Heard from a friend; she’s having ECT. I feel sick. There’s nothing I can do from here; she’s in another country. On another continent. Telling myself it’s not Ulla all over again. For one thing, I still hear from this friend. Ulla went silent well before, so I hold onto hope that I won’t see another repeat. Please.
None of this makes me want to go and get diagnosed. It’s just a deterrent. If you don’t give them what they want to hear – oh, yes, I no longer feel that the world is complete shit and I should just die – they hook you up. Cook your brains to try and get that fucking idea out of it.
I don’t want my friend to be so depressed. I don’t want her to cry all day and feel like she has no reason to be here.
I don’t want them to hurt her, and I’m not sure about ECT. Especially ECT performed in other countries. Here, I’d trust. Some other countries in the EU, I’d trust. But, sorry, – I don’t trust everyone. Especially not after Ulla. Yes, I know….It’ll probably be a completely different treatment facility. Doesn’t matter. The stark black and white photos from Ulla’s blog, her straight up manner telling us about the people who go there for treatment, the gruel served for meals, the non-existent cleanliness or means to stay clean at such a place…this is what I’m thinking about this morning. This is what I’m afraid of. My friend going into a place just like that and never coming out again.
…That’s the friend I hear from. The rest are quiet. I hope that means they’re busy and happy with life.
Script out. All that dragging of my feet, and in the end it only took 10 minutes to prep up a letter and hit send. Far more to go, far more to do, but it’s out, sent to someone else to look at. Didn’t take more than half an hour after sending it out before I opened up a new document and began ‘typing, just to get some ideas down’. Lost myself for over an hour. What I’m allowing to be typed out is a drama, straight up. That’s where my head goes; that’s what’s truly meant by ‘edgy’ or ‘unconventional’ – people rarely use those words to describe comedies. They want drama, serious drama. And I see, now, as I look through my notes on theatres, that there are two distinct categories out there: one, the established and professional group that seeks the edgy and unconventional; and two, the amateur and non-professional group that seeks to just fill all the seats in an audience. My bro harangued me yesterday as I told him a bit about my new script idea. Why do you always have to get so serious? he asked. I then heard a mini-lecture which I could have given on how amateur groups are looking for something simple and accessible, not big heavy dramas. No one wants to come and see Aunt Marge play a heavy. But Aunt Marge in a comedy guaranteed to give you a chuckle or two – that they’ll sit through. I know, I told him. But I need to get this out. And some ideas shouldn’t be made light of. Maybe if I can get this ugly muck out of me I’ll be able to turn it on its head and make it into a comedy, but I doubt it. My brother doesn’t understand that rape is just a topic for women, something we need to be aware of and work against, like carrying an umbrella on a rainy day. It happens. A lot. Sorry you think it’s too heavy, sorry you don’t want to hear the story. It’s vital, and women are still getting blamed (and burned alive) for being raped, so I think it remains a topic with teeth.
I find myself crying now and then. Just crying over memories or realizations. I can pull myself out of it fast enough, but it’s the fact that it’s happening at all that bothers me. I don’t want to lose it again. Don’t want to go back to the docs or begin with a new therapy. Don’t want labels on me. Don’t want to talk to anyone about this, don’t feel the need to explain it to anyone. I’m bleeding sad, dude. My mother was a bitch, my sister is the head bitch of the world, my older brother always wanted to fuck me and made no secret of it, my dad never thought I was beautiful. I was taught to blame myself for everything. I’m aware of all of that, and don’t need to report to someone once a week to tell them how much or how little I smoke, what I ate, how I slept, and all my little thoughts and fears.
Today my physiotherapist begins work on my neck for the dizziness I’ve been experiencing. It ain’t good. Turn my head too fast and the world spins. Worried about falling and hurting myself. Beating myself up because I’m not going to the gym and I feel any minute I’m not exercising is a minute the fat can grow back (will I ever get over having such an obese sibling? probably not).
My own little corner of the world is what it is. It’s kind of empty; not many people want to know me. It’s kind of dusty, because I’m not that good at housework. But I’m comfortable there. I can lounge in my pj’s. Talk or not talk, write or not write. My little corner is what gets me through the days. Turn off the tv, shut down social media, and just be. You can put your own label on it: avoidance, denial, running and hiding. I don’t care.
This is where I live.