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[bellatrix-83]

Let us talk about your house.

Not the bricks and morter one, down the road, on the corner next to the traffic lights.

 The house that goes everywhere with you.

The house, inside your head.

You cannot move out of it and the upkeep can be tiresome and sometimes excruciating. 

Imagine each aspect of your house to be an element of you memories, your mind.

It is your mental health.

Some people are lucky enough to have orderly and happy houses with little upkeep.

If you read my previous blog then you’ll already be aware that my own house is, what can only be described as a contrast of heaven and hell.

As a sufferer of anxiety, PTSD and panic disorder maintaining control of my own mental structure is mostly exhausting.

Struggling with the restoration and upkeep of my own mind, I feel that finding an analogy which puts mental health into perspective is a key to not only trying to repair and restore, but also and very importantly, it helps others to acknowledge and empathise with the hurdles many of us face on a day to day basis.

I watch as mould forms and expands in the rooms above but often cannot find the strength or the energy to clean it, or call for help.

I wish I could find the motivation and resislience to go through the rooms and cupboards with a fine tooth comb, removing unwanted clutter, dusting the sides down and generally fixing the damage that has beeen done over a period of years.

The rooms upstairs are laden with bad memories, struggles, nightmares, panic… to name just a few.

All the rooms have names and I spend too much time up there, which is what has driven me to write about this subject.

Plus, I know I am not alone in this.

When you suffer with mental health issues of any description, the clutter can get out of control and entire rooms (or floors, in my case!) can be become overwhelmed, dysfunctional, and painful to be in.

But, with damage comes repair, and reminding yourself of that over and over again, on a day to day basis is one of the first steps to managing your mind.

I want to focus on those of us (and there are MANY) who struggle with upkeep and plead internally for restoration.

Did you realize that every time you put a foot forward, you are winning.

The first foot that hits the floor as you climb out of bed in the morning is a win. 

When you’re contending with depression, anxiety, PTSD or any other form of mental health battle, Every. Step. Is. A. Win.

It has been a long and painful journey for me to register the wins and appreciate that trying, in itself, is achieving.

One of the hardest aspects of living with mental health issues is waking up in the morning and realizing, with dread and tears, that they haven’t gone away.

The feelings of inadequacy are still there.

The hollow pit of despair in your stomach still resides.

The desire to ‘get up and get going’ has abandoned you, as it did the day before.

Everything is one huge knot of confusion and pain.

Tasks that need to be done overwhelm you to the point where burying your head in the proverbial sand seems to be the best and only option.

My words of advice that follow, will not make these feelings go away.

If it was as simple as that then we’d all be racing around like happy, goofy things, getting shit done.

Despite the house in your head being a cruel and forgiving place to be, there are strategies I have found that can ease the weight, making the burden less heavy to carry.

Acknowledging every step I take and ticking boxes helps me to get though the bad days.

I quietly but firmly praise myself for putting both feet on the floor every morning.

I’ve stepped forward.

I’ve made way for another positive move, however insignificant it might seem to somebody else.

But someone else doesn’t matter at this point.

You matter.

A small but important task is to take a sip of water when I wake up.  I always have a glass or bottle of it by my bed and I find it awakens my senses.

Your senses are either dulled or massively heightened during periods of depression and anxiety and coaxing them into a normal state can be really beneficial.

That one sip of water can, believe it or not, help to balance things out.

It doesn’t work for everyone, but I find that it helps me.

If you try it and it works?  You’ve ticked a box before you’ve even considered getting out of bed.

Working your way through the day pretty much relies on ticking those boxes.

If it helps, you could physically write things down, so that by the end of the day you can physically SEE what you have achieved.

Did you brush your hair?

Did you brush your teeth?

Did you make a coffee?

These are ALL wins and I cannot reiterate that enough.

 In my day to day life I try to give myself a tick in the proverbial box for everything that I achieve.

Many days my mental health leaves me disillusioned and paralysed in fear. Getting dressed feels like standing at the bottom of a mountain with no provisions for the climb ahead.

Washing my hair feels like an impossible task.  Enough for me to break down in tears.

At times like this I attempt to remind myself how important it is that I THOUGHT about it.

Yes, even acknowledging the thought process is a success, and that could lead you to do it for real,  later in the day, or maybe tomorrow

Most people find it easier to make steps with a positive thought.

‘Ive thought about washing my hair, which means I want to do it and if I want to do it, I can’

 Say it out loud.

Try to remind yourself that each step is a move. It’s fluid. It’s leading you somewhere.

Remember, every move is a win.

Peace and Carrots, until next time.

XxX

[bellatrix-83]

Appearing quaint and humble from this angle, like a master of disguise it gives away very little, catching intrigue from those who pass by.

Nestled in remote yet dense woodland it is, regardless of the season, consistently brushed with the gentle caress of late autumn.

Oranges, gold’s, reds and auburn mingle and entwine like a song around this cottage.

Mismatching bricks create a perfect, imperfect pattern. It was built years ago, with careful attention, love and dedicated hands.

The small white front door sits almost awkwardly to the left and through the wood framed windows you can make out the shape of pottery and plants, furnishing the window sills.

Whoever lives here affectionately nurtures and watches things grow.

