Une Autre Séance de Thérapie

Well, I've just finished today's therapy session. The conclusion of which was homework to allow myself to feel. The reason being that I pretty much don't know how to.

So I'm kind of left wondering how the heck to fulfill the homework.

Having said that though, I do feel vulnerable since we closed the session. And tearful. And really kind of confused.

And my automatic reaction is to put the TV on and probably fall asleep. Bury my head and pretend nothing happened. My brain is very naughty.

I think I'll tell him next week that the cat ate my homework.

Le Journal Des Rêves

It's been a while since I've had one of my psychedelic dreams. But here's a puzzler...

. . . . .

I'm not sure how the dream started. The first bit I remember was that I had gone out for an evening with one of my flatmates from university. In the dream I had gone out to spite my parents, but I'm not sure if I just knew that, or whether there's a bit of dream that I'm not remembering.

Most of the dream was set around a particular building. We'd gone to London, to a bar that was in a grand Victorian building that was on the corner of a street, with thick pavements outside and a row of bus stops. The bar was big but quiet, a few pairs of patrons dotted around.

We approached the bar. My Flatmate held up his finger and told me just a minute, before disappearing through a pair of big doors by the entrance. I ordered myself a beer (🤷🏻‍♀️). For some reason I was carrying a silver tankard that I'd bought somewhere. I asked the bar tender if they thought it was clean enough to drink from, tilted the tankard towards them to show them the dusty innards, to which I received a firm no. So I kind of shrugged to myself and drank the beer from the glass. I drank the whole beer; that's never gonna happen in real life!

As I finished, people started streaming into the bar from the double doors my flatmate had gone through. This is when I realised that the bar was attached to a theatre. The bar became full and claustrophobic, and I couldn't see whether my flatmate was in there or not, so I went to wait outside where there were people milling about the bus stops.

I appeared to have two phones in my pockets, but couldn't work out which one was mine. I somehow accidentally ended up phoning Sacha Baron Cohen, though thankfully he didn't answer. 

One of the ladies at the bus stop said to me that she hated swinging. Puzzled, I asked her why she was telling me this, so she explained that the people hanging around the bus stops were there to meet up for swinging. I pondered to myself why she was there if she didn't like it.

We were then pushed apart from each other by people with those red position rope things, who were preparing a route up the middle of the pavement for a parade. I noticed that I was suddenly surrounded by women in beautiful sarees, adorned with stunning jewellery, who were lining the parade route keenly waiting to see someone who turned out to be a prince. He was single, so many of the women were simpering, begging him to choose them. He was a massive fella, naked, being carried on a very low stretcher. Many of his entourage were also naked, though thankfully I saw no male appendages. The non naked entourage looked like the writers of Disney's Aladdin had dressed them.

As the parade disappeared up the way, I realised that because I'd been facing the theatre / bar building I'd not been paying attention to what was happening behind me. They're was a lot of hooting and tyre screeching going on. As I turned around it seemed that three buses were trying to fit into the space of one, at the same bus stop. I jumped backwards as one came on to the pavement, behind the bus stop. Wendy, the lady who'd talked to me about swinging hopped on to the corner as it passed by. Not knowing what else to do, I scampered after her, following the bus on foot. There was a big crowd of us doing this. The lady next to me was a really short lady who'd been standing near me during the parade. She was very chatty, calling me by my birth name. I asked her how she knew my name. She hung her head and said she'd given herself away. She said she was following me because she wanted to know about the person her husband was having an affair with. I then had to persuade her that she'd got the wrong person, but it was interesting that she had the right name.

She slumped down on the ground, leaning against a huge wooden sign, and started scrolling through her phone. I realised that the sign was for a fair associated with the parade, and that we'd been separated by the bus followers, ending up in a park where this fair was taking place. Looking around myself I realised I was surrounded by fun rides and general fair things, but that they all had a Hindu / Buddhist theme to them. I asked myself how I'd ended up there again, and left.

