When faced with my demons I clothe them and feed them…

Archive for November, 2012

The Visit

Well how was it for you?

I was nervous arriving in the Visitor’s Centre of Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentonville. I had no idea about the processing that you have to go through in order to enter the prison visiting hall. A form must be filled in, which is then checked and you’re given a number. The room was filling up with people, families, kids. There was a small tea bar. You wait for your number to be called. I had been early, so this took 45 minutes or so. You go upstairs where you line up to have your ID checked, a picture taken and a finger print done. They give you a bright green wristband. All your extra stuff which you can’t take into the prison such as mobile phone and anything except a maximum of £20 in coins, you put in a locker.

Then you make your way to the next building, where the visiting hall is housed. On the way, you are frisked, including shaking out your shoes and on arrival you have your fingerprint taken again. You take a ticket from a machine. This turned out to be for the tea bar. ‘Your’ prisoner is waiting for you either in the large main hall or a smaller adjoining one. I was relieved to see M, all present and correct. I had pictured a glass partition or something, but the prisoners were free, sitting at low tables. I was glad we weren’t in the main hall. We hugged.

There was a tea bar in the main hall where you could buy rolls, chocolate bars, and hot drinks, but you had to wait for your new number to come up. M asked for a hot chocolate and a snickers bar, and I bought him a cheese and onion roll as well – I only had four pounds in cash, so I went without. M looked OK, but a bit ravaged and as if he’d lost weight, which he had. He was pleased to see me and we had a pleasant enough chat at first, I asking him lots of questions about what it was like inside.

He did tell me about the circumstances of his offence. I was relieved to hear it was at least someone he knew – who had been giving him some kind of verbals for a couple of years (they were at the hospital together). But what he did – my word. What a shameful, cowardly crime! There are crimes and crimes. His was a stupid one by any standards. I have no doubt that he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been on huge amounts of cannabis. It happened outside a mental health day centre, for goodness sake. He had gone there to do some artwork apparently! I tend to think he was on the hunt for a new woman to latch on to.

Luckily for M, psychopaths are kind of immune to shame and guilt. As out visit wore on he showed his true colours, when the charm is exhausted. He feels terribly sorry for himself. He is regularly getting trapped wind, stomach cramps and passing out on the floor, apparently. He can’t sleep at night, and the food is terrible. He had had a single cell up till then, but a cellmate, a young lad, had just joined him. We were allowed two hours to talk. Too long for two people really, well, at least these two people.

I left after one and a half hours. I didn’t want to listen to any more of his delusional, paranoid rantings about how much he was ‘suffering’. He didn’t talk much about Jehovah, or praying. He said he wanted to die. I had very little sympathy. He’s not really a fully human being. He doesn’t need sympathy, or deserve empathy, since he has none himself, and feeds off that of others. I am a useful source of gratification, news of outside, money etc. That’s all.

I don’t want to go again, dear reader. I don’t mind writing the odd letter/email, and I’ve sent in a bit of money for tobacco etc. There ends all responsibility, and he’s very lucky to get that. He disgusts me. He told me he’d written to his estranged family, whom he had cut all contact with for over a year.  Whatever his Machiavellian motives are, it’s interesting that it took prison to prompt him to write and apologise to his frail and housebound mother.

This is the guy I fell in love with and lived with for approaching for twenty months. Morally, emotionally and spiritually bankrupt. I have to take a long hard look at myself, especially as another likely psychopath is already sniffing around me, giving me all the old chat about how important I am to him, and how prison had changed him and made him think.

The redemption story which I am so susceptible to, and he knows it. Just like M, he has huge, innocent brown eyes that you can just get lost in, and that almost hypnotise you. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Don’t worry gentle reader. I am not about to get hooked again! I won’t let him anywhere near my house.

I’m off to my Women’s Group for a dose of sanity. It’s a beautiful day, if cold. Love,

Zoe x


Visiting My Ex-Path in Prison

Well, hello!

This afternoon I visit my ex, M, in prison. I’m kind of dreading it. I wonder if he’ll even show. If he does, what will we talk about? And afterwards, will I be left with healthy closure or more enmeshment with him and his problems? Did I make the right decision to even do this? I already wish I’d picked a different day/time, as I’m missing an outing with my Women’s Group to go and have our hair done at a local college. Instead I’m going to be searched and frisked, and walk into the intimidating environment of a prison… And M can manipulate for England. I need not to get sucked back in to his games. He will ‘present well’ as he always does when it suits him to do so.

