starting stimulants!

here’s how i learned i had add (that’s adhd, but without the hyperactive part)

CLUE NUMBER ONE

like most university students, i tried stimulants. not to get high, but because i had already received an extension on a final exam and had been struggling with my mental health so badly that i was constantly dissociating while trying to study. i took vyvanse aka long acting dexamphetamine but unlike most university students i did not get high.

not only that, but i felt like i could think. i felt calm.

CLUE NUMBER TWO

generally, i’m not into any sort of street drug. i don’t even smoke weed regularly. but, i am also believe in trying everything once. so i did speed (aka ecstasy aka molly aka mdma) in a club and …

… had a nap. legit. i left the club after it kicked in because i wasn’t feeling it and then fell asleep on the train home.

if you weren’t already aware – only people without adhd can get high from stimulants, whether that’s ritalin / adderall or a street drug like mdma.

sub clue: mdma is an amphetamine, which is the same basic molecule for adhd meds.

CLUE NUMBER THREE

some symptomatic things. i have no memory. i put it down to dissociating, until i realised i was dissociating less and my memory got worse (conundrum). it feels like i have sirens in my head. my thoughts are constantly bouncing off each other. i am generally very frazzled.

sub clue: adhd does not present the same way in males and females, just as autism presents differently in males and females. so sure, i wasn’t the typical naughty kid at school and i had top grades, but even at my lowest i have maintained good marks at uni. what i was guilty of was constantly interrupting people, saying inappropriate things impulsively and feeling constantly on edge which causes me to stim wildly.

note: people do not like it when you knock against a table very fast to calm down

TL;DR

i started stimulants and can actually fucking think for the first time in a long time


on another note, ana is loving that we are starting a medication which suppresses appetite, since we are so so close to reaching our gw. i’m at what i think is my set weight now but i am determined to push my body and lose these last _ kilos.


love,

your blogger-in-chief who no longer feels foggy all the fucking time,

rosie bogs

themis: a scale, a sword, a blindfold and a lion

i have always been fascinated by greek mythology. i would say greek and roman except we all know that the romans just copied all the greek gods and goddesses after overpowering the greek empire. anyway, i’ve always found greek mythology a really beautiful polytheistic conception of the world. (rick riordan’s percy jackson series anyone?)

themis is the goddess of law with the power of divination – she was an oracle, i guess. in her depictions, she is represented alongside four objects: a scale, a sword, a blindfold and a lion.

i don’t know where this popped into my head from, but maybe themis has something to say about where i am currently at. lately i’ve been trying to come to this blog with more stream-of-consciousness in-the-moment writing stuffs, so if it’s rambling all over the place know that my thoughts are probably in a far worse state. cool, back to themis.

the scales: not only a symbol of justice, of the balance of good and evil, but also a physical measure of an object’s weight. an object like, say, a certain bulimic individual who is quickly spiralling toward a relapse into her old anorexic ways. my scales were lying so i had to buy new scales, a better set, an electronic set but then i didn’t have any batteries and had a panic attack for the next two days until i went to the shops again since i had already ditched the shitty old set by this time

the sword: well, this should be obvious. i have a love-hate relationship with myself, my body, my scars and self harm.

the blindfold: themis wore a blindfold to judge things as they were, not how they appeared. but i think i am blinded by things as they appear. i am blinded by the sight of my body, which seems disproportionate and disgusting; i am blinded by the sight of food, which i will refuse to touch for days at a time or else gorge on until i purge or cut or drink or wake up in hospital with no memory of what landed me there; i am blinded to my own needs by the needs of others; and i am probably blinded by all the things my sick self says are good for me, that my sick self says keep me safe. here’s an example: i’m drinking as i write this. i was sober for such a long time and then in the past couple of weeks i’ve taken refuge again in the dull, fuzzy sensation that alcohol provides.

the lion: i want to say that i am brave, and courageous, but maybe the lion isn’t a symbol of my own spirit inasmuch as it is a symbol of all the shit barrelling towards me that threatens to hurt me, or else all the dangerous ways i self-destruct.

this was going to be a post simply about the whole scale/weight/fat-ass scenario and my current relapse (am i allowed to call it a relapse when i’m the one in the midst of it? is relapse a diagnostic word or a symptomatic one?) but then i thought of themis, and i realised i had an opportunity to go full nerd.

in other news,

the new rick and morty episode was pretty great (s4 e8).

in other other news,

my doctor threatened me with a schedule and a police search if i didn’t take myself to hospital after showing up at her practice needing sutures. so i took myself up to emergency, talked to the mh team, and was discharged 2 hours later. i don’t know whether to laugh or cry because the situation seems ludicrous, hilarious and also just really fucking sad.

every time i look at my thighs i cry.

i was trying to total the number of stitches i have had in my head, but i lost count, which is probably the worst number there is – infinite. i had 37 across two thigh cuts kinda recently, there are 10 in my arm as i write, and there were 6 last week. if i keep counting, i think there would have been about 30 on my thighs, and fuck knows how many on my arms. at least 40, maybe even 50? nobody will ever love me, not with this frankenstein flesh.

