mental health and unhealth

We've all been in places that initially seemed normal but difficult when contacting the outside world from.

We've then looked back and realised 'oh dear, I was not very happy then' - if you are an English middle-aged voice in my head, or felt a generally 'ruffled', dusty and upside-down shame-like feeling about this now-past transition period -if you're the voice of my tidying freak obsessed with neatness - we may have come close to admitting it. This time of being off, of consistently failing at life, of not calling your dad out of lack of anything good to share, of not - just not.A firmly-lodged and completely naturally sprouting discrepancy between an ideal self and a real, one that lasts enough to warrant genuine complaints. And sighs. i hope you agree that sighs in sadness come free and legit.

and here, in this mess of brain and chewed nail clippings and occasionally a bit of dribble on the pen i'm biting with anger, is my attempt to trivially fun-size bite off, chew and spit out my view of the world of humans vs Mental Health Services Professionals and others affiliated.

Mental is anything that happens in you not caused by observable causal links.
A cough to echo inside your ears and your hair. One that slides up through the forest of follicles all ragged and rough, and meets the soft fleshy pod of the hair route. It enters by squeezing between the hair and the pod, sliding like a mouse, between cracks and enters a stream of blood or puss or both.

By itchy blood that stumbles upon particles and cells and changes direction, it is your destiny to believe what you feel. You're so attuned to recognising your body, you can reverse-control it and order it around. You are too attuned perhaps. or
- Perhaps a thought is proof of a sensation.
out of tune,
an echo of you,
eternally,
gracefully, out of tune. always. (whispering:)

your droopy eyes have decided to droop lower than usual today.
they have arranged to meet up with your shoulders,
but they are burnt from the sunlight,
from your 10 minute-long break in the sun.
the happiness hot mess
that makes everyone act so much more different than you
and you hate
and you fight off.
with. conviction.

your shoulders,
they droop along too.
burnt and droopy to match your disposition.
that of a person with nothing more than other things.

vague feelings of unworthiness.
general, vague, persistent.

it's almost as if..
it's almost as if you're making it up.
trying
to be unwell,
for some awful infliction of suffering worn as the only thing you are comfortable with.
your black day shoes.

and of course, it is so vague and debilitating it is almost obviously appealing.

but this is really not the case.
and you are not in any way faking it,
or your hands would have returned their normal size
and your mouth would have lifted from forceful drooping
and would have said something better than
'how's it going'-
the most meaningless and rude,
effectively hurtful,
awful expression
you swore never to use,
since that wanker on friends
but for some
fucking reason
you hear yourself
say.
again.
and again,
every day.

you are not a failure.
for this, i forgive you. don't cry


-------

--this is a piece of medical research feedback i gave today. i repeat my sob story and progress through the many iterations. i evolve and it evolves with me and it is a way of monitoring my progress as a human being.

I am now 'recovered' and have been for over 5 years - physically I've been a stable weight in the last 3 years, following a period of adjustment, fluctuation and 'dark times' of weekend drug abuse - to maintain body-weight. 
Despite a 'healthy' weight and look, energy, and limited rituals and fear of food, emotionally I maintain an 'auto-pilot' of guilt and shame, which i have to fight off and consciously ignore on a daily basis, with most mouthfuls consumed. I was denied treatment due to my bmi being 17.5 when i plucked up the courage to go to my gp, despite suffering from depression, generalised anxiety disorder and having reduced in over half my weight over 2 years. As a tall person with a narrow bone structure, bmi means nothing to describe what shape i should be acceptable at - clinically- , when alarm bells should ring - socially-, or when i should and should not feel conscious of my eating - emotionally. bmi also did nothing in terms of a healthy guidance, as it became a new number to fixate on and worry sick and stay up all night about, when i was advised to adjust from a number of kilos, to a number that's over a bmi of 18, at my year-long outpatient treatment at Nelson Hospital (in Merton, which I believe has now closed). 
i had to get sicker to qualify for nhs treatment, at a time of unemployment and severe isolation. i was advised to go private and had to wait 6 months to finally be seen, due to a psychiatrist who took it in her stride to get me help. i was initially assessed by an incompetent (and sadly a professor at Imperial) GP in Wimbledon, who told me i 'looked' fine 'darling' and 'go home and forget about it' and i can 'come in and be weighed once a month' if i want to. Apart from an unprofessional attitude in ignoring long-term health impact, potential future cost to the NHS, complications and comorbidity with other disorders, emotional distress and quality of life in patients not deemed as 'severe', it is outrageous to use statistical averages as means for deciding when mental health treatment is made available. I fight every day that each person that gets seen with a mental health concern is respected as an individual, rather than one of many in a long list of complaining hordes of numbers. 