I realised that someone had pick pocketed me, taking my money, so I headed to the station. As I got there it occurred to me that they'd also taken my train ticket home. I went to a guard to explain this to them, hoping that they might be able to look up who purchased what and allow me on a train. He took me aside though, telling me he'd take me to the right person to sort it out, leading me into corridors and tunnels that the public don't usually see. He told the fella that he'd taken me to that I'd been robbed, someone had taken my money, my phones, hacked my bank account, and some other stuff, while I was stood by unable to interrupt and correct him. All I wanted was my ticket home.

As with the beginning of the dream, I can't quite remember the end. There was something about being in a car that became stuck alongside a caravan in the car park of a church, but I'm not sure how I got there, or how I escaped.

Listening To The Rain

Listening to the rain

Crying tears of desperation

Hiding fears, anticipation

Singing my song.

Grieving, in pain

Pulling hair, but nothing feeling

Scared, and tired, and mind a-reeling

Everything feels wrong.

and here I am again

Empty eyes and stony hearted

Pondering my dear departed

Murmuring this song.

Et... Un Mariage, Mais Pas Le Mien

On Sunday just gone, I learnt that on the Saturday Mr Flibbles had got married. I knew it was coming, but didn't actually know when. The first I knew of it was when one of my friends messaged me to ask how I was. When she explained that she was asking in reference to his getting married, my brain kind of shut down. 

Thinking about it a little I found that I felt a bit bitter. I found that I actually hoped that it won't last. I realised that at the back of my mind I still feel that he and I are connected, that something would put us back together one day.

It was my honest gut reaction, but it's a selfish one and I know that. Genuinely I want him to be happy, and I hope that Little Miss Smug can cope with him better than I could. Cognitively I do know that we'll never be together again; it's just that my cognitive brain and emotional brain are often not on the same page.

So, come today's therapy session, I was feeling sad, and I knew I was feeling sad, and told Mr Therapist that I was feeling sad. He's not used to me knowing how I feel.

We discussed it a little. I tried to not cry, a lot. I recognise that I don't know how to grieve. I didn't know that grieving is something we're taught; so I've basically learnt that grief = head in sand. Not healthy. 

And so, this week's homework is for me to write a goodbye letter to Mr Flibbles. And because I didn't know how to take the matter seriously, I've been given a format to follow. The result is below. It's probably a bit weird. You can't see the smudged ink on the screen, but trust me that you would if it were a printed page.

Dear lovely wonderful person with whom I wanted to spend my life,

I remember the way you had my back when I needed someone to phone stupid companies for me.

I remember the way you would reach across a table to take my hand, just to hold it.

I remember the way you obsess over one thing for a while, then totally switch tack to something else.

I remember the way you would push me away every time you were in hospital.

I remember the way you wouldn't make me a priority.

I remember when you invited all of my friends to stay for my first birthday with you.

I remember when you encouraged me to start my online shop.

I remember when you didn't want me at your birthday because you were embarrassed to be with me.

I remember when we were first intimate together.

I remember when we adopted Rufus. And Oni.

I remember when we let Mr Millionaire stay with us. Oops!

I remember how you looked when you graduated.

I remember how you looked when you were annoyed with me.

I remember how you looked when you learnt that I was seeing Mr CarCrash.

I remember when you told me about CF.

I remember when you told me you were proud of me. You were the first person to ever say that to me.

I remember when you told me that you would never be the one for me, that we'd never work, that I should be with FuckWit.

I remember when you told me to be with Kitsune.

The clearest memory I have of you is of your hugs.

The clearest memory I have of you is seeing how people are always drawn to you.

The clearest memory I have of you is the feeling of bathing in sunshine just by being around you.

The clearest memory I have of you, is of you taking Rufus' body, because I couldn't cope with it.

I wish I wasn't such a fucked up fuck up that I fucked everything up with you.

I wish that we didn't have such toxic arguements.

I wish I'd known how to soothe you, and show you how I cherished you.

I wish that Rufus hadn't died because of our stupid human relationship politics.

I wish that you were here right now, giving me a hug and telling me that all of this has just been a nightmare.

I always wanted to tell you that you're the only person I've truly fallen in love with.

I always wanted to tell you that you're absolutely amazing at everything you do.

