful experiment and looking forward to more. Music makes me feel great. Alcohol is expensive and mostly irrelevant. I need better boots. ‘Not adult’ time is good for me. Cool bananas. I can work with that.

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Drawing & painting classes

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I started at college again this week. This tackle box is my drawing tutors collection of supplies. Is it not a thing of beauty? 🙂 I find myself a little anxious about formal training, reluctant to lose my own style. But it was exciting, the smells, the easels, the simplicity of being told to put something in pallet and doing so – sometimes this simplicity escapes me. I made two drawings and one pair of paintings in the cool and warm primary colours. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve handled charcoal. I don’t think I’ve ever attempted to sketch a pot plant before.

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Here’s a sample of some of the other students work. Love seeing all the different styles.

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I’m happy to be back. It was a supreme effort of will not to immediately book into another two classes and double my workload. Which, in it’s own way, is a good sign. So, at least one day a week is now college day. I’ve had a pretty good week, very busy, lots of seeing people and talking about plans for the year. There’s a lot of things in the works and I’m still working out my priorities. It’s sounding promising that I may have enough support now to kick the DI back into gear and get a face to face support group off the ground again. I’m finding ways to go forwards and figure a path through all of this. I’m finding some support, which is very, very needed. And a lot of inspiration. Feeling hopeful.

Psychosis & Secrets

I’m sitting on the pavement outside my car, waiting for the RAA to come and deal with the keys locked inside. I’ve just been to Sound Minds, our local South Australian Hearing Voices Group. I love getting along to this one.

We had a pretty full room. At one stage someone was chatting away and one of the members got the giggles. Everyone was trying to listen and keep a straight face. One by one more and more of us succumbed until we had to stop the conversation to laugh. A good belly laugh, about nothing at all. These beautiful people ground me.

I told them my good news, that my GP is on board with my unconventional approach to psychosis. A couple of us chatted about how destructive the idea of schizophrenia can be, life long illness, life long medications, being forced to confront your new reality in the interests of ‘having insight’, employers unwilling to take a risk on you, friends scared of you, family confused by you. I talked about how shame and secrecy can feed psychosis because people let them run unchecked, and try to maintain their usual activity level instead of resting, driving themselves deeper and deeper into it. How destructive the idea of a life long disability with no upsides is! How secrecy can often be woven into the fabric of psychosis, preventing the possibility of sharing the details and getting helpful reality checks. People are driven to this when saying ‘I think I might be hallucinating’ or ‘I’m feeling a bit paranoid’ would scare away friends or see them fired from jobs. One group member reminds me of the saying ‘You’re only as sick as your secrets’. Good point.

I’m not saying people who have to conceal mental illness, or those of us who prefer not to live our lives publicly on social media and blogs are sicker than the rest! I’m saying that cultural shame and fear trap people into keeping the kind of secrets that can make them very sick and very lonely.

Scars & stigma

We’re in the process of job hunting in my world again, or at least, Rose is. Some industries tend towards the kind of contract or short term grant based work that make this a regular occurrence. I remember the days of job hunting before I came down with Chronic Fatigue and Fibromyalgia, and it was a pretty simple business. Write a nice resume, arrange some referees, and send them out.

Now, the resume is only the start. Rose spends entire days writing long, detailed letters that must address each point of a job description. It’s basically like a math equation given in word form: If John had seven oranges… You have to repeat all the information that’s already in your resume, in interesting sounding ways, and big note yourself for pages whilst also sounding humble and grounded. Then you might get to an interview. This often requires bringing in a truly astonishing collection of forms already filled out. Some interviews also contain written test components and require you to wait while they are scored and then be called back. One really frightening one went for most of a day and involved a bunch of psychological assessments and group work with all the other hopeful applicants. I find myself increasingly jaded by the whole idea that this is a good way to select an appropriate employee. It seems like a good way of recruiting very slick, charming, narcissistic people, and probably a good few psychopaths. I know a lot of brilliant, caring, highly committed people who would never shine in this kind of setting. Fortunately, Rose does.

