abigcupofnope

[abigcupofnope]

Oh hi

I've decided to keep a blog as a kind of WhatsApp conversation to myself. It's probably going to be generally very lame and self indulgent. But I say things everyday that come across a bit tragic so perhaps they are better said in private.

Derealization is defined as feeling as if one's surroundings are unreal. I'm sure I've felt that. However, in my experience, an interesting and bewildering after effect is an inability to relate to that feeling. With reversibility like an asthma attack, it doesn't seem to have really happened. Derealization is how I've always made sense of my self harming behaviours, eccentricities and inconsistencies.

A few weeks ago I didn't recognise myself. In my own head, I felt estranged. Since, I have seemed to have grounded myself. However, I instinctively feel a personal and professional responsibility to dig.

Depersonalisation is more on the money of how I found myself a few weeks ago. This is defined as the experience of feeling unreal, detached, and often, unable to feel emotion.

And these together, are they how one experiences burn out? Am I am product or a resource for this professional phenomenon. Or lost somewhere in between.

I've been feeling, bubbling, nagging that I ought to dig through this. That it may need to be exhumed and examined. The matter being that I must appear everyday and be intact and grounded and whole. I need to be meticulous in my learning, my growth, my training whilst on a steady and complete projection, reassuring the general public and waving like the queen.

I've felt for many years that it would take a sabbatical to really be where i am. That to open the box would be to fall down the rabbits hole so to speak. I've never found the time or space to shut myself away, to allow the ruminations to reach maturity and be culled down.

I was in handover today and as usual, as there has been an escalation of cases over the years, we come to the end of the nights tales. Mental health is not least as much as it falls to the end of the ward, where we keep those suicidal away from screaming babies. I instinctively, and have blurted out in the past, want to tell that I was one of these teens. That I'm okay now. That it gets better. That adolescence can be a sickness, a burden, an anomaly. And yet I'm ashamed, that quite clearly I am the CAMHs graduate. I'm the marked adult, I'm so success, no hope.

It's difficult to navigate when you don't like yourself. It's worse when you share of yourself so readily. When you pour yourself. I find what I say to others facinating. Often I don't recognise what comes out. I'm frankly horrified as the ugly truths escape me, as others crawl inside by the news that I'm displaced, hysterical, strange.

I wonder if I will ever organise these or if they will just lie here; unattended, uncomfortable but holding some kind of hold on some kind of truths.