Forgive me for the lack of posts recently, I have been struggling over the last two weeks and the keyboard was too daunting to face. Ironically, blogging is one of the coping strategies that help me stay on track when I'm struggling. Keep up the good work brain, god forbid you made sense for even a minute.
I'll stop the self-flagellation there lest I scare you away. If you are even there, perhaps I am just sending my thoughts out into cyber space, to drift unseen as 1s and 0s. Maybe I should throw in some flagged words so some analyst in a bunker somewhere in Idaho has to read my blog... Anthrax are a band I like; I also like to watch The Strain, which is about a scientist from the CDC caught up in an outbreak of an unknown virus which causes strange mutations. Heroin is a narcotic, according to the news it is regularly smuggled out of Mexico by drug cartels. Tijuana is a city in Mexico, I don't think they get much snow or ice there.
Okay I'm done annoying Tim from Homeland Security, sorry Tim.
North Korea.
Sorry, last one, I promise.
But seriously, a ridiculous number of those words are allegedly flagged. I mean have there been viable threats involving ice? Angry Eskimos? Hoards of ice cube wielding Yetis? *Gasp* Is Winter coming?
Back to the matter at hand, me being nuttier than a Snickers. After being kicked out of my college dorm I stayed in a hotel until I ran out of money. Then I slept on a friends couch for a while, trying to make it to the end of the semester before facing my parents. I had no hope of passing any exams so I didn't even bother opening a book. Instead I continued to self medicate with drugs and alcohol and slice my arms and thighs open whenever I could. As you can imagine my memories of that time are hazy, but there is one moment that stands out among all the chaos.
I was outside with a group of 1st year students I knew. If I'm honest, part of the reason I had initially befriended them was because most of my existing friends had come to a point where coursework was given priority over the more hedonistic aspects of college life. This approach did not fit in with my self-destructive lifestyle, so I needed new playmates. As a happy coincidence they were all interesting, smart and funny people.
So we were outside one day, sitting under a tree on campus. Everyone was laughing, joking, making plans for the weekend and I was sitting slightly back from them, enjoying the speed I had just sucked up my nostrils. As I looked at them I was struck by this overwhelming sense of loss, there was a sudden wrenching in the pit of my stomach and I had to close my eyes to hold back the tears. I realised that I was looking at something I would never have. This group in front of me represented everything that was lost to me - the future, possibilities, happiness. That was the first time I really believed that my suicide was a foregone conclusion. That it wasn't something that might happen, something to dream about when my thoughts grew to heavy. It was my destiny, the only mystery was when. It's a strange thing to accept your own death as fact, terrifying and liberating at the same time. After that day I no longer needed others to give me an excuse to misbehave, I threw myself head first into being as stupid as possible. It was a wonder I had any friends left, so many of them had to carry me, hold my hair or patch me up. Or just generally be in my obnoxious presence.
Luckily (or unluckily depending on how I'm feeling) I hit a speed bump on my way out of life. I had taken to smashing pint glasses and self harming in toilets on nights out. One night, unsatisfied with my attempts to cut my wrist, I decided to stab myself in the stomach. I won't go into the gory details, but it was pretty disgusting. At this point I was self harming nearly every day, I knew what I was doing. But every so often, you make a mistake. You press too deep, or whatever you're using was too sharp or you just got a bit too enthusiastic. Whatever the cause, there's a split second where you realise you've messed up and time actually stops. Everything freezes. And then it happens, before you can even blink its like the elevator doors opening in The Shining. If anyone reading this has ever self harmed, you'll most likely know exactly what I'm talking about. Well this was one of those times, I knew immediately I had gone too far. I was drunk, in a dingy pub on a night out and there were at least two hours of drinking left. So I did what any rational person would do, i wrapped toilet roll around myself and pulled back down my top and wandered off into the night. I lasted about 5 minutes before the toilet paper failed and I was rumbled.
I eventually allowed myself to be brought to A&E the next morning, where I was stitched up and referred for a psych evaluation. My mother was called, and after she spoke to the psychiatrist she told me that if I didn't sign myself into the nearest psychiatric hospital I would be sectioned. This was a lie, but one told with good intentions (I've only come to terms with that lie in the last year, it was a serious point of contention for many years. When we arrived at the hospital I was put on the closed ward, intended for acutely ill patients, including those who are a danger to themselves or others. As I was considered a suicide risk I stayed on the ward for five nights for assessment. My first time as an inpatient was both frightening, and enlightening. Fortunately my doctor decided to release me and refer me back to the day hospital programme I had attended the previous summer. It felt like I had come full circle and was back at the beginning, or the end.
Monday 28 September 2015
Tuesday 22 September 2015
The Idiots Guide to Making Things Worse
From the moment I started my second year in college, I knew I was in trouble. From the outside it appeared that I was back on track after my 'difficulties' the previous year. I had passed my repeat exams and made it into second year; I was living on campus, which gave the illusion of being more suitable for academic success than rented accommodation; I had a part time job at a pharmacy to pay for day to day living expenses and I was medicated and seeing a psychiatrist monthly. I was now ready to move forward with the next stage of my life, a healthier and happier person.
If only life was so straight forward.
Six weeks of group therapy and some pills were never going to undo six years of using self harm to cope with emotional turmoil and distress. More importantly, they weren't going to erase the childhood problems that had led me to start self harming in the first place. Your past experiences are an integral part of who you are, and when I returned to college I was the same person. My fear of abandonment was now a reality. I had, in my mind, been banished by my family. I felt unwanted and this feeling fueled the cacophony of self-abusing thoughts in my head. Coward, damaged, disgusting, disappointment, failure, freak, lazy, liar, obnoxious, stupid, selfish, ugly, useless, unkind, uncaring, unlovable...unwanted. The self-loathing I felt was so intense that at times I felt it would burn me up from the inside. I knew that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, and no amount of medication would fix it. I was trapped in a loop; on one hand I understood that I was a bad person, and therefore couldn't to be loved or accepted. Yet I craved validation and love from others so much, that I hid how broken I still was, because people knew the truth they would rightly reject me. Please love me, even though I know you can't.
The mental pain I felt only intensified when I began living on my own. Almost immediately I began self harming again. Despite my six weeks in group therapy, I didn't know any other way to quiet the war in my head. Cutting myself became a way to survive my own thoughts, while also punishing myself for my imperfection. The problem with self harm, and most maladaptive coping strategies, is that over time they become less effective. You have to up your game, so to speak. Cut more often, cut deeper... eventually you need some other way to numb the pain. So I went looking for new ways to self destruct.
Let me be clear, the choices I made at that time were entirely mine. I in no way believe that my depression or personality disorder excuse my behaviour. BPD doesn't rob you of your ability to see right from wrong, and more often that not it will cause you to see things as good or bad in the extreme, there is no grey area.
As discussed in a previous post, I used casual sex to try and feel like I was wanted. Looking back I can see that one night stands, by their very definition, would probably make me feel unwanted. But I persevered, not linking my diminishing self esteem to what I was doing. And then there was the drugs. I started out smoking hash, although I rather quickly lost interest in it. It didn't stop the din between my ears and tended to make me nauseous. Ecstasy on nights out was a frequent indulgence, changing me from self conscious and melancholy to a happy, dancing twat. The drawback was the come down the next day, I always seemed to fall down much further than I had climbed. But speed, oh how I loved speed. I would snort a line anytime of the day. It made my head spin, gave me energy, made me forget why I was sad five minutes ago. I was in love with a narcotic, it blocked out all the pain and fear. It blocked out most feelings, other than the feeling that I needed more speed.
The problem with using drugs as an emotional crutch (other than the fact that they can kill you) is that they aren't actually fixing the core issue. In the short term they were the answer to my problems, but it was like putting a plaster over a gaping wound. It stemmed the flow temporarily, but eventually everything would start seeping out. You keep sticking more and more plasters over it, but eventually the whole thing is going to fall away, revealing the festering hole underneath.
I became more and more reckless, acting on any impulse without pause. I self medicated with drugs and alcohol, I abused my body through self harm and empty encounters, I tore away at the last vestiges of self respect I had and became a hollow, parody of myself. I was so busy self-destructing there was no time for academic endeavors, I attended three lectures over the entire year - the first one for each subject. I fumbled my way through the mandatory practicals, relying heavily on my lab partner to pull me through them.
Then, somehow, I managed to make things even worse. There are many versions of this story, several from my own mouth, but what follows is the truth. I was lying on the couch in the living room one night, smoking and watching television when I was supposed to be studying a years worth of printed lecture slides on the floor beside me. I wasn't completely sober, having stopped off at the student bar after printing said notes. As I lay there, alone, I looked down at the reams of paper and knew that I had no hope of passing my exams. It simply wasn't possible to cram a years worth of information into ones head in a week, and even if it was, I didn't understand half of them. I was going to fail second year, I would have to endure my parents disappointment again, and I had no-one to blame but myself. I pushed back the wave of panic that hit me, what was the point in panicking? This was just one more bit of evidence to back up what I already knew, that I was a failure. I felt nothing then, empty, but I was comfortable with empty. I stretched my hand out and very slowly pressed my lit cigarette onto the top of the pile. I didn't need the pages, they were better suited as an ashtray. I felt the last threads holding me to the world, pulling me toward a future life, slip away. I wish that was how the movie ended, a dark and foreboding final scene, the camera slowly closing in on my lifeless eyes before fading to black....
