Friday 30 March 2007

(Not) Taking The Medicine

I'm relieved to discover that taking less of the anti-epilepsy medicine is having a beneficial effect on my sleeping hours. (This is going to be the last mention of sleep, as Adsense is beginning to misrepresent the nature of this blog). I've been meaning to cut down on that stuff for a while now, as I'm sure that the intensity it gives me has contributed to the collapse of my nervous system.

I've been taking anti-epilepsy medication since I was 14, so it's over 16 years now. I don't have seizures anymore, but I do get dizzy spells whnenever I've tried to come off it completely. The main reason I continue to take it is for concentration, and maybe as a mood stabilizer although I'm not sure about that. But it does make me feel intense, and I don't like to see that in myself. Compromise and moderation are always good (?), so less has to be more.

I've got a good regime going today. Pushing up when I want to, and dropping down when I have to, and not really feeling the effects of the exertion. That's how it should be...smooth, fluid and inherently musical.

Thursday 29 March 2007

Summoning The Muse

Ok so today I'm allowing myself to slip into the bad old ways. Deliberately and knowingly, but probably not irredeemably. The bad old ways being? Not drug addiction or crime or anything like that, but mind artistry. (*Hang on, that's drug addiction AND crime!*)

I'm not going to explain the concept to you, as my endless attempts at explanation on Myspace have always ended in frustration and despair. Too long, too convoluted, and ultimately too obscure. It relates to something I want to do in music, by harnessing the movements of mental dexterity to enhance the relationship between artist and audience. It's basically intelligence as an instrument, in a nutshell. But unfortunately most artists view the "between artist and audience" thing as a threat, along the lines of "no-one shall come between an artist and their audience". And they think that it's fucked in the head, which to be honest it probably is. So now I've removed all reference to it from my Myspace profile, apart from a few token keywords in the General section.

I've officially "given up" twice...first when I hit 30 last year, and secondly when I got ill again recently. But still I do it, and still I go back to it. Every single fucking time. Why? Because I believe in it, that's why. I believe I have something here that has the power to communicate over vast distances (ie, between the different facets of a fragmented mind), and that has the power to make a profound difference to wasted and disenfranchised lives. The evangelical language worries me, but that's not going to stop me from believing. And when I believe in it, I feel powerful and strong, and in possession of the capacity to cause change. If I was a woman it would make me feel like an all-conquering Amazonian warrior. And that's gotta be a good thing, right?

Not if you're mental it isn't. If you're mental, the thing that you believe in is wrong. Without question. Even if it's right, it's still wrong. It's wrong because the mind of a mentally ill person does not quite tally with reality, and hence the belief or belief system is off-target. It might not miss by much, but it misses and there endeth. It automatically becomes a delusion, even if it has possible implications and applications that go beyond delusion. It's something that we mentals could never quite get our heads around when we were younger and first referred to specialists. But by the age of 30, the reality should be all too obvious. And if it isn't, well that merely confirms the fact that you're mental.

Yet still I go back to it. Still I believe that there's an artist or musician out there who my mind techniques may be of some use to, and who can see as I can see a way in which it could catapult them onto a higher level creatively. But I'm waiting on a miracle, and even the evangelist in me is prepared to accept that miracles don't happen. But I cannot even begin to tell you how frustrating it is to see something so powerful and precious reduced to the level of mindless self-indulgence; a mere tonic to get me through another mindless and pointless day.

Sunday 25 March 2007

Raising The Dead

I've taken to writing blog posts as soon as I wake up. Trouble is, I've woken up at 6:30pm! The clocks went forward last night here in the UK, but that's not really the point.

No matter what I do to amend my sleeping habits, I always go back to working nights and sleeping days. Why? I don't exactly know. I feel as though I work more effectively at night, but I suspect that this isn't really the case. And while I'm used to quietness and solitude, that doesn't necessarily make it a good thing. Does it?

I've tried numerous times to sort my sleeping habits out, but somehow it never quite sticks. But it will have to start sticking soon, because I have things to get up for and debts to address.

Thursday 22 March 2007

Taking The Medicine

Ok so they started me on Diazepam. I've taken Diazepam before so I knew what to expect, but I don't intend to stay on it for long. Diazepam used to make me horny so I was secretly quite looking forward to taking it, but this time it just made me sleepy and I suspect that will continue to be the case. I'm already taking sedatives to sleep and they seem to do the job, so there's no need to start on one more. The real reason I'm taking Diazepam is because I'm having terrible trouble with claustrophobia. My mind is jumping around all over the place, desperately seeking a resting state that counts as an escape. And judging from the effects the diazepam has had so far, it probably won't help me out with that. So good old willpower it is then.

