So I've had this realization recently that people can tell me things, (friends, doctors, cab drivers) and it's absolutely meaningless. I mean, it's all just words and I can nod along and smile and say "Yes, that makes sense", but it's all nothing to me until I come to it in my own time. I have these massive epiphanies where it seems like the heavens open up and a choir of fucking angels herald this amazing new insight into my very nature and that of the universe itself, and it's actually the most basic and simple piece of information that has been set before me about a million times before, but my mind just slid past it, wrapped securely in its cuddly warm blanket composed of nothing but pure blind spot.
Case in point, I've been told countless times when seeking help that it is extremely normal to feel as though mental health professionals will think you're putting it on when you show up and start listing your symptoms. They won't, but they know you're probably worrying about it. It's also quite normal to question it yourself. Am I making this up? Have I convinced myself that this is all much worse than it is? Did I decide to be like this? Did I make myself this way? Is this ALL MY FAULT? Again, the actual really real answer is, emphatically, "NO". But it's totally normal to blame yourself and think that it is.
And I've always nodded along, and thought, yeah sure, okay. That's probably very normal. But I don't REALLY think that. I don't REALLY believe that. And then one morning you find yourself waking at 4 a.m. unable to get back to sleep because of the relentless noise of your brain digging through its own detritus with a goddamned microscope. A silent argument of epic proportions ensues, and suddenly it's almost 3 hours later and you're sobbing on the couch shocked at the realization that you've ALWAYS blamed yourself. You always thought you were SO damned special and different, and that nobody understood you, not really, so of course you grew up and CHOSE to be a bloody schizophrenic, you egotistical fuck, and now you can't even understand yourself, and doesn't that just make you pleased as punch, you absolute fucking wank stain?
Of course, the rest of the day is spent drinking far too many cups of tea, quietly apologizing to myself and promising to up my self care game to levels that it has never actually reached, let alone maintained, whilst having a rousing game of blast-all-my-most-emo-playlists-and-sing-along. I mean, I'm awarding my brain an 11/10 on the fuckery scale. Cheers for that, from one wank stain to another. Let's never do that again. Except I'm sure we will, because if there's one thing I have learned, it's that no matter how many epic epiphanies I have, the amount of actual, useful information I retain is negligible, at best.
So, yes, welcome to 2017. It's going to be a year.