Inside the cottage strange and interesting items must adorn the shelves and cupboards. Well read books, much loved trinkets, mismatching crockery. An eccentric mix. The story of some bodies life.

To step inside and explore, would surely be a treat.

Let us walk up the twisted garden path, through the rambling overgrowth and take a closer look.

The door is ajar!

Slight bow of the head, a step forward and we're inside, blinking into a warm, mellow light, a contrast from the dappled and hazy sunshine left behind us.

Allowing your eyes to slowly adjust, a hallway stretches out in front, surprisingly long and narrow.

Framed pictures grace the uneven, yet skillfully plastered walls creating an eclectic mix of colours and sizes, all hung by a hand that does not care for strict organization and straight lines.

Dark wood doors lead off in each direction. A stairway curving up and around to the right can be seen ahead at the end of the hallway. The space feels out of character compared to the perspective from outside. Like Mary Poppins handbag it holds a host of surprises.

Carefully making way through the first door on the right into a generous sized room, large, soft burgundy sofas sit at natural angles, complimenting the higgledy nature of the, otherwise, tidy living room.

Trinkets bought or inherited with affection furnish the brimming bookcases. Photo frames, dried flowers, a small, stone statue of a couple entwined. To name just a few.

There are no clean lines. This house belongs to somebody who embraces quirks and comforts.

Soft lighting comes from a crackling log fire, the flames fluttering and dancing, creating a party of shadows on the wall.

If you could touch memories, they would immerse your mind in this room.

Close your eyes, envisaging toast over the open fire on chilly evenings. Family games of Cludo and Monopoly. Cosy Saturday nights in front of the television and delicious Sunday roast dinners followed by steaming mugs of tea. Hot cocoa on frosty evenings. Stories, chat, warmth and love. This building appears to hold dear and magical memories.

Wandering off down the hallway, just before the stairs, is the kitchen. Pots and pans hang from low beams and an agar resides proudly in the corner, just over there.

A large basket of freshly picked vegetables sits upon the side and an array of oils and seasonings cover the worktops. Whoever lives in this house must love to cook.

Stepping across old quarry tiles, we walk to the window.

A rockery nestles in the corner of a delightfully eclectic garden. There must have been small children peeking into that rockery once upon a time. Hands on their knees, they would whisper to each other, painting pictures in their heads of what the frogs and toads were doing, in their dark little burrows. Did Mummy frog wear a pinny as she baked apple pie for her brood of children?

You can envisage days in the sunshine skipping through the playful spray of the hose as Dad turns watering the garden into a game. Squeals of laughter and delight as ice-cream is offered by Mum, as a tasty treat.

The essence of this house so far flows with love, family and precious memories. The warmth is addictive and infectious. What a fabulous place to grow up in.

Let us make our way up the stairs, at the end of this hallway and explore the rooms above.

The staircase bends up and around to the right where another long corridor greets us. It is as long as the hall way downstairs but in contrast the light is dull and eerie.

Chills run down the spine, penetrating the bones. The atmosphere is still and silent. The warmth of the fire seems a million miles away and every part of me wants to race back down the stairs and into the comfort of the beamed kitchen.

But something makes me stay, paralysed and unable to move.

Why did I climb that staircase?

Sorrow and sadness spread in waves over me, like an unwanted tide.

I don’t want to close my eyes because I know the memories in this part of the house will haunt my dreams and hurt my heart.

Looking around, ripped plaster and cracks in the walls appear to be bleeding in the shadowy darkness.

The walls are weeping.

How can one house hold two such different lifetimes?

Each door is shut tightly. No inviting light seeps through the cracks.

I shake my head and swallow. I don’t want to open the doors and explore.

Not again.

Wild tears begin to burn my skin, as though terror itself crawls down my face.

This house, with all of its initial warmth and love, is tainted by ghosts of the past.

As I turn and look back down the stairs I realize that the poison from this first floor is leaking down the banister. The paint is chipping, the wood rotting and with anguish I realize it is spreading to the rooms below. Like a virus that cannot be contained.

You can leave if you wish. Run down the stairs, out of the door and don’t look back.

I am afraid that is impossible for me.

You see, this house that we have explored together is more familiar to me than you first realized.

It is a building that I cannot escape from and these rooms, these rooms upstairs are where I reside much of the time. I’ve lived here since the day I was born, but it doesn’t exist in the material word.

The door was open because I let you inside.

No physical key exists, purely because this house happens to be in my head.

It hasn’t always been this way.

But mental health is a cruel and unforgiving visitor. .

The foundations began to crumble in my late teens and despite my best efforts I found it increasingly hard to and maintain my beautiful, precious home.

Weeds and darkness seeped in and through the walls upstairs.

Pain clung to the rafters and cloaked what was once laughter, with tears.

Foundations that had stabilized and supported my happiness, health and contentment began to buckle under the weight and pressure of depression, anxiety, PTSD, panic disorder, social anxiety… The list goes on.

Damp spread like a blanket of deep sadness and pain. There are times when I have contemplated demolishing my stupid fucking house, and that’s the raw and naked truth.

Living in it every day can be hell and I often roam the rooms crying and screaming, lost in a void of terror.

But I know that I can conquer this.

I know that My House, my Mental Health can be repaired, restored and healed.

It just takes time.