We were chatting with friends today about issues of disclosure around mental health when job seeking. For those of us with visible scars from self harm, it can be very challenging to confront questions in interviews. It always plays against you, no matter that is often part of a past that involves a lot of wisdom and strength and self awareness to have survived. There was talk about checking over the organisational policies to try and get a feel for their stance on mental illness in their employees. The consensus was to wear long sleeves and keep it hidden. One friend did that for the entire duration of her job because the organisation treated employees with mental health problems as liabilities. This was a mental health organisation, offering support to people in the community. The wrongness of this makes me sick.

All these places talking about stigma as if they have the answers, as if they, the enlightened few are here to tell everyone else, the ignorant masses, how to be better people. And these places are so often hotbeds of systemic stigma and discrimination. I remember when I spoke at Parliament House about mental illness, disability, and barriers to employment. I was asked what the government could do to encourage employers to retain people with disabilities. I said – lead by example and show it can be done. Demonstrate how to overcome every concern and issue the wider community expresses, with transparency and dialogue. Then people will be less afraid and more willing to engage. It might have been my imagination but this didn’t seem to go over brilliantly. The problem is never with us, and the solution is never ours to implement. It’s always someone else’s fault and someone else’s responsibility. We stand around telling each other to be brave and honest and  our every other sentence is a lie.

I’m very angry about this tonight. My faith and my hope keep being rewarded with hypocrisy and harm. Oddly enough, I’m starting to be glad that the Dissociative Initiative has been so hard to get off the ground, that most of those who shared my dream have been occupied by other dreams, or become too overwhelmed by the needs of their condition, to continue with me. It’s breaking my heart, but it’s also saving me from a form of failure that comes wrapped in a package that looks frighteningly like success. I’m starting to think that organisations or any kind of corporate structures should not have anything to do with the support of people in pain. But oh, how I do miss my little team. How my heart hurts every time someone emails me saying, please when is that Bridges group starting again? And how angry I feel every time I confront the sick reality of the profoundly flawed frameworks we have constructed with which to engage the most wounded, vulnerable, lost, and suffering members of our community.

Why do I need a job and an income? Can’t I just open a shelter for everyone who needs it? How do I engage without burning out? How do I not scream with frustration at the burden of all the terrible things I hear, when I walk in a world that is mostly unaware of this suffering? Trapped in secrecy and lies and the requirement that we pretend not to be what we really are, as if self harm scars are slave brands or the tattoos of a criminal, shameful pasts that you cannot escape but must forever conceal. As if being human and having suffered is something to be ashamed of, a weakness, a liability. This is wrong! I hate it! I hate it and I refuse to have any part in it. I will not lie, I will not conceal, I will stand and be counted, I will use my voice to speak for all those who cannot, because the risk to job, or to family is too great. This is wrong. Structures without courage or integrity cannot ever really serve people. They may abuse openly or poison slowly, but they always do harm. There is always a cost for engaging with them. It’s always too high.

Back to college

After two hours of sobbing in Rose’s arms down at the beach about all the ways I feel like a failure, I’m home again, showered, and going to bed for a 9am start to college tomorrow. I’m exhausted and my head hurts and my eyes hurt. I really don’t recommend this form of preparation.

But I’m also about 2 tonnes of high expectations and guilt and fear and confusion and self loathing lighter. Not enough to look at myself in a mirror, but enough to eat and drink and let someone say nice things to me, and if I’m very lucky, enough to sleep.

Threads

It‘s hot. I’m fried. Feel pretty terrible. Today and yesterday I’ve tried bringing Zoe to a friend’s to hang out in their air conditioning. It’s been trying, she’s whined in the crate and been desperate to chase the strange cats. Hopefully she’ll get used to it quickly. Or the vet will give me a clear idea of what temperature is ok to leave her at home so I can head off to cooler climes without her.