But a crazy thing happened, the pile of paper started to smoulder. I know, flammable paper, who could have foreseen such a thing? Interesting fact, a large block of printing paper won't burst into flames, but it will create a lot of smoke in a very short space of time. Queue me jumping up to grab the fire blanket(Don't ask, lets just blame the alcohol, flinging it dramatically over the paper, which just created even more smoke. My brain finally decided to join the party, I replaced the blanket with a pint of water, crisis averted. Or at least it would have been, if my flat mates hadn't come home at that exact moment to a hallway full of smoke. They were strangely not at all reassured by my attempts to explain the situation, and swiftly fled the scene screaming about carbon monoxide. And possibly something about me trying to burn the building down. Stranger still, when the accommodation manager arrived he refused to accept the explanations of the drunk, weird girl in the dog collar over the well mannered, pleasant girls from the country, and also decided I had tried to burn the building down. Should you ever find yourself in a similar situation, I don't recommend trying to defend yourself by starting any sentence with 'If I really wanted to burn the building down, I would have...'.
So, in less than a year I went from being 'back on track' to being evicted from my dorm under suspicion of arson, a guaranteed failing grade in every subject and my mental health was worse than ever, thanks to my brilliant attempts to escape life with mood altering substances. In short, I had destroyed what was left of my life in spectacular fashion. Looking back, I try and find some humour in what occurred back then. It does me no good to lambaste myself for something long since passed. But if you read this, and are struggling, numbing the pain will only work in the short term. Eventually whatever method you are using will stop working, and the sorrow and desolation will still remain, darker and hungrier than before.
If only life was so straight forward.
Six weeks of group therapy and some pills were never going to undo six years of using self harm to cope with emotional turmoil and distress. More importantly, they weren't going to erase the childhood problems that had led me to start self harming in the first place. Your past experiences are an integral part of who you are, and when I returned to college I was the same person. My fear of abandonment was now a reality. I had, in my mind, been banished by my family. I felt unwanted and this feeling fueled the cacophony of self-abusing thoughts in my head. Coward, damaged, disgusting, disappointment, failure, freak, lazy, liar, obnoxious, stupid, selfish, ugly, useless, unkind, uncaring, unlovable...unwanted. The self-loathing I felt was so intense that at times I felt it would burn me up from the inside. I knew that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, and no amount of medication would fix it. I was trapped in a loop; on one hand I understood that I was a bad person, and therefore couldn't to be loved or accepted. Yet I craved validation and love from others so much, that I hid how broken I still was, because people knew the truth they would rightly reject me. Please love me, even though I know you can't.
The mental pain I felt only intensified when I began living on my own. Almost immediately I began self harming again. Despite my six weeks in group therapy, I didn't know any other way to quiet the war in my head. Cutting myself became a way to survive my own thoughts, while also punishing myself for my imperfection. The problem with self harm, and most maladaptive coping strategies, is that over time they become less effective. You have to up your game, so to speak. Cut more often, cut deeper... eventually you need some other way to numb the pain. So I went looking for new ways to self destruct.
Let me be clear, the choices I made at that time were entirely mine. I in no way believe that my depression or personality disorder excuse my behaviour. BPD doesn't rob you of your ability to see right from wrong, and more often that not it will cause you to see things as good or bad in the extreme, there is no grey area.
As discussed in a previous post, I used casual sex to try and feel like I was wanted. Looking back I can see that one night stands, by their very definition, would probably make me feel unwanted. But I persevered, not linking my diminishing self esteem to what I was doing. And then there was the drugs. I started out smoking hash, although I rather quickly lost interest in it. It didn't stop the din between my ears and tended to make me nauseous. Ecstasy on nights out was a frequent indulgence, changing me from self conscious and melancholy to a happy, dancing twat. The drawback was the come down the next day, I always seemed to fall down much further than I had climbed. But speed, oh how I loved speed. I would snort a line anytime of the day. It made my head spin, gave me energy, made me forget why I was sad five minutes ago. I was in love with a narcotic, it blocked out all the pain and fear. It blocked out most feelings, other than the feeling that I needed more speed.
The problem with using drugs as an emotional crutch (other than the fact that they can kill you) is that they aren't actually fixing the core issue. In the short term they were the answer to my problems, but it was like putting a plaster over a gaping wound. It stemmed the flow temporarily, but eventually everything would start seeping out. You keep sticking more and more plasters over it, but eventually the whole thing is going to fall away, revealing the festering hole underneath.
I became more and more reckless, acting on any impulse without pause. I self medicated with drugs and alcohol, I abused my body through self harm and empty encounters, I tore away at the last vestiges of self respect I had and became a hollow, parody of myself. I was so busy self-destructing there was no time for academic endeavors, I attended three lectures over the entire year - the first one for each subject. I fumbled my way through the mandatory practicals, relying heavily on my lab partner to pull me through them.
Then, somehow, I managed to make things even worse. There are many versions of this story, several from my own mouth, but what follows is the truth. I was lying on the couch in the living room one night, smoking and watching television when I was supposed to be studying a years worth of printed lecture slides on the floor beside me. I wasn't completely sober, having stopped off at the student bar after printing said notes. As I lay there, alone, I looked down at the reams of paper and knew that I had no hope of passing my exams. It simply wasn't possible to cram a years worth of information into ones head in a week, and even if it was, I didn't understand half of them. I was going to fail second year, I would have to endure my parents disappointment again, and I had no-one to blame but myself. I pushed back the wave of panic that hit me, what was the point in panicking? This was just one more bit of evidence to back up what I already knew, that I was a failure. I felt nothing then, empty, but I was comfortable with empty. I stretched my hand out and very slowly pressed my lit cigarette onto the top of the pile. I didn't need the pages, they were better suited as an ashtray. I felt the last threads holding me to the world, pulling me toward a future life, slip away. I wish that was how the movie ended, a dark and foreboding final scene, the camera slowly closing in on my lifeless eyes before fading to black....
But a crazy thing happened, the pile of paper started to smoulder. I know, flammable paper, who could have foreseen such a thing? Interesting fact, a large block of printing paper won't burst into flames, but it will create a lot of smoke in a very short space of time. Queue me jumping up to grab the fire blanket(Don't ask, lets just blame the alcohol, flinging it dramatically over the paper, which just created even more smoke. My brain finally decided to join the party, I replaced the blanket with a pint of water, crisis averted. Or at least it would have been, if my flat mates hadn't come home at that exact moment to a hallway full of smoke. They were strangely not at all reassured by my attempts to explain the situation, and swiftly fled the scene screaming about carbon monoxide. And possibly something about me trying to burn the building down. Stranger still, when the accommodation manager arrived he refused to accept the explanations of the drunk, weird girl in the dog collar over the well mannered, pleasant girls from the country, and also decided I had tried to burn the building down. Should you ever find yourself in a similar situation, I don't recommend trying to defend yourself by starting any sentence with 'If I really wanted to burn the building down, I would have...'.
So, in less than a year I went from being 'back on track' to being evicted from my dorm under suspicion of arson, a guaranteed failing grade in every subject and my mental health was worse than ever, thanks to my brilliant attempts to escape life with mood altering substances. In short, I had destroyed what was left of my life in spectacular fashion. Looking back, I try and find some humour in what occurred back then. It does me no good to lambaste myself for something long since passed. But if you read this, and are struggling, numbing the pain will only work in the short term. Eventually whatever method you are using will stop working, and the sorrow and desolation will still remain, darker and hungrier than before.
Wednesday 16 September 2015
Mirror, Mirror
I'm stepping out of the past for this post and bringing you into the present, something I had never intended to do when I began this blog. It has always been my intention to share my story chronologically, in the hopes it might help others who have had similar experiences. I will return to that, but today I need to help myself with my blog, so forgive me for the inconsistency. I need to release some of the words buzzing incessantly inside my head, before they drive me down paths I don't want to travel.
I have been out of hospital for six weeks now, following nine weeks as an inpatient on an eating disorder unit. This was my second time in an ED programme, having spent six weeks in a private residential facility in January of this year. The first one didn't work out, obviously. When I entered the hospital in May I was just 1kg above my lowest weight, and had attempted suicide two days before. I was a voluntary patient; the combination of my ED and year long depressive episode had physically and mentally exhausted me to the point that I knew I had to get help, or die.
The programme on the ED unit had two objectives: weight gain(or loss if needed) and to help you take back control from the ED, on a psychological level. The later was done through group work on self esteem, nutrition, cognitive behavioural therapy etc. The weight gain was achieved through that revolutionary concept called eating. Each individual was given a meal plan, depending on their admitting weight and physical health, and if necessary this meal plan would be changed. Anyone who was underweight would, when physically safe to do so, be put on a plan that had an expected weight gain of 0.8-1kg a week. We were weighed twice a week, and if the average had not increased week to week, you would be moved up a meal plan. The higher the meal plan, the higher the calorie intake. We had three main meals, and three snacks a day - the size of your meal or snack depended on your meal plan, but all meals and snacks were eaten under nurse supervision and they were not optional. I remember the first desert I had to eat, a chocolate muffin covered in chocolate sauce. You think you can't get any lower, and then you find yourself sobbing over a cake. If you don't have an eating disorder I imagine that sounds completely ridiculous, but if have or had one, you understand how much I hated that brown blob.
So you had to eat what they gave you. Even if you really hated eggs, unless you had an egg allergy approved by the dietitian, you were eating those eggs. Bathrooms were locked after meals and snacks; fluid intake was monitored; all condiments were rationed; fruit intake was restricted; high calorie milkshakes were used if needed. In short, they had the weight gain process down.
So I gained weight, about eight kilos. I was still slightly underweight, but no longer in danger of my body eating my organs. Objective one completed. Objective two was a whole different story.
I have always hated my appearance. I honestly don't remember ever liking what I saw in the mirror, even as a child. They used to say in the hospital that if you stared at your finger for long enough you would find something wrong with it. I didn't need to stare at it, I could list three things wrong with it without even thinking. The part I hate the most is my face, I've spent countless hours daydreaming about plastic surgery. I used to cry at those television shows were they gave people who felt ugly new faces. I would have done anything for a new face. But, until I win the lottery, there isn't much I can do about my face. Other than use layers of make up to try and detract from the worst of its flaws.
Coming in a close second for most hated part of me, is my body. The entire thing, from my chin to the top of my toes. I could fill the screen up listing all of its flaws, but that's not going to be fun for anyone. But trust me, there is not one part of it that I like. Or tolerate. But unlike my face, I can change my body. Or at least the size of it. So that's what I did. If I had to be ugly, I could at least be thin and ugly. That way I could blend into the background, the smaller I was the less people would notice me. And if they didn't notice me, they wouldn't see all of my defects. So I became bulimic (there's more to it than that, but that's for another post), and then anorexic. Then eventually it was 'eating disorder not otherwise specified'. Which basically means I was a bit anorexic and a bit bulimic. Or, in my head, I wasn't disciplined enough to even have a real eating disorder.
So my weight dropped, stabilised, dropped, stabilised...and then went all the way down. Other people would tell me I was too thin, or that I was underweight, or my BMI was too low. I knew they were all lying, all I had to do was look in the mirror and I could see how fat I still was. Most people don't believe me when I say that, they don't understand it when I tell them I am still overweight. I don't understand how they can look at me and not see that I still need to loose weight. At my lowest weight, I knew I still had so much weight to loose. When I admitted myself to hospital, I did so knowing I would come out grossly overweight. But I had to make a choice between gaining weight and dying, and in that moment I picked gaining weight.
Since I have left hospital I spend 90% of my time in jeans, tracksuit bottoms and baggy tops. Everything must be loose to hide my chubby thighs, thick waist and protruding stomach. I have worn make up and put on dresses on three occasions, and each time I wanted to claw my skin off because I felt so self conscious. I have not looked at myself fully in a mirror in months. I can't look down at myself in the shower, I can only focus on one body part at a time or the pain inside threatens to swallow me whole. I have to accompany my boyfriend to a work event this weekend and I have already started to panic about what to wear - tracksuit bottoms are not an option. I didn't even own tracksuit bottoms until I was in hospital, now they are my favourite thing in the world other than pajamas. I am embarrassed when I see people I know, because somehow I know all of these gorgeous women, who always manage to look amazing on nights out. That's how I see them anyway, I'm not one to assume to know how they view themselves.
So here I am, I can eat food now. But getting dressed makes me cry. If someone else told me they couldn't think of one thing they liked about their body, I would want to hug them and I would hurt for them. But it doesn't work on myself. I'm not sure I will ever complete objective two, but maybe someday soon I can think of one thing I like about that finger.
I have been out of hospital for six weeks now, following nine weeks as an inpatient on an eating disorder unit. This was my second time in an ED programme, having spent six weeks in a private residential facility in January of this year. The first one didn't work out, obviously. When I entered the hospital in May I was just 1kg above my lowest weight, and had attempted suicide two days before. I was a voluntary patient; the combination of my ED and year long depressive episode had physically and mentally exhausted me to the point that I knew I had to get help, or die.
The programme on the ED unit had two objectives: weight gain(or loss if needed) and to help you take back control from the ED, on a psychological level. The later was done through group work on self esteem, nutrition, cognitive behavioural therapy etc. The weight gain was achieved through that revolutionary concept called eating. Each individual was given a meal plan, depending on their admitting weight and physical health, and if necessary this meal plan would be changed. Anyone who was underweight would, when physically safe to do so, be put on a plan that had an expected weight gain of 0.8-1kg a week. We were weighed twice a week, and if the average had not increased week to week, you would be moved up a meal plan. The higher the meal plan, the higher the calorie intake. We had three main meals, and three snacks a day - the size of your meal or snack depended on your meal plan, but all meals and snacks were eaten under nurse supervision and they were not optional. I remember the first desert I had to eat, a chocolate muffin covered in chocolate sauce. You think you can't get any lower, and then you find yourself sobbing over a cake. If you don't have an eating disorder I imagine that sounds completely ridiculous, but if have or had one, you understand how much I hated that brown blob.
So you had to eat what they gave you. Even if you really hated eggs, unless you had an egg allergy approved by the dietitian, you were eating those eggs. Bathrooms were locked after meals and snacks; fluid intake was monitored; all condiments were rationed; fruit intake was restricted; high calorie milkshakes were used if needed. In short, they had the weight gain process down.
So I gained weight, about eight kilos. I was still slightly underweight, but no longer in danger of my body eating my organs. Objective one completed. Objective two was a whole different story.
I have always hated my appearance. I honestly don't remember ever liking what I saw in the mirror, even as a child. They used to say in the hospital that if you stared at your finger for long enough you would find something wrong with it. I didn't need to stare at it, I could list three things wrong with it without even thinking. The part I hate the most is my face, I've spent countless hours daydreaming about plastic surgery. I used to cry at those television shows were they gave people who felt ugly new faces. I would have done anything for a new face. But, until I win the lottery, there isn't much I can do about my face. Other than use layers of make up to try and detract from the worst of its flaws.
Coming in a close second for most hated part of me, is my body. The entire thing, from my chin to the top of my toes. I could fill the screen up listing all of its flaws, but that's not going to be fun for anyone. But trust me, there is not one part of it that I like. Or tolerate. But unlike my face, I can change my body. Or at least the size of it. So that's what I did. If I had to be ugly, I could at least be thin and ugly. That way I could blend into the background, the smaller I was the less people would notice me. And if they didn't notice me, they wouldn't see all of my defects. So I became bulimic (there's more to it than that, but that's for another post), and then anorexic. Then eventually it was 'eating disorder not otherwise specified'. Which basically means I was a bit anorexic and a bit bulimic. Or, in my head, I wasn't disciplined enough to even have a real eating disorder.
So my weight dropped, stabilised, dropped, stabilised...and then went all the way down. Other people would tell me I was too thin, or that I was underweight, or my BMI was too low. I knew they were all lying, all I had to do was look in the mirror and I could see how fat I still was. Most people don't believe me when I say that, they don't understand it when I tell them I am still overweight. I don't understand how they can look at me and not see that I still need to loose weight. At my lowest weight, I knew I still had so much weight to loose. When I admitted myself to hospital, I did so knowing I would come out grossly overweight. But I had to make a choice between gaining weight and dying, and in that moment I picked gaining weight.
Since I have left hospital I spend 90% of my time in jeans, tracksuit bottoms and baggy tops. Everything must be loose to hide my chubby thighs, thick waist and protruding stomach. I have worn make up and put on dresses on three occasions, and each time I wanted to claw my skin off because I felt so self conscious. I have not looked at myself fully in a mirror in months. I can't look down at myself in the shower, I can only focus on one body part at a time or the pain inside threatens to swallow me whole. I have to accompany my boyfriend to a work event this weekend and I have already started to panic about what to wear - tracksuit bottoms are not an option. I didn't even own tracksuit bottoms until I was in hospital, now they are my favourite thing in the world other than pajamas. I am embarrassed when I see people I know, because somehow I know all of these gorgeous women, who always manage to look amazing on nights out. That's how I see them anyway, I'm not one to assume to know how they view themselves.
