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Rl Apr 2014
'Nothing bad is going to happen'

is the alternative thought that

I wish would stop me bleeding.
Hannah McGregor Apr 2021
I have two facts for you that exist in my mind -
1. I am normal
2. I do not 'feel' normal
I have never considered myself to be normal.
I knew i wasn't normal when at the age of eight after my Dad left my school hired a counsellor just for me,
and i wasn't normal how after then i was the only pupil to be from a single parent family.
I wasn't normal when just after this abandonment my body entered early puberty,
and so feeling weird didn't stay a feeling, it became a reality.
Picked on for things out of my control, i felt like a freak.
Even at the age of eight, every aspect of my identity was up for scrutiny.
I knew i wasn't normal when in secondary school i would purposely get detentions
to spend time with teachers, because the the turmoil of the school yard was a teenage no man's land.
The company of those my own age is something i will never understand.
I knew i wasn't normal when i would hesistate in conversation when someone asked me who i fancied in my class.
The name of a random boy rolled from my tongue in an attempt to not blow my cover.
I knew i wasn't normal when my tweets coming out as bi were passed around like breaking news.
When i tried to defend myself in the interrogations, teachers would sternly say to me -
'That's not appropriate to be talking about in school' like my sexuality was a hushed secret, even though the straight girls were never silenced.
I knew i wasn't normal when i had to say i was bi, when in fact this was a lie. A lie to help me pass, pass and hold on to some straight privilege.
At the age of sixteen i questionned my worth and value as a person, trying to blame myself for the treatment i was subjected to.
I knew i wasn't normal when i decided to place my emotional pain onto a physical space, then patching up the damage as a form of ironic self-care.
I left school for a college, desperately seeking freedom from the constraints of a Catholic school.
I never felt comfortable in sixth form, being there my mind felt like a spinning waltzer i was strapped to for two years.
At seventeen i knew i wasn't normal when i was prescribed the maximum dose of sertraline, then mirtazapine, venlafaxine, fluoxetine.
By this point in my life i was on a tally of maybe six counsellors and two CBT therapists.
I knew i wasn't normal when i started to blame myself for the therapy not being successful. Maybe i was just meant to be depressed.
Changing my thinking styles, emotional regulation, journalling my feelings and triggers, i knew exactly what i had to do.
I knew i wasn't normal when i clung onto certin things as comfort, like my adoration for florence and the machine.
I started to experiment, toying between wanting to fit in and wanting to be myself, painting bright eyeshadow on my lids as a vibrant mask to carry me through.
I knew i wasn't normal when i reached out to the local crisis team experiencing auditory hallicinations, hearing sounds only meant for my ears.
My emotional states are a product of my trauma, which is difficult to navigate as the world's greatest performer.
Maybe i was meant to face this internal torment, or until now i hadn't considered i could be neurodivergent.
Victor Thorn Sep 2014
CBT
I gave him eighteen years, thousands in gas money, and more music than he deserved, and all I got in return was a subscription to Fox News– which, by the way, is a complete ******* “thank you” gift because you can fool yourself into believing anything.

        "You know what's going to happen tomorrow? Rain!" when in fact I'm certain its going to be a scorcher.

He sits bedside, making horrible jokes and bringing up remember-that-times. When will he ever pay the rent? Even though he doesn’t sleep here– he never sleeps– he should at least pay me in something other than beheading-dreams. And in the shower we review ****** flaws, and in the mirror we recount all the mean things I ever said or did to him for being such an insufferable *******.

“Stop it.”

He looks uncomfortable, not as sure of himself. He ponders what I meant for a while, opens his mouth to rebut and gets another stop it.

“Stop it. Get a job.” Because he contributes nothing.

“But you should…”

“Stop it. Get a job, because all I’m gaining from us right now is a bunch of lies. Quit watching Fox News.”

“Listen here, ******–“

“Stop it. Get a job. Quit watching Fox News.” And he leaves for a couple hours.





He knocks.

“Stop it.”

The knocking stops.
NitaAnn Nov 2013
You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Like it or lump it.

The only constant is change.

Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!

Life isn’t fair!

If life gives you lemons…make lemonade.

I feel trapped. Trapped in this life I don’t want to be in, trapped inside my head, inside this messed up, used up body. Trapped by the conflicting voices that argue and debate constantly…never a minute of peace and quiet! Trapped!!!