I am a mental health patient, a psychology postgraduate, a mental health mentor and work in science communications. Like everyone else, i demand to be taken seriously and not fobbed off with bullshit about numbers, space, and worse - severity. If it wasn't severe i wouldn't be asking for help, I'd have not needed it, in the first place.

fear of flying

With a perfected sleek side parting,
nervous fidgeting of her sleeves,
She straightens her neck and shoulders
to appear taller.
Soles touching the floor,
knees together, slightly bent.
A pale breath in,
obstructed by an unwilling chest,
a wilted mouth,
and a deflated stomach.

At a moment of investigative genius,
she realised that nothing was important in the world.

Lifting a palm to cover
a face that didn't matter
-was wet
with streams of life.
A motion just for the sake of it,
imitating what people do
in these situations.

In reality,
the tears were only celebrating Futility.
A welcoming committee
put up a spread
of the best treats, on a Ryanair flight
from a point of caring
to a point of giving up on fear of death,
for a fear of life,
for a fear of pointlessness.

Her shadow of the world is so heavily biased
She doesn't even know to speak outside it.

Maybe this makes her God.
Maybe it makes her responsible for being laughed at.
Maybe it makes her a human. Just like the rest of them.
Pointless and uneventful. Disposable.

--

A few journeys later,
a different meaning will be given by points of reference:
Others, giving meaning to this One.

At some different universe,
an event will explain
the reasons behind
a sudden display
of tears.

At some different timeline,
an interaction will be more important
than a physical boundary
or a shared song.

But in this one, not much is any more tangible
than anything else.
Not much is salient
Or meaningful,
Or Suitable
and in this regard, She isn't either.

Keeping a calm exterior and a frozen inside,
letting go of little fighting dust mites
scooped up from Her core cavity,
letting them run off chasing each other
as she waves at them
-a romantic, with a white tissue of good will and don't come backs-
She is now sat on the seat
empty of life
and full of animation
and energy reflexes
and a proper human-like stature
blending in.

She is letting go of a holding hand,
for fear of not lining up with its magical properties,
not understanding its language,
or finding out a true that runs against Her.

It's tough being God on a plane.

pervert

what is it about me that attracts them?
is it my innocence,
my denied purity,
or my clean face,
my aversion to vulgarity?
i'm not
ill-disposed to things that are
>>vulgar
just so you know.
but my input is unrequired. rejected. like I can't reject you.

the same face
they all have the same face of absent excitement.
salivating
drooling
dogs.
they stare between the lines.
they smile
the same smile of passive titillation.
of an offer of a free beer,
slurping 'woof'
into the one they currently have
and wiping saliva
off the face, with a damp mothy sleeve.

i watch them as they try to dance
try to dance with me
try to dance
dance with me
they reject me
they want me to dance for them
dance with them
without them.
it's not about me.
it's never about me
yet why does it seem it always happens to

little me.
startled, perpetually startled,
my fate is to be taken by surprise
and innocently
not
say 'no'.
they lie, when they say you should speak up
speak out
speak.
say anything other than smile or nod.
there is no space for you
in there.
there's only space for
dick.

only space for a gigantic excitable puppy of a penis
and your prim and properness,
in your dark red chipped nail varnish, against the flesh
trying not to squeeze too hard
because you don't want to feel anything
and he doesn't know you are alive
and he would like you to smile and go with it.

and he would like you to do as you're told
and he would like it if you bit your hand and said 'ouch'
and he would like it.
do you like it?
of course you do.
you have no say.
you are not there.

everywhere i walk today i see ugliness
ugly bulging
ugly bulging smiles
absent bulging
male male
suited, booted, aftershaven
distant, absent, gentleman.

everywhere i walk today
i'm struck by the ugliness.
the suspect moles on the neck
of the alcoholic man on the tube.
the awkward jerking of the
man on the train.
ugly.

