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Friday’s Frolics Through Psychosis

Posted Dec 12 2010 3:45pm
…and dissociation.  Try saying the title quickly after a few jars.

***Triggers – Psychosis, Dissociation, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse***

On Friday I went as mental as I have possibly ever been.  Some of it I remember, a lot of it I don’t, but whatever the case I was completely insane.

I am due to see NewVCB on Wednesday.  No doubt the stupid bint will feel vindicated that I went to the Nexus Institute against her guidance and have ended up finding myself in this psychotic mess.  However, in the wake of being abandoned by C at the end of August, I was meant to see her more frequently, and that pathological liar Mr Director-Person claimed that I would have extensive support from the CMHT.  Ha!  For the last three months, I have seen literally nobody on the NHS.  Had it not been for Paul and Nexus, I might well have offed myself thanks to their shoddy treatment of me.  I intend to impart this information and more general dissatisfaction to her.  She, and the stupid bureaucratic, targets-driven wankshafts that she works for are the ones at fault here – not me, and definitely not Paul.

Anyway.  Friday.  I was supposed to be going to my mother’s house to collect the absent felines, who had gone on holiday to her house the week before on the understanding that A and I had been going to London over said weekend.  I woke up from a pathetic hour’s half-sleep, which involved more of the same as that which has characterised my slumber (if it can be so-called) lately, and knew instantly knew that I couldn’t drive anywhere.  ’ They ‘ were so loud.  They just wouldn’t shut up, and they were so persuasive.




I tried to ignore them, but when you have that kind of vicious commentary ricocheting around the room (or your head, I suppose) all the time, it’s hard to do anything other than bang your head off the wall in the futile hope it will temporarily silence them.  Instead, I lay there gazing helplessly at nothing in particular on the ceiling, and let their cacophony say what it liked.  In a feeble attempt at deferential pacification, I told them that I agreed with them, that I was indeed a vile, repugnant piece of shit, but they appeared to find this amusing rather than sating.

They do come in waves, however, which is a mercy – however temporarily.  When an episode like this is in full swing, they never go away entirely, but they do die down a little, making functional life almost possible.  I took the opportunity as soon as a quiet period came to phone my mother to tell her I wasn’t coming.

She sounded disappointed, but when I explained what was going on, she offered to come over and bring the cats with her.  This simple act of maternal kindness reduced me to tears.  I knocked back half a Zopiclone and went back to some semblance of sleep.

Eventually I forced myself to get up in readiness for my mother’s arrival.  I came downstairs, and found that the nebulous peripheral-vision shapes from the other day were hovering about at the window again.  I closed the blinds, but bloody ‘They once again’ jacked up the volume in response.  I compliantly fell on the sofa, hearing them, sucking in both them and their constant streams of insults.  Feeling each word like a physical attack. naturallyThe thing was, although they were at their strongest, they still didn’t try to get me to do myself in like when I first saw them.  In retrospect, I find that really strange.  This would have been their perfect opportunity to compel me into action, and they didn’t take it.  Is the nugget of which Paul once spoke somehow unconsciously fighting them?  Or is it simply that they couldn’t be arsed playing with suicide that day, and will get to that when they can be bothered?  I favour the latter as a profitable bet.

When my mother arrived I answered the door with visible caution.  Who knows what lurks out there, when they can be seen at the window these days?  She brought in the returning but indifferent cats and went to make a cup of tea.  She was in the kitchen for about 45 minutes, because apparently making a cup of tea involves cleaning the entire room in which the kettle (which was heard to boil five times during the time I was waiting for my hot beverage) resides.

‘They’ thought my mother’s typical mother-washing-ism was screechingly hilarious.  The lot of them – hundreds, possibly thousands of these cruel, malignant vociferations – were now laughing this strange, ethereal laugh.  Horrific, disturbing – but disgustingly hypnotic and even seductive at the same time.  I can’t describe it.  It was such a weird sensation.  The longer it went on, the more I felt like I was about to be sacrificed in the centre of an ampitheatre full of amused observers.  They were that loud.