I have been sleeping well, eating well. He told me he can’t. I have my freedom to come and go from home as I please. He does not. I can make myself a cup of coffee or tea whenever I want, and vape on my ecig. He will be running low on tobacco no doubt. I have my peaceful house where I am undisturbed by disturbing people, and can choose to see whom I like. He  is surrounded by disturbing people. There is surely some justice in this.

Though M is surely one of the most disturbing people in the damn prison! Like a coiled spring, he can erupt in serious violence at any moment. If those other prisoners know what’s good for them, they’ll leave him the f**k alone. I feel sorry for his cellmate, if he has one.

I knew he was dangerous and said so on this blog. In a text several weeks before he was arrested I warned him that if he continued the way he was, he would get himself locked back up.

He was already chasing another woman a matter of days after I dumped him for the final time. Narcissists and psychopaths need others to give them what’s known as ‘narcissistic supply’. They are parasitical in nature. And they won’t leave until they perceive you are permanently alienated and used up. When you begin to see through their games the writing’s on the wall.

It’s a peculiar and somewhat surreal thing to be doing, visiting this bastard who f****d me over good and proper. Many ‘experts by experience’ on psychopathy advise no contact whatsoever with the abusive ex. I’m seeking, as I said, some kind of closure. I hope this will be the only, and final time I will feel the need to visit him. My empathy gets the better of me. I can’t help putting myself in his shoes. Sadly, such scruples are alien to him. He can’t empathise with empathy. In its place is the grandiose sense of entitlement that will totally take my visit for granted.

I didn’t ‘get it’ before. Now I do.

Lots love, Zoe xx

Green Eyes

‘You’ve got more than I’ve got’. That’s not a pleasant thought or statement, and I would be very wary of ever saying it out loud. Envy is a horrible emotion. It degrades both the envier and the enviee, but of course, hurts the first more…Then again we are human. It’s up there with the other six deadly sins, but I don’t believe in all that. We can’t help what we are, we aren’t going to be killed or go to hell for it. But it’s good to recognise it for what it is, and to know that it’s not good and to be avoided/transcended wherever possible. It’s not the thoughts which are the sin, but how we act on them – or don’t.

I was scanning my ‘matches’ on the dating website match.com, and came across a very nice and decent sounding man who waxed lyrical about his interests, and his love for his three children who he shared 50/50 with his ex-wife. I considered replying, but then I thought ‘if he knew I’ve got just one boy, and he is refusing almost all engagement with life, in foster care’, what would he think? Is it acceptable to start an email to a stranger with the words ‘You’ve got more than me’? No, of course not, but if I were to be totally honest and upfront, that’s what I’d say…

Envy is a soul-destroying, shameful emotion that makes you feel pretty terrible about yourself. But I’m not gonna deny, I’m troubled by it more than I care to admit.

Today’s confession out of the way I’ll give you a quick update. I saw my boy on Monday. It was his Looked After Child Review, which is held every six months or so. It was great to see him (it had been well over two months). After the long and rather tedious (though important) meeting with his foster carer and assorted social workers, he came out with my Mum and me. We went for a nice lunch at a good little cafe/restaurant, where we both had veggie burgers with chunky, handmade chips (delicious on a cold and rainy day), then we popped into a crystal and new agey shop where my boy picked out some small stones he liked.

It was so good to chat with him about M’s plight (J felt for him), psychology and psychopathy, in which he shares my interest (that was revalatory: my boy likes to understand what makes people tick!) and the last time we met, which ended as badly as it could short of actual blows being exchanged. My boy is like me. He doesn’t bear grudges. He prefers to analyse what went on and why, and he had some interesting things to say about me and my underlying motivations. He wasn’t wide of the mark either!

Also he made it clear to me that he DOES hold himself partly accountable for his situation, and recognises that it is not a desirable way to be, and he isn’t happy doing it. He has been consistently asking for therapy and the social workers are going to try to put that in place as soon as possible.

We parted as friends. I parted from him deliberately while we were still amicable with one another (both of us agreed about that), and caught the train home to London. I felt as if a weight had been lifted off my chest. My son can be very pleasant, impressive and charming, and he DOES have interests; he also engages well with the professionals, and even his foster carer says he is a nice young man.

