Jul 8

 Hmm.

Time has blurred hardcore. And also so has my time off work. Perhaps.

I've been active since I got back from Oxford. Kind of riding on a bit of an activity high. Resting to recover. But never fully down. Getting a few things sorted out, nothing major, but still way more active than I have been. Cleaning some. Trip to the tip. DIY. Blah.

However.

Inexorably. Day by day I have slowed down. Harder and harder. And this last half week has finally ground down into a stop. Yesterday I struggled to get out for a walk. And then came home wiped. Curled up on the sofa comatose. My brain stopped working. It took me a good 5 minutes to get a sentence out. They just kinda... stop. You do three words. And. You think. And nothing comes out. It's hard to explain. 

When I was really ill I had this hardcore. Sentences wouldn't form. And I would get stuck.

Now it's different. But I get lost in a sentence.

The sentence I was trying to say was, I guess this is a hardcore CFS day.

I got to.

I guess. And trailed off.

I took a dozen seconds and started again.

I guess. And stopped again.

Some time passed.

I guess... this is a hardcore... and stopped.

The words are kind of there. It's not like I forget the words. It's also not that they are in my brain and I can't voice them with an inner dialogue desperate to speak. It's more fundamental. It's like progress along the sentence is hard. A task. And vague. And you run out of energy (?!) to form it. But because of the.. whatever.. state you're in. That moment of pause. Is actually 1 minute. 2 minutes. 10. Time just simultaneously draws out and also zips by.

Hazel came and went in and out of the room got me a water. And by the time she had finished walking around, asking me if I was talking to myself, I finally got the sentence out.

It's not unpleasant. Not a horrendous experience. In the scale of things it's ok. It's like being half asleep. Drifting. Dreaming. Cocooned.

Anywho.

The energy has drained out of my feet.

Yesterday I was also getting emotion spikes. Random intense feelings of sadness. Spike. Gone. Spike. Gone. I know what this is. This is borderline breakdown territory. This is the steely control of the conscious beginning to lose grip on the unhappy animal. It's also a sign that I am becoming unbalanced, and that I probably need to check my meds, check my environment, take it easy, and yada blah.

I suspect it was the looming prospect of going back to work.

Part of me was really really unhappy about it.

The conscious conversational bit of me was like, eh, sure, back to work, sucks, is what it is. I am guess the sub conscious bit of me was more like, it's a horror, damaging, choose something else.

Uh huh.

Just a guess. It could just me being unstable and then projecting explanations onto my instability. The classic mental health bullshit. Trying to rationally explain things that might not have a rational explanation. This is always the flaw. Sometimes mental health issues can have a very rational explanation. And sometimes they dont. Because remember, waa woo chemicals in - random bullshit out. If in doubt. Try dropping LSD and rationally talking yourself out of it. No.

And so sometimes we can just reach out, grab the first thing that sounds like a plausible idea to explain our whatever and ascribe it wholeheartedly to that, whilst being completely wrong. Particularly if it chimes with our worldview. IE Am I unhappy because I have an abusive relationship or I am not eating enough fibre. It must be the fibre ! Yeah. No.

I am no different to anyone else, and subject to the same bullshit. Just, perhaps, in this case. Hopefully. More aware. And able to curtail that in myself. Best case - successfully. Worst case - deluded to think I have or just outright failed.

In any case.

That I am not 100% stable is a fact. Mentally. And physically I have all but collapsed. I suspect both go hand in hand here. They are doing a good job teaming up and spurring each other on. Shit bags.

I have pushed going back to work a further week out.

And to be honest I am seriously considering the whole work thing yet again.

There is one bit of comparison that the Oxford effort has given me.

I worked hard during those days. And it wasn't easy.

But I didn't hate it.

In fact I have things to do there. Progress to be made. Yada blah. It didn't stress me. It was enjoyable. I still like doing IT. I always have.

It made me realise just how fucky my current work is. The stresses. Fuckups. Deadlines. And even the people. It has made me realise just how much I put up with. I work with X person. Sure. Do it. Uh huh. Be professional.

But take a step back.

Ok. Yeah. I really don't like working with them. They are sulky. And difficult. Whiny. Secretive.

An honest assessment is that it makes my work harder, my life harder, and sucks some of the joy out of doing anything. Which is basically dealing with a problem person. It happens. It's work.

But again. Stop making excuses. Sucking it up. Taking it on the chin. An honest assessment. Yeah that makes this work more unpalatable. It is not a pro. It is a con.

Ok.

Overall I realise how very toxic the workspace is. For absolute sure it has pros as well as the cons. Some lovely pros.

And such is the way of life, a lot of people have to take a lot of shit in their lives just to earn enough to pay their bills.

So in some ways I am just being entitled about it.

I've talked to Hazel a little about this.

She gets frustrated with how few boundaries I have and how strongly - in her opinion - I do not put myself first. She says at the first sign of me sticking up for myself I equate that as terrible and asking too much and I don't do it. She also said my comparing to other people who have it worse is like not eating because people somewhere are starving.

I get what she is saying. But to me, the price in attempting not to be a dick is an eternal vigiliance and self check about whether you're being a dick. And one of those things is entitlement.

