Self-Esteem

I haven't blogged in months. I would love to tell you that I was too busy living life to talk to a computer screen but the reality is much more mundane and predictable; my depression and mood instability had improved, and I was too afraid to write as a (mostly) mentally competent person. Poor writing and bad grammar can be excused when you are cognitively impaired, but I discovered I lack the mental fortitude/balls to be judged as a functioning human being.

Luckily, for nobody, I am once again cocooned in the familiar blanket of depression; albeit a milder manifestation than its predecessor. So to the keyboard I return, for better or worse.

Over the last year I have done a lot of work with my therapists to address and, in most cases, move past events in my life that have contributed to my being an emotional equivalent of a broken condom. Yet my core belief system remained unchanged. No matter how many 'Mother hates me' sessions I had, I still couldn't look myself in the eye. And then I realised that I was missing something - self-esteem.

Let me be clear, I absolutely do not think that everyone else is walking around full of pride; dignity oozing from their pores like cheese from a perfectly stuffed pizza crust. I believe most of us have some level of insecurity, and if you don't, you're probably the next Ted Bundy. Or Tom Hardy. But I've come to realise that my self-deprecation is yet another maladaptive coping mechanism I lean on. And I have no idea how to overcome it. I looked through every page of my stupid (and useful, whatever) DBT folder and there is nothing on self-esteem.

So I googled self-esteem, and there was one exercise that appeared on nearly every page - List things you like about yourself. Reader, I laughed. I was first asked to list what I like about myself in 2004, during group therapy. I had nothing, I handed up a blank page. During my last admission, in August/September 2015, I was asked the same question; after 9 weeks I had nothing. Yesterday I tried to think of three things I like about myself, I have nothing.

If I tried to think of three things I don't like about myself? No problem. Although I think that's the case for many of us. Not that we can't think of our positive attributes, but that it is much easier to highlight our flaws. Personally, would much rather you ask me for a list of flaws, I'm comfortable and well-acquainted with those. But listing all of my disparaging beliefs would be rather long and boring, so instead I will consider my thoughts over a one hour period.

The purpose of this isn't to elicit sympathy,but rather to acknowledge the impact of low self-esteem and hopefully garner some much needed advice.

I have picked this hour for several reasons; first, it's the present, so my memory isn't required; second, I'm alone, thus removing the possibility of outside interference. Finally, nothing massively life altering or heart breaking has happened today. Yet. There's always time for life to be a dick.

I am constantly amazed and disgusted by how naturally pessimistic my outlook is.

You're an attention seeking whore for posting this.

Your hands are dry. and masculine.

Stop wondering what will happen next, you stupid whore.

Everyone already hates you, this is just adding fuel to the fire.

your thighs are touching, you fat cow.

You're fat now and you still don't have boobs. lol.

Waste of space.

Useless.

Your dogs hate you.

You're fucking ugly.

They literally hate you, they want Alan.

that sigh means Loki hates you.

You type too slow.

seriously stop rubbing your dry claws together.

Your hair is greasy.

You are the ugly friend.

You are a waste of space and money.

Remember money? It's that thing you don't have. Because you're useless.

Genuinely, everyone hates you.

Yes, even them. Remember they didn't reply to you tagging them on a comment on FB? It's because they hate you.

Ooo you're the pity friend! Familiar role for you, loser.

Seriously, your dogs hate you. They won't even cuddle you.

ooo remember how you got fat? That was hilarious right? No? Because you're disgusting now?

They all laugh at you. You know that, right? You don't really fit it, pity invite for one!

Fuck you are pathetic. Can't even afford a cup of coffee.

Also, fat now. FYI.

how's the new career going? Not great? Figures, right?

And nobody wants you there? Because you're fat and ugly maybe?

Remember when you could skip food all day? Willpower eh? None left no?

Oh hey, and you're fucking boring. Go on, discuss the presidential debate, with specifics... No? Global Warming? Property? EINSTEIN?

Literately nothing.

Just visualise your thighs touching off of each other. And your hips getting padded. And your face being plumper.

Good times right? No? Oh fuck... it happens every time. I remember the truth - I'm stuck with this face and brain.


Okay, I gave up after 24 minutes. Mostly because my mind was racing and I couldn't type fast enough.

So that's 24 minutes of me sitting in a chair in my living room, incident free. Just me being me. Fuck I hate me.

