I can’t think of a suitably momentous title but heeeere’s Suzy…

Because I’m a sucker for flattery I’m back! Briefly! Well, not so briefly, actually; I intended to be brief but it turns out I had more to say than I thought I did, so this isn’t really that brief at all… as you can see, instead of collapsing hard drives across the globe I split it into chunks and put the chunks on pages, and this way it’s like an entire year’s worth of blogging in one post! You’ve got all the ingredients:

1. The post where there are several dramatic descriptions of the current state of me
2. The charmingly irrelevant anecdote post
3. The ‘because no mini-blog is complete without a crappy little bit of self-indulgence…’ post
4. The climactic and eagerly anticipated finale post

It’s all there! Contain your excitement!

Anyway, I get the feeling that some people may have given up on the idea that poor old DBAH would ever have another post on it (pessimists! Whatever would have given them that impression?), so tell your friends, tell your mother, tell your ex, rickroll it, spread the word like a Jehovah’s missionary, make the relentless spamming of this post around the internet your New Year’s resolution! It is also an excellent way to improve your karma. Seriously.

Searches in verses… for hearses… um?

Nicking la’s idea, I present you with Finding DBAH: The Dada Way. I’m honestly not a poet.

Verse 1

classy death

classy quotes

“classy quotes”

quotes about classy

quotes (being classy)

classy the bear

You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline…

I guess you know things are getting interesting, mental health-wise (or not so healthy-wise) when you see ‘-ersonality disor-’ on your GP’s screen when she thinks you’re not looking.

OK, I know I occasionally sound very crazy in my posts. I don’t do it intentionally, but when I notice I’ve done it I don’t try to cover it up. I mean, that’s me. That’s me who wrote that, and if it’s what I think, then there’s not much point trying to hide it. I post one day about how glorious life is and just how amazing I am and you are and life is and I am and life is, and the next day it’s some disturbing post about my deep, deep hatred for Rhiannon, and how I know everybody is talking about me and how I can’t help but imagine killing them. I do believe that people talk about me; I do believe that they plan together to alienate me; I do believe, on an unconscious level, that there are cameras. It’s one of those things I never question because I know it’s true, because I’ve always had to believe it – like the existence of God. I grew up being told He was there, so I don’t question it. I grew up terrified of the constant surveillance I was under, so I still am. I know it’s there, on that fundamental level; while at the same time I know it’s ridiculous. I read an amazing post on AbysmalMusings the other day about insight; about how being aware you’re hallucinating doesn’t mean you’re not actually hallucinating. He’s an excellent writer. Read the post.

Warning: epiphany in process

Well. Without meaning to give more ammo to my lovely borderline shippers, I’ve got to say that the only war cry that springs to mind lately, the only phrase I think I could sincerely apply, is that infamous I love I hate you don’t leave me. But, of course, the fact I notice this rules out the possibility of BPD. Self-awareness is not part of the package.

Anyway, I’m not here to argue that today. I’m here to complain about the close friend of mine who’s recently buggered off to Canada. Things aren’t the same without her around at school. Because I knew she was leaving, she was amazing. She was wonderful. It wasn’t fair she was leaving. She was leaving me. How dare she leave me? She was leaving me and I was going to be on my own? And so I wouldn’t say her name and I hated her and I bitched about her and I spread rumours and now I’m over it a bit and I am so scared everybody else is going to leave me that I am going to leave them first. They’re not going to get a chance. It really seems to be the most logical option. I don’t want to be ditched. People are going to alienate me; they’re going to talk about me; they’re going to hate me how I’ve hated them and if they don’t, I’ll drag them down, and I don’t really think that the girls who are my friends particularly deserve to have to spend time with someone who is going to be looking at them and seeing their organs and bones and the blood in their veins, or involuntarily imagining how they would scream if that pen went into that eyeball at that angle – because I can’t help that, it’s a reflexive action – an immensely troubling one and one that is worsened whenever I read something like The Silence of the Lambs or The Regulators, which maybe I should avoid but seeing as those are two of my favourite books, I don’t and don’t even want to – I don’t mind feeling that way, which scares me -

Deep breath. New sentence.

Confessions of a failed Mad Pride-er

There are two things I didn’t realise weren’t common knowledge. The first, that it’s me in my avatar, isn’t particularly special. It’s only a shadow, after all. But the second is either the most important thing of all or the least, depending on how you want to see it. So, OK. I have lied to you about two things. One of them honestly isn’t important – a little bit of track-covering for the sake of any curious acquaintances of mine who might come browsing this way. The other one is the fact that Suzanne isn’t my real name. I thought that if I could make this blog say, very convincingly, that it was my name, then people coming this way who might recognise me would be put off by the conviction with which the world called me another name. Except I’ve realised that’s a pretty stupid plan now, and while I don’t intend to tell anyone my real name (unless you guess it) I think I’d rather people realised I’m not brave/foolhardy/self-confident enough to let a mental health blog out into the world using my own, Google-able name. I don’t want anyone to think I’m someone I’m not. Well – not in that way, at least.

