From the psychiatric ward.

There are two types of patients in here; those who are terrified of going home and those who are 

terrified of not getting out. I classify myself in the former category. I feel safe and I am getting the help for which I have long yearned. I have so many  like minded friends, there are even men who I can relate to without being afraid.

I remember taking the overdose and I remember why, but I don't remember why I thought it was a good idea. It's the same as the reason why I wanted to be drunk, it's escape, running from the truth, from reality which can be the most frightening thing to face.

I am so grateful for all the help and positive attention I have received here. I have had daily appointments with the psychiatrist, two group therapy sessions daily, occupational therapy, a social worker to help me organise my finances, a dietician, wonderful new friends, three meals a day the list goes on.

The other patients provide me with such positive energy and I've met people with the same illness as me. The intention is to pursue the relationships on the outside. Will we soothe one another due to the understanding we have of each other's illness or will we encourage the craziness and negative thought processes. 

Interestingly, I came across a very interesting article in the Weekly review section of the Guardian Weekly. The article was written about Barbara Taylor who is an academic known for her outstanding work on history and feminism. She also wrote a book called 'The Last Asylum: A Memoir of Madness in our Times'. Barbara wrote of her friend whom she met during her stay in Friern Hospital, 'Magda suffered terribly from black depression yet nearly always she would pull herself together to be with me. Usually I did the same for her. The obligations of friendship trumped madness - and this in itself could be a form of healing'.

The First Fat Girl in Paris

Before we even get started, there is one thing that I must clear up. When a girl calls herself fat, it is more a reflection of how she feels than how she looks. I don't know one woman with an honest mirror. Hindsight has taught me the flaws of my former ways; but how I wish I could get back down to that 75kg 'fat' of 1995?  Now that I really am fat, maybe hindsight is not such a talented teacher, I promise to appreciate all my good points. Audrey Hepburn said it herself (can you believe that even her mirror lied?), focus on your good points and forget the rest. OK Audrey, consider it done.

The First Fat Girl in Paris is a wonderful novel, semi autobiographic like David Copperfield, which follows the life of a girl who led a life not without adventure, courage, travel, language, friends, eighteenth century rhetoric, tears, laughter, bassoon, Jaqueline du Pre and Audrey Hepburn, oh and the invisible fat. In addition to being wonderful, it is unwritten.

So if indeed there was no fat, why mention it? Because my dear readers, it was felt. The boogey man, did  he frighten you? He wasn't real was he?, but you were still frightened, so the fat and the boogey man go in the same box. 'Feel' is the operative word in this story. This story is about so much more than the aforementioned nouns, it's about feeling. In the mind and soul of a Bi Polar / Borderline Personality Disorder sufferer, reality is irrelevant, it's the feelings that matter. 

I recall the moment at 35 Clapham Common Northside when I titled the non-existant novel. It was anxiety and excitement, adjectives that bear no difference in the German language, belittling my confidence to nasty name calling. I felt inadequate to step outside Gare du Nord station and into the real world of France. Do the aesthetic police circumnavigate entry points to the country ready to pounce any being that may disrupt the national standard of beauty? In any case, I was concerned about being a source of visual pollution. Should I also adopt the national diet of Gauloise and expresso?