Here is where my memories get hazy.  I remember sobbing pitifully on the sofa, rocking back and forth in a curled-up ball of utter insanity.  I remember vaguely thumping at the back of my head in an attempt to injure them, to get them to desist from their incessant bullying (this was stupidly unsuccessful and met with yet more laughter).  I don’t remember finally getting my mythical tea, but I do remember at one point looking down and seeing it in my hands.

I drank it silently whilst my mother potted about doing whatever potted about means.  However, I was overwhelmed by ‘They’ and by the crushing, mind-blowing depression that has permeated existence of late, and found myself weeping inconsolable tears at a non-insubstantial rate of decibels.  In between each pitiful sob was the utterance of a begging, “please stop,” a pathetic, fruitless plea to ‘They’ to at least give me a break.  Again, they greeted this with a response of delighted humour.  This was their goal.  To break me completely.  They were succeeding.

I spend a lot of my time on this blog criticising my mother for her ostriching behaviour and for accusing me of lies regarding Paedo.  I’m also deeply resentful of how I was treated by her as a teenager, but that’s a story for another day.  What you never hear, though, is the good side of things – and that’s despicably unfair.  She is a decent woman who loves me very much, and whom I love in return.  On Friday, she stroked and gently brushed my hair as I wept.  She handed me tissues apparently garnered from thin air.  She draped her arm gently round my shoulder as I rocked back and forth like the lunatic that I am.  I am grateful for these subtle but profound acts of love.  I don’t know how to express that thanks to her, because I am useless with the expression of…*searches for a term that is not hated*…em…this stuff.  Yeah.  But the gratitude is there, whether I can easily express it or not.

A and I were meant to be meeting friends that evening but as you might imagine I was not in a fit state to do anything of that ilk.  I sat and cried all afternoon with my mother, who said if we had been at her house (at the address where I am still registered for NHS ‘services’) she would have undoubtedly called a doctor.  In fact, she started trying to ask me were there any GP practices near to this (ie. A’s) house.  As if I was going to let her call one!  I might well get binned on fucking Wednesday at this rate (and, worryingly, this appointment with NewVCB is actually in the bin, rather than Outpatients or even the Day Hospital!), so I’m keeping all the freedom I can get, thank you very much.

I don’t remember many more specifics of the madness at that point.  I just recall that ‘They’ continued unabated until about 4pm – and then, as suddenly as they had arrived that morning, they duly disappeared. Naturally I was grateful – but what overwhelmed me then was a horrible, bone-piercing sadness.  For my mother, mainly, and that was compounded by an acute bout of guilt – for the hideous trauma she had endured, for my continual criticism of her, for not visiting her last week and for failing to use a little receptacle that she’d bought A and I a few years ago.  And for much more general inadequacy and regret that tends in her direction.

I cried to her that I was “sorry for being crap,” and she said that I wasn’t crap and that all she regretted was seeing me “so unwell.”  I tried to dry my eyes, but over and over again I was overwhelmed by my sense of being an inadequate daughter and, furthermore, a totally useless and pathetic individual in general.

Still, with her help I tried my eyes and eventually got changed and decreed that I, in fact, was going out as planned.  My mother said that I was absolutely unfit to be going anywhere, and she was right frankly, but I was very conscious of the fact that three of the attending personnel had made a long track from the Republic to meet us on this occasion, and I would have felt guilty rewarding their determination to get here with my gaping absence.

So I rang A and asked about the specific arrangements for meeting.  He too asked, having read my Twitter feed , if I was sane enough to be going.  I said that I was not, but that I was going anyway, on the proviso that if I needed to go back, we would straight away do so.  He agreed, and my mother gave me a lift to meet him.  I arrived in his presence about 6pm.

