Is this epilepsy?

Epilepsy has become the reason for my every downfall, my excuse for my every issue and I don't think about it. I don't question it - it just is. Until I came across a rather distressing March 1st, and now I feel I need to reconsider this quick blame. I first found myself feeling a little out of control early in the day when I felt for just a moment I had no fingers and my vision of the world started to filter into a hue of blue. But it was just a moment and then it was gone. So I thought nothing of it and pursued the rest of my day in ignorance. 

I was in one of those wonderful cheap as hell restaurants, I wasn't under the influence of drugs and I probably hadn't been spiked by the groups of old people sitting around tables eating their Sunday lunches discussing their knitting techniques. It first began when I could hear my heart beat in my wrist early on and I'm quite a stubborn person so I decided that I could handle it and didn't bring it to anyone's attention. It was probably going to subside and everything was going to be okay? No, Obviously not. And the feeling worsened and I began to feel some form of unusual aura... Still stubborn I thought I could handle it and attempted to distract myself by entertaining myself with some probably not moral jokes. Suddenly like a gong my sanity collapsed and I could hear everything around me echoing through my ears all at once. Footsteps of passers by, the clattering of cutlery, pots and pans in the kitchen, the sound of liquid running from the taps of the bar. I heard everyone's conversations. Sounds were smothering me, crawling up my body and wrapping themselves around my chest, my neck and my face. The world around me became fragmentations of an emotionally crippling instrumental. My vision was hazy as if someone had let out a smoke machine in the room, and my chest felt like it was enclosed in a concrete box. I couldn't take it, I couldn't concentrate and my eyes would fixate and blur on anything as I would desperately try to mentally climb out of this pool of hell I was drowning in. By this point I wanted to beg for help but meaningful words became almost impossible - I just couldn't. Every time I tried to ask for help my whole neck began beating like a drum. It pounded to stop me.

I felt trapped in a shell as if my body was no longer my own, my skin and my muscles became a prison. I was caged inside of it. I remember for a while my arm stopped existing, but it was still there and I couldn't comprehend why? Maybe it was someone else arm and I stole it? Or a false illusion of creation that just isn't. It's not there, my eyes are deceiving me. I've had experiences like this before but this was the worst because I remember every detail, every occurrence, every sound. 

I was taken to Sainsbury's in some hope food would relieve me of my incoherence. By this point my vision had become sounds, I could hear every colour but the sounds were unrecognisable as if they don't have words to describe them. They were alien. "What sandwich do you want?" was trampling my mind as every colour was screaming at me, stampeding my head like a herd of animals fleeing an apocalypse. I needed to scream, I needed to run away I wanted to my body to combust instantly but it wasn't my body. I had such minimal control. Time became slow motion and the essence of the world elongated. I could still hear everything. I could heard the colours of my sandwich as I desperately tried to eat, the nearly whiteness of the bread, the grey tones in the chicken and the stuffing. Each tone carrying a different sound. Instantly I was completely past hungry, food repulsed me as it rippled sounds to my ears alongside the rest of the world engorging me from every direction. But I felt I needed to eat this because this wonderful person trying to help believed that it would do me some good, and what if it did? Not only that but I felt the expression on her face as if it was scratching deep into my skin, not just metaphorically but I really felt it. I felt like I could feel the worry as if she was  touching me. The world was an overload of sounds and all I could produce was bullshit. 

Is this epilepsy? What is that? What was this? What do I do?

Poetry: Untitled

Breeze, air, oxygen to my lungs.

Infinite blades of grass, directions,

Space for my great run,

Smoke from my lips,

Formaldehyde, embrace me. Warm my soul. Addiction - sweeten the guilt 

Of my inhibitions.

Confirm my purchase of this ticket to routine, my adventure to regulated safety.

I call away this indecision, 

Angel on my shoulder? Wither,

Like a flower, or the rose you've tried to send.

Torment. Whirring, an old engine screaming lies. 

She won't make a move, 

Not if there's nothing in checkmate's grasp.

Flee this battle, shy away from impossible victory,

Oh but it taunts me. 

Siren in the sea, engulf me.

In open water enclose me, 

Lay me in solitary. 

Poetry: Untitled

Winter touch and a soft breeze,

Call my name with ease.

Our skin numb and we shiver,

Sighs of cold.

Our bodies are an Antarctic river.

We stay, we ponder, our breath reveals our soul and it drifts between the other.

You're my warm hearted lover, 

Your sweet air in my lungs, 

My lone fear, let it be over.

 My mask it sheds and melts, and in the ice of dusk sweet burning I felt.

Trains fly by, I'm a stopped watch, engaged like a still of the sky.

Capture me, capture us, capture this, Our birth as a brand new us, 

Let us lie on stone, 

And we'll know it as home. 

Poetry: Dark Grey

Place me in an endless mist,

 drown me in your humidity, 

I indulge in my wish.

There's demons in the darkness, 

In the black there's death, 

I only fear the mid tones, 

I'm choking on the grey. 