College starts tomorrow. I’m excited and exhausted. I had plans to paint my new studio this weekend that I had to put off due to the weather. I have massive admin to deal with although nothing urgent except my overdue backlog, which is nice. I keep getting sick. Endometriosis is making my life miserable. I may have to get back into the pill again, which is frustrating. This last year I’ve been off it is the first I haven’t gained weight. On the other hand in sick every month and very anaemic. Stupid health.

I’m not getting much sleep. I’ve just finished reading A million little pieces by James Frey, which is dark and interesting. A study in self loathing and rage and attachment damage and addiction. I have almost nothing in common with him, and yet there’s themes I can so relate to. I’m struck by his rejection of the 12 Step program, despite all evidence and pressure that it was his only hope. I understand being in a place where the only path open to you simply and profoundly rings false. I understand his terror of the converted, the way their stories fill him with emptiness instead of inspiration. The way both the depraved and the cured can seem to be trapped by scripts from which they cannot help but read, no freedom, no creativity, none of the bizarre tenderness of lives that are created by following that inner call to those things that deeply move you.

I have no idea what feels like to be him. Or to be a mother. Or a nun. Or a refugee. We are so limited to our own experiences. We live in different worlds. When we forget that, we pass harsh judgements on things we don’t understand. And yet, threads unite us. Like the tension between learning from the experiences of others and needing to find our own truths to live by.

Zoe says hello

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It’s a bit warm here today. Zoe is chilling indoors with Rose and I, under fans. I’ve spent a lot of time home with her through these past couple of heatwaves. I’ve enjoyed it. She’s 21 months old now, and the mad puppy who chewed couches and demolished the back yard is fading into memory. She’s maturing into a really easy going dog. I love her to bits.

Her health has been fantastic and the vet was really happy with her at the annual checkup. She gets along really well with other dogs, sleeps very happily in her crate (was the easiest dog in the world to crate train, took no effort at all) stays behind the baby gates indoors despite being able to jump 5 foot fences, and only barks when people come near my place. She copes fine if I’m sick and can’t walk her for a day or two more, which takes off a lot of the strain for me. She could do with the extra level of dog training and I’d like to be able to get her into that this year.

We still have some areas that cause difficulties. She’s very afraid of thunder and fireworks, I’m going to buy her a snug dog jacket for dogs with anxiety attacks and see if that helps. I’m also going to fence off my window so that she can’t get to it and destroy the screen if she’s home alone when a bit of thunder happens. That’s going to make my life a lot easier. She’s also terrible for chasing cats. Not bad if they’re indoors, but outside is another matter. And I can’t leave her home while I go seeking cooler places to stay because it’s too hot for her out in my yard.

Today we’re going to try taking her and her crate out and see how she goes in someone else’s place. It would be awesome to be able to head off to cooler climes with her on days like this. Hope it works out 🙂

Being an adult and using routines to your advantage

I feel like I’ve mad a monumental discovery recently. It’s kind of stupid, probably won’t mean much to anyone else, and I suspect the rest of you were onto this way before it’s occurred to me, because I can be a bit dim like that… but ROUTINES! Wow. They make life so much easier.

What the hell am I talking about? A bunch of things all kind of linked up in my brain recently. One is that I have a new evening routine when I’m shutting my house down and going to bed. Zoe now sleeps in her crate in the lounge with food and water and a toy to chew and a treat, Tonks has her food and water on the washing machine in the laundry. I’ve finally created this little nightly ritual of feeding and topping up water for both of them, letting Zoe outside for a pee, putting her to bed with a frozen treat from the freezer stuffed into her Kong toy (usually wet dog food or yoghurt frozen in ice cube trays). Then I wrap any food scraps in newspaper and put them in the green bin, and clean out the litter tray into newspaper and put that in the green bin. Lastly turn on drippers onto potted garden, lock doors, and close or open windows depending on the weather.

Obviously there’s other routines such as brushing teeth etc but I think of them as separate because this one is pretty new and anyone can do it eg Rose and I take it in turns or take on different parts of it if she’s staying over and I do it on my own if it’s just me here. The first few nights it took almost an hour to do everything, partly because I kept forgetting bits of it and going to bed and having to get back up, and partly because of things like the dog food was kept in the laundry even though the dog bowl is in the lounge, and I have probably 5 places I kept old newspaper none of which I could find.