With all my faults J, and my definite shortcomings as a parent, I will always love you and want the best for you.

I ordered a Henry styled hoover online, and managed to hoover the downstairs floor of my house. It’s sucks brilliantly, unliike my last one which constantly lost its suction, got blocked and needed emptying every five minutes. It was a useless ‘bagless’ Vax, and had started cutting out after a few minutes. I dumped it in the wheelie bin, after one measly year.

Never again. I look forward to a long and profitable working relationship with my yellow Henry!

Is that information too mundane for this blog? Well, these things do count. My house has been shamefully neglected lately, as I couldn’t bring myself to care about cleanliness and tidiness. Henry is helping me to tend to my home environment again.

I am pretty boring at the end of the day…

Maybe J will join me and my Mum for Christmas day. I hope so. I really do…

I phoned up Pentonville Visiting Line and arranged to go and see M tomorrow afternoon. I have a lot of mixed feelings about this, but hell. I can’t help putting myself in his shoes though I’m aware he would be unable to do the same for me… I’ve told him via the site ’emailaprisoner.com’ that I’m concerned for him as a friend and not his girlfriend. There won’t be any kissing and cuddling.

I hope it will help me toward some closure, and that it will cheer him to receive a social visit. I would also like to hear his viewpoint on what happened to get him incarcerated, the precise circumstances of which will surely affect how I feel about him. But I don’t know if he will want to talk about that and I can’t push him or press him on it, that would not be fair given his predicament. I will have to be tactful and diplomatic and stick to neutral topics if he wants it that way.

Lots of love, Zoe xxx

Alone again…Naturally.

Anyone remember that ancient number, from the seventies or suchlike? The funny is thing is, I can’t remember any of the song except for this mournful refrain.

I spent the day surrounded by people. Lovely people. Funny, talented, positive people. My theatre group, who I was rehearsing, and then performing with. It does me no end of good to be around them, but when I finally came away after quite a successful performance, my mood slumped again. I knew I was going home to more loneliness. And I’m sorry to keep whingeing on about it, dear reader. I probably need to get a grip of myself. I’m going to end up pissing people off. It’s not as if it’s an uncommon complaint, these days. I know the sort of things I need to do, and I’m in the process of sorting out some counselling so that I can further explore the possible underlying causes of my loneliness.

No missive had arrived in the telltale brown envelope in that familiar handwriting. Seems like even M – in prison, if you please – can’t be bothered with me.

But heck. I’m STILL an infinitely precious, valuable, wonderfully complex and multilayered human being. Those reading this blog for the first time will be thinking to themselves ‘Wow, what a narcissist!’ The rest of you will know that this is my way of saying that every human life is sacred, and that no one person is worth more than another.

The Home Treatment Team were trying to contact me today without success. I just don’t hear my new phone’s ringtone at all. So I phoned them back. They wanted to bring me some medication as I was running out, but I’d already been to the GP to put in a prescription request. Doubtful whether they can, in all honesty, offer me very much more than that. Anyway I started the week badly, but it improved. I didn’t think I was going to be up to performing today, but it all came together. That was an achievement to chalk up. Sometimes NOTHING seems to make me feel any better though. It’s as if all these wonderful external things can’t quite penetrate the invisble perspex bubble that surrounds me.

The Bubble of Doom.


To Do or Not to Do

Hi all.

Well, Home Treatment are a no-show so far. Just as well I’m not suicidal – yet. Shortfalls in services (and lousy ones) are looming large for me at the moment. I’ve just written another letter complaining – again – about my care coordinator, asking for a change and to go on oral meds. This time I am going to ask who I should address it to this time, since the last one, to the consultant I never see, met with no response whatsoever.

I’ve been bearing up, luckily. Lamictal and Risperidone seem to be doing their job of keeping me somewhere in the middle, most days. Depression and anxiety loom much larger than mania these days. Maybe this is why I am finding it progressively more difficult to get any response from the services. I may feel sometimes out of place in the drug and alcohol services, but they have virtually saved my life for the last year or so. Apart from my therapy group and Dual Recovery Anonymous, they keep me going.

However. I am starting to fret a little about my almost total non-productivity. I’m posting on this blog more and more, because there is so little else and it’s a fantastic outlet in the absence of anyone else I can share ALL my concerns with.