You can see me, feel me and even touch me. 

But I'm a shadow of superposition, 

This is my box. 

Take me to the dark I plead,

Again,

And again. 

Mental Health: Death Death Death. .

Part One An Understanding From An Individuals Thought Process:

In moments where my world appears to have dissipated into nothingness I imagine reality takes a different colour scheme. Sometimes I see visions of lifeless blues, other days my life desaturates and I’m lost in an almost black and white limbo. I’m looking towards the reality in front of me and everything is under exposed. Medically this is described as poor mental health; my erratic to apathetic thought contrast is just a categorisation of illness. After you find yourself under the nose of a psychological professional you become an offering to science, a statistic in their slow moving cognitive editing process. They hope to commercialise you; retouch your flaws until you blend into acceptance. It’s quite similar to one of those make-over television shows where some rather flamboyant gay man dolls up some unfortunate blob and demonstrates his success in making her somewhat easier to look at. Without the cringeworthy excitement, usually without the success and with the hope we’ll be able to look at ourselves without clawing our fingernails deep into the underneath of our eye sockets. It’s easy to blame the professionals for the unsuccessful treatment of depressive states; but we do this to ourselves, I fell irrevocably in love with the essence of my self destruction. Depression is a woman. I’ve gazed into her eyes and her soul burnt into mine, I’ve stroked her soft cheeks passionately whilst I made love to her lips - she is my infinity. 

Life is chaos and soon you find you’re no longer afraid of ceasing to exist. In fact you’re terrified of living. In some respects the urge to die comes at you like a tick and you’re muscles are somewhat fighting what is left of your sanity, the small eery voice in your head that wants to climb the emotional mountains that is life. But God it is small - a whisper at a rave. 

I wake up every morning battling my Stockholm Syndrome attachment towards my insanity until my whisper discovers a miracle cure. 

Part Two Understanding to Helping:

Apparently the miracle cure is just changing the way I think? I can close my eyes, strain my facial muscles and repeat “everything is super” three times over and rainbows will just start streaming from my arsehole. Then everything will be fine - besides the fact that I have colours coming from my orifices. And the bloody obvious fact that if that’s how narrow minded you are as to how this works then you’re a fucking twat biscuit. Go sit in a mental health hospital and take the time out of your day to understand the mind? Get yourself out of the renaissance; get on the fucking internet and have a nice little one to one session with Google. “I don’t believe in depression.” Well I don’t believe in asthma attacks. Coughing to death? Nah, you just don’t want to breathe properly. You’re not trying to breathe properly. Just think about the wind and it blowing through the trees and you’ll be fixed forever. In fact - I don’t believe in dying. Just think you’ll live forever and you will. Obviously nobody is trying hard enough. Lazy bastards. Get some motivation. 

In all seriousness though it’s not something we decided to feel or do, it’s a serious problem which we can’t control alone. I’m sure nobody wakes up in the morning thinking today I want my thought process to repeat the word “Death. Death. Death. Death. Death.” exactly to the rhythm of the ticking of a clock. I do things and say things with no regards at the time as to what the outcome may be and later regret it majorly in times of sanity. Exactly like the feeling that comes after sleeping with some ugly unclean chlamydia riddled monster whilst heavily intoxicated and waking up next to them in the morning to see that they’ve actually got a face that looked like it’s been plummeted by the ugly stick. Oh, and a personality as exciting as dog shit in grass - because looks aren’t everything! Unless you’re shallow. Patients die because they’re physically ill and in this circumstance the brain is faulty and it causes death too, people don’t just fancy toppling from a bridge or eating aspirin like it’s cereal. They need it. Think learning? Think understanding? Think help. Think support. Help.

The beginning: Mother's sex fest.

I opened this blog in some hope I'd travel the world, see beautiful scenery and any poor sod viewing this could scroll down in their utmost jealousy. Turns out I'm that poor sod. So here I am with my moneyless adventure free life sitting on public transport that smells like a dehydrated person's piss on my merry way to my Mother's Ann Summer's party in which I had no choice but to attend. 

I'm past the point of distress and instead I have a facial expression monumentally similar to what Katie Hopkin's would be if my child was interacting with some other little prepubescent twat who's name was Princess. So as you can imagine I'm absolutely thrilled by the whole affair. Long story short if I don't attend this sex fest full of dry forty plus year olds getting excited over the fact that they can buy rubber recreations of male parts to suffice for their singledom my Mother won't talk to me.

Ludicrous I know. Because all sane mothers and daughters dress up in kinky nurse suits together and discuss the height of their orgasms. That's just the norm. 

The real honesty here is that I'm so mentally scarred by the fact that I didn't come from a test tube and my Mum isn't celibate that I'm more than ready to ram my hand down my throat and pull my lungs out of my chest, drop them on the floor in front of me and have dogs feed off of it.

So if you want to keep updated on my horrible hell keep reading my updates tonight.