She also pointed out that everyone else was scamming and taking advantage for all they could get. Andy is paying himself in housing, cars, yachts. 

My reply to that, is that that, is on him. He chooses how to behave. Another rule of thumb I follow is to try not to let other peoples behaviour influence you to also be a dick. Just because they are a dick. Don't let them infect you. Because the world becomes a worse place. Them being a dick is on them. Me being a dick is on me. Regardless of provocation. Of course. That's a perfect world. The reality is, no one is perfect, and provocation is almost always a matter of when not if. No one has eternal patience. But. Not the point. The point is to do your best.

The upshot is. Just because someone else is a greedy dick. Doesn't mean I should be too.

I dislike the whole capitalist game. Dislike is an understatement. I do not agree with or enjoy playing the game. I am forced to. But I will not double down on it and hoard money like a fat banker dragon.

And also that whole, I will not follow bad examples shtick, or let others corrupt me into coming down to their level.

Hazel said I was as far away from being a dick, an exploiter or hoarder as you can get. I think that's the nicest compliment she's ever paid me. Ha ha. She said if I ever got to be a dick she would tell me, but, it wasn't going to happen and I should put myself first more.

If Andy did what you do for him, you would think him amazing no ?

Yes.

Still not the point. That's me. That's him. We each get to choose how we behave. One of the few things that we can affect change in. Sometimes.

Anyway.

The upshot was that Hazel sent Andy a message saying I wouldn't be back for another week. With my permission. Did I want to read what she wrote ? No. She made a face. Oh. If you want to read out what you've written, please do. ( It's funny how sometimes people ask you something but it's not actually asking you your opinion, it's them framing a question for what they want to do instead and dressing it up as your opinion - it's ok, I get it. Sometimes I miss it initially and think it's a genuine question for me. ). 

Hazel is still here. Staying whilst her two flats undergo status change. Given she was basically chased from her existing flat by an aggressive neighbour with all the very wobbly mental health consequences of that, her time here has been calm, restorative and a break for her. And she's much better.

She's planning on leaving today to go do some more painting on her flat and start packing her old flat up. I dare say she will still end up using my place as her main base however during the flip. Which I am fine with. She can come and go as she pleases.

She has on the whole been in a good mood. Positive. With energy. Happy. Few signs of her monsters. But not entirely free of them. There were a couple of days where she dipped hard. And her monster started to emerge. Sniping. Bitter. Bullying. I gave her a gentle warning in the morning that this was a "spikey" day for her. She shrugged it off.

That day we went to start painting her flat. In a fit of energy I decided to help her out with it. I did high functioning adult things. Figured out the sundries she needed to paint the flat. Took her to the DIY store. Bought her the bits. Taught her how to roller paint. And then did a tip top professional job on one of the walls. 

During all of this I endured an unending series of comments, digs, orders et al. On one level it's horrible. You're doing a favour for your friend, driving her around, getting some errands done for her, buying her supplies, teaching her, physical labour. And your reward is getting kicked. Why. Would you do that ?

Eh heh heh.

It wasn't easy. You have to roll with the punches. I was forbidden to whistle. Then sing that song. Then sing at all. Then talk. Then have a phone conversation. Then just be standing in that position. Then not drinking. Or sitting. Or being allowed to groan in pain. If she told me to drink, I had to drink.

It's part anxiety. And part her monsters. And in the scale of things, there have been way worse days.

But painting the wall in utter silence started to feel like detention. I rolled with it. And hummed a tune in my head.

That evening my anxiety spiked a little. I feared we were due for a major monster appearance. And that Hazel the following day would be worse. Past war wounds. But it turned out to not be the case. And she popped back up again. And has in general been more careful around me than ever before and offered to do a few things for me.

It does make me reflect on her capability to keep her monsters in check long term. That is of course one of the defining problems about borderline personality disorder. It's far from good.

It also made me realise I have very little capacity left to deal with her monsters. It's just super damaging for me. So. Difficult. My only recourse is if and when she's like that, to effectively push her out of range of doing damage to me. Which is not great. But.

Moving on.

My brother made a whatsapp group entitled, Dad.

Sigh. Oh no.

A small scare.Small drama for a couple of days, then went away. My advice was call 111 if it was a panic ( on a Sunday ), or just go to A&E. But. 111 almost certainly. They did. Advice was to leave it a day for a GP to check.

It seemed to resolve itself after that.

My old man is getting increasingly panicky and erratic. Which. Makes sense. He's not in a fun place on his own. I think his anxiety and isolation is getting the better of him. Not good. I don't say this with any malice, but he is reaping what he has sown. Almost certainly because of the dysfunctions he had when growing up and yada. It's tragic really. My brother is doing his best with it. But tricky situation. And for his own mental health, needs to keep the old man at arms length at times.

Lastly.

Eye checkup this week. Noticed in Oxford my eyes were off.

Yes eyes have changed.

Beginning of cataracts.

Oh. Ok. New glasses. Minimise UV light exposure with eyes.

And I guess my future has a cataract surgery in it.