I continue to live inside this chaotic crazy world of confusion and I don’t know which way is up anymore. I cancel appointments, I lash out at DT, tell him he isn't helping me and I hate him. I dissociate, to **** the pain, I abuse the drugs that have been prescribed, SI to try to get the bad out of me, I don’t sleep, most weekends I don’t even have the energy to go out of the house…but none of it matters….because “it’s all part of the process”…perhaps DT could provide me with a bullet point of the ‘process’ so I can see where I am now, and how many more bullet points there are to go…so I’ll have all the evidence and be able to make an ‘informed’ decision of whether I have the stamina to do it. Isn’t that part of the ‘discovery’ process?

Nothing gets processed, it never gets better. I don’t think I even understand the concept anymore. I mean I’ve read so much about it…treatment approaches; behavioral, psychodynamic, cognitive, eclectic, holistic, existential, person focused, CBT, DBT, and more! I’ve researched and studied trauma symptoms and what to expect, how to handle them. I’ve read about the long-term effects of childhood abuse…the fear of abandonment, inability to trust or feel safe, inability to self-soothe or regulate emotions, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, self injury, suicide ideation, the tendency to ‘repeat the trauma’.… oh, I “understand” it well, from an educational perspective. I have good insight. I can explain it to someone else…but emotionally, and physically…personally, I don’t comprehend it, I can’t apply it to me. It’s all just words, I have no personal connection to them. Just like the terms: mom, dad, safety, trust, intimacy…all words in a dictionary. I understand them, I know the ‘meaning’ of the words but I have no real human connection to them, they have no personal meaning to me. Like reading a physics book…all words and terms and models and notions and things…I sit and observe externally, but none of it is part of my internal world.

That’s my problem right now…(well, one of) is no one listens! *NO ONE HEARS ME!!!
Everyone just shoves information at me – techniques, tools, lists, print outs, videos, cds, diary cards, words…and I see them, and hell, I’m pretty sure I could teach them all to anyone with an IQ over 50 – but how does it relate to me, to my life? The stupid exercises in DBT…”practice them” go to class, talk about them…
DBTC says, *“Don’t you feel better/happier/distracted/grounded/soothed now?”
And I just pause and take an internal inventory and say, “NO!” I don’t because it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do.
“Oh, well, then you must be doing something WRONG. You are a failure – you aren’t trying hard enough.” Yes, it’s my entire fault. I will try harder. And I try harder, and it doesn’t work, and then I become more frustrated, like a 1 year old trying to fit a round toy into a square hole. It doesn’t fit! And I try it over and over and over, and it still doesn’t fit. And I become more and more frustrated and feel more and more worthless and stupid…and no one listens because it’s my fault. I’m not trying hard enough! I should be able to do this! I should be able to ‘soothe’ myself and ‘ground’ myself and ‘feel safe’ and make him go away when he comes to me at night, and be happy when I’m sad…and pretend, pretend, pretend, fake it. Shut up and behave yourself, young lady, so everyone can see how much better you're doing...another DBT success story!

Nothing is shifting and I’m still stuck. Read it, live it, apply it, love it! I read the material like it’s a prerequisite class in college. I study it, I learn it, I recite it, I ace the exam, I can tutor others on the material…but like finite math – I’ll never use it, I don’t apply it in my own life. I don’t incorporate it on a personal level – it’s just a class I have to pass to graduate.

Nothing is stable, nothing is safe, there’s nowhere to turn, no one to turn too. There’s no one here – no one listens – no one cares about what I say is working or isn’t working. The echoes of my screams just resonate through the cavernous canyon. I look around for the Verizon network and there’s nothing – no one. No one HEARS ME! DT used to hear me, but not anymore because now you don’t have time. “Sure I do,” says Dear Therapist, “I have a whole hour.” And you can call me until 10pm each and every night, if you need too, and if I’m available and not (enter: in session,  at the hospital working, running…or just plain not wanting to answer the phone) I will listen. In other words, if everything else falls through, then 'maybe'. Gee, I should jump on that.

Truly, I should take it, run with it, put it in the blender with some water, and make lemonade for EVERYONE!

Yes, my world today is so much different now than it was then. The only difference is the scenery.

Everything is still there: the fear, the lack of trust, the lack of safety, the ED, the SI, SIB, the pieces of me, the unfamiliar woman in the mirror looking back at me.