Now it takes about 10 minutes. If it’s bin night I add in putting the bins out. If I’m feeling sick I skip the litter tray and leave it for the morning. Linking these tasks together and turning them into a routine is making them much easier. I don’t have to think, or even be very awake. I can do them even if I’m feeling very depressed or sick or in a fair amount of pain (up to a point). They don’t take very long because there’s a pattern – let the dog out the back to pee, while she’s outside top up the cat’s food and water, while letting the dog back inside walk past the freezer and refill her Kong – it all works together. I don’t have to worry about when I last checked the water bowl. If I skip something for one night I know that it’s only been skipped for a night. I get more time in bed and less time staggering around my house. It’s a system. It’s a procedure.

Another thing – I recently wrote a checklist of how to get rid of spam for the DI Open Group on facebook. I have never understood or liked the corporate world of policy and procedures but I am starting to suspect that is for a few specific reasons such as poorly written ones, having them used in situations that can’t be reduced to a checklist, and not being allowed to question them when they don’t seem appropriate. This checklist was just writing down the process I do every time I delete spam. There’s a bunch of steps and if you forget one and get the order wrong, you can’t go back and fix it. Eg. if you delete the post before reporting it to facebook as spam, too bad. Having it written down has made this process so much simpler for me! I don’t have to remember the steps. It’s easy, it can be followed, it makes sense.

Another thing – I’m working on a post about dissociative amnesia and did some re reading of the topic recently. It reminded me about the different types of memory and what is called ‘procedural memory’ which is kind of like things you remember with your body instead of your mind. Like being able to remember your password as long as you have a keyboard in front of you, because your fingers remember which keys to type. Without a keyboard you find you can’t remember it. Procedural memory is very, very interesting stuff. It’s what emergency drills are trying to help you create, because it’s far less effected by stress. If you have a body memory of unlocking the fire door and going down the escape and counting heads in the safe point on the ground floor, you’ve got a lot more chance of being able to do those things in a real fire.

And that got me thinking about how, when I moved into a unit after a bout of homelessness, I found that I had lost all my routines. I had to mentally think about and plan every step of my day. Showering. Getting dressed. Brushing my teeth. Preparing food. Eating it. Putting dishes in the sink. Without routines, this took forever. It was incredibly frustrating and made me feel very slow and stupid. It took time before these things became more routine for me, so that I could just do them without thinking about them. Then they became easier and quicker and I could start to use the time to think about other things. Like brushing my teeth and planning what I’d eat for dinner.

Undoubtedly being multiple has added significantly to the difficulties I’ve had in this area. I have to write to do lists and keep a diary because I couldn’t possibly track my life otherwise. I would forget to pay bills, forget to turn up to college, forget about dates. My internal memory system is like a series of separate filing cabinets in different rooms. I can’t easily cross reference files. If I’m standing in one room looking at a file, it’s difficult to access any information from a different room. But, because I’m fairly co-conscious, some information is shared. It filters through all the rooms. Not in it’s entirety, not like sharing a file with all the rooms, more like an intercom in the rooms. A voice comes over explaining that a new addition has been made to a file. If you want more details, if you want photos and a blow-by-blow description of the file, you’ll have to go and look at it.

Procedural memory is not entirely shared either. One of the things that used to stress us is that when we used to sign to use our credit card, the signature was different depending on which part was out. Having said there, there is some overlap for my system. Many of us know how to drive, for instance, even if we have our own style and need the seat and mirrors to be at different positions. Routines in some ways seem to take this burden off other parts of our mind. We don’t have to think each step through and remember it all because it’s written down, and/or it’s in our procedural memory instead.

