Anger and Blame

My novel is edited and I’m still alive- I know that sounds a little melodramatic but I did just sign off the last post expressing the desire to kill myself. I have my dress for the ball but I’ll talk about that another time, I’m not in the mood at the moment.

I’m going to see my psych nurse again tomorrow, I’m in such a weird place mentally. I’m still waiting for Wren to come back- I do understand that this makes me sound mad. I am mad, in both senses of the word.

For the last few days I’ve been fuming angry, angry at everyone who’s ever walked past me and left me alone to deal with this by myself. I’m angry because they can’t cope, they can’t cope enough to look after me and make things better for me. It makes me so furious that they say they can’t deal with it when I have to. I don’t have a choice. At the end of the day I can’t just turn and walk away from this, I can’t go home to safety, I have to deal with this every second of every day. It can be like a prison sometimes.

When I have a low mood it feels like there’s an ache in my chest, a sort of weight that drags me down and presses on my shoulders and my face. It makes everything feel heavy and stops me from moving. I feel this constant pain in my chest, an achy desperate pain. I know that it’s not physical- it’s in my mind alone but it hurts more than any physical pain ever could.

Add that to the way it feels in my head- like I have all my thoughts racing around inside and I can’t concentrate on anything- there are so many different trains of thought, and each of them has its own voice. They all sound a little different and they all talk at once. Things are so confusing.

But this scares people. This frightens them, this makes them turn and run away from me. This is what they can’t handle.

Well I can’t handle it either.

But I have to, it’s my life. I can’t make this stuff go away; I have to deal with it and the implications of it ever minute of every day.

So I think we’ve established that I’m mental. I think we’ve also established that it’s not something that is well received with other people- and to elaborate on that we’ve firmly established that other people’s reluctance and squeamishness makes me furious.

And I think that perhaps the best thing we’ve established out of this post is that I’m in one piece- and that looking back at the above I’m now even more worried about my mental health.

Don’t be scared of me, I’m nice, I’m kind and sweet- but just a little confused and in pain.

Wren gets angry when people don’t think she’s their problem.

EDIT I’ve been up since 7 this morning, my dog has passed away, he was ill for a long time and I miss him like hell already. I might be taking a break from writing for a while; peace, love and blessed be.

Suicide… One Month Later

One month down.

I said on my first post that the first month after a suicide attempt is the hardest, the weirdest. I was right, but now I’m at the one month mark I think that I’ve been putting too much store in it.

I’m still sat here waiting for Wren to come back, to bring her calm and her- spark.

I’m still waiting to feel like me again.

I don’t want to face the possibility that I’m never going to be the same again, because I think that there will be times when I feel like me again. They’ll just be rarer than before.

People talk about being glad to be alive, glad that they didn’t kill themselves- after the first, maybe even the second attempt failed I was glad.

I’ve spent the last month wishing that I was dead, wishing that I’d been stronger and made sure I wouldn’t come back. The last month has been spent with me going over and over how much I want to die in my head. I don’t really know what to do.

I’m too tired to try and kill myself- I’m living in this odd stupor where I don’t really know what to do. I think I’m going to go and bake again. My mum’s been knocking at the door so she clearly wants me to come and do something where she can see me (and I can’t slink off to hurt myself again) so I’d better wrap this up.

I want to die… actually; it’s not that exactly, it’s more that I don’t want to live anymore. I’m sick of it. I want to show people how much I’m hurting, how terrifying it is. I want them to know what they’ve done.

Enough with the revenge fantasies- I don’t know when I’m going to feel like me again, I don’t know if I ever will, but at the moment I don’t want to think about that. I know that if I start to question how I’m feeling and think about how I used to be then it might give me the motivation to do myself in. At the minute I want to die desperately but I just don’t have the energy.

I am Wren, even if I don’t feel like her most of the time, I’m still her.

When I talk about not being Wren what I mean is that I feel sort of hollow, my sense of humour goes- I have a really prominent, dark sense of humour. As well as that I just don’t feel like me- they way I put it is that it’s like Wren has gone away for a bit. Leaving a shell behind.

I don’t like being a shell.

So it’s been a month since I tried to kill myself. I’ve gotten half way through editing my novel, started saving to buy a new drum, self harmed, acted a lot and fantasised about dying.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know who long I’m going to be tired for… it’s turning into a bit of a competition, which will burn out first? The suicidal feelings or the exhaustion?

