Tuesday, 9 March 2010

Categorical Blur and Electric Slop

One of the aspects of being diagnosed I have the greatest difficulty with is the insult and attack on my innate confidence.

All manner of behaviour, from maybe driving over the speed limit on the motorway, to enjoying a few glasses of wine, to sybaritic pleasures of lying in the sun, to eating too much or eating too little, to going without sleep, for having too much sleep, to arguing, flirting, smiling, frowning, showing-off, being self-absorbed, to playing with the children at their level, to feeling dark and inescapably knowing the world is going to hell, to taking on too many things, to not taking on enough things, for seeking people, for avoiding people, even to dressing up or dressing down: all of these things are suspect.

I miss being innocent and confident - unthinkingly confident - naturally confident. How I was.

Oh I daresay I do my best to mitigate this aspect by (maybe foolishly) feeling my perception of my own self is worth the diagnoses of a thousand psychiatrists, but in the end one cannot put the scales back over ones' eyes. Never such innocence again.

They say the unexamined life is not worth living. Who said that? Can't recall. I could google, but don't care. The problem is that perpetual self-examination can nauseate one to the core.

I have been feeling rather electric of late. Nothing to worry about, not yet, and maybe never. It is generally pleasant at present, apart from the mindless revving left over when I allow my mind to swirl away to emptiness.

It is all the old and tired things. It may not hurt to put them down again. The universe is embracing me, and I have a feeling of connection with it. Of course, I mistrust this rather lovely feeling: a simultaneous joy and horror comes into being. My mind is foaming over messily, like Marlon's bottle on the the counter. A silliness takes hold, a love of fun, of crudity, innocent and bland as a child.

Categories jumble, like toyboxes tipped out and kicked into a glorious confusion, and I relish the mess, the chaos, the freedom, all the while bemoaning the lost serenity of orderliness.

It is like that exhilaration when running down a hill, when one is just going too fast, and it is just too steep, before every nerve has to be strained to keep balance. A parachute is an essential item of the standard kit. Where did I put mine? Oh, the mice have been at it.

Lucky me (he lied), that I can never escape my own internal critic. The desire to smother that warning voice is always restrained.

The watchdog in my heart scrapes a clearing in the brain-mess, and barks warnings.

Eventually, I tidy up the detritus and lament lost innocence, lost bravura, lost... blithe panache!


Take care all, Dx



Kate said...

'Snap!' - to all of that
I've said the same about the diagnosis - many times. Loss of innocence casts shadows of doubt and suspiscion over everything.
I know the running down the hill feeling. Exhilerating - until one collides with the gorse bush at the bottom and realises one is smeared with dog-shit (this did actually happen to me this winter whilst sledging).

It was Socrates btw,and inscribed on the entrance at the temple of Delphi. Just so you know.

Take care you.
(P.S. 45 minutes nap this morning. Better than nothing I suppose. A pox on the phone!)

Pandora said...

Although my primary diagnosis is the perennial female trouble-maker's one of BPD, I can still entirely empathise with the exhilarating run to which you allude (presumably emanating from the secondary diagnosis. One has to love psychiatrists). I always find myself wincing when I begin to feel any sense of exuberance.

And that ties into your other point; according to the quacks, virtually every activity in which we engage is attributable to our illnesses. So that wonderful exuberance cannot just be - it has to be down to being mad.

My pet hate in relation to this is people using their diagnoses as carte blanche for terrible behaviour. In some cases that is, in fairness, the case, but many people appear to me to simply take advantage.

Anyway, good post, and enough rambling from yours truly. Take care :)

David said...

Thanks both.

Kate - yes, of course, Socrates. Ta. Dogshit: the unwelcome moment when one suspects, and sniffs the mud on ones' hand... Oh and caught a bit of a nap late morning. Better than nowt. Still feel some crazed acupuncturist is practising on my cranium.

Pan - agree - I personally don't feel there is a valid plea for mitigation re insanity - practicalities still call for locking up. Behaviour is behaviour, no matter the excuse.

Take care Dx

La-reve said...

I hate that everything is attributed to illness I was once told I was hypomanic becaue I was wearing lipstick!!!
Also because I was crying in hospital because I was away from my son for first time I was in depressive state. GRrr. Can;t win now I feel have bipolar and everything is a sign of a high or low. Even my family think I'm high if I have a laugh or am a bit jovial.They want me to be be catatonic or something but that to me would be abnoraml. I have never been middle of road.

Scream said...

What a lovely photo. As for the words you said.. yeah I hear ya!

Alison Rising said...

You have so aptly and beautifully described the mess in my head as of late.

fine fine fine said...

Have never commented before, but just have to say, you write beautifully. Saying what i feel but cant describe. Medicalised feelings are bad, feeling medicalised even worse?