Docter Docter, What’s The Vaccine For Venlafaxine?

Doctor Doctor,
Excuse me if you find me too revealing,
But I’ve got to express the way that I’m feeling,
My patience has reached the highest of ceiling,
And yet I’m still here attempting at acknowledging and revealing,
Despite how much my (so-called) personal mental health practitioners have got me reeling!
I should have known that they don’t care about me,
Are clueless as to my lack of well being,
Cause they ain’t calling,
And they ain’t visiting,
When and if they do,
It’s a quick and short questionnaire,
With a how do you do,
Paper work being the only essential and correct thing they get through.
If you feel suicidal,
Call up the Doctor.
If you feel to anxious,
Call Up the Doctor.
If you feel psychotic,
Call up the Doctor.
Now you know how it goes,
Just call up the Doctor!
Except for if you self harm,
Then go to A and E,
As the mental health squad are far too busy and precious to get all bloody,
After all I have BPD,
It won’t be an emergency,
Just another self distortion,
Miles away from self abortion,
Just another dramatic Borderline seeking attention,
They’ve given up on BPD prevention,
Or so it seems,
From all of my experience within institutionalisation.
If you don’t feel good,
Just call up the Doctor!
Well I’ve been ringing the Doctor over and over again.
Somebody explain to me if they will pick up and when?
I don’t understand all of this awful Jazz music I am forced to hear.
I’m not feeling well,
Oh dear.
In fact I’m already planning the fastest ticket out of here.
I just need a sound piece of mind,
Somone or somebodies to cool me down,
Make me feel more refined,
I don’t know how humans are supposed to be designed,
But there is a little trip in me,
I got a few problems with my sanity,
And all of this is kept under reasonable confidentiality,
The thing with mental illness is that it’s something you cannot see,
So people don’t think I’m ill when they look at me,
But certain people,
The professionals,
They know most,
And should understand,
And still I can’t get their attention,
And I’ve been patient,
Not even expecting anything on demand,
Two months and not a word,
An email and they’ve just gone!
It’s now you pushing my buttons,
Where is everybody?
Psychologist?
Mental Health Nurse,
Support,
Doctor?
My partner is not a psychological professional,
Yet someone (and in my notes you boast as if taking credit) I do get alot of my support from,
He is part of but has not painted anyone out of the picture,
You’ve not even seen him,
But of cause the idea makes you less concerned,
Just imagine if he ceased to exist,
Or if he put me at more risk,
There’s been no meeting or introduction,
His not trained or signed up for this,
But since you got wind of him,
It is only you who constantly lets me down,
To know a solid partner exists,
I think you have happily wrote me off as fully cared for on your insulting lists,
His not a vaccine,
I need Venlafaxine,
What have you done but gotten me dependant and addicted,
To a drug I now need,
But you are keeping it restricted.
No one foresaw the pandemic,
Least of all I,
Yet somehow you are punishing me for it,
And slipping away far too quick.
I’m cold turkey off drugs now,
And I believe that you wanted me to be sick,
Perhaps a threat to pipe down a bit,
But No One speaks,
And exposes the bullshit,
No matter the concequence of it.
2020,
Ive been abandoned twice by my mental health professionals,
Now I’m on the way to thrice.
I’ve been forced to try and soothe my own ill mental health,
I am not a mental health paramedic,
I’m not a pharmacist,
Nor psychiatrist,
But it seems I have to heal my self!
I like to volunteer as a self appointed mental health advocate,
To shake up advertising that gets people hyped,
Like one session of CBT and you’ll be alright,
I pray for those that might,
But know to well the rivers that run deeper.
I try to step in for when the professionals don’t get it right,
And people are left,
Only seeing the end in sight.
I didn’t textbook study pain,
But my natural empathy sees me right.
It seems it has to get very dark before any restoration of light.
Is it I that will have to perform some kind of Martyr Sacrifice,
When will our stories truely be looked upon,
People will identify,
People will sympathise,
People will recognise,
And perhaps the system will apologise,
But it will take people like me to be dead and gone,
For the system to get a kick up the ass,
Reveal true stats,
And work at the level they so loudly pride upon,
Yet quietly loosing so many,
Truely some of the best have now gone,
I’m hanging on in there,
Trying to make people aware,
I shall reveal the thorns,
They only shout about the roses,
I have no huge platform,
But stand with me,
I am fighting for myself,
Got a lot of work to do,
But it is easier to fight for you,
When fighting for all of us,
I would like some help,
When fighting for myself,
The light turns out,
I do need help,
Exhausted all common sense,
Ran out of ideas,
Dried up and burnt out.