I’ve got some sort of mid-life crisis going on. I’m 50, and facing the probability that hopes of  paid work are receding rapidly. Anxiety, moodswings and M made me retreat and withdraw from the world as we know it. The levels of anxiety provoked by volunteering one afternoon a week at the local Oxfam Bookshop seemed out of proportion and to outweigh the benefits of doing so.

At the same time, as I described in my last post, I am realising that I need to focus more on others’ needs. I’ve got to get my head from out my backside and forget myself for at least a couple of hours every week, then build it up to four or six hours, etc.

I also wonder whether I could cope with working from home. I would love to do a little job that involved writing or editing/proofreading. I’m quite good at presenting a tidy, finished piece of work. Maybe I could help people with English as a second language in making applications or something like that. Or help them with their English in some kind of educational capacity. Or offer a typing or editing service for students’ essays or theses. Well, I know that might be a bit of a long shot these days. It’s just a thought.

I don’t think I’m able to do a voluntary job where I am too exposed to the public. I could never mentor young people. I’m not sure about befriending. Moodswings could make that difficult. But I need to not find reasons not to do something, but just try and give it a bash. I would rather work with a computer screen and bits of paper. I could be some sort of researcher. I applied to The Samaritans wondering whether I could answer emails for them, or help out with admin.

Then there’s the book I hope to write. I could at least make a start on that. But that might leave my head firmly up my own arse.

I’ve been less haunted by thoughts of M, languishing in that cell, since I wrote him the emotional letter of the other day and cried over it. I heard he will likely be there until at least January. I never realised just how shit his life was out here in ‘the community’, that he would (seemingly) willingly swop it for a life inside. Maybe it’s the only place he feels ‘safe’. Ironic, that.

Or maybe with all his criminal thoughts he feels it’s where he belongs. If I’m ever tempted to do that ‘poor me’ thing, I have him to reflect on. I’m free to walk out of my front door and go pretty much anywhere I please, even though most of the time I am reluctant to do so. However – I CAN. That’s surely got to mean something. Just like the Tiger of my Chinese birth sign, I cannot abide being locked up and confined. I wouldn’t last five minutes in prison, though I know Holloway has nothing like the reputation of Pentonville. Women prisoners seem to be treated far more compassionately than the men. One of the ways our gender works to our advantage.

I basically think most prisons are barbaric, period, and while coasting on a manic high I just want to open the doors and let them all out. But when in my right mind I have to recognise that society has a legitimate problem with some offenders, and they need to go somewhere. I think the emphasis needs to be on rehabilitation while they are in there, and that overcrowding is totally unacceptable. Many should not be there on grounds of mental health alone, and many others simply do not need to be there, as they are no real danger to the public.

I can’t help thinking that M is already batshit crazy, and is very likely to become more so as time goes on. Prison for someone like him seems a cruel and unusual punishment indeed. I could be wrong though. His social worker doesn’t seem to be overly concerned for him, and described him as ‘settled’ when he visited! He said he ‘presented’ well, in court on Friday, whatever that means. M can always ‘present well’ when he chooses.

But who really cares about M? Only me, it seems. I have not had a letter or a phone call from him. Doubtless he’s got other stuff on his mind. Maybe he doesn’t need me as much as I thought.

It defies belief how alone a person can be without going stir crazy and murdering someone or himself. He hurt someone, but it could have been a lot worse… He never laid a finger on me, and I never saw him be violent to anyone else either. That’s why I was so stunned to hear what happened. I really didn’t think it was in him to do such a thing. I still know very little about the actual circumstances. No doubt he will eventually tell me, complete with exonerating himself from all blame!

Love, Zoe xxx

ps: Stats have been unusually high lately. Thanks for reading everyone.

Angels and Demons

Eventful day, in many ways.

Appointment with psych plus Community Psychiatric Nurse. Horribly derailed. I made the cardinal error of complaining to the (new to me) doctor about the CPN and saying I wanted to change. New doctor was a patronising cow, not to mince words. She baby-talked to me. She tried to ‘humour’ me. She tried to ‘praise’ what I said, hoping to pacify me. She might have listened, but she did not ‘hear’ me.

I felt bad about my complaints about the CPN, but she frankly deserved them. She and the doc seemed to be making a HUGE issue about referring me to the Home Treatment Team or one of the Recovery Houses. CPN’s favourite phrase: ‘It doesn’t work like that’. She seems to think that referral to said services is a sought-after privilege which it is her job to guard.