I smoked as I walked from the place where my mother dropped me off to the bar where A was waiting.  I proceeded to smoke several cigarettes that evening in frustration and disgusting helplessness.  I haven’t smoked for nearly four years; it was my new year’s resolution to quit in 2006/2007 and until very recently I had kept to it completely.  But as I said to the only other smoker in attendance that night, I will engage in almost anything that helps (however much like a placebo it is) to control the insanity, even if it is otherwise damaging. He agreed, but not being a mentalist was clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.  I hate that sense of discomfort anyway, but it’s particularly galling given that this bloke – and the rest of the party involved – all have their own disabilities, railing vehemently against any discrimination thereof.  At the mere mention of my mental health problems, though – a very real form of disability – they clam up and rush to change the subject. The hypocrisy frustrates me endlessly, but I didn’t have the energy to do anything about it on Friday.

Anyhow, the evening was fine, if unremarkable.  A and I left straight after dinner rather than join them for a drink, as we were to get up relatively early the next morning to see another friend.  And, as if leaving our friends catalysed some sort of insanity-related magic, the shit again hit the fan.

I only remember bits and pieces of what followed, so I shall let A take up the narrative reins.

It started when we returned to the house from what, to me at least, had seemed a rather enjoyable night out with some friends. Knowing that we would have an early start the following morning, we’d decided to say our goodbyes earlier than usual, as staying out with that crowd usually leads to the mother of all hangovers the next morning.

When we got back into the house, I went into the kitchen. When I returned from it, Pandora was mumbling something to herself. I couldn’t make it out and asked her what she was saying. Singing, it turns out. Here are the words she sang:

Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler?
If you think old England’s done?

Over.  And over.  And over.

I am not exaggerating when I say that, no matter what I tried to do, no matter how I tried to snap her out of this loop, I was unable to do so. Thinking back on it, I’ve had a bit of programming experience in my life, and it now reminds me of a program that is running an infinite loop (bad practice, by the way) and I’m trying, and trying, and trying to force the program to quit, but it just won’t do it. Frightening.

Eventually, from out of nowhere, and after what seemed like 15 or 20 minutes, she snapped back to ‘normal’, just as though a switch had been thrown.

“What do you mean, stop? Stop what?”

“Stop singing that.”

“Singing? Singing what? How did we get back here?   Oh look, the cats are back!” She greeted the cats enthusiastically.  ”How did they get back? I thought they were at my Mum’s.”  [This is very odd, because as noted above I remember Mum bringing them back with reasonable clarity].

They had been staying with Pandora’s Mum during the week, but she had brought them back during the afternoon. I told Pandora this.

“I don’t remember that.”

This was disturbing. I explained to her the day’s course of events, including the most recent bizarre turn, with the singing of those innocent-seeming but infernal lines. Lines, for those of you who don’t know, taken from the introductory music to a 1970s British TV comedy called Dad’s Army . What a random selection.

Anyway, Pandora appeared to be getting back to normal and went upstairs. I followed. I couldn’t have known it, but the insanity was not yet at an end.

Aurora manifested. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but Pandora/Aurora started crying. Pitifully crying. Painfully, loudly crying.

Understandably, I asked what was going on.

“It hurts. It hurts.”  Over and over, with each plaintive sob.

“What does?” I asked, already knowing the answer but awfully horrified.

“Paedo hurts.”

Confused, frightened, I told her that that was over now. It was many years ago, in the past.

That didn’t work. “I don’t understand,” she sobbed. Then, “Nobody likes me.  Why does nobody like me?”

“I like you,” I tried to reassure her.

“You don’t like me,” she sobbed.

I repeated myself.

“But you don’t like children.”

She had me there. I don’t. This is one point of view I do share with Pandora. I’ve never liked children. I find them an annoying intrusion for the most part. I really don’t know how parents put up with them, but have concluded that there must be something in most genes that is lacking in mine.  Human sympathy?

Anyway, Pandora/Aurora had a point, and I had to concede that. “But I do want to help you, and I do like the person you’ve become.”