the women i see are beautiful. it is men, today, that hurt me.

humility

hot, dusty and sticky-eyed
a fat impending doom
orders calm and stillness
like nothing is ever
to change.

like The Only
is a second following when
contact breaks,
a shiver.
but for now,
impending.
Expected.
Required.
Desired.
Distorted.
Deformed.
Disgustingly precious.

but of course, there are rules.
Like how to smile when i'm not smiling,
how to communicate a loss,
when have it all.

and of course, the cat's out of the bag now
and there is nothing new to profess
or maybe nothing left, anymore.
A relief and a constant
Constant,
and a struggle to keep
things simple
or more exciting
that they might have ever been
(before?)

Expectation of exceptions,
except for that of extraction.
Nobody saw that one coming.
A pure removal
sucked up by  proverbial 'powers'
and leaving behind the cover
which i thought was you for a second
but now understand
i was fooled.
I have looked at you in different light
all this time
and have coloured-in the parts
my eyes could not see
as blinded by my
perspective.

Musty, milky patterns
of grey on brown,
and a delirious appreciation
for a single isolated freckle
in your eye,
experienced as an island,
a home, all comforts, all meaning, all hope.

alienation nation

i'm an alien and my heart was caught up in barbed wire,
as it was trying to flee the sinking ship,
and now it's made a mess on the floor
with all the drops of sticky blood.
for some reason,
blood of pain is stickier than blood of accident.
blood of negligence, more potent than blood of betrayal.
skin to skin,
i recognise and detach
i un-know and attach
lose the 'i' and adopt 'this'
look down on x-rays of hands holding hands held in hands.
a breeze expected to hit my face, never makes it.
or if it does, my skin has missed it.
such strong needs, each stomping along to their own tantrum
and 'I', the referee, suddenly awake in stripey top and football socks,
wondering when it will be logical,
when will it be comfortable,
and how will i recognise it as such.
and how will you recognise me,
when my features have blurred?
will you recognise my heart beating
and my hands holding onto you
or is everything numb to me, as i am to my shell?

i'm rushed on to the spaceship
no time to wear a spacesuit
no time to click my heels three times,
joyfully wave a tissue
or kiss you.
i feel like a cross between the hitchhikers' guide to the galaxy and ET,
i feel like a cross between border collie and hippopotamus
i feel like a cross and an axe
i feel like feeling is important
but right now who knows what this is and if my pain is happiness or nothing
and in any case, i don't want to burden you, sorry, i'll keep quiet.

ink hand

your favourite things
are listed on paper
in colourful marker pen
smudged by your hand
then smeared on your forehead
then kissed by my lips
which then bit into an orange
and spat out its peel
into my hand
dripping spit down through
those fingers too eager to care
and too old to respond.

if anything my experience has taught me
is timeliness and cleanliness
are two things i will have to
learn to forget as i age
and then remember again
and blame my demands

on my life-time.

as a keeper of objects
i keep you and your pens and your smudges and forehead
and i'll guard it with life and my death if i have
to confess that it's
less likely than anything that i'll ever lose these possessions,
i promise.

as a keeper of time,
i anticipate its passage to scar me forever.
i look forward to it, impatiently
biting the skin around my nails
so it frays more and feels like
something is
growing up.

biting into a metal bar

Alright Arabella,

this steel is just stellar

tucking quickly into 

metal?

the resistance

of feathers -

a plume full of nothing -

or the bitter shock 

of steel on your teeth

for some sort of explanation,

a vibration 

upon meeting the bar

met by a gum,

softly walloping under such circumstances.

Call us in advance next time!

call us

so we can have tea ready

roasted

processed

bit and

lost and

granular and banal

mood//light

a togetherness that approaches with more certainty than daylight, does right in directing delight into your eyes
intellectual bondage with no safety words or processing beyond the automatic writing of poems, streaming from a ghost of another timeline
a melted fleshy red mush, swirling in liquids of oozed out gloop, slightly mixing in with yours.
look at us now, pathetic, ugly, together, insulting the order of calm and the breeze is ignoring the comical sounds emitted by orifice squelching and violent nothings.
sharing an analogy
logically sharing it all
no share anomaly
all according to plan
unexpected
impressed

whose and for whom?

