an introspective evening

I read alot of random blogs and I see that some people actually write very intimate, personal stuff. I generally don’t, not without diffusing it by making light of it. I have written some entries abt BiPolar which has haunted me for years & all the crap I went through last year, one of note being this one. Tonight I might do something similar …

Lately my blogs aren’t about anything of substance. They’re all about painting a wall or tidying under a kitchen unit, complete with mobile phone pics! How dull, eh? That’s bc my life is all abt that, which is less than exciting, really. I kinda like being busy thusly, but at the same time I wonder what the point is? I would see the point were I living abroad … but not when living in Iceland. I don’t belong here. I don’t feel complete here.

There is no real need to mention the obvious, that I am blessed to be alive and I know it, I have family and friends, and live in a peaceful (somewhat) developed society (depends on this weekend’s election outcome) which support me in many ways and where I am safe, etc etc. I know all that. I know there are more pressing needs in the world than my needs. Yet I, like everyone, I assume, have them.

this isn't the case so very often anymore, and the relief is unspeakable!! ...

I have been so very ill all my life (just writing that makes me cringe with fear of imagined “o for self pity” reactions) and I really do not enjoy trying to regain my health. The hard labour itself isn’t fun in any way. There is so much stigma hovering over mental illness, and I have been severely and unfairly judged by people near & dear, but not least by myself, all of which makes this work hard and, to be honest, boring. I have met with psychiatrists, psychologists, nurses, various types of therapists who’ve attempted to help me via psychotherapy, medication, hospitalisation, electric convulsion therapy, Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, Dialectical Behaviour Therapy, yoga, music therapy, art therapy, group therapy, occupational therapy, physical excercise. I think that sums it up. I have been introduced to alternative medicine which those in the know claim helps with depression. I’ve diligently continued my stop&go routine at various gyms, and changed my diet, first and foremost attempting to stay off sugar, flour, potatoes and other food items which affect our/my moods.

... though, true to its nature, my illness occasionally brings me under the weather, as if to remind me that it's always there, lurking deep inside my mind. rare but so frustrating, as my world falls apart once in a while.

I am a totally different person than the one who returned to Iceland catatonic & devastated in April ’08. That should give me cause to celebrate. But I am a far cry from the me I know I can be. The me I really am. That person, to be completely honest, is pretty awesome. But I am so tired of this struggle. Progress is so slow, and it’s tough going under those circumstances.

Demands. Desires. Choices. Needs. Wants. Using these words with resulting success implies a life lived in luxury. Luxury is relative. If I lived a life of what I consider luxury I’d feel guilty towards all those who don’t, that’s how I’m programmed to function, but I am entitled to demands, desires, choices, needs, wants, etc, right? Typical me: I know what I want and deserve, and I want it now. For the most part though, all I ask for is my health back. This will set me free (sorry for the cliché) and enable me again to do what I do best, what is good for me and I want to do.

I have blogged abt getting my flat back. I am glad it’s out of the hands of the fucking scum who had it, but I feel that moving in is taking a step back. Back to where I once was, year 2004, meaning: not moving forward. Again, everything is relative. In terms of where I was a year ago, moving into my flat it’s a huuuuuge step forwards. I must remember that. But in terms of where my life ought to be headed, it’s a walloping step backwards. And this fact stares me in the face constantly, scaring me.

I’ve left Iceland 5 times for fun&games&studies, and in an attempt to find my place in the world. Plus, I’ve been made to admit, it was (is?) my version of “doing the ostrich”, sticking my head in the sand and ignoring the surrounding familial dysfunction. After leaving the 5th time, I never anticipated returning to my flat. Not alone at any rate. I actually assumed I’d sell it and go live abroad, somewhere.

I’ve been an aupair abroad, once a missionary and a uni student twice. I’m afraid it sounds like bragging but it isn’t – I have it on good authority (from doctors who claim to know what they’re on about) that handling the rigours etc of what I did as a missionary and a student can only be considered a hugely successful & massively well done job, as I was frightfully ill the whole time, just without knowing what was going on with me. The illness is an on&off thing, though ever present. I fell apart and had episodes of deep depression, paranoia and anxiety mixed with severe self-loathing, plus all the other things depression entails, both as a mish. and a student, yet I managed to finish what I started, nearly always on time. I don’t want this entry to be abt BiPolar2, symptoms and such. If you don’t believe that living with and handling it is tough, read up on it. It’s totally debilitating. Yet I cannot even force myself to be pleased with what I’ve accomplished / earned despite technically not being up for it. That’s perhaps a negative personality trait, rather than sign of illness. However, thanks to experience I am certain that whatever I do next, whatever I decide to study and wherever I end up, I will pull through, and even be alright, even if this bloody illness doesn’t vanish. Doctors complement me on my strength of character, resolve, endurace and, yeah, general strength, strong survival instinct, or need. A born fighter, I man all my ship’s battle stations 24/7. Nice words to ruminate over, and one day I’ll believe them. They also say that I am very intelligent – academically and emotionally – which has helped me … though sometimes these attributes are a hindrance in everyday life.

