This One Time at Band Camp

I want to write a post. It’s been a while and I went away because I wanted to try and just take time to breathe. Well, that’s silly. I mean I do that all the time, right? I did need a bit of space, though it didn’t accomplish much.

I have a hard time sticking to targets, deadlines, goals. Especially at the moment. I can’t really explain what my head is like lately, but there have been a lot of tears because it just isn’t working. It’s almost as though the constant checks and mind fuckery of OCD has swamped the rest of my brain and now things don’t click, even simple things. When I’m home I’m planning to really try and get some help. To say it’s been stressful is an understatement.

I’ve been feeling a little more positive. Despite what I wrote just there. I think one reason I stopped wanting to blog is because – well of this right here – I’m off in another direction. It’s distracting. I forgot what I was going to write. Let’s go back to the feeling positive.

Me and my fiancé started couple’s therapy and it’s been a good experience so far. I know we’re young and we’re in a new relationship, but when you both have issues and they clash, or just in general, I think it’s a good approach. It’s also the first time I’ve properly approached BDD with a therapist that hasn’t tried to just talk to me about the media and how it can change the way we think.

If you have read my blog for a while you’ll have seen me talk about my feelings towards my body. I only really ever gloss over this stuff though, it sounds like your every day insecurities, but, honestly, they were tearing me and all of my relationships apart. Throughout winter 2016 I became obsessed with the idea I had wrinkles/fine lines, and I would spend hours fixating on this and pointing them out to those close to me. If they denied seeing them I would become angry and frustrated and accuse people of lying to me. This was bad, but not quite as bad as when I became hooked on another part of my body.

I’ve spoken about my feelings towards my breasts and how I came to not feel good enough. It was more than that though, I would harm myself, lashing out at my chest, I’d want to cut them and eventually I became suicidal in terms of making plans, not just feeling that way. I reached out in a very vague way. “I feel bad.” and “I hate myself.” When really I should have been saying “I think about this every second of the day, I can’t look at myself in the mirror or I’ll spend hours there tearing myself apart, I can’t shower out of fear of glancing down, I am making my mother cry over the hours of arguments because I am screaming and shouting about how hideous I am, they want to put me away because they are concerned for my safety, my relationship is in shatters because when we are planning to go out instead it turns into an afternoon of shouting as I don’t believe anyone or anything but what my own beliefs are.” But that sounds so dramatic, and I’ve been taught to play down everything wrong with me. I’ve been taught things that aren’t normal, are normal. It is normal to feel insecure, it is not normal to self-harm, have suicidal thoughts, and spend hours obsessing over your appearance.

Maybe I have tried to say some of it, but I think, despite me enjoying writing, I’m not good at really explaining. Until this new therapy, where I’m not alone. Where I don’t sit there and say “I feel…” and I don’t get to play anything down because next to me is someone who can say, “she has been hitting herself again, we argued for hours because I wouldn’t tell her she was ugly.” It’s odd that something where there is another person involved is so personal.

You’re probably reading this right now thinking, whoa, I thought this was just a “Hey! I’m back!” post. Sorry! I have a lot I want to get off my chest, to set up a more honest foundation. As much as I can that is. I am really bad at this stuff.

Anyway, I’m enjoying the therapy. I’m hearing stuff that makes sense, and the more educated I feel about something the more likely I am to approach it with confidence. Fear is, it’s such a mark on my life. You know how somethings get those red stamps on them “FAULTY” etc, if I could have a mark stamped on me it would be “AFRAID” and I don’t want to be, you know? Who does? It’s held me back for so long, really held me back. I haven’t done anything with the book I released because “It’s not good enough and I haven’t got it to be what I want it to be and I wanted vultures at Death’s tower damnit!” (well, that and other things), but still. Why does it need to be perfect? It’s something I wrote, and characters that I enjoyed writing. I’m not trying to win an award, I was experimenting.

If I continue writing more it’ll probably be a bit all over the place, but I don’t want to stop writing just because I miss out a lot and out of fear of repeating myself. I forget a lot of what I have or haven’t said, I often don’t even feel grounded in reality. But I can’t stop writing. I’ve lost everything else, and I feel that I’ve lost writing too to be honest. I want to keep trying though. I made a promise to Seb, I told her I would make her proud. What does that mean though?

I wanted it to mean that I’ll get better, I’ll stop fixating on things that don’t actually matter (appearance) but I couldn’t, because that’s not how illnesses work. You don’t snap your fingers and you’re all better. You don’t wake up one morning and you’re cured. You just keep going. The truth is, one of many truths, is that I’ve tried to be fancy at times with how I wrote about mental illness, when I don’t need to be, because I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone anymore.

I am desperately afraid, desperately. I probably always will be, but I’d like to try things a little differently. One of those things is to stop feeling like I have anything I need to prove to anyone, including myself. I’ve failed many times in my life, what’s a few more failures, you know? What’s wrong with failing?

Hmm, to think I came here to talk about my anxieties over fostering kittens. Mew mew.

Next time.

Arbie x