Cognitive cissonance
(Stolen from the splendid types on the Twitter.)
This week, metallic purple. Result - a couple more people asking why and a couple more beetling over because 'you totally have to check out John's nail varnish..'
So anyway, while I was feeling mildly asleep and not really thinking too hard about the people around me on Monday morning, I was accosted by a Big Issue vendor. (Bath's got lots)
Blue panda-style eyeshadow, long sparkly scarf and a very purple jumper. It was one of those 'Shut up and listen. The universe is trying to tell you things.' moments.
The other thing that happened is that half a different Twitter thing about NHS mental health provision, which seems to be generally hopless given the state of the tweets, reminded me of two-and-a-bit years ago.
This is what I wrote. On LJ:
"That's everything. It's all hateful. Don't try to reason with it, because there is no logic.
In actual fact, I should try to remember not to reason with myself in that mood. The weird and uncomfortable thing is that these days I've enough self-awareness to watch as the petulance, mithering and second-guessing happens in real time. It's not much fun from the inside. Well, I say 'inside'. There's an unhelpful post-migraine state where one really does feel like one's watching a character in a book, and thinking 'Silly sod really ought to pull his finger out...' Sometimes reality makes a bo-oing noise like a telescope being collapsed and one realises that, well, actually... And at other times it doesn't. Thus I imagine it's a similar amount of no-fun-at-all for anyone else involved.
The next bit of really-very-broken-but-makes-perfect-sense-from-inside thought process goes 'Well, you're making things pretty horrible for those around you, have you considered shutting the hell up and buggering off so they don't have to put up with your nonsense? It really would be the considerate and polite thing to do.'
Although. The imp of the tiresome brain-chemistry doesn't want to go without throwing a strop.
You know, if I post this, someone or other will go 'Me? You hate me?' and... Because I was brought up to be polite, I'll make some excuse instead of going through the whole 'Dave. Everyone's dead.' routine. So, I've admitted to being in a poor state of head and perhaps a bit fragile. Now I also am made to understand that my poor mood is making someone else feel hurt and I should feel terrible about that, too. Excellent darts, there.
I know, how about a big helping of 'not actually ever talking about any of this to anyone'? Yes. That would be best.
On the up-side, I think I can get H2S delivered via the internet. How's that for service?"
That was pretty much exactly as bad as I got. It's uncomfortable reading for me because it reminds me of my mental state and I think I'm quite surprised that no-one read between the lines.
And that is why I couldn't wait the three months for the NHS to push me into a room with twenty other people for a month of weekly CBT sessions and instead paid for a nice man to sit and listen to me ramble for circa a year.
This week, metallic purple. Result - a couple more people asking why and a couple more beetling over because 'you totally have to check out John's nail varnish..'
So anyway, while I was feeling mildly asleep and not really thinking too hard about the people around me on Monday morning, I was accosted by a Big Issue vendor. (Bath's got lots)
Blue panda-style eyeshadow, long sparkly scarf and a very purple jumper. It was one of those 'Shut up and listen. The universe is trying to tell you things.' moments.
The other thing that happened is that half a different Twitter thing about NHS mental health provision, which seems to be generally hopless given the state of the tweets, reminded me of two-and-a-bit years ago.
This is what I wrote. On LJ:
"That's everything. It's all hateful. Don't try to reason with it, because there is no logic.
In actual fact, I should try to remember not to reason with myself in that mood. The weird and uncomfortable thing is that these days I've enough self-awareness to watch as the petulance, mithering and second-guessing happens in real time. It's not much fun from the inside. Well, I say 'inside'. There's an unhelpful post-migraine state where one really does feel like one's watching a character in a book, and thinking 'Silly sod really ought to pull his finger out...' Sometimes reality makes a bo-oing noise like a telescope being collapsed and one realises that, well, actually... And at other times it doesn't. Thus I imagine it's a similar amount of no-fun-at-all for anyone else involved.
The next bit of really-very-broken-but-makes-perfect-sense-from-inside thought process goes 'Well, you're making things pretty horrible for those around you, have you considered shutting the hell up and buggering off so they don't have to put up with your nonsense? It really would be the considerate and polite thing to do.'
Although. The imp of the tiresome brain-chemistry doesn't want to go without throwing a strop.
You know, if I post this, someone or other will go 'Me? You hate me?' and... Because I was brought up to be polite, I'll make some excuse instead of going through the whole 'Dave. Everyone's dead.' routine. So, I've admitted to being in a poor state of head and perhaps a bit fragile. Now I also am made to understand that my poor mood is making someone else feel hurt and I should feel terrible about that, too. Excellent darts, there.
I know, how about a big helping of 'not actually ever talking about any of this to anyone'? Yes. That would be best.
On the up-side, I think I can get H2S delivered via the internet. How's that for service?"
That was pretty much exactly as bad as I got. It's uncomfortable reading for me because it reminds me of my mental state and I think I'm quite surprised that no-one read between the lines.
And that is why I couldn't wait the three months for the NHS to push me into a room with twenty other people for a month of weekly CBT sessions and instead paid for a nice man to sit and listen to me ramble for circa a year.