I always wanted to tell you that I was never worthy of your attention, let alone to be with you.

I was afraid to tell you how angry I was at your parents.

I was afraid to tell you how much I absolutely loathe myself.

I was afraid to tell you when I wasn't coping, and needed you to emotionally support me.

I wish I had told you that DMX couldn't compare with you, not even a little.

I wish I had told you, when you were screaming and arguing at me, that everything was ok, everything would be ok, and just held you until you calmed down.

I wish I had told you that I knew that I was selfish and irritable, but that I didn't want to be.

I wish I had known that pushing me towards FuckWit was a defense mechanism.

I wish I had known how to fix us.

I wish I had known how to stand up for myself.

I also wish you'd have let me contribute financially.

I also wish we hadn't allowed Smev to attempt to mediate with us.

I also wish that we were still really close friends now.

I wish you had known this me, who's moods are medicated more effectively.

When I was with you I usually felt at home. Comfortable. Safe.

When I was with you I usually felt irritable; I didn't know that the irritability was part of my depression / anxiety, and I needed a medication change. I didn't know that my mental health was sabotaging our relationship.

When I was with you I usually felt fairly positive.

I felt happiest when you spent time with me, especially if you showed attention.

I felt happiest when we shared rat o'clock in the evenings.

I felt happiest when we'd have deep long intelligent conversations.

I felt most loved when you held my hand.

I felt most loved when you showed that you understood me.

I felt most loved when we just existed together. I felt like we were a choreographed dance.

I felt angriest when you would make arguments out of the most stupid things.

I felt angriest when you made me feel second rate. 

I felt angriest when you wouldn't include me, but wouldn't even give me warning that I wasn't included.

I felt the most hurt when you blamed me for separate rooms.

I felt the most hurt when I woke up after overdosing, and found that you'd just left me there. Or you hadn't noticed that I'd been asleep for 48 hours.

I felt the most hurt when you let me go.

I felt the most afraid when you were in hospital.

I felt the most afraid when you attempted dating that woman.

I felt the most afraid when I thought I'd lose you.

I felt the most guilt when I ended up with FuckWit.

I felt the most guilt when someone I invited into our house accidentally killed Tinker.

I felt the most guilt when ... just always. Because of how things started. Because I hurt you. Because of my health being so crap that I couldn't contribute the way I'd like to. Because we were living in your parents house. Because I wasn't good enough for you, and our lives were on hold, and I was such an unstable nutcase.

I felt the most shame when we'd argue, and I'd reach the end of my tether.

I felt the most shame when I'd spend all day every day at home, whilst you who was hospitalised by your health quite frequently, were working 4 full days a week.

I felt the most shame when you'd bring up things that had hurt you, during arguments, that I hadn't realised were bothering you.

I wanted to make you happy.

I wanted to be important to you.

I wanted to spend my life with you.

I needed you to make me a priority. That doesn't mean drop everything you do, but communicate with me about what's going on 

I needed to be able to make the house our home.

I needed therapy!

I needed motivation and purpose.

I accept that you got married.

I accept that you have totally changed, and left me behind.

I accept that you are happy without me, and happier without me.

I accept that you have probably turned me into a villain in your head.

I understand that you went through hell with me.

I understand that you may remember things differently than I do.

I understand that you have moved on.

The last time I saw you, you didn't even make eye contact with me.

The last time I saw you, it pissed me off that your missus gave me such a smug, knowing, look, as you left.

The last time I saw you, I wanted to hold you and never let go.

When you left ... [it was me that left, so I'm going to change this one] ...

When I left I don't think I really realised that it was the end.

When I left I think I was kind of relieved to be going into a house that would supposedly be a home, but I hadn't realised how much of home was in you, and even in that bland giant house that I hated.

When I left I was still completely in love with you.

Since you’ve been gone ... [need to change it again] ...

Since we've been apart I still felt like we were together.

Since we've been apart I've grown in so many ways, but often thought of how I'd enjoy discussing them with you, and how impressed and proud you'd be.

Since we've been apart I've got really really fat.

I miss the way you always make everything look so easy.

I miss the way you would take my side, pretty much always.