Fat Disguise

I didn’t recognise you,
You brushed away your tears,
And flashed a slight smile,
If you hadn’t done that,
Initiated some form of contact,
I would have walked straight past.
Still looking youthful,
Yet an ora of tiredness,
Your face much rounder than before.
Large breasts,
Extra large tummy,
Extra extra large thighs,
From head to toe you look bigger and bigger.
Your once slight figure,
Now doubled in size,
Quadrupled in size,
Who’s been eating all the pies?
All that fat is like a disguise,
I knew you once so very well,
Forgive me for saying so,
But now you look as unhealthy as hell.
Staring back hard,
I wanted you to walk away,
You’re dramatic change in appearance,
Had me lost for words,
I didn’t know what to say,
Perhaps just a smile in return?
On the same page,
You did the same,
At exactly the same time,
Then I realised you weren’t an old friend of mine,
There was no other way to define,
You were a reflection of mine!

Virus! Leave and Go…

It’s a strange and complex feeling to fathom,
When your vital organs shut down,
And you have to fight with all of your might,
To do the often considered simple things,
Such as breathing.
Times of trouble haunt me,
Now deep rooted PTSD,
Has cost me,
Days ago all things considered,
I should have asked for help,
Dialed 999,
As my life was on the line,
But I recoiled,
Breathless and withered,
The Sandwell ordeal at the forefront of my mind,
Just the idea of once again being mistreated from people so unkind,
Made my judgement blind.
Jab,
Jab,
Like a punch bag,
Sharp pain on the left.
Short and sharp,
Unable to catch a full breath,
There’s a fire lit in my chest.
Weazing,
Nothing easing from medicine or rest,
My temperature in a blaze,
In a haze,
I am dazed and confused.
Thank you my love,
For taking care of me,
Holding me,
Giving me hope and the want to fight,
Holding my hand all through the night,
And providing some light.
I must now admit that he was right,
I needed hospital assistance,
But my fear and stubbornness beat his persistence,
He gave in to my resistance.
My will strong,
But mind now weak,
As I have stayed ill lay down,
Beyond the planned week.
Medicating my asthma and this wretched illness,
I have neglected my mental illness,
Ran out of medication,
Over consumed by this complication,
My breath is short,
My mind incomplete,
Emotions high,
Tear ducts overworked and nearly ran dry,
Mother I cry,
But she is nowhere nearby.
All this ill health is making me question myself,
I beg for this ordeal to end,
I have no strength to pretend that all is OK,
In fact it all gets worse day by day.
I am holding on,
In hope that soon,
This shall all one way or another,
Be over and done,
Where hence this virus came from I do not know,
But I cannot wait for it to leave and go.

Kween Like Lizzo…

Wish I could be a kween like Lizzo,
Looking fly,
Throwing shapes at the disco.
Instead I am lying low,
Locked up in the dark,
Not living my best life,
And letting my juices flow.
Don’t judge me because I ain’t a size zero,
Thick thighs not out,
But covered up,
Not alfresco.
Think you know me,
Well I don’t think so,
You just assume,
But I ain’t filling trollies full of junk in Tesco.
I’m sick so I’m full of medication,
Instead of healing,
I’m feeling ashamed because of society’s pushed and unrealistic misrepresentation.
My weight should not be the topic of conservation,
Put your energy into some other dedication,
Hold back and have some reservation.
If my weight is a worry for the nation,
You’ll need to get a life and take a vacation.
Word vomit,
Throwing hate,
No hesitation,
Girls got feelings,
You just assume,
With zero investigation.
Don’t judge me,
Don’t comment,
If there is no invitation,
Keep your obnoxious judgement to yourself,
It should be you in isolation.

Who The Fuck Cares, But I Don’t know You!

I know you think me rude,
But that opinion is misconstrued,
As it is you that intrudes,
I don’t respond because I don’t know you!
A Hi here,
A Hi there,
Direct,
Public,
And I’m quite sick of it,
God knows,
Who exactly are you?
Years have passed,
And my memories of you did not last.
The truth is,
I’d rather you stopped all of these messages,
As our “relationship” has ended,
Whatever platonic,
In your eyes ecstasy we may have had,
You are a figure of my past,
Time and dignity may have stopped you,
But I still receive messages of new,
And I still have no fucking clue,
Just who the hell are you?
Being terribly British,
I have not found the right words,
As to not offend,
But terminally end,
Whatever we had,
That is driving me mad,
As I don’t have a clue,
Just who the fuck are you?
So I have just not replied,
Avoiding offence, confrontation or violence,
But please,
Let this sink in,
My silence,
It’s deliberate,
A polite rejection,
Of your eager attention,
As I don’t want to upset you,
But you must acknowledge,
I just don’t know you.

