It’s the black dog again. When I broke years of estrangement from my mother I discovered bipolar disorder runs in my family. Until then I had refused to accept my diagnosis. On the face of it, I agreed with the doctors and for the most part I was compliant with treatment, if only to keep … Continue reading Je suis bipolaire. Le chien noir.
Oh God, if I never saw one of those positive affirmation memes again it would be too soon. It's not that I'm down on flaunting positivity (although I am down on 'awesome' possibly being the most overused and misunderstood word in the English language, closely followed by 'literally'), it's just that they seem to be … Continue reading Positive Affirmation Memes. Stop. Just please stop.
Last year, I began reading 'Shoot the Damn Dog' by Sally Brampton, a reference to Winston Churchill's 'black dog' analogy of depression. 'It's the black dog', 'she hasn't left her room in days.' It was an unnerving read, for the most part that throughout Brampton's poignant 2008 memoir, I was aware she killed herself … Continue reading Sally Brampton, suicide and her fucking black dog
This is me, climbing over a gate, all the way back in 2012. About five minutes after this photo was taken, I walked into an electric fence. I guess it said 'NO FOOTPATH' for good reason. It was taken by my friend Jon. He had invited me for a walk in the woods while … Continue reading Don’t wait for the eulogy; share the important moments now
'You are the only patient one, Mademoiselle,' said Poirot to Miss Debenham. She shrugged her shoulders slightly. 'What can one do?' 'You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.' 'That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion.' - Agatha Christie, Murder on the Orient Express Oh, … Continue reading To be like Miss Debenham, to save oneself from useless emotion
Though I had not believed in His existence since my youth of hymns and Sunday school, God began to talk to me, first in a whisper and later, in loud, threatening tones. My father spoke to me, too. Sometimes his presence was invisible, but sometimes I would see him sitting at the end of my bed, seemingly looking straight through me with his eyes, ice blue. It would be the first of many psychoses.