Tuesday, August 20, 2013

crossroads.


“I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.”
—Sylvia Plath

Plans and goals for my discharge:
-Defer from my uni course (you have your whole life to get a degree...you don't get your whole life to feel okay about living it)
-Quit work and apply for a disability pension (acknowledging the role mental illness plays in my life and allowing myself to spend money on ‘self soothing’ activities like foreign films/pretty dresses rather than rent/groceries)
-Get a volunteer position related to allied health (especially mental illness advocacy or gender equality campaigning; we need grounded passionate people to make a difference)
-Start regular routines such as waking each morning at 8am, always eating breakfast and dinner, going for an hour walk each day and reading more books (maybe the gradual repetitious routine will reinforce that I can make it so much further than the next moment)
-Engage in social activities which are meaningful and enjoyable; implement healthy coping strategies like defined activities/time periods for catch ups and leave my yellow dress for emergency cases only (hopefully the people who truly love me will understand that I need to take time out to make sure I'm okay...it's hard to find the balance between extreme anxiety beforehand, nervousness during and relief after)

Splurge list: Horrorshow's new albumessential oil anti-anxiety kit & a nice cosy scarf (Aileen's collection in hospital has inspired me).

Mantras to repeat: this too shall pass, other people feel this way too, someday this pain will be useful, I am more than the worst thing that has ever happened to me, be kind to yourself, you are not your own, everything will be okay in the end, you have time...

“At first I felt angry with her and I couldn't work out why. But now I'm starting to get it. It's because she wasn't hers to do whatever she wanted with. She was ours. We belong to each other. We're not alone. We don't own ourselves. She belonged to us...the people who loved her. Her family and friends. Part of her was mine...I feel ripped off. She stole something of mine.” —Anson Cameron (excerpt from his novel; the teenage protagonist speaks at a friends funeral)
 

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