I miss the way you hugged.

When I think about you now I feel so sad.

When I think about you now I cry.

When I think about you now I miss you with a pain so raw that it feels like it'll rip me apart.

I want to tell you I’m sorry about every fucking thing I ever said or did that hurt you.

I want to tell you I'm sorry that I have a screwed up bonce of mental health crap.

I want to tell you I'm sorry if I leant on you too hard, or made you feel that I was using you.

I want to thank you for the time we spent together.

I want to thank you for not just cutting me out of your life in one swoop.

I want to thank you for tolerating me.

Most of all, I want to tell you that I love you, but I don't want to anymore, as I know I need to let you go.

Yours sincerely,

Olana

Laisse-Moi Tranquille

I've had it. Seriously, I've just had enough. The fucking DWP have decided that I'm perfectly well and don't need any disability money. They scored me zero on every single aspect. I must be cured, hurrah, I can't wait to tell my doctors, to go get a job, start a family, live a normal life.... Oh wait.

Here's the thing. I applied for Change of Circumstances two years ago, because I had become a lot more ill. They've messed me around no end since this application.

Hypothetically, I could have made a new application for PIP instead, even though I was already receiving it. To anyone who's thinking of applying for Change of Circumstances, I encourage you to make the new application, instead. Supposedly, you can continue with the original claim if the new one messes up. Supposedly.

Since I made the application for CoC they've scored me zero twice, but they reinstate it upon mandatory reconsideration. At one time they discontinued the PIP because I supposedly didn't attend the assessment at my home; that their assessor couldn't find, so he didn't turn up They have also accused me of not attending a phone assessment that they didn't give me time to answer; honestly, I had the phone in my hand, it rang once and stopped.

Every time they discontinue the money, I have to then contact all the companies I'm supposed to be paying direct debits to, explain the situation, and hope that PIP will be reinstated so that I can pay the debts that build up.

And that's the idea isn't it; to stress people out so much that we'll be grateful to receive the lower rate, even though we qualify for the higher rate.

The PIP I receive (or was receiving) pays for my therapy, osteopathy, chiropracty. It pays for me to have things delivered, since I can't go out to get stuff. It also pays most of my bills, though the DWP argue that people aren't supposed to use it to pay bills, as it's intended to help with needs caused by the disability. I do receive ESA, too, but literally half of the ESA goes on council tax alone. So.... 🤷🏻‍♀️

At the moment I'm also on the lesser rate of ESA. My intention has been to get PIP sorted out before trying to sort out ESA, as losing both at the same time would be absolutely detrimental. However, the two year wait before I can sort it out is kind of getting on my nerves.

I've been ill since I was 22. When I was first ill the DWP told me I'd have to live on loans. So I did to start with. Eventually someone put me straight, I made claims, and paid off those loans. Since making that first claim though I've been messed around over and over and over. 

The DWP never make it easy. I understand that they wish to avoid benefit fraud, though given that such fraud is less than 2%, I often wonder whether it's worth punishing all the legitimate claimants. I also often wonder whether the rate of suicide they cause is higher than the rate of fraud. The fact that the amount of legitimate potential claims that go unclaimed is A LOT more than is lost to fraud, should be taken into account; as too should the fact that the amount lost to clerical error is higher than the amount of fraud. Seriously, why can't they clear up their own backyard before pooping all over everyone else's?

It baffles me that any Decision Maker can look at cases from people who have been ill with progressive or chronic illnesses for decades, and decide that there is no evidence that the person is ill. In my case, now, they do have fresh evidence from within the last few months, but they seem to think they don't. Previous claims, in cases of illnesses that do not go away, however, should be considered as evidence.

And so yeah, I'm fed up, I'm stressed, and since I've been bordering suicidal for a while already, this really isn't helping. I just want a break. I'd like a few years whereby my adrenaline isn't being constantly triggered, during which I can receive therapy to sort my stupid brain out, and learn routines that will help me live some kind of orderly life. But with the idiotic chaos of my finances caused by idiots in government who have no idea at all what it's like on the breadline, that's never going to happen.

It comes to something when your American therapist knows how awful the DWP are!