off

i made
an arrested appearance as swift as an arrow

it worked,
as you clapped me inside your palms
it's sweaty and smells sweet and like bleach here

is this all you've prepared for me?
i figured it would be something bolder.

i breathe in discomfort
while getting the sticky tags off

a mission without orientation,
intention
or obsession.

but i am counteracting that
as i'm groping at your skin cracks

marking my presence
and our past.

a pillow not so soft
but organic so who's complaining?

mass of pulse
pink. raw. brown. red. wet.

i am inside you. you are inside me now.
we've completed the circle.

animals.

a dirty shot

devastatingly primal

first shot from the cupboard

was all made of dust

extract of disgrace lingering on her lips

she licks them and smacks them together

uncharmed

a comedy piece on her rightness of feel,

the disparaging hoping and wonky-soled heels

a perpetual criss-cross of anticipated default

-a knot

in the throat she disables,

unharmed.

fresh

she caught fragments of shattered glass
between her lips
in slow motion
arching her back
just like a stretching cat in the sun.

she cut her lip on the sharp edges
drop on her cheek
in slow motion
shutting her eyes
just like a stretching cat in the sun.

she sat back in sheer terror
fear in her eyes
in slow motion
counting backwards
just like an unstretched secret in the night.

spitting out and wiping frantically
taking it all in her stride
decidedly avoidant
resourcefully ignorant
arguably innocent
just like the first day in her life.

upside down victory

Holding a victorious hand up in the air, hair flickering in the breeze, a draft from under the door, two spirits decided to become part of the wallpaper.
Irrelevant to you.
Without your consent or your involvement.

They went out in the patio, tiptoeing on the dirty concrete, so as to keep their socks as dry as they could. They pulled the rubber wet suits down from the washing line, and quickly started stretching them to fit over their bodies.
rubber to rubber
all firmly covered
they held each other
vowing eternal eternity
never to give up
never to see each other
with the respect of another human
but instead
to see
as one self-
fitting lock into a key
turning left
instead of right
breaking
and staying there
for their lifetimes
without regret.

Darling Spirit, your happiness is my delight.
I wish for all great things to be true. Enjoy enjoy enjoy.

Darling Spirit, I am scared.
A new face on your face. A plasticless surgery with every 'I do' and every 'I've got news'. A new beginning for you. A new ending for me. Bystand witness of my inevolution, I am perplexed by your reflexed body clock. I am upset you have become a bit of a landmark for me.

Darling Spirit, Am I forgiven for hating any shift of focus from me to a younger anything? Don't forget me. Please don't forget you are composed by two and a third part, the one I loved the most and know I understand.

(on seeing your friends get married and pregnant, when you're not married or pregnant)

hi

the picture in the end of the post below was a joke.

Autumn List

the best things of the current season:
>>leg stretching flexibly, arms extended to create a star
>>steady fall of now crispy leaves on my street. it took a week. now they are almost all down. the floor, beautiful, filled with colours, turning the page, facing an accepted stage of decay. i feel intoxicated. my skin jolts at the stretch of each little hair standing up, brushed against the cold breeze.
>>staring vaguely out a window, fully qualified and even encouraged to do so.
>>hugging missed loved ones in foreign establishments
>>2010-made dreamelectropop with guitars
>>Chia Bread
>>condensation on windows.

and a picture

bumped into a babe

dressing a cradled doll up like a real baby
with torn pieces of
yellowing gauze
the true
original
essence
of a heart
filled up to the brim
with the magic ability
to see past the present
into the world of a caring happy family hug.

i caught a wisp of the tufty fabric
walking slowly with patience
my steps at different pace
to the pram pushing magician.
my fingers sighed with relief
at a task to distract them from
not having got there yet
not having picked at
each other's varnished gloss.

she suddenly stopped her stride
and breathed in with alarm.
around she turned
her feet slowly moving consecutively
one inch at a time.
the rest of her body gently lifting
pushchair made of plastic.
i caught a glimpse of magic
the baby smiled at me.

standing too close and in front of her baby

i backed off as quick as i could say
'oh my'
bowing a little
while inverted voice asks me
'why??'

a serious question to threaten my integrity,
ever apologetically,
i fake i know and sigh.

