The British Way

The overwhelming feeling this morning is shame. For making such a fuss. For being such a cry-baby.

It doesn't feel like it makes it any less likely that I'll 'off' myself at some point in the future. It just makes me feel like I should do it discreetly. Tidily. Quietly. With class. With a stiff upper lip. With all my affairs in order, and written instructions on what to do with my possessions. However, that may be a moot point given that everything I possess, when sold, might not even clear my debt.

Don't worry Ian, I'll make sure you get first dibbs on my music collection, though you have to share the deep house with Nadia and the rest with Andrew.

The other thing that struck me as I sat smoking a cigar in my dressing gown on the porch circa 7.45am, other than a throatful of phlegm, was how strange it was for Ms. X (I'm not about to reveal the names of the people in my group therapy group) to be so aggressive with me about tardiness and doughnuts (see blog entries for 2nd May if you don't know what I'm talking about). Sure, we all agreed that group needs to be spiced up a bit, but the way she spoke to me reminded me of how Nicole used to speak to me - as if I wasn't ill at all.

Let's face it, this isn't a fucking painting class. We don't meet for tea and biccies every week to exchange knitting patterns or swap stamps. Everyone in the group has a disorder. Actually, most people - myself included - have more than one. Everyone in the group is prone to insomnia, to lethargy, to a life-wrecking, soul-destroying lack of confidence that makes it impossible to peek from under the duvet some days let alone get out the door.

In which case, how the fuck could anyone have the ignorant, insensitive audacity to criticise someone with such disorders for being late? I ask you! It's like criticising someone with a broken leg for hopping f'chrissakes. What really worries me though is the fact that this isn't someone who's new to mental illness. All this came from someone who's still recovering from it.

Is that what happens when we get well? We forget EVERYTHING that we've just experienced? Everything we've learned?

As soon as we're ready to re-enter society then we automatically pretend we were never one of 'those people' and cover-up our past? Is that how humans work?

Just to cap it all, Ms. X won't be in group again because last week was her last week. So I don't even have any recourse. I can't punch her lights out or tell her how incredibly shit she made me feel. Perhaps that's one of the intrinsic learning opportunities of group therapy. That life isn't fair. That there is no justice. That the rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and when you're clinging on to the toilet bowl of life, trying not to get flushed, the best you can expect is just to get shit on even more.