I really don’t belong here. I don’t mean to sound like a pathetic victim, as I know I can just move somewhere else, and try to belong there. Being in a place where you don’t belong (ie outwith your country of birth / upbringing), and being out of your comfort zone in as much as you know & feel that you don’t belong there is far easier than being in your country of birth yet feeling you don’t belong. This is in a way the theme of my life. I’ve always felt like an outsider and alone in Iceland. I have loving lovely friends and family, have had great jobs with fab colleagues, but still. I used to think it was due to moving here at age 8 and/or being LDS, but I feel this way even after growing up and leaving the church. I am quirky, though not as much as Björk:) I certainly don’t have her amazing talents. But people find me odd, I think. I just don’t quite fit into any group of people. I think. I talk alot, I say funky things. I amuse myself!, but not always others:) I’ve struggled to find a way to be normal but … Thought: Why should I want to? I actually abhor the norm, the normal. It’s boring. I am not boring. So I should be pleased with myself! Those who love me think I’m a sweet and funny sort of odd, inventive, very loving, different in a cool way, they call it cute characteristics. It doesn’t hurt that I am fun:) I sound ridiculously boastful. I am not. These are just facts. When far from Iceland I don’t feel tied down like I do here, by expectations, duties, conventions and perceptions. I can just be me. Is that selfish? What if it’s the only time I actually feel good? That is, until I meet people I foolishly love & trust, then being myself becomes a burden again, to me and them. Or so it seems.

I bought the flat in Nov 2002, moved in Feb 2003, rented it out to go study in Sept 2004. That was a full year later than I had planned. I received a full scholarship (Chevening) in 2003, but backed out of going to uni – bc of a guy. Shameful. I met another guy in 2004/2005 and childishly felt it was “meant to be” as I’d declined the scholarship but still gone to the same uni as I’d planned, but just a year later. Had I

no need to go into details; this sums up my uk affair. not entirely true (substitute "knew" with "suspected") but witty :)

been there a year before, I wouldn’t have met him! And in retrospect, as much as I’ll always love him bc that’s how I am, forever loving:), that would have been good, as in 2008 he had had it with me and my imperfections, and consequently I returned, ehm, “home”. I don’t blame him, we’ve all got our freedom of choice, but it was tough nonetheless. Is tough. Plus, I was a bit taken aback by his choice in ’08 as it didn’t match the one he made in ’05. And frankly, I don’t understand why & how one would change their mind abt something so fundamental as love. I am not made that way. My trusted elder sisters say’s it’s my greatest fault, how much I love and care for people. Hmm. And cats:) This all leads me to conclude that either I am the odd one out with my capacity to love despite the odds, or it (love) was never present in this particular scenario in the first place.

But I digress. I wanted to mention that this damn heartbreak situation wasn’t aided much by my being more seriously depressed at the time of dismissal than ever before. I stand corrected, it was to become a tad worse once I flew to Iceland. But dealing with both, one wonders which to tackle first, as they are very interconnected at that point and both kept me chained up in my private hell.

Get over depression and you’ll be able to fix the heartbreak. But you can’t get over the depression properly until you’ve fixed your aching, shellshocked heart. So fix that first – but that’s impossible, as your mind isn’t in a logical state at all, and all the feelings you have, mostly negative, are magnified to a ridiculous degree. Ri.di.cu.lous. Sigh. Not to mention the fact that my self-esteem had taken a serious lashing due to the rejection, towhich I am ultra sensitive for a good reason, and due to depression it (self-esteem) had already sunk to an all time low. Getting up from there …  I’m still working on it. It’s still boring.

Moving on, having the security of my own flat in Iceland, I felt doubly safe going abroad and thinking abt settling (yes, I said it, settling!) there when I flew off to uni. Had I sold the flat a few yrs ago I’d have had a nice sum of money towards a deposit for a flat somewhere as housing prices were at an all time high then. I was totally ready for that. For a life as I wanted it, outside teensy Iceland. Beautiful as it is here, it’s not for me. That is why I am so melancholy abt moving into my flat again. I hate buying curtains and organising stuff into shelves (books are alright, though, as I am colour-coordinating them like a design mag said to do … ), but going abt arranging these ordinary life things, with the help of many who all deem it necessary and normal, I feel more and more claustrophobic. Blogging & doing nerdy stuff is how I come up for air. But the claustrophobia – it feels like I am never going to escape again. The economy is bad now, “they” say I cannot sell the flat with profit until 2011. Will I have to stay here until then? I can’t. I can’t.

I’m already planning my escape, and it likely will involve studies, again. I know what I wanna learn, but this time I don’t want to leave before being as healthy as possible. And that is what’s taking longer than I want. That’s despite doing really well, as I said above. I’m just not as well as I can and should, or want to be. Perhaps I am expecting too much? The illness is always gonna be there, but I wanna beat it, quash it, make it succumb to my will and demands. It’s gonna happen. I’d also very much like to medication free … someday, eh?