(Drumroll…)

I feel like starting this with ‘okely-dokely, neighbours’, but I’m resisting the urge.

I got three A*’s, in English Language, Drama, and English Literature. In fact, I got full marks in English Lit, a fact I’m more than a little excited about, and just dropped three marks in Language; I got 8 A’s, in everything else. So I’m happy. I honestly wasn’t expecting to get A’s in Physics or Chemistry or Maths or PE, and while I maybe dreamt of A* in Drama I never thought I’d get it (contrary to popular belief the written exam is ridiculously difficult).

Rhiannon got nine A*s and two A’s and, thank God, she didn’t insincerely sympathise with me. Not even once. She did say that ‘I suppose your marks in English show us where your strengths really lie’ in the most insincere voice imaginable, but that’s how she usually talks, so I didn’t attack her.

I am disappointed, though, because my ‘safe’ marks were the ones I didn’t get. On school tours, my Latin teacher tells prospective parents how ‘we always get A*s in this school. Never less. Oh – but last year a girl failed; she only got an A. Ahaha.’ There is a very high standard of teaching in the Latin department at my school. I’ve been her pet student since Year Seven, and she was telling me my mark was assuredly A* for years. When my form tutor realised I was sad crying over my A, not happy crying, she came over and usefully told me to think of all the girls who got Ds, Suzanne! I should be proud of that mark! Like I was aiming for a D, as well. But I am proud, I guess. I just know that she’s never had an A-level student who didn’t get that star in their GCSE before, and she’s going to be rubbing it in my face for the next two years, once she’s yelled at me about it enough. She’ll be mad.

Plus my German teacher marked my coursework as A*, said that she’d marked harshly so if anything the examiner would mark it up, sent it in, and it’s come back as a B (overall A). I told a teacher, because a two grade discrepancy is pretty hefty, but I think they just thought I was telling them my grade wasn’t good enough and I wanted the star, and I was brushed off.

But essentially, I’ve done lot of worrying for nothing. And I’ve got final, incontrovertible proof that it’s entirely possible for me to do exams in a state of psychosis and for it to still be all right on the night. I’m not entirely sure how I should feel about that…

Edit: well, I’ve got my little bit of (fake) champagne now, and we’re having a takeaway Chinese to celebrate, because I love Chinese. My parents are concerned at how easy I am to please…

Too much pressure, this pressure got to stop…

What I touched on briefly in the last post needs to be expanded. I’ve been promising it for months, now, ever since I started DBAH up. I don’t want people to hate me or think I’m boasting or whatever, because I don’t think I deserve your hate and I’m not boasting. If things weren’t this way for me I likely wouldn’t be this way, either, so…

Well. Here goes.

There’s a skeleton hiding under my skin

‘If there are any factors which may affect your child’s performance or well-being, please do not feel shy or embarrassed, but let us know. We will treat all confidence with discretion and sensitivity.’

My school’s bumf leaflet, 2008

It’s all very well to say this, and I’m sure they do actually mean what they say, feel it with the greatest sincerity and are convinced that ‘discretion’ and ‘sensitivity’ are the most apt words to describe their efforts, but really. I mean really now. On an unscheduled trip (read curious trespass) I took into the staff room, one fine day after all the teachers except the ones running netball practice had left the building, I opened a door off the main room and there, tacked to a pinboard, was the mental health history of one of my classmates. As soon as I realised what I was looking at, I stopped, because it’s none of my business and I’m sure she’d be just as horrified to think someone else knew as I would be if it was my messy mind pinned to the wall; but that does not feel like discretion and sensitivity to me. Out there in the open, on a noticeboard that every member of staff sees every time they’re in the room. Discreet, subtle, tactful. Lou Raleigh Is A Fackin Nuttah!

Flippant record of public weirdness

If you’d happened to meet me in person any time from mid-April to mid-May of this year, you’d have been meeting a very strange kid. Leading up to and during my GCSE period, I was veering off into high-functioning psychosis (‘high-functioning’ – it makes me sound like a value-for-money second-hand car), and I’ve realised that I’ve only ever given vague, tantalising snippets to illuminate my own special brand of madness. I want to be serious about it because I haven’t been serious about anything for a while, and it deserves something slightly less flippant than what’s underneath the Read More tab, but hey. But hey, flippancy’ll do for now.

Therefore, herein lies my flippant record of public weirdness, to be hopefully followed by a less flippant version at some unknown point in the future.

CAMHS has taught me a lot, and I truly appreciate that

Well, unusually, I can come out of my CAMHS session today saying I have learnt something. In fact, I have learnt several important things and had my mind opened to a host of new ideas. They’ve kept me thinking busily for the last hour or so, since I curtailed my session by being monosyllabic and generally uncooperative, but seriously. Seriously now. I’m genuinely amazed. This is what I have learnt: