Detached, Distorted

So I’m sat on the top of a hill in the local park. My dog is sate at my feet gnawing at a stick and yet again I feel disconnected. Have you ever seen the child-line video on depression? Probably not but that is pretty much a great way of explaining the bizarre things that are going on in my head. There is some invisible smog surrounding me that is multiplying and muting simultaneously all of my colours and senses.

I am lost. I want to cry and yet I can’t. I know that I should stop wallowing and retreating into myself and yet I can’t. I can’t help but feel that I am somehow lying to my psychologist as I am pathetically shit at putting anything into words. I am turning myself into a victim; a victim of absolutely nothing. I know that I can, it is just that I won’t.

My new job starts on Monday and I honestly couldn’t care less. I don’t  care about the job nor for the money. I am just shit scared that I will be serving people that I know and grew up with. I fear that they will be able to smell my failure.

Worst of all, I’m having nightmares that my mother will waltz up to me and not recognise me. She will pick up a bottle of her perfume and pay for it and say to me “I had wanted my daughter to get this for me for Mothers’ Day”.

I sat and pathetically scraped at my arm. I am no longer causing much, if any, damage when I self-harm and I hate myself for it. Both for damaging my skin and for not committing to my self-destruction. Now that it is summer, everyone has migrated outside into my sacred territory that I had claimed over the winter. There is no solitude.

My arm is swollen from it’s recent assault and my stomach bloated from my recent heavy drinking. I want to let go. I want to let myself free-fall, I can’t though. I crave control too much.

Hello Mr Sunshine….

It would appear that as the sun has finally reached the UK, I have scuttled in doors and shut myself away from everyone and everything. A bit like woodlice or, as I used to call them when I was younger, cheesey-bugs.

I just don’t know what to wear. Simple as that really. Summer seems to signal to the rest of the world that you can suddenly re-emerge from your winter woolies into your tight tops and vibrant colours. At the moment I am very much in denial as to the seasonal changes. I am proud though, I have managed to move from wearing mostly black and bleak clothes to mixing it up with lighter greys. I know, impressive!

It is something that I have always had a problem with. Before the scars and the acne. It comes from a fundamental discomfort in my own skin. I hate the fact that I can’t be comfortable as I am. I know that it is not an issue with my appearance, it is an issue with self-acceptance. I now look back at pictures of my younger self where I truly thought I was ugly and obviously larger than my friends and wonder why?. What a waste.

In therapy on Monday, I was asked what I wanted to get out of the sessions. I said ” I want to be able to get through Medical School”.

Yeah, a tall order. She commented on my high expectations and told me to think about it. I now know what I want to sort. Actually need to sort. I need to start to respect my body and stop abusing it. I want to wear skirts and dresses and stop being afraid of looking ‘like a girl’. I should embrace my youth and imperfections and dance into the sun. Happy dancing guys!

A Different Kind of Hangover

I’m not talking about alcohol. I’m talking panic attacks. Well maybe a little bit of both.

Last night, for the first time in four weeks, the monster returned. Because it had been a while since my last one, this one caught me by surprise. Yes, I’d had a drink and was not sober but I feel that as much as that wouldn’t have helped, I can’t understand what caused it. That is the most stressful part of the whole situation. I am shattered and vulnerable. I’m short of breath, dizzy and shaky. I call it my panic attack hangover.

I don’t suffer much from alcohol hangovers as ibuprofen, water and carbs usually sort me out pretty quickly. I’m not sure what to do with the other type.

I do have propranolol, but it is a beta blocker and my heart rate is not elevated so I feel that that wouldn’t sort anything. I think the only cure for this one is time, a good shower and my cosy cardi.

If anyone has any advice as to how to deal with this, it would be much appreciated.

April Fools and Dog-napping

For the first time in a long time, I actually remembered April Fools Day before being fooled myself. Impressed by this I thought I’d give it a go and see how scarily easy, albeit uncomfortable, it is to lie.

I went out last night clubbing and, whilst still under the influence of too many shots of vodka, I met a woman with a german shepherd so text my dad telling him that I’d fallen in love with it. Yes I am that person who will be guaranteed to find the dog at a party! Using this to further convince him, whilst hungover this morning, I messaged him saying that I’d woken up with this german shepherd and had no clue how I’d come to be in possession of it. Needless to say, he fell for it hook line and sinker, rang me and began searching for the nearest RSPCA or police station. He gave me a background story that I’d found him wondering around so took him home for the night and everything.

Thank you Dad for believing that stealing a dog would be the kind of drunken thing I’d do. At least I now know who I can turn to, to help bury a body should I ever need to!

My Chameleon Costume

I’m off for four days to re-live my short-lived student life at a friend’s place up north. I’m so glad to be out of my claustrophobic home town and able to let my hair down and get totally smashed. I’ve got a bottle of vanilla vodka and a bottle of lime vodka…. not sure about the sound of the vanilla one but i’ll let you know if it is a hit. Currently I’m on a coach on my five-hour road trip, which in the UK is quite a way but I guess those of you from America will show me no sympathy!

It’ll be interesting when I meet my psychologist for the second-time next Monday after spending most of the week drunk. I wonder if she’ll judge. I don’t understand how therapists do that thing of listening yet not really reacting. I’ve always spent my time either alone or in the company of larger than life characters so having a blank canvas sat in front of me making conversation is bloody hard work.

I’ve also realised that I tend to be a social chameleon. Put me with a group of extroverts then i become an extrovert, leave me with a group of opinionated activists, and yep I become one of them too. So who the hell am when put in front of a therapist?! If she’s blank then she won’t get much from me, I might as well be invisible.

I’ll be a boozy party animal for this weekend. Next week I’ll be a domestic goddess most likely as I’m left in charge of feeding and cleaning up after both my sisters and the dog whilst my dad is away for his wedding anniversary. I am who people want me to be and I don’t know what my psychologist wants from me!!

*existential crisis of identity*  *boom*  *bang*  *head just exploded*

My Mothers’ Day Haul

As I posted about earlier in the month, (The Problem With Mothers’ Day) I’m not a fan of it. As an estranged daughter I was unsure what I should be doing to fill my time as others went out for lunch with their adoring mothers. After feeling like crap in the morning I decided that fuck it, I definitely required a new pair of Dr. Martens and whatever else I could purchase online before my card would be rejected.

Anyway, I have started to receive some of my purchases. The tally stands at three floral dresses, a rucksack and the beautiful DMs. I don’t wear dresses so as I tried them on I looked at myself and thought WTF was I thinking?!

So today is the day that I have started to return my impulsive purchases. It was fun whilst it lasted. dr materns

Drained, Tired and Disappointed

Today was the first time that I met my psychologist. After three months of waiting for an appointment I had built this image of her in my head and through no fault of her own, she didn’t quite match up. I felt weird that she was female for one; I knew she would be but I had not given up hope that there had been a mistake.

She’s the typical flowery character (don’t ask me what I mean by that I don’t know!) of someone working in community mental health services. She seemed nice but I didn’t want nice, I wanted someone reliable and with a miraculous cure. Unreasonable I know. I was also frustrated at the fact that she is so relaxed and chilled. Because of her ‘chilled-ness’ my mind jumped to the idea that of course she didn’t give two shits about me and was only there as part of her well paid job.

She sat and she scribbled down notes in an illegible manor. I disapproved of her choice of an black-ink ballpoint pen that was far too harsh on the white paper. As part of the first session she only really asked me for a brief history, previous attempts at therapy, hospitalisations, what I expected etc. I asked if she’d read my notes; she hadn’t. She said that she wanted to hear things from me so as not to form an opinion before meeting me. Did she not realise how many hours I’d spent attempting to find ANYTHING about her online?!

So yeah. What I have gained from this post is that I am an angry and unreasonable person with high, high, high expectations. I am sat on my bed wrapped in a fluffy blanket staring at the questionnaires she asked me to complete. I want to set them on fire with the lighter next to me. To watch them disintegrate and disappear.

