Things have been.....bearable I suppose.
Up and down, and not particularly smooth, but the pieces have held together, stitched somewhat roughly for a time.

But now.....

I've got to be more careful, with anything good comes a crash of seven times the magnitude, I've got to be more careful, not let things rise about the mundane and moderately nice.

The panic is tangible, my cheeks are hot, my eyes water, my pulse races and blood roars in my ears. The air is filled with a white static that presses and closes in over my skin, is sucked into my nose and mouth, making me scared to breath above a quick shallow sigh.

I've had the shakes so often lately; trembling hands, wobbly legs, flushed cheeks.

Panic is so demanding. You cannot endure it, wait it out, hope it passes, it consumes you, every second, its behind your eyes, in the base of your throat, an insistent pressure that rises, ever threatening to climax somehow, clamouring for release, except the only release is pain, pain or oblivion and these are dangerous goals.

I scratch because it stalls the shakes and cools the heat of my tears. It makes breathing slowly possible, waking; bearable, but pain is only a shield and I'm terrified of anything that might trigger a more violent climax....

People talk about being pushed over the edge, about standing on the brink of sanity as if it were the sharp edge of a cliff - how far over the edge can you hang before you can't climb back up?

I don't know where I am with the meds, I've been back on the prescribed dose for a few weeks, but the comforting numbness is not present, they do nothing for the panic, and the edges are still too sharp.

I can't think of a way to find relief, I want to run away but....


FWD/Forward is a new blog centered around the intersection between feminism and disabled activism.

Amanda writes from the perspective of someone with an invisible disability - fibromyalgia.

It was very familiar, i responded with:

One of my friends, who knows a bit about my mental state, has a habit of saying – ‘you look good today!’ Or, ‘you’re looking better, healthier, thinner!’

Among other things I have a near crippling eating disorder, so how he thinks telling me i look thinner is in any way a helpful statement is beyond me.

I hate it. I know he means well, but in reality it’s just selfish – he doesn’t want to deal with me being depressed or crazy, so he says ‘you look better!’ to distance himself from it.

And what am I supposed to say?
‘Actually I’m one step above cowering in a corner today so I’m out having a crack at enjoying myself?’
And what am I supposed to do? Not try to look, feel and act better? Isn’t that what you want me to do? Isn’t that the answer to all my problems? Am I supposed to cry and scream at all times like I feel like doing, do you not want me to wear my mask/ I thought you didn’t want to deal with this?


Tonight the sky is brilliant with stars, the air is sharp and I can feel my blood thundering in my ears. There's music everywhere and I can SEE everything, FEEL EVERYTHING. I'm higher than the clouds and my body is rampant with desire, no place could be better than exactly where I am at every moment, the night is never-ending. I know I'm talking too fast and smiling too much, and I know if I tried to sit still I'd get goosebumps, just so my skin could move.

Yeah, I went off my meds.

Time Passes

I don't even know what to write. Nothing exists in my head. I don't write because there's nothing to write.

Every day is the same, every day I do nothing.
My mind holds no information. Thoughts circle constantly, never leaving me in peace but nothing sticks.
I study, I read two paragraphs and I've forgotten what subject I'm doing. I watch a movie and it doesn't make sense because I can't remember the beginning.
I don't whether it's the meds or something else - I don't care.

Nothing is coming together, nothing is different, except that it doesn't matter anymore. I'm not happy, I'm not sad, I'm not numb, I'm not anything. I barely am.

I count hours, that is all I do.


I felt so good for a few days there, just a few days.
Now all the colour in the world has faded and I'm just living in soup again, thick and grey.
Nothing matters.


The meds, they've been good. And by good, I'm not sure that I mean they're working as they should, but instead that I feel slightly below manic all of the time, which is, well it's fun, but I feel it might also be dangerous.

It takes the edge off, the anxiety, it's much improved, I still have panic attacks, but I've always had to deal with them so it's not so bad I suppose.

Everything is sort of floaty, and quite numb, but its not unpleasant. I don't really care about much, I don't really have any motivation, but I get flashes of feeling good which haven't been present for quite some time.

I have a lot of physical energy, I can't walk to the kitchen, I have to jog. I don't appear to need sleep, the insomnia has lessened, I sleep most nights, but only for 3 or so hours.

I've been wondering what would happen when there was finally some pressure put on me, how I'd cope. Well this morning, the sky fell in and the answer is: not very well. I lost a few hours to crying, shivering and whatever else I get up to in my dissassociative state. The rest of my day will be pretty shaky and tonight I'm certain to dream of razorblades.