I kid you not, the patronising cow of a doc told me ‘There are people much worse off than you’. She didn’t know me from Adam. She even asked if I was hearing any voices! Clearly she had only glanced at my notes.

I got so fed up with their double assault on my patience, I walked out.

I went for a coffee in a local cafe and sat with my anger and disgust for a while to ponder my next move. Always so alone. Trying to get help. Alone. Struggling with a serious mental illness. Alone. Trying to head off another devastating breakdown. Alone. Always, always. Alone. I can’t look to my CPN for anything more than a needle in the buttock. She’s passive and negative about everything I try to suggest, including my application for a personalised budget.

There was only really one place to go after that. St Ann’s Hospital. I managed to get the bus there, saving on taxi fares. I wandered around, lost, for a while, looking for the building that houses the Home Treatment Team. Found it. Asked on reception to see them. Lady made a phone call. Told me I needed to go to my GP. I went silent and still. Then broke down in tears and hurriedly left the building.

Called lousy CPN again. She said I’d put her in a ‘difficult position’ by leaving the meeting with her and the psych. I kept saying, then shouting, ‘what am I going to DO?’ She mumbled something incomprehensible. I knew I was very far from being Flavour of the Month. It was so very far from communications with my previous two care coordinators. I was starting to realise how lucky I’d been, back then. Now I was getting a taste of what so many others have to endure.

After first suggesting that I would need to return to her again, she finally agreed to call the Home Treatment Team. Um. How difficult was that? I went back into the building to wait. A nurse I’d known for about fifteen years came out. Never have I been more pleased to see a psychiatric nurse! He is one of the very best, and beloved of many patients. Somehow he infuses his interactions with genuine care and concern. He knows something of what I’ve been through. He knows I’m not some malingering twat who wants a free holiday at the Recovery House, or a comfy chat with some psychiatric nurses. He told me the Houses are rubbish anyway (sort of what I thought). Nothing like our late, lamented Crisis Unit.

At last I felt heard. That was all I needed. The Home Treatment Team will visit tomorrow evening. They would have come in the morning, but I have Peer Support Group. Simple. Why did the psych and CPN make it so goddarn complicated??? And knowing the HTT as I do, there is NO WAY I would normally ask them to visit. Usually I’m trying to get rid of the buggers.

And then there was my epiphany moment. As I dried my tears sitting out on the step of the building while waiting for the damn CPN to get her act together, I heard a voice from behind me. He said ‘how are you sweetheart’ or words to that effect. Turns out he thought I was someone else. Well, I’m always doing that, so I understand.

Something in the way he spoke – not creepy, not coming on to me – made me turn and have a look at him. A shortish, plumpish black guy around my own age, but full of life and vitality, in the hooded uniform of the London streets, complaining of the cold. We fell into conversation somehow, and I told him my latest sob story. He immediately came back with a few ‘professional neglect’ stories of his own, all of which concerned other people he’d tried to help.

Turned out he was bipolar (which I could have guessed). Had a bad memory for names. Was there to accompany a patient who presently emerged. His concern for others was manifest. He put me to shame. We chatted, and I found myself smiling and laughing, my tears forgotten. I told him I thought he was great. That I knew I was too isolated and got caught up in my own problems, forgetting those of others. He showed me what, on some level, I already knew. That the answer lies with reaching out to others in need. To putting my own troubles to one side and doing what I can for someone else.

That was my epiphany moment. I loved that guy. He was like an angel, sent to point the way for me in my hour of need. He went off with the patient he was accompanying. I called ‘thanks for talking to me’, after him. I wanted him to know he made a difference. He blew me a kiss over his shoulder. For that moment, he was the incarnation of love. Not sex, not romance. Of love for others, expressed in actions. Being there for others. Caring, and showing it.

Nothing dramatic, my epiphany moment. Just an everyday story of angels.

At home, later on. I wrote a letter to M. By hand this time, as it’s probably nicer when you’re incarcerated. I cried as I wrote it, reminding him of our long morning walks in Enfield. Those good times we shared which I will never forget. I enclosed a cheque for £20. I went down the road to post it before I could change my mind. I know he’s probably a psychopath. That he’s probably a ‘black heart man’ as the Bunny Wailer track goes.

