Wow. Old blogs and bigger bellies

Found my old bloggette... what a waste of e-space eh? But interesting to read back on the few posts that are here.

A new reason to start this old chestnut up - mental health. Ooo can I tag? #MentalHealth #EndTheStigma #Depression Hmmm? No, I can't.

Pull up a chair, bring your own coffee & biccies. :P

Why I struggle with the system that does not give a shit about mental health - unless of course, you want to harm yourself or harm someone else, then they 'might' take you a bit more seriously, but no guarantees.

Do I want to hurt myself? I didn't, but as events progress my thoughts do grow darker and darker toward not so nice stuffness.

Events that I won't go into of last year are still taking their toll, and I'm unable to lift from its fallout. I've had one prolonged period of counselling, as I find talk therapies much more helpful than medication, and yes I've tried the latter. One hopes that you find a good counsellor, who will listen, not judge, and make all the right noises in the pauses. I thought I did, but as the period with them came to a close, my mind did wonder. But then, that could be the beast of depression talking.

Since then I've come up against continuing battles, one of which has pushed me to restart this old bloggykins up. To air my grievances in a safe e-place. Safe-ish.

I blubbed all the way through my PIP (Acronym city here we come - Personal Independent Payment) assessment, and scored nothing, in towards a serious benefit to help those seriously disabled. No biggie, as I did not expect anything. But to cry through the whole medical assessment and score nothing, it really does make you wonder. I must declare that the nurse in this assessment did come across as a real human, unlike the next one.

Then on the ESA assessment (Employment Support Allowance - those unable to work at the current time), I only cried a bit, because the so-called nurse doing the assessment wasn't interested. Got a cold, blank, disinterested, woman, who wanted to get through the spiel as quick as possible. Wham, bam, I know all I need to know about your long term mental health issues, and your life problems in 30 minutes. Just like that.

So it comes down to: you can dress yourself, you can feed yourself, you can clean yourself, you can travel to here, you can talk for yourself, you can make eye contact, you can pay a bill, you can use a phone and computer = you are fit for work. Cheers. Bye.

So each one then - hey, I did say pull up a chair, maybe a sofa would be more suitable. Sorry.

1. Dress myself: On good days yes. On a lot of days I don't bother, especially if I don't need to leave the flat, and more so in Winter. The nightdress just becomes another handy layer, as I can't afford to put the heating on.

2. Feed myself: I eat TOO much, because it temporarily makes me feel better. Comfort eating (mostly nawty stuff), is the mother tucker of all big bellies. It also means I've put on all weight I lost in my last job, adding to the misery. Booo = saddy face.

3. I can clean myself: It makes me feel better. Admittedly, when seriously rock bottom, I can and sometimes do honestly forego ablutions. But eventually the itchiness + smelliness = merely adds to the 'uggh'.

4. I can travel: With distress if I don't know where I'm going, I tend to get lost, disorientated, and anxious during transit. Anxiety = palpitations, chest pains, upset stomach (and the other end), nausea, headaches, flushes. Plus if I didn't, worse still would happen for not attending that mandatory assessment you've requested that I SHOULD attend. Going out for a couple of hours is exhausting.

5. I can talk: No shit. I'm depressed, not verbally challenged, and pretty well educated with it. BUT on some days, I don't physically talk to anyone, for days on end, by choice. Why bother when so many don't understand what you're actually saying in regards to your depression, how you feel, or merely dismiss you & your words. Plus talking is very tiring.

When needed, I can often joke and utilise my sense of humour. Like a comedian... what are the statistics on comedians, actors, other smart peeps who suffer from depression I wonder? Covering up, masking up? Weighing up which is easier at the time - to 'pretend' all's well, or trying to explain to others who typically don't have a clue, how you really feel. Hmm...

6. I can make eye contact: I'm depressed, I'm not rude, nor Autistic (I don't think I'm on the spectrum).

7. I can pay bills: I'm depressed, not illiterate... and I'd be very accommodationly challenged otherwise, and I don't fancy sleeping on the streets.

8. I can use a phone: I'm depressed not technically challenged. Yes, I know how to use a phone, but choose not to, and cut myself off from the world when needed - which of late has been often. And if my phone rings with an unknown number, forget about it.

9. I can use a computer: Same as 8, and I come from an old skool, creative, technological background. But often social media is the only outside contact I might have for days with anyone else, so the computer can be my only lifeline.

10. I socialise twice a month: Party animal. Rwarrr. Umm yeh, but only with people I've known for years, in familiar surroundings, in areas I know. I can count my friends who I see on a regular basis on one hand - and they're all fully aware of my issues. New people, and sometimes even people I do know esp groups of, bring on the stress and anxiety.

Am I fit for work?
No. Not yet.
Anything that goes wrong, and I'm in pieces. I'm super emotional, and cry at any little thing.

Can I cry on demand. No. I'm not a faker.

I'm depressed, and emotionally raw, but I'm also a pro at hiding this pain through years of practise since a child. Currently my protective buffer of happy thoughts has been ground to zero, so anything negative dents me like a Bruce Lee punch.

Am I suicidal.
No. Semantics. As I wouldn't be too upset if today was my last day. I'm just not brave enough to do anything about it, and I often wonder if there's a point to all of this. Really, why am I bothering?

I would like to think I've suffered enough shit for a lifetime, but I guess that's all relative, and I know others would look at my story, and disagree. But then I know some others would also agree - enough is enough.

And yet the DWP (Department of Work & Pensions) deem me "fit for work."

To what cost to my health? Further breakdowns, pushing me to self harm, edging my thoughts to places I'd rather not go.
Do they care? No.


*Have I cried today = Yes.

*Have I slept > Nought to insomniac = Fitful.

*Have I exercised > Nought to Olympian =  Yes. Level 1, minimum amount. As second belly is conspiring with first belly, meaning third belly's imminent.

*Anxiety level > Nought to butt explosive = rumbly tummy, semi solid.

*Level of worry > Nought to Armageddon = Oh fack. Oh shit!

*Dark thoughts > Nought to Da.Vader =  Getting real gloomy.


That is all. As you were.