ED Recovery

I've typed this sentence countless times over the last two months, and then deleted it. I want to tell you that it's because everything has been going so well that I have nothing say. But that's not the case. The truth is that I have been struggling for the last few months, and I haven't wanted to admit it to anyone. More and more I have been hiding behind that familiar mask, the forced smile and throwaway words when someone asks how I am. That voice in my head, that darkness, convinced me that if I opened up to people they would turn away. That my friends and family are sick of my problems, sick of the burden of having me in their lives. Maybe that's true, I'd understand, but not talking about it isn't getting me anywhere.

I was discharged from an eating disorder unit last August, after 9 weeks of weight gain and various therapy groups aimed at breaking the hold my ED had on me. I gained 11kgs during my stay as a result of a high calorie diet and a largely sedentary lifestyle. The first few weeks at home were difficult and I lost a few kilos, but for the last four months I've maintained the same weight. Which is good for my body - I am healthier than I have been in years. Outwardly, I am doing great, at least that's what people keep telling me. Inside is a different story.

Recovery from an eating disorder is not just about gaining or loosing weight, in fact I would say the numbers on the scale are the easy part. Here I am, a healthy weight with everyone around me commenting on how great I look, and I feel like someone has taken my brain and shoved it inside the Stay Puft marshmallow man(Ghostbusters). In the eight months since my discharge I haven't been able to look at myself in the mirror. The most I can manage is focusing on one body part so I can check how fat it looks in whatever I'm wearing. Then more often than not I will go and change. I live in pajamas or tracksuit bottoms for most of the week - today for example, I walked my dogs in my pajama top and a pair of ugly grey tracksuit bottoms, that were inside out. And then I went to the shop, in the same outfit. This isn't a rare occurrence either, some days I just stay in my pajamas; I'll do the shopping, walk the dogs and even go to therapy in my pajamas. It's not that I'm lazy, or haven't done the laundry. It's because I am so deeply ashamed of my body that I can't stand to wear anything that might draw attention to just how fat and revolting I am. I would rather be seen in a pair of Harry Potter pajamas, than a pair of leggings. At least when it was colder I could hide myself under big jumpers and frumpy coats. What am I going to do when the summer arrives?

I wish I could like my body, or just accept it. I wish I didn't want to cry every time I shower or have panic attacks in changing rooms. I wish I could look at a magazine or watch TV without comparing myself to every female on it, berating myself for being lazy and weak. I wish I wasn't compulsively rubbing my collarbones as I type this and telling myself how much better it was when they were sharper and more defined.

When I was in hospital they told me recovery would take a long time, but I didn't really comprehend what that meant. I thought eating would be the hard part, that once I stopped crying over mashed potatoes I would be at the end of the process. In reality, that was just the beginning. This is the hard part, this is when you really have to work. It would be so much easier to fall back into the same pattern of restricting and purging than to try and accept myself the way I am now; to separate my self worth from the numbers. It seems like an insurmountable task to me, and I have no idea how to accomplish it. Perhaps wearing actual clothes to walk the dogs is a good place to start?

You're Too Pretty

A combination of sleep deprivation, anxiety and a sudden drop in my already low mood are impairing my cognitive functions, and one unfortunate consequence is that I have been finding it impossible to write. I can barely remember what I did 3 hours ago, so describing the next phase of my treatment is unfeasible. The irony is, writing is one of the positive coping strategies I use when in distress. I would sincerely like to not be defeated by my own mind, again, so I am going to deviate from my biographical timeline and write about something a bit easier. I apologise in advance for all grammatical errors, I've been up since 2am.

As I said before, I started self-harming at the age of 12. I don't know what made me try it for the first time, but over the last 19 years I have become something of an expert on the subject. To be clear, I am an expert about why I self-harm; you can't be an expert on another person's pain. We are the product of our genetics, our environment and most importantly, our life experiences; and as we are all individuals, everything we see, hear or experience is specific to us. Our perception shapes our reality, so in a sense, we are each living in our own separate universes. For example, have you ever received a text from someone and come to the conclusion they are being rude, that you must have done something to annoy or upset them. Maybe they only used one exclamation mark, or their usual winking face was missing. But if you ask them about it, they have no idea what you are talking about. Of course they aren't angry with you, it was a perfectly pleasant and friendly text. Then you feel like a bit of a jackass, because unless someone actually says something direct, it is almost impossible to determine the tone of a text. One text, two completely different experiences of it.

