Digging for triggers not treasure

Digging for triggers not treasure.

The world of mental illness is often shied away from by those that do not understand and those that live in it suffer the shame of the things that can’t be helped.

I realise something has triggered me big in my head, but I do not know what it is, when I get to it, then the wave of issues I am riding will ease and I will be able to breathe once more.

I stood today and washed my hands for the third time in a row, I saw the look on a strangers face, I saw the thoughts, the way they paused as thy spoke to me. I felt my own shame flush my face because I knew that my hands were still not clean and the person was staring.

The worst part of suffering a mental illness is the looks from people.

People say they are tolerant and understanding to it, but in truth they are not. They stare, they judge and if rude enough they point.

My hands are sore. They are cracked and bleed so bad that I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with a grater. I cannot get then clean. I’ve fallen into my OCD cycle and no idea how to get out of it or what set me off.

I cannot touch anything. I have to shower before I go to bed, I feel the days dirt all over me like an invisible film. It’s dirt inside and I can of get clean, but I keep trying.

I feel like I’m crazy. I know people see me as crazy. In some ways I am crazy. I’ve self harmed almost daily that I don’t even try and stop it, it’s just another right for me to lose.

If I could just find the buried trigger, it would be like a treasure to mind. The treasure of freedom.

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Forgiveness

Forgiveness.

It’s a strange word and while I do know what it means in theory, knowing what it means in feeling it is a completely different thing. I am not even sure if it is something that is possible. How exactly do you forgive someone?

I am not a religious person; I don’t believe in God, I know a lot of people will answer with regards to their faith of God and forgiveness. I think if I did believe in God I wouldn’t know how to forgive him either.

I guess forgiveness comes in many shapes and sizes; it makes hypocrites out of us. Me especially. I haven’t been very good with keeping up with people this last month or so. Not that I have ignored anyone, or not replied, I just haven’t had it in me to talk. Messages have gone unanswered, my phone has been left, emails not responded to. Yet I in some way expect and hope that these friends will understand when I say I am sorry. Many of them have thought they have upset me and that isn’t the case. It’s just a bad time and I hope they forgive me for my lack of communications.

But forgiveness is probably part of why I have been quiet. I wonder if discovering forgiveness would be the key to removing or at least healing the pain inside. It was my birthday just a couple of weeks ago. It’s never a good time; it makes me anxious and afraid. I’d happily ignore it if I could. This year was worse, added to that is my decision to not have my father in my life. It’s made me very ill these past few weeks.

My hands are very sore through the overwhelming feeling of not being able to get clean, though I know some part of this is my minds way of coping with everything else. I do suffer from OCD and when it is at a point that my hands are bleeding, I know I have something bothering me. The fact that even my wrists are cut and bloody tells me I have a problem. I have had days of not eating and over eating. Nights of no sleep or nights plagued with bad dreams, but the biggest one is, in ten days I have only had two days where I have not self harmed. Some of myself harm days have been multiple occasions.

I look at all of this and why I do these things. I feel sane on the outside, but my actions feel far from it. None of my insanities can ease the pain I feel inside. I wish if I could give my father anything, it wouldn’t be confrontation, but it would be a day of feeling what I feel.

Forgiveness might be the key, but how do you do it? I’m not sure it’s possible. I wonder if forgiveness is real at all, or is it just something we convince ourselves of?

Pastry

I made pastry the other day. An odd post, I know. Perhaps if you are reading this, you’re wondering why it matters? People make food all the time. It’s an accomplishment. For me; some kind of step.
In the past if I need to make something such as this, I would buy it. Ready rolled too, then I wouldn’t have to do it.
Why does it matter?
Because I suffer from Emetophobia along with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
They make for the most horrific times in my head. My hands are never clean enough. The side to make the pasty on is not hygienic enough. It doesn’t matter how many times I clean them. If I clean the worktop then my hands are dirty. When I’ve cleaned my hands, well, what If I didn’t do the worktop correctly?
I clean the worktop again and I’m back to my hands.
Add intrusive thoughts and any number of things can happen that will always lead to becoming ill and inevitably, vomiting.
It really wasn’t worth the trauma, because at the end of this cycle, I would be broken. I would feel so damn crazy that I wouldn’t be able to cope. I often say, I feel like a sane person in a crazy man’s mind.
And I do. I have a logical side but it gets ignored.
I have such a terrible phobia of vomiting. It fuels my OCD and the many things that could happen to me and I can’t get passed them.
Not so long ago, I refused to eat chicken. Chicken is so easy to ruin. I wouldn’t touch food I was going to eat with my hands.
Have you ever seen someone eat crisps without their fingers?
I developed many cunning ways to get around my fears and thoughts that I adapted myself.
But, I wasn’t making myself better. I was making myself worse. I was telling myself that these protective measures worked. They stopped me from getting ill. They stopped me from making my children ill.
So, putting my hands into something as simple as pastry; making it and putting it onto the work top and then eating it without fear was like …walking over a checkpoint.

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Walking Through Fog.

I wrote today, not just edited, but wrote a little, it was for part of book three. I don’t know why, it felt good though, somewhere in my mind I have been hiding, but I hear the whispers inside. Maybe I am coming out of wherever I have been, I’m not really sure. It feels like my mind is bursting with a story to tell once again, but at the moment it just goes around in my mind.

I’m not sure if I’m getting better on this part, or I’m just transferring it to another condition. I know I am fighting at the moment with my OCD. I am sure people don’t believe me when I tell them I have it. I think there’s a stigma to it and people use it so often that it’s like a joke or a term for some to throw around, but I was officially diagnosed with it in 2006 when it was so bad, that I could not live.

I cope with it now, it flares up on occasion and I have to find out why, my mind shuts down and I can never just say, such and such is on my mind. I’m at that point at the moment. My hands are sore; I can’t get my skin clean. I’m fighting the need to make the words feel in my throat as I say them; I don’t want to sound like I have some odd tick, because I have to repeat a word just to feel it, so I fight it and try not to, but it’s there, like a lump in my throat I have to scratch. I make myself feel my breathing in my nose, all these things tell me I have something going on, but I don’t know what it is yet. I’ve detached still, I can feel it, or not as the case may be. I know I have easily lost myself in the world of fiction; it is a good escape of course.

Everything feels numb, like I’m not focused in the real world. I don’t feel like I am real. It’s very hard to explain, and I probably can’t do a good job of it. It feels like the world is moving and I am not. I can hear myself talking, but I stop because the words are not mine. I am not me.

It’s the self harm that does it, or contributes to it. I think I self harmed a couple of days ago, but I can’t remember. Even this morning seems like I was somewhere else. I feel like I’m walking through a fog and I can’t see.