Lastly, this idea of growing up, and what it means to be grown up, the ways in which an adult and their place in the world is different from a child. I think a lot about this because it’s highly relevant to the way my system formed and the reason for being split. One of the things that seems to define adulthood is this notion of responsibility. Adults need to keep their own world running. They need to be able to pay bills and earn money and negotiate leases and pick up after themselves. They seem to be at risk from two different possibilities – one is not learning these skills and living a very chaotic existence, often at the expense of people around them who do a lot of picking up after them. The other is taking on these roles too much and losing what was childlike about themselves – no more play, or fun, or freedom – life becomes a routine that cannot be broken and that exists to serve the routine.

I feel like I’m starting to figure out that learning all these skills in the service of freedom and fun and play, is the goal. So I can go camping and walk in wild places because I’ve saved and bought good equipment and have a well stocked first aid kit and a lot of outdoor skills. If I go camping without them I’m in for huge trouble when something goes wrong. If I just save money I never go camping. If I build routines around things like keeping the house functioning, or doing admin, then I have free brain space to think about and plan other things that I like much more. I spend less time feeling frustrated and overwhelmed, less time looking for my shoes or discovering that dinner has gone mouldy in the fridge, and less time in crises because I’ve run out of dog food and money at the same time.

I think this is where routines work. Checklists that everyone in the household, or everyone in my own system can easily follow. Things that take away that burden of thinking and remembering every step. Things that free you to spend more time and more mental energy on the things that make you feel alive. It’s not an either/or, it’s a both/and. Learning more adult skills doesn’t have to lock me down to the kind of life I hate. It can help me build the kind of life I want. Well devised routines can give me back a chunk of the mental and emotional energy that I currently spend trying to track lots of things and make myself do them and hating myself when I fail. Rinsing a dirty dish or closing a cupboard door after opening it. Rewriting routines when they stop working because of new challenges or different work or other people in the home. Working around limitations instead of constantly smacking into them. If no one picks up their stuff, having a box outside everyone’s door and putting anything left in common areas into the boxes every night. There’s so many different ways of setting things up.

I’ve been trialling having ‘admin days’, ‘writing days’ and ‘house and garden days’ and I’m startled by how much more I get done when I give over a day to it instead of the multi-tasking, anxiety, and constant switching I’m more used to. Isn’t that half the battle? Figuring out how you work and what works for you? (figuring out how to be an adult when half the time you’re under 18 years old?) I think I understand why our post-industrialist society is so in love with routines and systems. They can work brilliantly. They can of course, also fail spectacularly, especially when they’re applied too broadly, or in the wrong areas entirely. Routines can be very destructive to creativity and relationships. But in some areas, they can be incredibly useful and give you back a lot of time and energy to pour into much more exciting things.

Soaring with Sophie

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Visited my gorgeous goddaughter today. It was beautiful. We played chasie, airplane, tickle monster, and hide the corn chip up your nose.

It’s been a bit rough here lately. We’re about to have another heatwave. My health hasn’t been great. Rose and I have been stressed and struggling to find plans for our future that work around our limitations and fears. Anxiety about housing continues to be incredibly difficult to work around. There’s been a lot of earnest long talks through the small hours of the morning. Sometimes it seems that we have to unpick and rearrange our relationship every few months. We somehow seem to talk ourselves to the edge of an abyss, and then talk ourselves back again. It’s hard sometimes. But it is very real, and very precious.

I’ve had a good day. I went to see my gp about my lousy health lately and to get a stack of forms done. I had to tell her that I’m going to be losing the psychologist I’ve been seeing to retirement in a few months. I could have cried with relief that she endorsed the way we’ve been managing my experiences of psychosis, and asked for the psychologist to write it up as a plan so that we can take it to anyone new I have to work with. I’m lucky. It’s so important to have this kind of support. To have a doctor who agrees that doping me with heavy tranquillisers and watching my liver and weight suffer to avoid the occasional psychotic episode in which I retain full insight and am able to manage at home is an extremely poor trade off. The relief is huge.

So, today was better. Sophie is a delight. My home is beautiful. I’ve bought another wall fan for my bedroom in time for this heatwave. Rose and I are going well again. Tonks, Sarsaparilla, and Zoe are all good. Just got to keep my head down through the next few hot days.