love, your very sad melodramatic bogs,

rosie.

she’s still alive, let’s take five

if you saw my last post, you will know i attempted, for the sixteenth time, to take my own life. which is pretty fucked. i don’t want to put myself through it again, but you know how it is – i’m a borderline bitch *shrugs*

i do feel a need to vent about it, and i will, and this is my space for that sort of emotional vomit. for now though i need to let myself relax, apply for extensions for my two final essays of the semester, and focus on staying safe.

i’ll be back soon blogger buddies


primary herder of cats,

rosie bogs

x

sketches from the psychiatric word

disclaimer: this is a repost, from when i first became blogger in chief

i’m struggling to articulate the mess of my loud thoughts at the moment so i have decided to return to my most popular post of all time, sketches from the psychiatric ward. as you’ll read, this was the first time i had picked up a pencil for many years, and since then i have been doing more and more art. would you be interested in seeing more? leave me a comment below. so here they are, the first ever set of sketches i did to cope with my first ever stint on the psych ward.

they’re strangely aesthetically pleasing.


in 2017, i was admitted to three separate psych wards, for a total of six weeks. it might not seem like a lot, and sure i had 46 weeks of non-psych ward living, but these were my first three trips to the emergency (ever), and first three admissions to hospital for any reason. in my hometown back in regional western australia, it is much more difficult to seek help for depression, never mind bpd. if i had gone to my local emergency department before leaving geraldton, it is likely i would have been turned away, told to stop attention-seeking, or sent five hours away by ambulance to the nearest psychiatric facility in Perth.

IMG_2339

which is sad, because the psych ward is not what i had expected. And not what most people would expect, i imagine.

let’s talk about that third and final admission for the year. i was discharged exactly one month prior to writing this. i was suicidal, and this time i was going to do it. fortunately, i was already at the hospital for an eating disorder assessment, and was admitted from there, which made things simpler, and far less anxiety provoking.

being admitted involved a lot of tears, emotional exhaustion, silence, withdrawal, scratching (a form of self harm), anxiety, screaming (not from me), locked bathrooms (because of the bulimia), quiet conversations in side rooms, and meetings with various doctors, nurses, psychologists and occupational therapists. it wasn’t much fun, and hospital is certainly not a place I ever want to be, but it kept me safe. (and since then, further admissions have continued to keep me safe, as shitty as it is to have my rights removed as an involuntary patient, i can mostly see the benefits of hospital retrospectively). i gained a lot of insight into how my depression, borderline personality, self-harm, and eating disorder function and protect me.

the psych ward also involves a lot of dissociation, board games, card games, drinking tea, sharing with other patients, making good friends with other patients, watching television, doing sudokus and crosswards, and drawing.

drawing is my lifesaver. i hadn’t picked up a pencil or a canvas since year 10 of high school, because i channelled all my energy into the single most powerful distraction in my life – study (and i still rely on this distraction today). but now that i’ve picked up my pencils again, i can’t put them down.

these drawings are raw, they are real, and they illustrate my mind in it’s most distressed state. behold, sketches from a psychiatric ward.

they’re strangely aesthetically pleasing.


your primary herder of cats and struggling artist,

rosie bogs

a long overdue update

it’s been a few months. a lot has been happening. i need to vent, and this blog has become a safe space for me to do that, even if i have been away for a while. i don’t know if any of the friends i made through the blogosphere will see this, or even care if they do see it. certainly none of my friends irl give a shit about me right now, which is exactly why i am venting here, instead of screaming at them. also because it’s shitty of me to scream at other people when i can scream somewhat anonymously into an internet abyss instead.

i lost two very good friends. and i don’t mean lost to suicide, although honestly, that is still a likely possibility, in both their cases. more accurately, i hurt two very good friends, and they abandoned me. isn’t it ironic that i never thought i experienced abandonment issues until somebody decided to abandon me? only now am i truly a fully inducted borderline, i guess.

another central irony: i haven’t been this small since i was sixteen, but i have never felt fatter. my boss noticed my forearms cuts / scabs / scars so i’ve had to go back to slicing up my thighs. i forgot how fucking easy it was to shred thighs to pieces.

rediscovered the best self harm quote on the internet: they see no scars, they think she lies. but they check only her wrists, and never her thighs.

made my own best self harm quote on the internet: i didn’t need to be told / that people were afraid / of those of us / led astray by blades. / it’s not our fault / we say. we’ll see / better days. / we’re braver than those / who avert their gaze.

i became an ‘insta poet’ (ugh, so cringey). @rosiebeepoetry. i was paid to perform some pieces of my choice. i was honoured to have others share their stories with me, in exchange for sharing my own so publicly.

i had two (three? four? i think four since my last post) quite serious suicide attempts. spent some time in hospital. and somehow i am still existing, even if i hate it.

i started uni for 2020. it’s probably the only thing keeping me alive and out of hospital, at least for the next seven weeks until break.