So here I am, I can eat food now. But getting dressed makes me cry. If someone else told me they couldn't think of one thing they liked about their body, I would want to hug them and I would hurt for them. But it doesn't work on myself. I'm not sure I will ever complete objective two, but maybe someday soon I can think of one thing I like about that finger.
Tuesday 15 September 2015
Therapy
After my suicide attempt I was released from hospital and sent home with my parents(well my mother, my father living separately of course). We went to meet with my psychiatrist in college and it was recommended I be referred to the nearest psychiatric hospital. I had no health insurance, so all of my dealings with mental health services would be through the public health system.
I was assessed by the hospital, although I have no memory of it, and I was registered as a day patient. This meant that I would attend the hospital Monday to Friday, participating in group therapy sessions. I was also linked in with a new psychiatrist in the local mental health clinic. I would remain a patient of this clinic for a number of years, but as it was a public service, the doctors would change every six months. This constant change, coupled with my intense fear of abandonment, meant I never fully trusted any of the psychiatrists I met. It also meant that despite records being kept of my visits, I had to repeat my history for each new face I saw. The years I spent under the clinic were like being stuck in a perpetual time loop, always being dragged back to the past.
The Day Hospital was terrifying at first; I was incredibly self-conscious and shy, which left me feeling awkward and uncomfortable at all times. I had also never spent time with other people who suffered with mental health issues. As there was only one day programme all of the patients in the group struggled with different difficulties, and were at different stages of their recovery. I freely admit that I was slightly apprehensive on my first day, fearing that the bi-polar patients and the young man with schizophrenia might erupt at any point. I quickly realised that my per-conceived notions of psychiatric illnesses were entirely incorrect, and that the people in my group were no different than anyone else. In fact, in some ways, they were better because they understood what it was to have your own mind turn against you. There was also a sense of camaraderie - we were all there because we were suffering, and we were all there trying to get help. That is not to say we all believed the programme would work, I certainly didn't, but we were willing to try.
I spent six weeks in the day hospital; talking, painting, writing, sculpting, talking some more. I did not come out 'better'. There is no better with mental illnesses and disorders, and even if I could have been fixed, a few weeks of splashing paint across a page wasn't going to do it. But my time there gave me an anchor while my medications were being tweaked, and a safe place to go as my suicidal urges slowly receded.
Throughout this time my relationship with my father had been strained; he did not believe there was anything wrong with me that hard work or a walk couldn't fix, and he was vehemently opposed to me taking medication. When I was discharged, my parents assumed I had put all of my nonsense behind me and I was expected to get my life firmly back on track. I re-took and passed my first year exams, allowing me to begin the second year of my degree that September. My dad found me a job working in a friends pharmacy, as I had left my data entry job in a bank after my suicide attempt. College, job - as far as everyone was concerned I was back to being a normal, sane person.
But the thing my parents forgot, or rather didn't know, was that I had not been 'normal' for a long time. They believed my suicide attempt was a result of stress, that I had become overwhelmed in college and this had caused my depression. I know the college psychiatrist told them my diagnosis, but it was forgotten the moment it was heard. For my part, I did nothing to alert them to my continuing problems. Primarily because I wanted to avoid any more confrontations with them, but also because I hadn't stopped self harming and I wasn't willing to give it up. I was still struggling with intense and frequent mood swings, anxiety and depression. The medication and therapy had done nothing to change the thoughts and emotions that thundered inside my skull, so self harming was the only effective tool in my arsenal. So I kept quiet, plastered a smile on my face, and waited. Waited for that black wave to pull me under again; death was coming, I just had to wait.
Before I started my second year of college, my mother, step-father and sister moved to South Africa. They certainly(and understandably) weren't going to give the crazy 18 year old free reign in their house, so my dad paid for me to move into on-campus accommodation. If you asked me to list the most significant moments in my life, their departure would definitely be included. On a rational level, since my step-father had retired they wanted a change of scenery, an adventure somewhere warm. I was starting my second year of college so going with them was impossible, and I had no interest in living in South Africa. Oh if only rational thought reigned supreme in my mind. To me, emotional mind running rampant of course, this was yet another rejection. My father had left me as a child, my step-father had openly rejected me and now my mother was abandoning me. To me, this was her way of telling me she didn't want me. This led to my next conclusion; I was living on campus because my dad didn't want me in his house. I had always known I was unwanted and unloved and now I had proof.
My first night in my new dorm I cried my eyes out. I cried from loneliness. I cried from fear. I cried because I couldn't stand my own company, but I was all I had.
And then second year started, and it all went downhill from there. More downhill. I actually dug a hole at the bottom of the hill and just kept digging.
I was assessed by the hospital, although I have no memory of it, and I was registered as a day patient. This meant that I would attend the hospital Monday to Friday, participating in group therapy sessions. I was also linked in with a new psychiatrist in the local mental health clinic. I would remain a patient of this clinic for a number of years, but as it was a public service, the doctors would change every six months. This constant change, coupled with my intense fear of abandonment, meant I never fully trusted any of the psychiatrists I met. It also meant that despite records being kept of my visits, I had to repeat my history for each new face I saw. The years I spent under the clinic were like being stuck in a perpetual time loop, always being dragged back to the past.
The Day Hospital was terrifying at first; I was incredibly self-conscious and shy, which left me feeling awkward and uncomfortable at all times. I had also never spent time with other people who suffered with mental health issues. As there was only one day programme all of the patients in the group struggled with different difficulties, and were at different stages of their recovery. I freely admit that I was slightly apprehensive on my first day, fearing that the bi-polar patients and the young man with schizophrenia might erupt at any point. I quickly realised that my per-conceived notions of psychiatric illnesses were entirely incorrect, and that the people in my group were no different than anyone else. In fact, in some ways, they were better because they understood what it was to have your own mind turn against you. There was also a sense of camaraderie - we were all there because we were suffering, and we were all there trying to get help. That is not to say we all believed the programme would work, I certainly didn't, but we were willing to try.
I spent six weeks in the day hospital; talking, painting, writing, sculpting, talking some more. I did not come out 'better'. There is no better with mental illnesses and disorders, and even if I could have been fixed, a few weeks of splashing paint across a page wasn't going to do it. But my time there gave me an anchor while my medications were being tweaked, and a safe place to go as my suicidal urges slowly receded.
Throughout this time my relationship with my father had been strained; he did not believe there was anything wrong with me that hard work or a walk couldn't fix, and he was vehemently opposed to me taking medication. When I was discharged, my parents assumed I had put all of my nonsense behind me and I was expected to get my life firmly back on track. I re-took and passed my first year exams, allowing me to begin the second year of my degree that September. My dad found me a job working in a friends pharmacy, as I had left my data entry job in a bank after my suicide attempt. College, job - as far as everyone was concerned I was back to being a normal, sane person.
But the thing my parents forgot, or rather didn't know, was that I had not been 'normal' for a long time. They believed my suicide attempt was a result of stress, that I had become overwhelmed in college and this had caused my depression. I know the college psychiatrist told them my diagnosis, but it was forgotten the moment it was heard. For my part, I did nothing to alert them to my continuing problems. Primarily because I wanted to avoid any more confrontations with them, but also because I hadn't stopped self harming and I wasn't willing to give it up. I was still struggling with intense and frequent mood swings, anxiety and depression. The medication and therapy had done nothing to change the thoughts and emotions that thundered inside my skull, so self harming was the only effective tool in my arsenal. So I kept quiet, plastered a smile on my face, and waited. Waited for that black wave to pull me under again; death was coming, I just had to wait.
Before I started my second year of college, my mother, step-father and sister moved to South Africa. They certainly(and understandably) weren't going to give the crazy 18 year old free reign in their house, so my dad paid for me to move into on-campus accommodation. If you asked me to list the most significant moments in my life, their departure would definitely be included. On a rational level, since my step-father had retired they wanted a change of scenery, an adventure somewhere warm. I was starting my second year of college so going with them was impossible, and I had no interest in living in South Africa. Oh if only rational thought reigned supreme in my mind. To me, emotional mind running rampant of course, this was yet another rejection. My father had left me as a child, my step-father had openly rejected me and now my mother was abandoning me. To me, this was her way of telling me she didn't want me. This led to my next conclusion; I was living on campus because my dad didn't want me in his house. I had always known I was unwanted and unloved and now I had proof.
My first night in my new dorm I cried my eyes out. I cried from loneliness. I cried from fear. I cried because I couldn't stand my own company, but I was all I had.
And then second year started, and it all went downhill from there. More downhill. I actually dug a hole at the bottom of the hill and just kept digging.
Thursday 10 September 2015
Killing the Thing on the Outside
In 2003, when I was 18 years old, I attempted suicide for the second time. I was home alone, with bandaged wrists from my first attempt the previous night. When I woke that day the numbness that had set in the night before remained, I felt no emotions and my mind was blissfully silent.
I ate breakfast, showered, dressed and had every intention of going about my day as if nothing had happened. But as time moved forward, as it tends to do, the silence began to recede. Sorrow came calling first, I cried because I had come so close to dying and then I cried because I was still alive. Guilt was the next arrival - if I had succeeded my mother would have had to discovered the body of her eldest child; my sister would have been heartbroken; my parents might have blamed themselves as they buried me. I was ashamed of how selfish and uncaring I was. Regret filled me.
Sorrow, guilt, and shame - I felt these things every day, and as they washed over me it was as though a switch was flicked in my brain. I suddenly remembered who I was, what I was. I was a terrible daughter, I had disappointed my parents time and time again with my inadequacies, and I was once again letting them down with the mess I had made of college. I knew I had no hope of passing my course, I was too stupid, too incompetent. My sister didn't need me, I was a black mark in her otherwise perfect existence. I was not a daughter and sister that would be missed, I was an embarrassment. I brought them nothing but misery, and they would be better of without me. They would be happier without me, removing myself from their lives was the best gift I could give them.
I was broken inside, that was clear to me now. Fundamentally flawed, without talent, without intellect and with nothing to offer the world. My outside was as hideous as my inside, I looked in the mirror and saw the ugly truth in front of me. I looked and looked, my revulsion growing with each passing second. What an eyesore I was, what a waste of flesh and bone. I was a failure; defective; repugnant. A lifetime of mistakes played in my head, the fiasco of the night before just another scene to tack on at the end. I remembered how lonely I was, always feeling like an outsider looking in. An unwanted intruder in other peoples lives.
Then the pain returned. It felt like my chest had been ripped open from the inside, and all the light in my world was sucked into the darkness. The hole pulled and pulled, swallowing all of me, leaving nothing behind but despair and misery. This pain had been a part of my life since I was a child, but in recent months it was my constant companion. It never stopped, not even in sleep could I escape it, dreams had been replaced with nightmares. As the day went on I sank lower into the abyss, unable to escape the thoughts that tormented me or the agony of being me.
I had tried counseling, I had taken the pills, I had tried. I couldn't bear the thought of living one more day with such ceaseless suffering. So the decision was made, killing myself was the only option.
As soon as I made the decision a sense of calm washed over me and I knew I was making the right choice. Everyone, including me, would be so much better off after I was gone. I felt almost giddy with relief; dying didn't scare me, living did. I poured myself a beer, gathered up my months supply of medications and any paracetamol I could find, and sat in front of the television. I wanted to watch something good, maybe even a comedy so I could leave with a smile on my face. I took the first handful of pills and started flicking between the channels. Much to my dismay there was nothing on but news and soaps, so I chose the latter and swallowed some more tablets. I topped up my beer and another handful went down. Then another, and another. As I waited for the inevitable I grew restless. Dying was taking longer than I thought it would and I couldn't bear anymore dreadful soap operas. It suddenly struck me that talking to someone would be the best way to kill some time. I checked the computer and nobody was online. My head was starting to feel heavy now, and balancing became something of an issue. I tumbled to the floor and laughed, was this what insanity looked like? Laughing as you slowly died?
I felt drunk, the xanax probably, and my restlessness turned into a sort of mania. This was it, I was finally going to destroy the body that shackled me to my pain. I wouldn't have to hurt anymore, it wouldn't matter that nobody loved me or wanted me. It would be silent in my head forever. Wait, I hadn't written a letter and my hands weren't working enough to write one now. I had to talk to someone, someone who couldn't foil my plan but could perhaps get a message to my parents. Yes, I needed the phone.
Dialing the number for The Samaritans was challenging, as my vision swam in and out of focus. From this point on my memories are almost completely gone. I remember I spoke to a woman, and told her cheerfully how I had taken all the pills and I would be dead soon. She tried to engage me in conversation but my ears were full of cotton wool and I couldn't remember why I was on the phone. She very gently asked me to do her a favour and please hang up and dial 999. I was on the floor at this point, my body limp and my head heavy. I didn't want to upset her, she had been so patient when I explained how much I hated soaps. I ended the call and with great difficulty rang 999.
"Ambulance, Police or Fire?" (Or something to that effect)
"Eh, I took some pills and the woman said to ring"
She asked for my address, I started to drift off and she shouted down the phone. Why do I have to open the front door? Stop shouting. I rolled down the stairs and managed to pull the door open. Oh good, now she can stop shouting...then everything went black.
I woke up the following day in hospital, my worried and understandably angry parents on either side of me. This time I couldn't lie my way out of the hospital. Instead I had guaranteed my place in a different kind of hospital.
I want to tell you I felt fortunate to be alive that morning. I wish I could tell you I never attempted suicide again. I wish I could tell you that my life got a little bit better everyday after that, and that now I am a paragon of mental health. But obviously I am still here, so my while there would be more pain in my life, my story hasn't ended.
I ate breakfast, showered, dressed and had every intention of going about my day as if nothing had happened. But as time moved forward, as it tends to do, the silence began to recede. Sorrow came calling first, I cried because I had come so close to dying and then I cried because I was still alive. Guilt was the next arrival - if I had succeeded my mother would have had to discovered the body of her eldest child; my sister would have been heartbroken; my parents might have blamed themselves as they buried me. I was ashamed of how selfish and uncaring I was. Regret filled me.
Sorrow, guilt, and shame - I felt these things every day, and as they washed over me it was as though a switch was flicked in my brain. I suddenly remembered who I was, what I was. I was a terrible daughter, I had disappointed my parents time and time again with my inadequacies, and I was once again letting them down with the mess I had made of college. I knew I had no hope of passing my course, I was too stupid, too incompetent. My sister didn't need me, I was a black mark in her otherwise perfect existence. I was not a daughter and sister that would be missed, I was an embarrassment. I brought them nothing but misery, and they would be better of without me. They would be happier without me, removing myself from their lives was the best gift I could give them.
I was broken inside, that was clear to me now. Fundamentally flawed, without talent, without intellect and with nothing to offer the world. My outside was as hideous as my inside, I looked in the mirror and saw the ugly truth in front of me. I looked and looked, my revulsion growing with each passing second. What an eyesore I was, what a waste of flesh and bone. I was a failure; defective; repugnant. A lifetime of mistakes played in my head, the fiasco of the night before just another scene to tack on at the end. I remembered how lonely I was, always feeling like an outsider looking in. An unwanted intruder in other peoples lives.
Then the pain returned. It felt like my chest had been ripped open from the inside, and all the light in my world was sucked into the darkness. The hole pulled and pulled, swallowing all of me, leaving nothing behind but despair and misery. This pain had been a part of my life since I was a child, but in recent months it was my constant companion. It never stopped, not even in sleep could I escape it, dreams had been replaced with nightmares. As the day went on I sank lower into the abyss, unable to escape the thoughts that tormented me or the agony of being me.
I had tried counseling, I had taken the pills, I had tried. I couldn't bear the thought of living one more day with such ceaseless suffering. So the decision was made, killing myself was the only option.
As soon as I made the decision a sense of calm washed over me and I knew I was making the right choice. Everyone, including me, would be so much better off after I was gone. I felt almost giddy with relief; dying didn't scare me, living did. I poured myself a beer, gathered up my months supply of medications and any paracetamol I could find, and sat in front of the television. I wanted to watch something good, maybe even a comedy so I could leave with a smile on my face. I took the first handful of pills and started flicking between the channels. Much to my dismay there was nothing on but news and soaps, so I chose the latter and swallowed some more tablets. I topped up my beer and another handful went down. Then another, and another. As I waited for the inevitable I grew restless. Dying was taking longer than I thought it would and I couldn't bear anymore dreadful soap operas. It suddenly struck me that talking to someone would be the best way to kill some time. I checked the computer and nobody was online. My head was starting to feel heavy now, and balancing became something of an issue. I tumbled to the floor and laughed, was this what insanity looked like? Laughing as you slowly died?
I felt drunk, the xanax probably, and my restlessness turned into a sort of mania. This was it, I was finally going to destroy the body that shackled me to my pain. I wouldn't have to hurt anymore, it wouldn't matter that nobody loved me or wanted me. It would be silent in my head forever. Wait, I hadn't written a letter and my hands weren't working enough to write one now. I had to talk to someone, someone who couldn't foil my plan but could perhaps get a message to my parents. Yes, I needed the phone.
Dialing the number for The Samaritans was challenging, as my vision swam in and out of focus. From this point on my memories are almost completely gone. I remember I spoke to a woman, and told her cheerfully how I had taken all the pills and I would be dead soon. She tried to engage me in conversation but my ears were full of cotton wool and I couldn't remember why I was on the phone. She very gently asked me to do her a favour and please hang up and dial 999. I was on the floor at this point, my body limp and my head heavy. I didn't want to upset her, she had been so patient when I explained how much I hated soaps. I ended the call and with great difficulty rang 999.