Black Girls Don’t Cry… Returns

As a self appointed mental health advocate, I have been fortunate enough to be approached by the BBC a few times throughout my crazy journey of ill mental health and my latest opportunity was being able to share parts of my story via the BBC Radio4 and Made In Manchester documentary, “Black Girls Don’t Cry”. Due to resounding success, it is available once more. It airs January 3rd at 8pm BBC Radio4 but is also currently available on iPlayer. Simply Google, “Black Girls Don’t Cry” or https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0b9zfws and you shall be able to hear two other brave black ladies as well as myself, share our stories of ill mental health. Catch it while you can. It really gives great food for thought.

My Condition…

I have a condition,
I am super skinny,
Fit,
And beautiful.
When I look in the mirror,
My reflection is wrong!
When people comment on my weight,
Their opinions are wrong!
When I get on the scales,
The numbers are wrong!
I am not big boned,
I am strong!
I am not fat,
I am simply perfect!
Every man’s wet dream!
All women are green eyed with envy,
When they look at me!
This is self diagnosed,
And perhaps delusional,
But if I believe in it enough,
It may actually,
Truely become my condition!

DEMAND CHANGE…

Scroll to the bottom if you would prefer to listen, otherwise… happy reading. Please share this one, it means an awful lot to me. Thanks for visiting, come back soon!? XX

DEMAND CHANGE!

If the last four years are anything to go by,
Excuse me as I start to cry,
Because my psychologist told me that I will have this monster of an illness for the entirety of my life!
What!?
I see her every three months or so,
Go in,
Come out,
Who knows what the fuck we talk about!?
I am just another number,
Case load,
For her to box and shelf,
To prove to the bankers’ that I have been seen and “helped”,
But she hasn’t,
Helped me, that is!
Help ignites hope,
But she blew out my candle when she condemned me to an eternity of helpless misery.
I shout my woes,
Confess my sins,
Tell them all of the out’s and in’s,
But they neither see nor hear me,
Not one of all of the professionals that supposedly support me,
They just give me more pills to sooth me,
No,
Silence me!
People in my very small social and immediate family network ask that I at least communicate with them before battling with self-destruction,
But how can I purposefully burden my friends and family?
Firstly, If I disclose all the intricate details of my intense suffering,
I fear that they may section me,
And believe me,
I have been institutionalised enough times already!
The full truth,
The whole truth,
Nothing but the truth,
Will make people not want to speak or listen to me.
And so I write,
And I write,
And I write.
I may not be as articulate and witty as the professional’s,
Lack in vocabulary somewhat,
Be short of the spark that creates recognition and popularity,
A magnitude of followers,
The camera skills to go viral,
The voice of an angel,
Musicality like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,
But this is my art!
Speaking from the heart,
Everything that I say is true.
It may be a matter of preaching to the converted for now,
I see you nodding your head,
Taking in every word that I have said,
Thank you,
Give me an Amen!?
The budget cuts in the mental health system,
The up rise in mental health patients,
The increase in the number of people with mental health problems on the streets,
Scrapping for food to eat,
As if they don’t already have enough problems.
The black hole between help in the community and hospital admittance,
The loss of mental health control,
Less beds,
More med’s,
The increase in suicide!
I struggle to cope every single day!
I see and hear things that other people can’t,
Lucky them!
I don’t eat,
I don’t sleep,
I don’t shower,
Brush my hair or teeth,
Or I eat too much,
Sleep too much,
OCD kicks in and you could seriously eat off my dustbin!
I cry,
I panic,
I hallucinate,
I self-harm,
I hate myself,
And contemplate suicide most days!
If you have to ask why?
You haven’t been listening!
If you find my revelations a bit intense,
Then I am truly sorry,
But this is the reality,
My reality,
My life story forever more,
As my never ending diagnosis of;
BPD,
Depression,
Anxiety,
And Psychosis has been bestowed upon me for eternity!
I long for the times when I could distinguish the difference between bad days and good.
I once had the capability to actually believe in myself.
I have always had ill mental health,
First therapy session at twelve,
On pills since sixteen,
But there was still enough space in my life to dream,
Even moments when I conquered,
But I am no longer on this planet for me,
But for the people who love me!
Even though they may not fully know or understand me,
I can forgive them for that,
I do not fully know or understand myself,
But for some reason,
Some amazing people do actually love me!
And so I am very confused by this but recognise their love,
And therefor I am extremely thankful and lucky.
I fear and feel for those that have no one,
Those that receive no love at all and feel weak because of this.
Think about how isolating it is for those that have absolutely no one to share their experiences with.
There are people that have no one to aid their struggles with physical and psychological pain.
It is my pleasure and self-administrated duty to share with and represent my fellow Borderline’s,
Depressive’s,
The Anxious,
My neighbours The Schizophrenic’s,
The Bi-Polar’s,
And all of the above,
All of you,
The list is as long as my battered and bruised arms.
It takes personal experience to understand sometimes,
But you do not need a degree to practice listening or conjure empathy.
You do not need to be mentally ill yourself to acknowledge how integral mental health is in our society.
As a result of increased and continuous budget cuts in a financially deprived yet desperate area of NHS Health,
People are dying every single day.
This is a fact that deeply saddens me to say,
But this is an increasing problem that will not just calm down and go away.
We must unite and demand change.
Demand change.
DEMAND CHANGE!
With change we can help people very much in need.
With change we can potentially cut down the suicide.
With change tomorrow may not seem as grey!