There's no where to run to… no where to hide....from myself. That's what it comes down to in the end, I can't hide from myself, and I can't seem to help myself either.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i can assure you, i don't speak with the same language i write with, being  bilingual, and not some peacock polymath, i do not use this language in my private life... hence? i don't have to play a privacy game, akin to the schizophrenic internet / "real world" (internet banking / shopping?) scenario... i just switch my language... English remains intact online and among strangers... and it's not many English speakers will learn the western Slavic tongue, either... win win.

the "miracle" cure of english
psychiatry, composed of
a speaking, "therapy"?
why isn't the old concept
of pen-palls ever revived?
   can we allow, space, for patients?!
can't we allow for
                 a laps of time?
why was Anne Sexton,
Sylvia Plath, "prescribed" writing
cures...
     mild coal miners of ink?
who the hell needs talking cures?
is talking really any medium
for the allowance of a, "cure"?
i can't believe in talking therapy...
too much nuance,
too many deviating ******
expressions...
         and... **** me!
   the implosion of the psychiatric
practice of dogmatic
   regression-ism...
i.e. implanting false memories
into someone...
i've had that... wunderbar
practice!
  don't **** someone with
pharmacology... instead?
   implant fake memories into them!
with a passive form of
persuasion!
     talking therapy is CRAP!
*******!
       ****-HIT-THE-FAN!
**** MY BIG TOE PRETENDING
IT TO BE A *******
8 YEAR OLD'S PHALLUS!
  *****-****-mother!
what do i believe in?
  talking will not solve it...
    writing?
        to see the face of god,
is to also appear within the medium
of a reciprocation allowing
itself an audience of a shared
experience...
        there was never any talking
therapy...
  to begin with...
          talking sometimes requires
the art of sophistry,
rhetoric, to begin the architecture
of a "solipsistic" membrane...
  writing doesn't suppose this
coordinate, since it presupposes it...
   talking is for idiots,
writing, for those who retain
an article of faith, within the confines
of the multi facet theater
of doubt, without an outright
operatic "inconvenience" of negation...
who thought that talking therapy,
or CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy)
would ever work?
   if the basis of CBT is solely
focusing on the quick-hand of
speech?
  if CBT is to work, you'd also need
a SLP (speech-language pathologist)...
supposedly psychiatrists
are learned listeners,
quasi-priests,
   in the secular confessional
booths of sinless confessions...
and yet...
english teachers,
giving grades to pseudo essays,
listen more,
   to their pupils,
having to relax to some miles davis
in the meantime...
     talking "therapy"
is absolute *******...
     if this pseudo-medical profession
becomes nothing more than
corner-street drug pushers,
doesn't escape the "talking cure"...
and doesn't revert back
to pen-pall ergonomics,
   a Hippocratic oath,
beginning with, patience?
   **** them...
              CBT begins with an exchange
of writing...
   speaking to one another
is the last resort...
    an exchange of writing is
allowed a leisure "activity" of
engagement in one's own
periphery...
               allowance...
   not without the stress of...
       the allocated time,
     and the necessary "socialism"
of minding others,
of the similarity of shared problems...
   for a hyperventilating heart,
to drop a heart-shaped stone
into the sea of contradictory emotions...
and wait for
   the oysters to spawn.
Hayleigh May 2014
Write me a meal plan in bright red pain
And tell me this is the answer to all my problems again
Force down a tube through my nose and into my stomach
And watch as I flummox out of control
Fill this gaping hole inside of me
With drugs and sedation
Numb out pain and realisation
Force feed me promises and a smile
Only to regress back in a while.
Fill these cracks
With temporary fixtures
Concoctions of pills and other mixtures.
Treat me with CBT and psychotherapy
Tell me one day ill be free
And maybe if you say it enough times
Ill start to believe it
As much as you say you do.
David Noonan Feb 2018
another door closed
another community mourns
a macabre picture on a frame
for a tear stained love to find
once crafted by his own hand
not twelve months since
now a final resting place
marked by a note in steady pen
and why should it take
an angel of the epihany
to deliver a man in a plastic bag
to teach us of cbt
of an emotional intelligence
to be mindful of ourselves
while church, state, school fails
this country's young men
for generations and on
the silence does creep
so many futures in the past
too many paths closing so fast
there are so many questions
that sustain this male disease
silence never speaks in answers
or hears society's griefful pleas
today in another village
tommorow yet another town
a young man fits an attic joist
with silent eyes so cold
for jesus he was a carpenter
or so at least we're told
death by suicide continues to a nightmare visited on so many towns and villages of rural Ireland for generations and on with next to no supports of state ever prioritised to tackle this disease of predominately young men
ali brown Jun 2018
I made a vision board
in CBT therapy
four years ago

I pasted a Keaton Henson quote
“I think a lot  of art is trying to make someone love you”
on my board

I just thought it was a nice quote

My therapist then proceeded to tell me
not to create for anyone else
but myself.

I proceeded to not listen.

I’m still writing poems about you
I’m still drawing your hands
I’m still in love
and we haven’t talked in years.
Gonzalo Bartleby Apr 2017
It's a small bar,
with old wooden tables
and no music:
I like to get a break sometimes
and I come here every Sunday
after my CBT sessions.
The waitress smiles.
She is Spanish too but
-it's that white mist
taking over my mind again-
I can't articulate
and I just speak English,
hoping she doesn't notice
my accent.