I need to resolve it soon, because it's leaving me too scared to get on the bus. It's nothing about the bus itself that's scary (I've been in bus crashes and suffered no adverse effects). No, it's the fact that once those doors shut, you no longer have an escape. It affects me the most in traffic jams, because you're constantly stuck behind cars or lights, and the next bus stop now is no nearer than it was when the doors were first shut. And when the bus is crammed full of people and screaming babies it's an absolute nightmare. But it's a nightmare I was always able to deal with, until recently. Only recently have I started to abort mission and get off the bus before my stop. Or, as was the case yesterday, get on and then get straight back off again! Something happened recently that wasn't so bad in itself, but it brought the phobia back with a vengeance. I thought I'd beaten it but clearly I haven't, and I'm clearly no nearer to resolving it now than I ever was.

Someone asked me yesterday whether it would really be so bad if I went crazy on the bus. Well, yes it would. This is my local bus, mostly used by women, children and the elderly. Their menfolk would soon find out who I was, as my unfortunate shock of ginger hair makes me more recognisable than I would like to be. I would be warned in no uncertain terms to leave the area or face a beating, or maybe get the beating first and then be told to leave. This is a tough working-class area, and tolerance of outsiders is low. And as I made clear in an earlier post, leaving isn't as easy as I would like to believe it is.

Sometimes I wonder whether all this is nature's (and gravity's) way of punishing me for not being "grounded" enough, and for daring to let my imagination take flight. And it seems that for now I am quite literally "grounded", in the sense that I can no longer take a form of transport that requires my feet to leave the earth. But the trouble is that whenever I bear all this in mind, it seems to affect me worse than ever. Of course I should just forget about it all and relax; but when you suspect that your resting state might be causing the problem, that's not exactly an incentive to relax. And when you're jumping around between different states of mind hoping that one of them will stick, you do grow quite weary of endlessly trying to relax. I'm sick of trying to change myself, and I'm sick of trying to escape myself.

So pills it is. For now.

Sunday 18 March 2007

Abandoning The Beast

I've decided, I'm going to leave. I'm going to move out of the "sick house" I've lived in for the past 5 years, and back out into the real world. I'm not exactly ready, but I'll just plain have to be. Of course the issues I always had will always be there, and I'm no more well equipped to live amongst "normal people" now than I ever was. But I need the shock to the system, and I need to convince myself that I can still keep polite company before the nerves destroy me completely. That and the fact that the birdbrain next door to me is becoming something less than human. He shouts day and night in his sargeant-major voice (he's ex-army), and recently he's started banging with tools (he's building a model railway). Somebody get the man a Jane.

Thing is, there are many obstacles preventing someone like me from getting a "normal" home. Here in the UK private landlords are very reluctant to take tenants who are living off of state benefits, as beurocracy ensures that it takes months for them to get paid, by which time the tenant may well have absconded. And living in cheap shared housing with middle-class graduates isn't really an option, as these people have living standards that I will never be able to live up to. It's kinda hard to justify to an aspiring young professional that you've spent the last 5 years out of circulation, dealing with mental illness. Young professionals can't get their heads around something like that, and nor would I expect them to. And young professionals have a habit of drawing up mental dividing lines between professionals and non-professionals. Mentally ill people are service users; young professionals are service providers. And never the twain shall live under the same roof.

So the more I think about it, the more I realise as much as I ever did that my options are severely restricted. Maybe you think that I'm thinking about it too much, and you're wondering what the worst is that could happen. Well I'll tell you. The worst that could happen is that I move somewhere new without realising what the standards and expectations are. Then it hits me, and I freak out. This scares the tenants, and the landlord throws me out. And if I end up on the streets, it is no exaggeration to say that it will be the death of me. THAT's the worst that can happen. And bearing that in mind, that is probably why I have remained in an unhealthy environment for as long as I have. When I arrived here, I was 5 days away from living on the streets, and I will never forget that. Because when you're living with mental illness, stability and security is a very precious thing.

So while all this tempers the initial enthusiasm about moving, it does inform it somewhat. Much as I would like to believe that I can live under the same roof as healthy productive members of my own generation, the reality is that I can't. So what are my options? Well one-person flats I suppose, but at least I'm now in a position to know what environment would work for me, and make me feel secure and stable. Because I really must abandon the beast next door before he depends on me completely. You are the company you keep, as the happy healthy young professionals would have it. And if I'm living with Tarzan then perhaps I'm becoming less civilised by the day.

Part of me is thinking sod it: take a leap into the unknown and deal with the consequences. Good idea?

Friday 16 March 2007

Banging The Drum

Now anyone who has read my profile will have noticed my other blog La Potentialista, in which I was to expand on my theories of potential, and of the harnessing of "potentialistics" as an alternative application to productivity (for those who struggle with productivity, due to disability or trauma or something like that). Now I believe in my ideas and in my abilty to communicate them; but regrettably I have had to delete this blog as it was tormenting me too much. The tone of the blog was very self-help and inspirational, which is all well and good providing you can blind yourself to the truth. And there's the rub: I can't blind myself to the truth, because to do so would be to wallow in ignorance and to expect others to follow my example. I believe in my ideas, but not to the point of evangelism. It just got to the stage where I was checking myself after every sentence, so reluctantly I had to let it go.

Now if only I could let the ideas go...