So for those who are following my ’99 day freedom’ blog, some of this will be repetitive initially.
It is hard to measure the emotive impact the stress of the very imminent house move is having on me, not to mention the hormonal fluctuations I am forever burdened with each month, however I think there may be a separate entity presenting itself. One which is linked to my mental health and with no therapist and no mental health worker currently allocated to me, I have nowhere to seek an answer.
It isn’t the first time it has occurred in all truth but it was so long ago I can’t really gauge what was occurring in my life at that point. I believe I was in collage. Either way, this will psychologically fascinate the more analytical of us.
I have this urge to change my entire self. Not who I am on the foundational but who I present outwardly in the physical. Reinvent myself, upgrade the wardrobe, change the hair, that sort of thing. I suddenly feel overwhelmed in my own skin, like it’s sticky and chunky and out of place on my bones.
My body, although recognisable, doesn’t satisfy me in anyway. I open the wardrobe, which looks rather bare with the move close by, and I am floored by the lack of femininity. I go to the mirror and I cannot believe I allowed myself to look like a dirty carefree hippie; something I have previously fought to be without restraint.
Now, some of you reading this blog post will know I am diagnosed with C-PTSD and less will know I have body dysmorphia. Could it be linked to one of those? Truth is I don’t know enough to know the answer.
The diagnosis of trauma is still new and nobody ever really explained what that means. Same with the dysmorphia, the label was slapped on carelessly with no explanation. I was a factory production line pretty. This is how mental health fails the sufferer in the UK. Even my therapists have had limited knowledge or didn’t want to reflect on such labels for too long, always failing to realise that the label burns a scar the more it is left on me without explanation. It’s almost like it needs to burn through to identify what’s inside the box it was left to label for an eternity.
Makeovers can be costly and with moving home to a place that is not exactly a waiting palace, I don’t have the money or the time to shop for a new me, just to find, potentially, this is a temporary state of being.
But while I sit here, feeling like I am a bag on bones clanking clumsily in a tub of grease, with no indication of a timeline for this state of being, I grow more dissatisfied and disgruntled with myself as a whole and that cannot be good news for my recovery.
And as the caterpillar slinks towards me, all heady air and full of force, I find myself overwhelmed. I cannot answer the question he is repeatedly reeling off, over and over, etching each syllable into my tired brain. He is societies puppet and demands me to stand tall and answer the age old question ‘who are you?’
And with great hesitation I answer ‘ how the f**k should I know!’