But hell. He was there for me, when I was locked up and sectioned on the ward.  No one else was. He was there for me through my loooong depression, and through my mini-mania. Likewise. He rubbed cream on my boil, and bandaged up my sprained ankle. Rubbed Vicks on my chest when I was full of cold and flu. I can’t erase that sweetness from my memory. I can’t erase all the good times from my memory, and only remember the bad times.

I know it’s sailing close to the wind. I know it’s inadvisable. But we’re illogical creatures, we human beings. Sometimes nothing makes sense except a simple cry from the heart. In the letter I told him I’d pray for him. So now, I’m off to pray.

I’m an Addict

I’m addicted to the Internet.

A friend emailed me yesterday to say she was cutting her Internet connection for the same reason. Brave lady. She thought it was contributing to her social phobia and reclusive behaviour. Snap.

I’ve more or less said as much in recent posts. I’m developing a problem here. I ‘should’ (that word!) probably do the same. But I don’t feel able to.

I suppose I still do get out to my support groups, shopping and the occasional coffee with a friend. But when it comes to contemplating voluntary work my anxiety levels get the better of me. I am beginning to live in a way that mirrors my son’s behaviour to a certain extent.

I took a trip down to Kent to see my Mum on Saturday evening, and stayed overnight, coming back yesterday evening. I am becoming increasingly unable to cope with Sundays. Still reeling from the news about M.

I know I’m depressed and therefore thinking negatively, but I mentally went through those people that I call friends, and realised I didn’t like any of them.  Nor can I think of anyone I like enough to develop a new friendship with. That statement demands a caveat. This is not about the precious, infinitely valuable human beings I call my friends. This is about me. I don’t like myself. I don’t like the ‘me’ I’ve become.

This has been developing for a while. I constantly find reasons not to see my friends. I’m not coping well with human interactions. I avoid making and receiving phone calls. Real time conversations scare me, partly I guess, because of the loss of control. When I’m out I’m always on my Smartphone. This is my comfort zone, and I would be in denial to say it wasn’t a problem.

Even the dating sites, such an obsession to start with, have lost their appeal. I’m OK with swopping a few messages, but the prospect of meeting any of them sends me into fight or flight mode.

No wonder I’m lonely, folks.

What am I achieving through constant internet surfing? Even support groups only just about keep me ticking over. I avoid one to ones outside of the relative safety of the group.

Still not cleaning my house. Even M used to do that. He was always out and about. I miss the old days, prior to his relapse onto marijuana. He encouraged and motivated me through my protracted depression, and looked after me and kept me safe during my mini-mania. We’d go out in the car, take lengthy walks. I loved hearing his key in the front door. And he’s now incarcerated. And that makes me re-evaluate the whole nature of our relationship. He just couldn’t hack life in the outside world, and now I’m going the same way.

As his deteriorating behaviour after his relapse demonstrated, he was still very much an addict. Total self-sabotage. How he must have hated himself to commit such a thoroughly self-destructive act. Much worse than anything he’d done in the past, yet he is 46 with surely less testosterone coursing around his body. And not on crack, as in his younger days.

Then there’s the obsessive need for tea and coffee, far exceeding my actual thirst. Not to mention the e-cig, which I drag on constantly while at the computer, and clutch in my hand on my anxious forays outside. I’m drug and alcohol free, but in many ways I’m still an addict. Living for short term gratification, or should I say, existing. It’s really not much of a life.

If I was even tempted to start thinking ‘I could have saved him if I’d stuck with him’, I would have to admit that he had already become impossible and intolerable to live with. He had sunk deep into a self-centred, narcissistic, chaotic and addicted lifestyle that left no room for any other human being with needs and desires of their own. It had become increasingly obvious that he was only using me – another means to fill the hole where a soul should be. Which raises the question, what did I think I was doing with him, if not much the same?

Well, this morning I have to go out. I’ve got my depot injection, plus an appointment with the psych. I have to ask some sticky questions, one of which is to come off the depot, go on oral meds and change my current care coordinator, who is utterly useless. Another of which is to ask for a stay in one of the new Recovery Houses. I need help. This I know.

And this blog. It’s pretty self-centred, isn’t it, in all honesty? Emotionally I guess I’m still an adolescent.

Hard truths. When I become all misty-eyed over M, obsessively and endlessly search the web for God knows what. I’m still in flight from the harsh reality. But I’m not psychotic. I know it’s still there.

I know, I know, it’s serious.