It’s comforting to know that my life hangs by a bleeding thread.

Listening to: Malo by O. Children. I love this band- I found them by accident and have been listening to their songs on repeat for the last three of four days, they’re sort of full on post-punk crazy mad brilliant… anyway, enough of that.

I’m Not the Same Girl

Flowers to make you happy

I remember years ago when I had a reputation for being utterly crap at lying. It was a well known joke amongst my friends: “Wren- we both know you can’t lie so just spit it out!”  “You’re blushing again- you’ve gone bright red Wren, you might as well tell me…” etc, etc.

Looking back I don’t know what happened to that girl, I don’t know what happened to my non ability to lie- I don’t know where that went. It feels oddly jarring that something so well known in my group of friends changed so bitterly. It was always an in-joke, always something that we laughed about. I think it highlighted my honesty and integrity, that was one of my important characteristics, wren could be relied upon, wren could be trusted, wren was the voice of reason.

I still am the voice of reason- at least, I still pretend to be.  My best friend M is totally hyper pretty much all the time. I stick with her not because she can support me, or because she cares about me (she doesn’t do either of these things, she reminds me of a spoilt child. She’s also incredibly naive.) I stick with her because when people see the two of us they see her being hyper and me being the sarcastic, down to earth, voice of reason. Her over the top behaviour helps to mask all the weird things that I do- totally blanking out, getting paranoid, sitting in a certain way, constant checks of my environment to make sure that everything’s how it should be- and makes me seem more normal. I enjoy being the sane one, the responsible one.

I don’t know what happened to the Wren who couldn’t lie for toffee, I think she had to learn the hard way- helped with a dose of ‘I know there’s something wrong with Wren but I can’t be bothered to help.’ A factor that still makes my blood boil- I resent that I have changed, but more than that, I resent that no-one’s noticed that I’ve changed. I resent that people are selfish and unwilling to help me because they’re scared. I’m scared. I’m damn scared- and it’s happening to me.

I’m angry, I’ve been angry for a very long time and it’s nothing new to me- but as time passes I want to let the anger out more and more. I want to stop lying and tell people the truth, but I’ll have to be really at the edge before I do that.

Anyway, I went to see my psych nurse yesterday. We talked about my dishonesty, and how I didn’t mention my mentalness to my best friend.

We came to the conclusion that I’m scared of ruining things, of breaking a friendship that’s really important to me- we also talked about how it’s confusing for me to be acting fine and happy when I’m seriously down or wound up and paranoid.

I should probably say that my friends constantly ask: “How are you?” to which I constantly reply. “I’m fine- I’m good.” And smile. The sick joke being that I say this all the time. The best times being when I’ve either cut myself up or am just about to- I also always say it before I have a meeting with either my psych nurse or my counsellor – something that she lamp-shaded a few months ago:

“You always come in here and say that you’re fine, you then sit down and proceed to tell me why that statement is false.”

So whatever I do I’m damned. If I lie I hurt myself, if I tell the truth I hurt my friends- and then myself… but part of me wants to hurt them. Is that wrong?

Wren used to be an awful liar. She got better.

Listening to: Violet Eyes by My Gold Mask. I have to listen to this song on full volume- and screech along with the chorus. The tune is slightly infectious.

Facing the Past

Another snap of my drum... its on my altar, hence the random quartz

I was in York on Wednesday and my best friend came round yesterday, so things have been a little hectic. Also, I’ve had a major editing session- hence the absence from blogging.

As predicted I failed to find a dress! I have under a month to find a dress, shoes and various other bits. It’s hard being a teenage girl.

Yesterday was weird; my best friend came round for a couple of hours. I haven’t seen her since I was… god, thirteen?  We just chatted about school and random stuff; nothing came up about either my mentalness or my religion. It felt weird leaving the two major parts of my life unexplored. I felt a little bit hollow to tell the truth. Part of me is resigned; she’s just become someone else that I have to lie to. The thing is that I can’t risk losing her as a friend; I’m too scared about how she’ll take things.

Maybe one day when we’re older I’ll tell her, the problem seems to be maturity and life experience- although my mother didn’t exactly take it well as she has plenty of both things.

York was lovely, we found a shop that sold jewellery made from Whitby jet and amber, I was practically drooling over the display cases. We also found a music shop that specialised in folk instruments; I was staring lovingly at a bodhran for about ten minutes until my mother prised me away.