"Ambulance, Police or Fire?" (Or something to that effect)
"Eh, I took some pills and the woman said to ring"
She asked for my address, I started to drift off and she shouted down the phone. Why do I have to open the front door? Stop shouting. I rolled down the stairs and managed to pull the door open. Oh good, now she can stop shouting...then everything went black.
I woke up the following day in hospital, my worried and understandably angry parents on either side of me. This time I couldn't lie my way out of the hospital. Instead I had guaranteed my place in a different kind of hospital.
I want to tell you I felt fortunate to be alive that morning. I wish I could tell you I never attempted suicide again. I wish I could tell you that my life got a little bit better everyday after that, and that now I am a paragon of mental health. But obviously I am still here, so my while there would be more pain in my life, my story hasn't ended.
Monday 7 September 2015
Borderline
By the time I had my first appointment with the college psychiatrist, my mental health had declined to the point that every area of my life was affected. I was failing all of my subjects in college, I no longer attended lectures and struggled to focus on even the simplest aspects of my coursework. Sitting down and reading a text book was impossible - after about five minutes my mind would drift away and I couldn't even remember the paragraph I had managed to read. At home I had completely isolated myself, spending most of my time alone in my room, a stranger in my own family. I was self harming almost daily, having graduated to scalpels and burning myself. Whenever possible I would drink myself stupid to quiet the thoughts that slammed angrily inside my head, and dull the constant ache in my chest.
I had no expectations as I sat in the waiting room that day, my last encounter with the counselor had left me convinced I was a lost cause. I remember very little of what happened that day, I know I answered a seemingly inexhaustible supply of questions, posed by a smiling man with a calm voice, and colourful socks. Don't ask me why the socks stood out to me, I assume it's because they were the focal point of my permanently downcast gaze. I remember leaving with nothing but a time for the next appointment, but it's more likely that I was also started on medication that day. An antidepressant(Effexor), a mood stabiliser(Lamictal) and Xanax for my anxiety. I returned to see the psychiatrist several times and my dosages were slowly increased, as my symptoms showed no signs of abating. At one of these appointments I was told I have Borderline Personality Disorder. Like most people, I knew nothing about personality disorders, although the words immediately brought to mind the film Girl, Interrupted. My behaviours(promiscuity, impulsivity, mood instability, self harm to name a few) were all explained by this diagnosis, but I was cautioned to do no research into it, as apparently this can lead to patients developing more negative aspects of the disorder. Amazingly, for once, I did as I was told.
I wish I could tell you that I felt a sense of relief, having a name for all of the pain and torment. That finally having someone listen to me, and try and help me gave me a sense of hope. But it didn't, in fact it had the opposite effect. I kept waiting, and waiting for these magical pills to work. But they didn't. Up and up the dosage went, and down and down I went.
I was home alone the first time. Sitting on the bathroom floor, I pressed the blade as hard as I could to my right wrist and dragged it across. There was a split second, a pause in the fabric of time, and then there was blood everywhere. I remember worrying about the mess, that my mother would be cross if I stained the floor, so I crawled into the shower. I took a deep breathe, and took the scalpel with my right hand. But my fingers couldn't grip the handle properly, and my hand was weak. I was frantic, desperately trying to stab at my left wrist and failing to cut deep enough. The scalpel slipped from my bloody hand and I started to cry. I hadn't cried until then, until the moment I knew I wasn't going to die. I had done my research, it was unlikely one slit wrist would bleed enough to kill me, and I was physically unable to tear open the other one. When you try to kill yourself, most of the time you are very calm. It's as if making the decision to end your suffering finally quiets the noise in your head. It is usually methodical, and sometimes accompanied by a sense of relief. It isn't always that way, but it was for me that night. SO when I realised my plan wasn't going to work, I crumbled. I lay curled on the shower floor, sobbing, bleeding, and feeling more broken than ever.
Then the strangest thing happened, like a switch had been flicked, everything stopped. I felt nothing, I was still, my mind was silent. I know now this is called disassociation, and over the years it has become my favourite party trick. Calm now, I wrapped a towel around my right wrist and stepped out of the shower. I took off my bloodied clothes and walked to my wardrobe and dressed. I checked my purse, and then called a taxi. I asked the driver to take me to the nearest A&E, as I had cut my wrist. He politely asked me not to bleed on his seats. I laughed.
In the hospital they saw me quickly. Yes, I had tried to kill myself, but my hand wouldn't work so I couldn't finish the job. Oh I nicked a tendon?
I laughed some more.
Yes, I am on medication. Yes I have a psychiatrist. Of course I will ring him tomorrow. No, I have absolutely no plans to hurt myself again.
Stitches in both wrists. The nurse, scolding, shaking her head at the patchwork of cuts up and down my arms. I watched it all from a distance, nodding occasionally. I'm too pretty to be doing this to myself? I laughed some more. Then, suitably chastised and bandaged I was free to go. I walked home. When I got there I immediately cleaned the bathroom, removing any trace of my failure from sight. Clothes and towels were washed. Then I climbed into bed and that was that. My first suicide attempt was done, and nobody would have to find out. Everything was fine.
Until tomorrow turned into today.
I was home alone the second time.
I had no expectations as I sat in the waiting room that day, my last encounter with the counselor had left me convinced I was a lost cause. I remember very little of what happened that day, I know I answered a seemingly inexhaustible supply of questions, posed by a smiling man with a calm voice, and colourful socks. Don't ask me why the socks stood out to me, I assume it's because they were the focal point of my permanently downcast gaze. I remember leaving with nothing but a time for the next appointment, but it's more likely that I was also started on medication that day. An antidepressant(Effexor), a mood stabiliser(Lamictal) and Xanax for my anxiety. I returned to see the psychiatrist several times and my dosages were slowly increased, as my symptoms showed no signs of abating. At one of these appointments I was told I have Borderline Personality Disorder. Like most people, I knew nothing about personality disorders, although the words immediately brought to mind the film Girl, Interrupted. My behaviours(promiscuity, impulsivity, mood instability, self harm to name a few) were all explained by this diagnosis, but I was cautioned to do no research into it, as apparently this can lead to patients developing more negative aspects of the disorder. Amazingly, for once, I did as I was told.
I wish I could tell you that I felt a sense of relief, having a name for all of the pain and torment. That finally having someone listen to me, and try and help me gave me a sense of hope. But it didn't, in fact it had the opposite effect. I kept waiting, and waiting for these magical pills to work. But they didn't. Up and up the dosage went, and down and down I went.
I was home alone the first time. Sitting on the bathroom floor, I pressed the blade as hard as I could to my right wrist and dragged it across. There was a split second, a pause in the fabric of time, and then there was blood everywhere. I remember worrying about the mess, that my mother would be cross if I stained the floor, so I crawled into the shower. I took a deep breathe, and took the scalpel with my right hand. But my fingers couldn't grip the handle properly, and my hand was weak. I was frantic, desperately trying to stab at my left wrist and failing to cut deep enough. The scalpel slipped from my bloody hand and I started to cry. I hadn't cried until then, until the moment I knew I wasn't going to die. I had done my research, it was unlikely one slit wrist would bleed enough to kill me, and I was physically unable to tear open the other one. When you try to kill yourself, most of the time you are very calm. It's as if making the decision to end your suffering finally quiets the noise in your head. It is usually methodical, and sometimes accompanied by a sense of relief. It isn't always that way, but it was for me that night. SO when I realised my plan wasn't going to work, I crumbled. I lay curled on the shower floor, sobbing, bleeding, and feeling more broken than ever.
Then the strangest thing happened, like a switch had been flicked, everything stopped. I felt nothing, I was still, my mind was silent. I know now this is called disassociation, and over the years it has become my favourite party trick. Calm now, I wrapped a towel around my right wrist and stepped out of the shower. I took off my bloodied clothes and walked to my wardrobe and dressed. I checked my purse, and then called a taxi. I asked the driver to take me to the nearest A&E, as I had cut my wrist. He politely asked me not to bleed on his seats. I laughed.
In the hospital they saw me quickly. Yes, I had tried to kill myself, but my hand wouldn't work so I couldn't finish the job. Oh I nicked a tendon?
I laughed some more.
Yes, I am on medication. Yes I have a psychiatrist. Of course I will ring him tomorrow. No, I have absolutely no plans to hurt myself again.
Stitches in both wrists. The nurse, scolding, shaking her head at the patchwork of cuts up and down my arms. I watched it all from a distance, nodding occasionally. I'm too pretty to be doing this to myself? I laughed some more. Then, suitably chastised and bandaged I was free to go. I walked home. When I got there I immediately cleaned the bathroom, removing any trace of my failure from sight. Clothes and towels were washed. Then I climbed into bed and that was that. My first suicide attempt was done, and nobody would have to find out. Everything was fine.
Until tomorrow turned into today.
I was home alone the second time.