i am unsafe tonight. i want to slice my stomach off. it’s probably the only way i will ever lose weight since i don’t have enough fucking self control to do it any other way apparently. i’m not sick enough to deserve treatment, whether in hospital or out. i’m not sad enough, irrational enough, hurt enough. i’m not cutting deepest enough. who gives a fuck if i slice up my thighs, but don’t reach anything subcutaneous? they say all self harm matters, but does it really? i was convinced that some cuts recently (practically scratches) should be seen to by my doctor (who is great, btw) and all i could think was that i was wasting her time and resources on something a fucking cat could have done. i hate this. i hate cutting but i love hurting myself. i hate anorexia but i love being in control. i hate binge eating but i love losing control. i hate being alive but i hate failed suicide attempts. i hate hospitals but i want help. i hate hospitals but i need help. i hate myself and so i need help.

i was also reminded of this quote by blythe baird: when people asked what i wanted to be when i grew up, i said

small.

//

your blogger in chief

rosie bogs

High Lethality

I think I was a cat in a past life. As of Monday, I survived my eighth suicide attempt. I only have one life left then, I suppose.

One of my obsessive anxious behaviours is that I cannot stand people knowing things about me that I don’t know myself, so I always, always, read my discharge summaries, referrals, notes… you get the idea. Which is how I found out that my liver is on the verge of death, after taking a high lethality overdose.

Still wasn’t lethal though, was it?

Still useless at killing myself, aren’t I?

Still worthless, failing at even the simplest tasks – like killing myself.

Things aren’t even bad right now. Mood is okay. Life is stable. Uni is great.

Thoughts are loud.

I’ve been working a lot on my poetry lately, and my book, so I haven’t really been writing much here. I’m still chugging along, desperately clinging to the bits of life I actually enjoy and self-destructively destroying everything else that doesn’t serve me well.

That’s the best I can do right now.

Yer a poet, Rosie!

I’m a what?

Rosie, you are a poet.

I’m a what!?

A poet, Rosie.

I’m a poet!

Yes, Rosie, you are a poet.

Me, a poet? But I’m just Rosie!

Well, “just Rosie”, you, are a poet.

No, I’m just Rosie!

Listen here Rosie, yer gonna get yerself a fountain pen, yer gonna go in a magazine, and yer gonna write poems and shit!

BuT i’M jUsT rOsIe

Hopefully, you too have been blessed with this wonderful video and understand my cute little parody of it. But, even better than being cute and hilarious – it’s my dream come true.

I have had some poems accepted by a literary magazine, to be published in September!

On top of that, I also scored the job I have wanted for a very long time as a science entertainer.

AND ALSO I have found a home amongst some spoken word poets who made once a month to share what they’re currently working on.

So apparently good things can happen to me?

There’s that little voice in my head that’s waiting for the slump, because after the rise, I always seem to crash harder than before. For now, I’m lapping it up. And hopefully this happiness will hang around. Until the next suspicious look someone casts me, or the tone of voice I misunderstand, and I fall into the abyss sideways of the emotional rollercoaster.

hi! hello! yes, i’m still here!

I’ve just been busily working away at another project, another outlet to channel the relentless onslaught of emotions through. This project is…

A book!

It’s not the first time I’ve attempted to write something of a decent length with the hope of having it published. Oh no, my hard drive is full of unfinished manuscripts, and some finished ones that remain unpublished. They date back to when I was thirteen and desperately seeking an escape from my everyday. This book however, focuses on my everyday; it’s a tale of my mental illness(es).

This book is the reason why I’ve been rather quiet lately, but there’s a more wonderful reason as well: I’ve been feeling okay. I always hesitate to use a positive adjective lest I jinx myself, so I’ll stick to the more neutral ‘okay’. Things haven’t been a wonderful stream of bliss, but they haven’t been the downright awful I’m used to. It’s been almost four weeks since I last self-harmed, which is the longest I’ve gone without cutting since I began doing so three years ago. I’m almost at the end of my one-year stint in DBT, and I’m finally, finally, seeing the lift that people always told me I could expect. The lift to the heaviness that has plagued me so, the lift to the dark thoughts and actions, the lift that has led me to a happier, healthier life.

I’m used to surviving. But I think I’m beginning to approach the more elusive state of living. It comes in fits in starts, in climbing mountains and doing craft. It’s in the brighter art I create, and the fewer swear words I speak. It’s in my rekindled faith, and love for those around me. It’s in forgiveness. It’s in the apologies I finally share with those I’ve hurt, with my mum and dad.

Maybe I’ve also finally reconciled something within myself. Maybe I’ve finally seen what life could be like for me, a life that I lead not despite my mental illnesses, but in conjunction with them. The harmonious union of good and bad stretches before me – and for once, I look forward to it. I look forward to becoming someone who lives, really, truly lives, instead of someone who survives hour by hour, biding their time until they can attempt to take their own life once again. It’s nice. It’s better.

Oh, and that little project of mine? Stay tuned for some sneak peeks, and of course I’ll keep my humble corner of the blogosphere updated on what happens.

Much love my internet friends,

Your VIP of the super sad melodramatic club, and blogger in chief,

rosie bogs.