When she brings me
a dark decaf coffee -even if
I have asked for a decaf tea-
and I taste it,
and it tastes horrible,
I lose balance and stumble
for a moment
("you are going to fail",
and "this is all your fault",
and "just let it go, don't move,
it'll pass").

It is such a small detail
in the grand scheme of things,
but this decaf coffee, this black mist,
makes me feel that
there is something wrong with me.

I look through the window:
across the road, a student residence,
all windows and shining glass.
A girl goes up the stairs
with a blue basket in her hands;
she is probably making the laundry.
Another girl leans on the sill,
and smokes. I invent a life for them,
and it's a good life - a life to praise.

I want to go back to Uni, I think,
and for a moment I feel safe, and warm.
("Nevermind,
I'm too old, after all").

I pay for the coffee and leave.
In two hours, she'll have clean clothes,
and I don't know where I'll be
(especially on days like these,
when my mind feels heavy,
and weak).
Sometimes I wish I had more certainties. When I was in college, the future looked much more defined.
Andrew Ewen May 2018
For about two years it crushed me and me under its control.
Preying on my weaknesses and craftily infiltrating my mind, just like a mole.
It was trying to set up shop and stop me from living.
Like Groundhog day, it felt like each terrible day, I kept reliving.
I knew if I didn't do something, I may slowly lose my mind.
I had to make the effort and see what help and support I could find.
It was time to try things like CBT and medication.
It was time to get back to enjoying my life; and not be ruled by trepidation.
Courtney O Jul 2018
Why do I feel like this?
I feel you away from me
Have I fallen too deep?

Now everything's fine
are we close to die?
This pressure in my chest
this loneliness

And it's not up to you
and neither up to me it seems
that loving you carries
of sufferment a little tear
It wasn't like this
it is my fear, beating strong
killing me

And this fever consumes me
it's heavenly, are you ill too?
And my desire runs deep
All I need, all I need

Why do I feel like this?
(should be doing CBT)
I try to understand
I try to find some peace
I know your love for me
is strong
but sometimes I just can't see it
NIGEL Dec 2020
The Ballad Of Foxham Bill

I  knew a man down Wiltshire way,
We called him Foxham Bill.
He’d sit astride his tractor
And swagger up Spirthill.

Up top he’d stop and look around,
A broad smile on his face,
Below the farm he knew so well
His life bound to that place.

Before he set to work each day
He’d ponder on his fold;
With pride he’d think about his wife,
His three girls good as gold.

On his descent he’d fill the lanes,
Surveying his estate.
We’d strain our necks and back our cars,
Give way to Bill’s old crate.

It stayed that way for years I guess,
His routine would hardly falter,
But then daughter June a sailor met
Who brought her to the altar.

Next Mary flew around the world,
Back-packing I’d heard say,
Got fixed up with an Aussie lass
When cruising down Sydney way.

Now down to one, his pride and joy
(She’d never tasted town),
Bill had a boy in mind for her
With him she’d settle down.

But Julie, bless her, took the veil
And married her school mate.
They took a plane one Saturday
And now live in Kuwait.

Wife Betty would not leave the roost,
Of that he could be certain,
With thirty years under the yoke
She’d make their final curtain.

But ringing in the church one day
Elizabeth met Sam-
Within three weeks of knowing him
She’d left for Chippenham.

Now every day he climbed that hill
His swagger was no more,
His smile had gone, he wore a frown,
His tractor lost it’s roar.

As bad luck went, his was the worst,
Alone now on his farm,
He worked away the lonely days
And tried not to self-harm.

One day a Jaguar pulled up,
A stranger knocked his door.
He said his farm and land was sold-
His tenancy no more.

So Foxham Bill, a farmer spent,
Took all his compensation
And bought a house in Bremhill Wick,
Investment ‘gainst inflation.

His Massey Ferguson he kept
A’rusting on his drive,
And every day took all he had
To try and stay alive.

The NHS it did it’s best,
They would not taste defeat,
With CBT and counselling
They’d have Bill on his feet.

But then one morn I took my rod
And set out for the river,
It wasn’t a chill that caught my breath
Or a  wind that made me shiver.

For in the midst of Avon’s flow,
It’s front wheels spinning free,
Was that tired old red tractor
And Bill hanging from a tree.

So dear reader, I’d say to you
(Be you rich or poor)
The only constant thing is change
Of that you can be sure.









© (no references, veiled or otherwise, to any person living or dead )
A very British poem, probably not good to plan things too much, lest those who watch may surprise you with changes!  :- )

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