That just confused her and, again, the answer was “I don’t understand.” Clearly, for Aurora, the future was an unknown, indeed an impossibility, like time travel.   Although part of her knew who I was, she didn’t connect that with her here and now. She was Aurora the child, and only marginally aware of Pandora the adult.

Believing that I was now stuck with Aurora, I thought I’d try to use the circumstance to learn what I could about what might have caused her to manifest, and about what had been causing Pandora to be so ‘mental’ all day.

“Can you tell me what happened to you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she responded.

“With Paedo,” I clarified.

“Someone saw it,” she whispered.

“What? Who?”

“Suzanne.”  [Paedo's grand-daughter; mother to Sean and Marcus].

“What? How?”

“She saw it happening.”

I was horrified.  Suzanne was a child younger than Aurora at the time. If she saw it, then was she also a victim, and if not why was she there?  ”Why didn’t she say something or do something?” I asked rather stupidly, incredulous as I was.

“She was scared.”

That was about all I could get Aurora to say, other than “It hurts” and “Nobody likes me.” It was very frightening, but then -


That switch again, and Pandora was back, Aurora gone.

“Why are you sitting here talking to me?” she queried, quite normally.  [He was sitting on the bath.  I was sitting on the lid of the toilet].

I explained. Needless to say, Pandora was horrified that “that stupid bitch” had once again taken control. I tried to tell her that I thought it was in some twisted way healthy to let this out, but she remained resentful that “that stupid bitch” had taken over her mind, for however short a time.

If I did not trust A implicitly, I would not have believed a word of this.  I remember sitting on top of the bog asking him why he was sitting there on the edge of the bath. It seemed bizarre that he would sit on the in such a position, especially whilst I languished pointlessly on the toilet seat.  I was simply incredulous at what he told me; the stupid bitch has never come out as demonstrably as that in the past, and I hope she never does again.

I remember that we went to bed, but that despite my Zopiclone intake, I couldn’t sleep.  To that end, I inexplicably downloaded a choral version of O Holy Night onto my iPhone and listened to it on loop for ages. What the fuck?  I am an atheist who detests Christmas.  Could you get any more inappropriate?

I got up at some point, presumably to go to the toilet or something.  When I got back into bed, I accidentally kicked A’s leg – which he’d damaged horribly during the week owing to falling nastily on the evil ice – and he cried out in pain.  I tried to comfort him and apologise, but he was in that weird place between consciousness and sleep, and I couldn’t really get through to him.  At least that meant the pain was probably superficial, though.  I came downstairs, relegated to sleeping on the sofa, and remember nothing more until the following afternoon other than that the cats slept curled up to me.

Regarding Suzanne, by the way; I think Aurora is being a little melodramatic (what a surprise!).  Suzanne once caught a brief glimpse of an incident behind the garage. It was not a full-on rape – ‘merely’ some inappropriate touching.  With a perhaps inappropriate level of nakedness on my part.  Eugh.  But she didn’t stand there and watch it all by any means; Paedo told her to go away, and she did.  And that was that.  No one ever spoke of it again, until, it seems, Friday.

The next day, as I dressed for leaving the house, I saw that someone – it could only have been me or Aurora, I suppose – had befriended a supposedly sharp-ish instrument.  It wasn’t my trusty scalpel, because that device actually cuts properly.  These cuts are crap cuts.

But what they are is numerous, and visibly varied.  Little of my body has been spared.  My arms are repellent to look upon.  My body is seared with angry red scrabs.

Most interestingly, and most disturbingly (depending on when you ask me, anyhow), my neck has been attacked.  The back, bottom and top have all been targeted, but there are also superficial attempts to destroy my neck’s arteries.

I know it’s hard to kill yourself by neck-exsanguination (or any other type of exsanguination for that matter, as I found out the hard way nearly a year ago ), but it’s not impossible.  For a five year old, Aurora strikes me as harder than a Times crossword, childish whinging to A and Paul notwithstanding.  I wouldn’t trust the little bitch for half a nanosecond.

Can a historical being murder a current one?

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