I have a meeting with my psych nurse tomorrow. That should be fun- I’m not entirely sure what to say to her, I don’t think ‘I feel weird’ qualifies as an adequate problem. However, whilst it may not be the most helpful or descriptive interpretation of my feelings it is certainly accurate. I do feel very weird- I feel sort of, tense and a bit sick. Like a feeling of foreboding. Seeing as I’m in the middle of a two week holiday and have nothing to do I should be feeling very relaxed, but I don’t.

The only thing that I’m worried about is that the last time I felt like this was at the start of last half term, only then I felt it really strongly- I felt like something bad was going to happen, something really bad. About a month later I tried to kill myself. You can see where this is going.

I have no idea whether this is all simply a self fulfilling prophecy, I feel doomed therefore I make myself doomed, but the interesting thing is that I can trace this feeling back to one point in time and one source.

That point in time is my third suicide attempt, it was at the start of my breakdown in early October 2009, ever since then I’ve had this feeling- like I’ve been living on borrowed time.

It’s one of the things that features most heavily in my day to day life, it’s constant, all the time- I sit and watch the clock and feel like I shouldn’t be here. I feel like I should be long dead. Every minute, every second is borrowed. I’m going to die, I’m going to kill myself- and there’s nothing I can do to change it.

Wren is living on borrowed time.

Listening to: Inside Out by Dyonisis. Gospel singing + rock guitars= Dyonisis. Inside out starts off gospel with violins and then the guitars come in near the end. The sound is fairly epic.

Lost in the Sea of CAMHS

A loch...

Apparently people are looking at this blog… if you are one of these people then feel free to leave a comment. I’m quite nice.

I’m off to York on Wednesday to try and find a dress for the year 11 ball. It should be an interesting experience, mainly because though I love clothes and dresses and other such girly stuff I can’t stand fashion.  So whilst the other girls in my year are having spray tans and squeezing into something shiny and skin-tight, I’ll be going in my Pagan best. We’ll have to wait and see how that turns out.

Anyway, it struck me as I was sitting reading various blog posts from other people that I’m sixteen- and that by most people’s standards, I’m young.

I suspect that the reason why I haven’t been offered any medications or given any kind of diagnosis is my age. It’s not healthy to lump a child with a big label and a bag of pills… or is it? I mean, I’m not saying that the reason why I seem to have been totally looked over is solely down to my age. Another contributing factor has to be the way that I act. My main defence mechanism is to try and downplay things and act normal- I don’t think that’s exactly helped the situation. The thing with the NHS… oh god, I’m about to go off on one of those horrible the NHS is crap, it’s destroying my life rants that seem to plague every person in the British Isles- anyway, what I was going to say was that the mental health people in this country don’t seem to give a damn unless you’re going to kill yourself. The point that I think I’m trying to make is that I feel like I’ve lost in the system a little, sort of pushed out into the ocean in a boat with a motor that only sparks to life when I’m about to get into trouble. I don’t need that, a couple of weeks ago I sat down in a GP’s surgery and looked a doctor in the eye and told her quite resignedly that yes I was feeling better, but that I was going to go down again, and that one day I wasn’t going to come back. The problem is that we can deal with things bit by bit, we can pull me back from the edge again and again but they’re leaving it longer and longer to actually do so. One day they’re going to be too late.

Some days Wren feels lost at sea.

Listening to: My mum making tea downstairs and a random bird that just flew past my window.

Regret and Punishment

There's something missing in the past...

You know the feeling, we’ve all had it- that oh shite what have I done? I’d do anything to go back and undo that- I wish I hadn’t done that… stupid stupid stupid… etc, etc.  But I’m not talking about knocking over the glass of red wine onto the cream carpet, or falling on your arse in front of the person you’re trying to impress. I’m talking about the bigger stuff.

We all think that we would want to go back and change things, but would we really? I know that I wouldn’t.

It seems odd, to outsiders- people who’ve never been in my situation it probably seems totally insane- but I wouldn’t change what happened to me. I wouldn’t change my breakdown or what those boys did to me. I wouldn’t change the years of bullying- I wouldn’t change it. Not one second.

I don’t know why- I think it’s something to do with the fact that those things have made me tough, they’ve made me strong, and to take away those things would leave me open and weak. Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine what life could possibly be like without having those things happen to me. I don’t know.