If you don’t ask, then I won’t tell: Mental Health and Harry Potter

My younger sister has told me that because of my attempts on my life that she has come to terms with me dying prematurely and that she has pre-emptively grieved. Needless to say my heart sank and my eyes filled with tears when I heard this

I hate how much my actions have affected her. I hate even more so the fact that she sticks around knowing that she will be hurt again by me. I don’t believe that suicide is selfish, but I feel that I am for allowing her to become emotionally attached to someone who has a tendency to go into self-destruct. When I look at her, all I see is her pain and my guilt. How could I have done this to someone who has done nothing to deserve it?

Over time I have come to terms with her decision to stick around. I don’t understand that decision but hey ho. From this experience, I am acutely aware of how my illness has a way of making me feel like a burden to people who I disclose my struggles to. This is why I would never turn to a family member for help in a crisis. It is also why not many people know about my mental health issues.

As much as I know this is not true, my mind questions “why tell someone about it if you know that they will be unable to help?”. This is why I am rarely truthful to my psychiatrist or support worker. If I say that I am severely self-harming, all that they will be able to offer me is advise on wound care and when to seek medical attention and a contact number of the crisis team. They are better off not knowing in my opinion.

It is the same when I have an appointment to see a GP about a physical ailment. They look at my notes and history and ask away. How are you feeling? Have you been having dark/suicidal thoughts? Are you self-harming? I know they want to cover their back but please, if you don’t ask then I won’t tell.

All I want to scream at people is that you don’t really want to know the answers to your questions, please don’t ask. If someone could waive their magic wand over me and rid me of my self-destruction then maybe I would. I am only a muggle though and yet to see evidence of magic. Perhaps if I could find someone with a perfect patronus, maybe I could be free of the bloody dementors sat on my shoulders. I’m sick of this emptiness and the rattling of the soul-sucking. I feel as if I am rotting away in an Azkaban that fills my head.






A Friend

People all have their own idea of what a friendship is. I find it infinitely difficult to call someone a friend because if I do, I don’t want them to become burdened with my sporadic existence. Outside of my immediate family, I would say that I have definitely one, maybe two, good friends and I like to keep it at that.

We don’t see each other often, every month or so, and only talk when we organise to meet.  The quality of our relationship has not been limited by time spent apart but rather enhanced it. As we have grown up together, instead of going our separate ways, we have gotten closer.

This is what a strong friendship is. I know that I am one of the lucky ones. Not many can boast of such a relationship.

Friendship has meant that she visited me when I was in hospital and wrote me letters whilst I was ill. She stood by me when I tried to take my own life. I can’t imagine how much stress that I have caused her.

It’s strange to think that such an unattractive personality could have warranted such loyalty. People can surprise you.


Since When Did I Become an Adult?

I’m still looked at suspiciously when I buy alcohol in a supermarket and don’t have the finances to buy or rent a single bed flat. Yet when I met a young boy on the street today, he  innocently referred to me as a lady and asked how many children I had. As a 20 year old, ‘millennial’ as the media likes to call us, I’m currently confused about when society expects us to become adults and what exactly the job of an adult entails.

In the UK, I legally became an adult when I was 18. Though I was ‘of age’, I was still in full time education and looking to go on to university (another 3+ years at least!). The Student Loans Company almost expects its’ recipients of their loans to depend on their parents until the age of 21+ and trust me, university is impossible without these loans. Not everyone will go on to further education, but the government is encouraging more and more of us to do so. The job market is only after those with degrees, apprenticeships or high level vocational equivalents for entry level jobs. This push for post-18 education has inadvertently further pushed the age at which youngsters can even think about flying the nest and become independent adults.

Contrarily, by law, the age at which a person can engage in sex is 16 and trusted to drive at 17 in England. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for me to have had a 3 year old child by now. So to reiterate, I could become a parent before I became an ‘adult’ and before the school leaving age of 18. That seems strange.

I hope now that you can understand my confusion. My generation has been branded ‘generation snowflake’ and yes, they may be right, but remember that because of ever-increasing house prices and a job market that caters for the highly qualified it is impossible for us to ‘grow-up’. Still living with parents is common-place for the average 25 year old. We are not lazy and idle. We are doing our best in a Peter Pan-like world that makes it harder and harder for us to become independent adults.