Saturday 5 September 2015
Diagnonsense
In my previous two posts I gave you the history of my love life from age 18 to 27. Sadly, romance and sex weren't my main concern during those years, although my liaisons were greatly affected by the primary predicament. So I am going to rewind, and take you back to 2003.
I was 18, in University studying science, or rather not studying it. I did not choose to apply for a science degree, it was unfortunately thrust upon me by my well meaning, but misguided mother. From the first day of the course I struggled; I wish I could tell you it was purely down to the emotional difficulties I was facing at the time, but that would be a lie. I had always struggled with physics and maths, and to this day I still don't understand trigonometry. If I disliked them because I found them too difficult, or I found them difficult because I disliked them I can't say. But either way, I couldn't understand even the basic principles of them. My response to this situation was to avoid it. I skipped lectures, skipped lab work and certainly didn't study. My multiple choice exams were always a game of chance, which meant I regularly failed them.
During the day I attended college, and in the evenings I worked as a data entry clerk. I despised my job, as most people who do data entry do, because it is the most mind numbing task of all time. At home I spent most of my time alone in my room, pretending to study, but really just escaping reality using my trusty VCR player. The atmosphere at home had now reached boiling point, and there were arguments and caustic remarks almost daily. The only way I can describe how it felt in my home at that time is that it was toxic and oppressive. So I spent my day moving from one bad situation to another. I was cutting myself almost everyday just to quiet the noise in my head enough to shuffle along, and drinking far too much in an attempt to dull the ache inside. In short, I was a mess. My mood would swing rapidly during the day, sometimes it could change multiple times in the space of a minute. My black moods would usually last days, happiness mere seconds.
I have no recollection of exactly how it happened, but a peer guidance counselor suggested I be referred to see the on campus psychologist. Up to this point my only experience with mental health professionals was with the psychotherapist I saw prior to my school exams. I can only tell you three things about my first psychologist: she was a woman, she didn't help me in the slightest, and she was in the wrong profession. Please understand, by the time I came to the center to see her I was so beaten down by my own thoughts and feelings that I had no hope for the future. I didn't know what exactly was wrong with me, but I feared that it was going to kill me. I saw this woman several times, told her how I was feeling, what thoughts I had had during the week, my concerns that something was intrinsically damaged. I genuinely wanted her to help me, because at this point I didn't necessarily want to die, I just needed the pain to stop.
If you happen to be a healthcare professional, or are becoming one, or are friends with someone having difficulties, the following is what you should NOT say to a person with depression, or any mental health problems. Actually, nobody should ever say these words to anyone. Ever. But most definitely not to an 18 year old girl who self harms and is suffering
I was promptly told I could no longer receive counseling and sent on my way.
I can remember sobbing in that woman's office. I remember thinking, 'That voice was right all along, nobody wants to help me, and death is the only way'. From that moment on two things shifted inside me. The first was that suicide turned from something I feared to a viable solution to my problems. The second, and if you've been paying attention you might have already spotted this one, is that I developed a complete mistrust of all mental health professionals. Why? Because I had summoned the strength to confess my sins to someone, I had asked someone for help, someone who's job description is helping people. And I had been rejected. Again. To this day I struggle to put my trust in therapists and psychiatrists. Whenever a new one enters my life I assume they will let me down, and only after a long period of time will I develop any sort of confidence in them. Even then, in the back of my mind, I am always waiting for them to fail me. Or to confirm my worst fears, that I am a lost cause.
There was one other consequence of my removal from the counseling list: I was immediately referred to the psychiatrist. My first psychiatrist, although certainly not the last, and the one who would diagnose me with BPD.
I was 18, in University studying science, or rather not studying it. I did not choose to apply for a science degree, it was unfortunately thrust upon me by my well meaning, but misguided mother. From the first day of the course I struggled; I wish I could tell you it was purely down to the emotional difficulties I was facing at the time, but that would be a lie. I had always struggled with physics and maths, and to this day I still don't understand trigonometry. If I disliked them because I found them too difficult, or I found them difficult because I disliked them I can't say. But either way, I couldn't understand even the basic principles of them. My response to this situation was to avoid it. I skipped lectures, skipped lab work and certainly didn't study. My multiple choice exams were always a game of chance, which meant I regularly failed them.
During the day I attended college, and in the evenings I worked as a data entry clerk. I despised my job, as most people who do data entry do, because it is the most mind numbing task of all time. At home I spent most of my time alone in my room, pretending to study, but really just escaping reality using my trusty VCR player. The atmosphere at home had now reached boiling point, and there were arguments and caustic remarks almost daily. The only way I can describe how it felt in my home at that time is that it was toxic and oppressive. So I spent my day moving from one bad situation to another. I was cutting myself almost everyday just to quiet the noise in my head enough to shuffle along, and drinking far too much in an attempt to dull the ache inside. In short, I was a mess. My mood would swing rapidly during the day, sometimes it could change multiple times in the space of a minute. My black moods would usually last days, happiness mere seconds.
I have no recollection of exactly how it happened, but a peer guidance counselor suggested I be referred to see the on campus psychologist. Up to this point my only experience with mental health professionals was with the psychotherapist I saw prior to my school exams. I can only tell you three things about my first psychologist: she was a woman, she didn't help me in the slightest, and she was in the wrong profession. Please understand, by the time I came to the center to see her I was so beaten down by my own thoughts and feelings that I had no hope for the future. I didn't know what exactly was wrong with me, but I feared that it was going to kill me. I saw this woman several times, told her how I was feeling, what thoughts I had had during the week, my concerns that something was intrinsically damaged. I genuinely wanted her to help me, because at this point I didn't necessarily want to die, I just needed the pain to stop.
If you happen to be a healthcare professional, or are becoming one, or are friends with someone having difficulties, the following is what you should NOT say to a person with depression, or any mental health problems. Actually, nobody should ever say these words to anyone. Ever. But most definitely not to an 18 year old girl who self harms and is suffering
I feel certain you are going to commit suicide, and I don't want to take that journey with you. It would be too upsetting for me.
I was promptly told I could no longer receive counseling and sent on my way.
I can remember sobbing in that woman's office. I remember thinking, 'That voice was right all along, nobody wants to help me, and death is the only way'. From that moment on two things shifted inside me. The first was that suicide turned from something I feared to a viable solution to my problems. The second, and if you've been paying attention you might have already spotted this one, is that I developed a complete mistrust of all mental health professionals. Why? Because I had summoned the strength to confess my sins to someone, I had asked someone for help, someone who's job description is helping people. And I had been rejected. Again. To this day I struggle to put my trust in therapists and psychiatrists. Whenever a new one enters my life I assume they will let me down, and only after a long period of time will I develop any sort of confidence in them. Even then, in the back of my mind, I am always waiting for them to fail me. Or to confirm my worst fears, that I am a lost cause.
There was one other consequence of my removal from the counseling list: I was immediately referred to the psychiatrist. My first psychiatrist, although certainly not the last, and the one who would diagnose me with BPD.
Tuesday 1 September 2015
Love
As I mentioned in my previous post, what happened in the wooded area changed something in me. For years my mind, my identity, had been a source of contempt and loathing. I had taken my frustration and anger out on my body by punishing it, etching my pain across my flesh with vehemence. After that night however, I knew that I was not the only one who saw me for what I truly was; my flaws were clearly visible to others. I was defective, and my feelings of worthlessness pushed me ever closer to that black hole. I was desperate to find something I could be good at, something I could offer so that people would like me. To put it simply, all I wanted was to be wanted by someone. Anyone. To be needed for just a moment, one moment to kill the growing emptiness inside me.
So I sought comfort in the one place I knew I would find it - the arms of men. I wish I could express to you how I felt during that time, but I can't. In order to move on from that time in my life I have had to leave it where it belongs, firmly in the past, and to do that I have to emotionally disconnect from it. When I look back at my actions, at how I treated myself, it is as a dispassionate observer. I can tell you that I became trapped in a vicious cycle - if a random guy in a bar 'chose' me, it meant they liked or wanted something I had. I had a purpose. Then in the cold light of day, usually nursing a hangover, I would feel nothing but disgust at myself. Disgust and rejection, because they had, to put it crudely, sampled my goods and not wanted seconds. So I would go back out again, looking for that validation I had been missing all of my life. I don't blame these men for how I felt, the terms of our encounters were perfectly clear to them. They had no way of knowing the anguish I felt each morning, the shame. And yet again and again I would go home with them, the master of my own destruction. Dying inside, one night at a time.
Then I met a boy, a boy who wanted to hold my hand and get to know me. This was new and uncharted territory. I was amazed by this new land, a place where you could return to one person over and over again for acceptance. Instantly I was hooked; how stupid I had been all this time, looking for approval in dark corners and seedy bars. There was someone in the world who couldn't see the corruption inside me, who thought I was interesting. Funny. Maybe even acceptable to look at.