There could be some deep seated psychological reason why I think like this, or I could just have a twisted, self punishing streak running through me- I self harm even when I don’t want to, I thrive off the stinging pain caused when I slap myself, properly smack myself around the face. It’s the most wonderful sound.

There are benefits to my breakdown, my writing before was awful, but the stuff I wrote afterwards was so much better. Just the emotion and the readability, it was so much clearer.

I feel safer too; I’ve seen what I’m capable of doing to other people. I can walk down the street knowing that I’ve done worse things to myself than what they can do to me. I feel invincible.

However there are some things in my life that I do regret, but they have nothing to do with my illness.

I lost my grandparents and various other family members at a young age. I remember when I was a child it was always a chore to go see my grandparents- although I was very close to my mother’s parents as both my mum and dad worked full time after I was born, so my grandparents looked after me- but as I got older I drifted away from them. I was too young to realise that they were old, and the time I had with them was precious. At that age I was much more interested in staying at home playing with my dolls than going to visit family.

I regret that, I regret that more than I can say. Because they were very precious to me, and the memories I have of spending time with them are ones that I treasure. I love my grandparents. They were wonderful people, they are wonderful people.

I can’t describe how much it hurts to realise that I don’t recognise their smell, that I can’t remember the sound of their voice- I can’t even remember what they looked like.

Maybe that’s what the self punishing’s all about- maybe it’s that feeling of regret, of failure that has never left me. Maybe it’s the feeling of shame; once things are done they cannot be undone. Perhaps this is my mind’s way of saying “this is your punishment, you deserve it.”

I think there’s something that I feel guilty for, something that I regret, and as I can’t change the past I have to punish myself to make amends- but when can I stop?
Of course, all of this is just me thinking. I don’t know why I behave in the ways that I do, and if what I’m guessing above is true then it certainly won’t be the whole picture. But I know deep down inside that I’m making amends for something- I just can’t put my finger on what it is.

One of my sayings is: “Don’t live your life on could have’s.”

If you live your life with regret, always looking back and taking things apart and wishing that something else could have happened, then it will destroy you. I’ve done things that I’m not proud of, that I should regret, but I don’t. I know that if I spent all my time and energy into regretting them then I wouldn’t be able to move forward and get on with my life. It would destroy me.

I’m Wren, and the only thing I regret is not spending more time with my loved ones before they crossed over.

Listening to: Mesmerism by Faith and the Muse. Reminds me of Rajna- sort of oriental, but kind of creepy at the same time.

Confusing My Nightmares for Reality

Candles in the dark... the spookiest image I could find

I keep having these lapses in my memory, well; they’re not really lapses, more like blurry confused bits. I should preface this by explaining that I dream a lot, and very vividly. It’s not unusual for me to get confused between dreams and reality- and I’m not talking about hallucinations here, I’m talking about normal, everyday kind of stuff. The most common thing is not telling someone something because I think I’ve already told them- but it was in a dream.

Hence the fact that my memory is a little blurry.

I get so confused, I once walked into the canteen at the start of school, saw my best friend sat in her normal place, smiled and said hello to her and walked off to continue with my day, only to be perplexed at break when she didn’t appear. I asked another friend about her whereabouts and was told that she hadn’t come in, I laughed and replied that I’d seen her this morning- he then informed me that I must be going mad.

The irony was not lost on me.

Anyway, this whole thing is going from frustrating to worrying, is it just another sign of the decline of my mental health? Or is it just me? I’ve never heard of people getting confused between real life and dreams, not even with people who have severe mental health problems. Maybe I’m just odd- I mean, I should clarify that what I’m talking about isn’t a one off, it happens almost daily for me, whether it’s thinking I’ve already done something, as mentioned above, or having a feeling of foreboding, and then realising that the event I’m dreading was only coming up in my dream.

I enjoy dreaming, I hate it when I don’t dream- it feels like when you have a blocked nose and you can’t smell properly- it’s like lacking a sense.

It’s a bit like living two lives, one when I’m asleep that I only remember sporadically, and one when I’m awake- that, if I’m being honest, I also only remember sporadically. Oh well, at least if I combine the two I end up with one whole life.

Positive thinking Wren, positive thinking.

Living partially in this dream world makes me confused, it makes me constantly feel like I’m scrambling to keep up with things and like I can’t get my own thoughts straight, and if there’s one thing that freaks me out above all else it’s when I can’t think straight.