orange

list of lists
carved on a miniature Shetland pony

she's absurd
she's gone off
curdling with any exhalation

inimitable
authentically tense
tasting the test
your intense pessimism
has cast upon her

failing to figure a feeling,
she's designed to dismiss
as irrelevant
compulsively
with her hands still shaking

her chin drawn in
and away she goes
unaware
of anything ugly
still straw stuck in her hair

handle with caution
not care
her correct proportions
popped out in a personal best
cut up upside down
rules to detest

she's so into that

What stigma?

juggling unhappiness is like a crash course to meditation without the safety net to hold you.
you drop in and face your demons. ugly motherfuckers with the power of your internal narrative and the familiarity of your external voice, as heard through your own ears when you talk and your nose is kinda blocked. you know, the pitch we all hate to identify as our own in some accidental recording. but you are not guided by an elder or safe in the space of the circle. you haven't extensively searched for truth and plateaued and remained high for weeks or chose to be part of the activities. what's more to note, you will never reach any higher level of anything.
stuck in a super-murky puddle of shit you ruined your only good shoes and made your mama disappointed a million times all over her most favourite of happy memories. thrown in by nothing. by yourself. you took the step you never do when standing close to the coming train, close to the platform edge. you move forward without any doubts and any ability to stop the movement. you accept. you look at. you understand. you embody it.
like meditation, you reach the trancelike phase of only thinking of the one concept without effort. without attention. with all your energy.
you get accustomed to shedding your skin and sitting there amongst your own shit for everyone you ever craved respect from to experience. you are a nothing made of feelings. the uncoolest mass of the wrong type of hair and always uncomfortable skin and dissatisfying bone and squidgy cartilage. you get your period every second. you start wanking for the very second time, when you know what to do, and the entire collection of your personal enemies and teachers who never believed in you and bosses who were jealous of you and shopkeepers who refuse to connect with you and doctors who only see you as a statistic walk in. you look up not knowing to take your hand out of your pants or to carry on and live out a sick fantasy but the meta- of this occurrence makes you pee yourself and there go the only dry clothes you deserve.
every day life made out of hell. you, like meditation, know this is exactly as severe as everything else in life and as important as this very second you live. you know to pull your skeleton up by the head, with a string attached to the highest point in the middle of your scull. you pull the puppet up and with your wobbly rusty hands you pull your joints in, to click in position. you stand tall and carry on despite the hurricane fighting against you. you lose your coat but you're already in shambles, who gives a fuck?
and then you try to announce to yourself that it's all ok. it's fine. you'll make it to the other side of the room, even if other people have been able to do this so much better and your inability is merely a sign of clear incompetence. it's fine, you try to say with a breaking awkward voice you can't control the volume of. "if i didn't deserve this, i wouldn't be here" you rationalise to the intense eyes looking in and out of you. as you say that you slip on a banana peel and fall over. you break you legs and have to start all over again.
yes. having experienced sadness is a bit like meditation.
but after it you're left with something more solid than the importance and insignificance of matter. you have looked at yourself. you have looked in the eyes. and it stays with you. you can look for it and see it in the eyes of your friends. those who know salute each other with a jitter of an upper lip and a little quick sniff and look away and a scratch of the head. just look around. and you will see that this place doesn't exist. like nothing does. more than you or i perceive it.

startrekstairs interview

-when will it be the time to admit my disillusionment?

-i've looked for reasons to encourage my involvement but in reality, the truth of the matter is that i can no longer support or explain my presence in this surrounding.

my advanced introspection has aided me in reaching the brand new lonely level of meta-meta-meta-modern post-development. now can your cat do this? i didn't think so.

my astral aura is solid gold and can take any vibration or intrusion from any humanoid or planetary presence that may visit the space nearby. it is the tribute to any doubt anyone has ever voiced towards me. Take that you mothermiserablebiatches! you hear me? put this sheer solid proper G O L D in your crack pipes. and lose your lighter so you can't even smoke it. ha!

-i'm sorry, i occasionally allow my superior criticism to come out in the form of playful banter. it's jus' bants though. don't take it serious. nobody take it serious. i'm not to be believed or trusted, if you want to be safe. for most humans, knowing something magical or other-dimensional is not tolerated well by the body. your system could overload and break, you could get stuck in a purgatory state of non-enlightenment without guidance. so no, be very careful. accept your physical limitations. you cannot and shall not push yourself further than you understand, you promise? now that's good good. i'd hate to be responsible for your breakage.