When you spend so long feeling unwanted and undeserving, you are powerless to resist any signs of affection. I grabbed onto it like a life raft, clutching it tightly to my chest to keep me afloat. I felt everything so intensely, and I shared these feelings with the world. I was in love after 3 weeks, I picked up new hobbies and interests to match theirs with gusto. I did everything I could to mold myself into what they wanted, to become what I thought was the perfect girlfriend. The relief and happiness I felt was empowering, but with it came fear like nothing I had felt before. Here was this marvelous thing called a relationship, with these wonderful feelings of acceptance, that had been gifted to me by the universe. I should have been content, enjoying my first true foray into romance and love. But my relief was short lived, because I knew the truth about life. I knew that as quickly as things come to you, they can be taken away. I was consumed with the need to keep hold of this new world. The higher you climb, the further the fall.
Now that I knew what it was to be deemed worthy by another, I couldn't loose it. Most people will experience a level of insecurity in a relationship at one time or another. Maybe a stab of jealousy when he smiled at a pretty barmaid, leading to an overt display of affection and ownership. Wondering for a moment how she could really find you attractive when you see a picture of her ex, sometimes even demanding an explanation from her. Felt suspicious when they liked someone's status and engaged in a bit of Facebook stalking. Or maybe you've let your self-doubt get the better of you and checked his phone or Facebook messages. It happens to the best of us, there are very few people who believe in themselves 100% of the time, and I have yet to meet any of them. But there is a very fine line between 'normal' or acceptable insecurity and the insecurity someone with borderline personality disorder (and indeed most personality disorders) can experience. It's like living in a constant state of threat; the fear that the love and acceptance you have craved all your life can be snatched away; the constant anxiety that your girlfriend/boyfriend will realise what a terrible mistake they have made; knowing that this person could do so much better than you, and the world is full of people lining up to take your spot. You are completely addicted to being loved, and you will do anything to keep it. Which usually means you become the most neurotic and needy partner in the world. If you haven't dated someone with BPD, please trust me when I say it is a whole other level of crazy ass bitch.
The irony is, we spend so much of our time trying to hold onto this thing called love, and yet we don't trust it at all. Who could love me? They can see me, they know how stupid and useless I am, they can do better; and yet they say they love us? Utter nonsense, this must be a trick of some kind. Under no circumstances can we allow this proffered love to become part of us. Better to keep it on the surface, so that when they take it away, we will be protected from the worst of it. Even better, if we do these things we can push them away. And when they leave, like we always knew the would, they'll have proved what we knew all along: we are unlovable.
It is a horrible place to be, needing and fearing something at the same time. You want to be loved so badly it aches, but you do not trust anyone who says they love you. How can you? In my life to that point, love meant shouting and anger and departures. Love meant you could be hurt.
From the ages of 19 to 27 I had three serious relationships. I am not going to share with you any tales of woe or joy from them for the following reasons:
1) It is not necessary to reveal the minute details of my past relationships in order to explain who I was or who I am now.
2) They aren't just my stories to tell. Only half of each memory belongs to me, and it is not up to me to share another persons history.
3) While many things happened over the course of our relationships, I am not some blameless victim. I made plenty of mistakes, as humans do, and I have neither the desire nor higher ground to lay blame.
4) Most importantly, at some point I loved them and I have no regrets for having known them; and while I'm sure they (justifiably) feel the opposite, I have no animosity towards them. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was bat shit crazy a lot of the time, I'd probably come off on the losing side :)
What is important for me to share with you is that for a period of eight years, I became completely and utterly consumed by the need to love and be loved. In my mind I had found a new, and brilliant, way to get validation. But in reality, I just gave myself even more opportunities to fail. In all that time I never once felt I deserved to be cared for, I never believed I was good enough, I never trusted that anyone could love me. I became more and more emotionally unstable, increasingly impulsive and destructive and would journey down the rabbit hole, into the world of mental health services.
So I sought comfort in the one place I knew I would find it - the arms of men. I wish I could express to you how I felt during that time, but I can't. In order to move on from that time in my life I have had to leave it where it belongs, firmly in the past, and to do that I have to emotionally disconnect from it. When I look back at my actions, at how I treated myself, it is as a dispassionate observer. I can tell you that I became trapped in a vicious cycle - if a random guy in a bar 'chose' me, it meant they liked or wanted something I had. I had a purpose. Then in the cold light of day, usually nursing a hangover, I would feel nothing but disgust at myself. Disgust and rejection, because they had, to put it crudely, sampled my goods and not wanted seconds. So I would go back out again, looking for that validation I had been missing all of my life. I don't blame these men for how I felt, the terms of our encounters were perfectly clear to them. They had no way of knowing the anguish I felt each morning, the shame. And yet again and again I would go home with them, the master of my own destruction. Dying inside, one night at a time.
Then I met a boy, a boy who wanted to hold my hand and get to know me. This was new and uncharted territory. I was amazed by this new land, a place where you could return to one person over and over again for acceptance. Instantly I was hooked; how stupid I had been all this time, looking for approval in dark corners and seedy bars. There was someone in the world who couldn't see the corruption inside me, who thought I was interesting. Funny. Maybe even acceptable to look at.
When you spend so long feeling unwanted and undeserving, you are powerless to resist any signs of affection. I grabbed onto it like a life raft, clutching it tightly to my chest to keep me afloat. I felt everything so intensely, and I shared these feelings with the world. I was in love after 3 weeks, I picked up new hobbies and interests to match theirs with gusto. I did everything I could to mold myself into what they wanted, to become what I thought was the perfect girlfriend. The relief and happiness I felt was empowering, but with it came fear like nothing I had felt before. Here was this marvelous thing called a relationship, with these wonderful feelings of acceptance, that had been gifted to me by the universe. I should have been content, enjoying my first true foray into romance and love. But my relief was short lived, because I knew the truth about life. I knew that as quickly as things come to you, they can be taken away. I was consumed with the need to keep hold of this new world. The higher you climb, the further the fall.
Now that I knew what it was to be deemed worthy by another, I couldn't loose it. Most people will experience a level of insecurity in a relationship at one time or another. Maybe a stab of jealousy when he smiled at a pretty barmaid, leading to an overt display of affection and ownership. Wondering for a moment how she could really find you attractive when you see a picture of her ex, sometimes even demanding an explanation from her. Felt suspicious when they liked someone's status and engaged in a bit of Facebook stalking. Or maybe you've let your self-doubt get the better of you and checked his phone or Facebook messages. It happens to the best of us, there are very few people who believe in themselves 100% of the time, and I have yet to meet any of them. But there is a very fine line between 'normal' or acceptable insecurity and the insecurity someone with borderline personality disorder (and indeed most personality disorders) can experience. It's like living in a constant state of threat; the fear that the love and acceptance you have craved all your life can be snatched away; the constant anxiety that your girlfriend/boyfriend will realise what a terrible mistake they have made; knowing that this person could do so much better than you, and the world is full of people lining up to take your spot. You are completely addicted to being loved, and you will do anything to keep it. Which usually means you become the most neurotic and needy partner in the world. If you haven't dated someone with BPD, please trust me when I say it is a whole other level of crazy ass bitch.
The irony is, we spend so much of our time trying to hold onto this thing called love, and yet we don't trust it at all. Who could love me? They can see me, they know how stupid and useless I am, they can do better; and yet they say they love us? Utter nonsense, this must be a trick of some kind. Under no circumstances can we allow this proffered love to become part of us. Better to keep it on the surface, so that when they take it away, we will be protected from the worst of it. Even better, if we do these things we can push them away. And when they leave, like we always knew the would, they'll have proved what we knew all along: we are unlovable.
It is a horrible place to be, needing and fearing something at the same time. You want to be loved so badly it aches, but you do not trust anyone who says they love you. How can you? In my life to that point, love meant shouting and anger and departures. Love meant you could be hurt.
From the ages of 19 to 27 I had three serious relationships. I am not going to share with you any tales of woe or joy from them for the following reasons:
1) It is not necessary to reveal the minute details of my past relationships in order to explain who I was or who I am now.
2) They aren't just my stories to tell. Only half of each memory belongs to me, and it is not up to me to share another persons history.
3) While many things happened over the course of our relationships, I am not some blameless victim. I made plenty of mistakes, as humans do, and I have neither the desire nor higher ground to lay blame.
4) Most importantly, at some point I loved them and I have no regrets for having known them; and while I'm sure they (justifiably) feel the opposite, I have no animosity towards them. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was bat shit crazy a lot of the time, I'd probably come off on the losing side :)
What is important for me to share with you is that for a period of eight years, I became completely and utterly consumed by the need to love and be loved. In my mind I had found a new, and brilliant, way to get validation. But in reality, I just gave myself even more opportunities to fail. In all that time I never once felt I deserved to be cared for, I never believed I was good enough, I never trusted that anyone could love me. I became more and more emotionally unstable, increasingly impulsive and destructive and would journey down the rabbit hole, into the world of mental health services.
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