I always joke that my mind is my best friend and my greatest enemy, it gives me amazing ideas and interesting things to write about, but it also screws itself up.

Not only do my dreams confuse me, they also show my biggest fears. I’ve always been terrified of heights and water, even though I have no bad experiences with either. However, from a young age I’ve been plagued with dreams about falling, and dreams about drowning. The feeling of falling through the air with the concrete hurtling towards you, and the sensation of choking, water closing in all around and the burning in your lungs- they’re not things I’ll soon forget.

When I was being sexually molested I had vivid, graphic dreams of being raped. I could feel every second- the fear and the powerlessness and the feel of their hands on me. It was those dreams that finally drove me to try and kill myself for the first time.

For as long as I’ve known I’ve had dreams about something chasing me, and trying to scream out for help but finding that I have no voice. The darkness consumes me as I desperately try to scream for someone to notice me- but they just keep on going about their business, ignoring me.

My name is Wren, and I get confused between dreams and reality.

Listening to: O Children by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. This should be a really uplifting song, but it always seems so sad to me- it’s also a song that I’ll always link with winter and sitting looking out at the snow.

Saying Goodbye to Safety


Mmmm, flowers... and rubbish

I’m about to go downstairs and bake some scones, my mum and brother have gone out to do some jobs and I’ve offered to bake in return for a little cash (I bake anyway, it’s just that I’m saving up for a new drum- but more on that later.) So I was looking up some writing prompts to see if there was anything that would inspire me to write more than the usual random drivel that I seem to be spouting here. Anyway, I searched around a little and found one that said: “What are you saying goodbye to?”

I’m saying goodbye to the old me, to the old way of doing things and the person that I used to be- I’m still that person, I know I am, it’s just harder than before. I have to try harder with things that used to come easily to me. It’s been 21 days since I tried to kill myself, that’s not an easy thing to turn around and think. It feels in an odd way like I don’t want time to move on, I always want to be in that stupefied valley of recovery, taking small steps and being treated gently. I think that’s because I find it nice, I find it relaxing and soothing when people treat me like I’m breakable- and knowing that you’re going to die, that you’re waiting to kill yourself is one of the most liberating things I’ve ever felt. I remember being very tearful on the monday when I was getting ready to kill myself, I was constantly tearing up when I saw people who I thought I would never see again, but I kept my head held high and I tried really hard to keep myself together.

In my head I was going to die, and I felt the best that I had felt in a long time.

I am saying goodbye to the Wren who could cope, who always felt hopeful and cheerful no matter what life threw at her, I am saying goodbye to Wren who knew her boundaries and was honest. I am saying goodbye to my trust in myself. I don’t want being ill to define me, but it’s a huge part of my life. I’ve tried to separate it into another identity, another person who can be shut away and ignored when needed to, that way I felt more honest, I didn’t feel like I was lying to people so much.

Now I have to accept that this illness- whatever it is- is a part of me, and I can’t shut it away. I don’t like being a horrible bitch and lying to everyone. But it’s for their own good. Sometimes I get all stupid and nostalgic and wish for the summer days sat in my grandparents garden with the greenhouse filled with tomato plants and the warm summer air carrying the smell of the lilac bush- but I’m not stupid. My grandparents are long dead and the house has been sold to someone else, the greenhouse demolished and the lilac bush torn up.

My name is Wren, and I’m saying goodbye to my child-self, to safety and comfort.

Listening to: Pagan Polska by Omnia. Catchy tune, good to get up and have a dance to, reminds me of the music at my cousin’s wedding. (It was in Poland.)


My drum on my altar... sideways because technology hates Wren

In my religion the God that I seem to have the greatest connection with is Dagda, he’s the Irish father God, a huge muscled warrior who goes about the battlefield sweeping the enemy aside with his great club. The Dagda is not known for his brain power, but is kind and compassionate- the original gentle giant.

One of the most well-known attributes of the Dagda is his harp, he is incredibly talented and can play the most beautiful music on this tiny, delicate instrument. The idea of such a huge, almost oafish giant playing the harp with precision and passion is one that has always interested me, possibly because my own choice of instrument is the exact opposite.

I am a small, petite and generally delicate looking girl. My instrument? The drum. I love drumming- for me it embodies freedom and passion and being able to express myself in a relaxed way. I express myself through my writing as well, but that’s done in a slow and controlled manner. With my drum I can sit down and play, I don’t need to worry about phrasing things correctly or having proper grammar. I just need to drum. I love music, the passion and expression that comes through the notes is… indescribable.