Everything I’ve written abt getting away from here ties in with what I wrote in the linked entry above, about me being diagnosed by doctors (true) as having problems with the mundane to a level where I cannot function in normal routines, and me functioning best when under pressure and doing “abnormal”, stressful things, often for & in behalf of others, and out of my element. I loathe the mundane, but would like to get used to it. It makes me anxious, bored, makes me feel trapped. I love being in new places and having to learn to live there, having to get to know new people, find shops, doctors, dentist, a flat, where to buy shoes, food, my fave mascara, discovery basically. I’m infantile, that’s what it sound like. Like life is one big exciting discovery. It might be so in parts, but generally it’s mundane. If it’s a matter of not being properly grown up, when will I grow up? I don’t shy away from responsibilities, though mundane! Just so you know.

Though I unrealistically wish all the above therapy had worked far better by now, I am a little chuffed to report that I’ve learned some things  about myself over the last year which utterly surprise me. They’re cliché-ish and trite, but true. Or so say the therapists who fished this info out of me:

• I do not trust anyone fully. :( Friends & family alike, I always keep them at arm’s length as I know it’s only a matter of time before they reject or have enough of me. I am not thinking abt this constantly, but now I am aware of it and how it effects my communication with loved ones. Awareness leads to fixing things, or so I hope.
• I have a hard time expressing myself abt important things – not in this entry though but writing it has been a bit of struggle. All other entries of mine are rather shallow, though true. I cannot open up in any of the therapy session I’ve attended, but I manage to talk & talk to the end of the hour. The therapists then grab a word here & there and extrapolate the deeper meaning. I have alot to say, but it’s really not meaningful or “deep”, as in “the whole truth”, most of the time. Not meaningful? Ouch!
  

  ... in all of us. just a matter of finding what it is.

  Well, it sort of depends on towhom I am talking. To one person I’ve said it all, and to some I have taken a load of my heart without delving into the deep, the area which requires trust. I have observed that speaking to strangers is easier for me than speaking with those close to me, simply bc of fear of the, perhaps imagined, expectations and/or suspected rejection of the latter.

• I lack roots (constantly moving from place to place from infancy) which causes me to feel foreign in my homeland and more at ease where I am uncomfortable. Another theme. I have once been brave enough to try to develop roots in order to feel safe and real, but instead of choosing a place / cause / job / life philosophy / myself!, or something similar, I made my roots in a person I loved and worked hard on trusting. That didn’t go so well. And I’ve since been told that my roots, ie safety and stability, should not be based in a person. So childish of me to think otherwise!, but then, I wasn’t thinking at the time.

I’m not ashamed of these matters. They are or were a complete surprise to me, and if someone had told me they experienced this, I would have been nothing but understanding, though hardly empathetic. Until now. Now I empathise.

After writing all of the above, I know I’ve come a long way. It sounds melancholy and stuff, but I am getting better and that’s the main thing. When I say “getting better” I really mean that I am good now, not sicksick anymore, but I have hopes of feeling better and being in more control of my illness than ever before, and I am working towards that. I deserve that. I am able to do just that! I am not depressed after writing this, it’s cathartic, blogging. I am simply frustrated and impatient. That’s why I wrote it, and the feeling lingers. I’ve said it before, I do not like “work in progress”, I want things over&done with at lightning speed (not all things though …). Sorted. I wanna be over this illness, though I know it takes time. I should be more patient. I could work now or study, but this time I am not going to do that until I am perfectly alright. I’ve halted healing halfway before and I just end up having to do it all over again.

This illness isn’t fair, and due to low self-esteem & an over-analytical mind I sometimes agonise over what my life could have been had I not been born this way. I can see so clearly what I ought to be doing and what my life, work and play ought to be like, but it’s hampered by my ill mind. For now anyway. I am working hard on believing what all my psychiatrists have said (I’ve had a few only due to living in various places), namely that I am very intelligent and have all prospects of overcoming BiPolar2. Well, managing it fully. That’s overcoming it. They also tell me my constant analysis is a huge hurdle I need to overcome. I analyse my every move, thought, word, as well as those of others. It can be fun & edifying, like people watching and applying social anthropology to it, but it can also be damning.

And that’s it. Moving in still feels like a step back, but I will remember my goals and thus know that I am not here for good. I will get away, again. I canny wait! Until then, I will learn to fully master the illness and take the reins when it wants to take charge of the show that is my life.

Xx

Below, what to do when the one you love is feeling under the weather. John Keats knew best what to do. I like the phrase “under the weather”. Weather changes, so if it’s bad now, it’ll turn good soon. Be patient! The one thing abt myself I know for sure – the last three word apply to moi:) Did I just say I wasn’t cocky? hehe

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.