Healthy body, Healthy Mind!?

A healthy body may ignite a healthy mind, perhaps healthier mind is more realistic, but a healthy body will most definitely make me less self conscious, lighter on my feet to suit my petite hight and quite possibly enable me to feel hott again!
Of cause with my mental health, sometimes I am bed bound. I become physically and emotionally redundant and no fighting spirit can set me free but I have lost so much of my inner self these past few years, it would be nice to recognise the reflection staring back at me when I look into the mirror, currently I am repulsed and it makes me feel sick!
So… a round of applause please!? Despite the stress of having to find a new home, family being unwell, my usual manuscript of problems and the bloody snow… I got my ass back to the gym today. I have exercised the last ten days out of eleven and been strict on Calorie intake. I really hope to see a new (perhaps also old) version of me by the end of the year. Its not all about vanity and bucks, it is more about feeling like 100 bucks!

Botched Up Bodies…

I have always hated my breasts. They have always been large in size but the bigger the natural breast, the less kind gravity can be. That is a fact. I have always blamed my mother for encouraging me to sleep without a bra on as a teenager, whilst developing. Truth be told, I doubt that notion made to much difference, but it is easier to blame your mum then an anonymous God or fate!
I have always said, that if I win the lottery or come into money, I will be straight down the plastic surgeon’s. Boob uplift, liposuction, laser cellulite remover, the list goes on, the whole shebang! People say just exercise more or eat less. People say an awful lot! The reality is, I can honestly say that all of my ailments are not self inflicted. I do exercise. I eat rather well. Looking back at my pictures in my twenties, I looked fabulous, but even then I was body conscious. People have always picked on me for my weight, even as a child. Those voices are never silenced and will haunt me to the day I die. My issues are not just physical but mental because of being traumatised by criticism about my shape, size, appearance, looks, being dumped by partners or nagged by family members. I never got to truly and confidently enjoy my size when it was rather good. I used to have a natural four pack! I doubt that is ever coming back. One can wish, but actually, I would rather four kids.
Age has of cause played it’s part, like it does upon everyone else, but also depression has ignited comfort eating in the past, I used to sleep eat, sleep walk to the cupboards, snack and wake up feeling sick from poorly digested food and crumbs in my bed. Thank goodness that stopped, but now with BPD, depression, anxiety, psychosis, I have to take an awful lot of medication to steady my mood and weight gain is a side effect.
It is no secret that I self harm. I believe this makes me a little less screamish then most, but watching the inspiring weight dropper Josie Gibson under the knife on celebrities botched up bodies, the surgery really made me feel sick. Josie was asleep through all of it and woke up looking great but I am now in two minds. Not like I can afford surgery anyway but it has definitely opened my eyes to the seriousness of cosmetic surgery. Surgery is surgery and always life threatening.
I suppose that if I was fortunate enough to truly make a decision, under the knife or not under the knife, I am single and thirty-two with suicidal tendencies, if I am going to die, I wouldn’t mind dying whilst trying to look hot. I would wake up hot or wake up not. Chances are, it would be the first, then maybe I could find a man to love me, in this cruel, judgemental and shallow world that we live in. Most importantly, after thirty-two years of failing, maybe, just maybe, I could learn to love myself. I have a lot of love for everyone else but have never loved myself. If nothing else, it would be great to embrace that feeling.