I think one of the main reasons that drumming appeals to me as opposed to other instruments is that with things like the clarinet or the flute you have to be controlled and precise, I played the clarinet for three years and associate that with physical pain- anyone who plays will know what I’m talking about when I say that the pressure you need to apply on pressing down on the holes leaves large dents in your fingers and the reed leaves your lips dry and saliva covered. Drumming isn’t like that.

As I’ve said in a previous post, words are meaningless to me. I’m so used to lying to people that I don’t see the meaning in words anymore. I’m also so used to being ignored that I’ve learnt that my voice is meaningless. When I drum people hear, people listen. My voice is a little quiet, my drum is not. People are surprised when I smile and tell them that I’m a drummer. It gives me a voice and a worth, I feel like a proper, real person when I drum. The sound is so primal and so ancient- the first sound we hear is our mother’s heartbeat- it just rushes through me and makes my hair stand on end. The vibrations make me feel alive, they connect me to the world when I feel a little- distant, I drum out my frustrations and my pain, I unleash my anger and my energy through my drum and use it to make music. It helps me to take something destructive, something that has destroyed me and turn it into something good.

It’s my dream to drum on stage, to perform for a living. I want to make music and play music and be able to make something positive out of the thing that has torn my life apart.

And that’s why I love drumming.

Listening to: Argyria by Esben and the Witch. Slow and haunting with a nice beat in the back, not as ‘big’ as some of their other stuff but relaxing and simple.

Echoes of the Past

A snap from my holidays a few years ago to put you in the summery mood.

It’s sunday, I’m on holiday and there’s nothing that I have to do today, it’s quite a liberating feeling to know that there’s no pressure or anything, that I could do anything I wanted to.

Yesterday I did something that I’ve been meaning to do for ages, I phoned my best friend who I haven’t seen in three years, I last saw her before my breakdown so I think it’s fair to say that the idea of seeing her again and talking to her would freak me out a little and start to make me ache for the days when I was normal.

I’m also scared of her noticing that there’s something wrong with me. Now, in the past this is the thing that’s caused me the most problems- I had to do a play with an old friend of mine who I last spoke to before my breakdown. In my desperation to show him that I was normal (you can guess where this is going) I over-acted a little… okay, I over-acted a lot. The result was that he thought I was constantly high and had regressed to the mind of a small, hyper child.

Learning from that mistake I’ve tried to practise being normal. Being normal consists of breathing properly, having the facial expression of ‘relaxed- but interested’ and talking at a normal tempo.

It’s an art form.

Anyway, moving on from the obsessive recesses of my mind…

I’ve never been given a formal diagnosis. I know that I’m mentally ill, and I’ve been with CAMHS for over 18 months- but nothing’s been said about exactly what’s wrong with me. I would put my entire fortune (admittedly not much) on the fact that I have depression, but I also have delusions, paranoia and what I fondly describe as ‘noises’ in my head. Not voices, just a sort of low-level mumbling.

That’s why it’s going to be hard to look my best friend in the eye and pretend to be normal. Words are meaningless to me- I lie to everyone all the time, and I can’t bear to do that to her. I know that I won’t bring it up with her, but I’m going to promise myself that if she asks me I’m not going to lie.

Lying is something that I have always argued to be necessary in life. I have friends who believe that if you lie on anything you should be strung up by the ankles and attacked. They however, have normal lives, I don’t. I long ago realised that the lines that other people could never dream of crossing aren’t there for me. It’s hard to feel like other people when you know that you’ve done things that would repulse them. I’m sick of being the freak, but there’s nothing I can do. I have to learn to walk forward with tiny steps and deal with things slowly and carefully, I can get through this and I can do the things that other people do, but I will face more problems than them- it’s weird when you achieve something perfectly normal, but to you it’s huge, and you just sit there grinning to yourself and bursting with pride and other people stare at you because you’ve done something so small, so insignificant, but to you it’s huge, and you can never explain to them why it’s so big. That’s the problem with mental illness. You have to keep silent.

Listening to: Jenny in’t Fogge by Omnia. A lovely, gentle harp piece that always makes me smile. The sound of the harp with the birdsong and then the little chorus in the middle is so relaxing. *sigh*