-yes, i smoke do you? it is my one sinful human body habit i have allowed myself to have. i tell you i don't fart, or smell bad or am overweight or sleep more than 7 hours a day, but cigarettes, yes. i am allowed to have that one. the Skylar world is a vast space of new and the same. smoking is hardly an actual barrier to reaching the information projected by the magnetic fields. also it makes me look sophisticated in front of my crystal ball. a little old-school like a retro fortune-teller. like the one my great great great grandma probably paid to keep in her castle or summat.

( please don't include this: i've had enough of this interview now. can we take a break? i can only bullshit for this long before i get a headache. tracy pass me the cocodamols will you? tracy! hurry up. i am not gonna fucking suffer for this bullshit. come on, darling. ah thanks. and can you empty this ashtray, it's starting to look like your miserable face. it smells like it too. * aggressive coughing* yeah yeah probably need a bit of drink too. -shouts: why is my glass empty and dry?? who's responsible for refilling it? that's right ziggy, it's you and you've lost a point off your personal development lessons. no, it's fine you can earn it again, oh don't you fucking dare cry. man up. how will you fight alien soul demons if you're so soft? oh come on, you know i love all my kids. yeah, some bourbon would be great yep. there we go. there i go.)

-where was i? oh yeah, so you'd like a prediction huh? normally i wouldn't do this in public. and of course money is not required although a lot of my guests do feel happier with their karma balance after they have made a donation to match the help they get from me. so, let's see. you have rough hands don't you? hmmm i think you are a stubborn and hard working person that doesn't give up, but you need to make time for yourself and forget other people. your spirit guide cannot reach you while you're working and the money you're making is too much for your, sweet'art. it's literally messing with your resonance to the universe and stopping you from being truly yourself and truly happy. did you know, that we instinctively know how to bend and support our bodies just the correct amount of heigh adjustment so we can climb up or down a staircase? see this is not really magic, but haha i'm using the power of knowledge to impress, you see? (chuckles)

-thank you for this. it was very interesting for all of us. may you be lucky and pure. bye bye.

-and one more thing, daaahling. you jus you, come here for a sec. bye to the rest of you! you, i know you hate me, you b1tch. you can not leave. never leave this room again. go sit in that chair. girls, i have someone i'd like you to meet.

busted

there's a ghost in the room.

i heard it. i caught the change in the air. perception judged with another sense i haven't got words for.

she saw me. we crossed on the landing. i bowed my head in respect. i would have taken my hat off had i been a gentleman. but this is a detail neither of us cared for. we circled each other. trying to keep our distances and histories and prominent emotional auras to ourselves.

she looked down and acted disinterested. she couldn't fool me, i knew she was curious. i chose to walk on my tiptoes. not because of fear, just trying to be elegant and limit my clumsiness. being sure of yourself is a sure-fire hit with the ladies.

she started to talk. mouth full of energy and intent. a voice so quiet i was deafened. i understood immediately her light and tactful tone. playful words darting out of her causing a wave of particles heading towards my direction. i absorbed them through my core, becoming them at her instruction. but every time i tried to reply she would stop and stare blankly. oh i could never impress her like that. i looked down in embarrassment.

she passed me and nodded goodbye. i wished for a long black coat and a walking stick to accompany my sorrow at her loss of life and then i wished for better timing. had all those years not been between us, i would have met my one.

serotonin dreaming: abstraction

under the table.

unidentifiable form.

unidentifiable heart rate. sweaty palms feeling like two squidgy blocks of cold fat wrapped in hairless animal skin. limbs. short core body. vibrating heat.

smelling of dust and winter memories wrapped up inside a clean sock. packed in a uni suitcase. next to a crumpled up receipt listing item 1 and a price I don't care to dispute.

as the reel rolls, images take form through their movement. a washing machine spin. tilting head right. is it the reflection I'm into or am I trying to read the meaning in the turn of wet foam fabric?

expulsion of purity. anything absolute leave me immediately. I only deal in question marks and qualms. I only accept immediate hesitation. I can only and will only can. bitten the tail and eaten into the centre. lips meeting lips. dematerialise and engulf everything. i strive for dissolution to become part of any life.