I realise I went slightly off point, but what I am trying to convey is that while I can (hopefully) provide you with some insight on self-harm, I can only truly understand how it affects me. There will be some overlap, but there is no 'one size fits all' answer. I have yet to find a situation where one size actually fits all, I'm currently wearing a pair of socks that claim to fit all feet, and yet my ankles are completely exposed to the cold air. I have once again digressed from the matter at hand, Lisa's guide to self-harm.

1. What exactly is self-harm?
Self-harm is when you deliberately inflict physical harm on yourself. There are a long list of behaviours that are used to self-harm such as cutting or scratching your skin; burning yourself; hitting yourself or banging your head; swallowing poisonous substances; purging or restricting(yes these are eating disorder behaviours, but are also used as a way of hurting oneself); driving recklessly etc. Someone might only engage in one of these destructive behaviours, or several. My weapons of choice are cutting, scratching, burning, purging and occasionally throwing my fist or whole body into a wall.

2. Why the hell would you do it?
Excellent question, sadly the answer is not so black and white. Self-harming is a coping mechanism, a negative one, but in the short term it is very effective. People self-harm for many reasons, and often in an individual it will serve more than one purpose. However over the years I have noticed that for most people it will serve at least one of the following functions:
- To punish yourself. When I feel worthless or stupid, or when I hate myself for being such a terrible daughter/friend/sibling, I feel like I deserve to be punished. I am such a terrible human being that I should suffer, I should be in pain, pain is all I deserve. I am so ugly inside that I have to make my outside ugly to. I have on one occasion been filled with such self-loathing that I stabbed myself in the stomach.
- Control. When you feel like completely powerless in life - your emotions, your past, your present are all spinning wildly into oblivion and you can't get a hold of them - your body is the one thing you hold dominion over. You choose to pick up that razor, or take those laxatives. In that moment, you are in control of at least one thing in your life. It's like a life raft you desperately cling onto to ride out the storm.
- Release. All that pain, sadness, anger or despair is trapped inside you causing you to be in such emotional pain that you would do anything to let some of it out. But either you don't know how or you're afraid that they are too big for you, they will swallow you whole if they burst through. Like a pot of boiling water that is just about to spill over, and at the last second you lift it up and lower the heat until it reduces to a simmer. Hurting yourself is the emotional equivalent, it brings the intensity down just enough so you can survive. The problem is, it is only a temporary reprieve. So you have to do it again, and again, to stop yourself from erupting. For me, when I feel like I'm being suffocated by my emotions, cutting is like taking a big, deep breath and allows me to breathe normally for a little while. I don't self-harm because I want to die, I am doing it to stay alive.

3. People who self-harm are attention seekers
*Deep breath* This statement usually touches a nerve with people who self-harm. A very raw nerve, but please read the entire paragraph before coming at me with verbal pitchforks. The truth is, sometimes people self-harm for attention. The problem is with the definition of 'attention'. When most people refer to someone as an attention seeker it is used in a pejorative way, like a bold child running around a restaurant screaming and embarrassing you in front of your friends. To seek attention however, is trying to get someone to notice you or take care of you i.e. you fall and injure yourself and you seek medical attention. So when I say that some people self harm to get attention, they are doing it because they are crying out for help and they are unable to or don't know how to verbalise it. If someone self-harms and tells you about it, or has to go to A&E, or tells you they are going to self-harm, it is not to manipulate you, they are simply asking you to see their pain and tell them how to stop it. They do it because they are terrified of their own thoughts and emotions and they are desperately trying to communicate with you, with anyone. It is a cry for help, not some childish attempt to become the center of attention. The rest of the time, we aren't going to tell you anything. Self-harm is our secret. Firstly, we may have problems but we aren't idiots. We are fully aware that what we do is not 'normal', and many of us are ashamed of it. We know what people think about us, about the signs in A&E that say anyone who presents with self-injuries is to be sent away, the stereotype of the angst ridden teenager brooding over bad poetry. Why on earth would we let ourselves be pigeonholed unless it was inescapable? Second, self-harming is our main coping strategy. When thing's get really bad, or if something happens that leaves us vulnerable or sends our emotions into a tailspin, one quick jab of a cigarette will calm us down. Yes, it's not an ideal situation, but we know it will always work, even if it's just for a few minutes. If we tell you, you will probably try and stop us, take away our safety net. So yes, sometimes a person will self-harm to try and get your attention, but it will usually be because their situation is critical.

4. You're too pretty to do that to yourself
The first time I tried to kill myself I had to go to A&E to get my wrists stitched. I was very distressed as the nurse was bandaging me up, and she decided to offer me the following advice: "You're far too pretty to be doing this to yourself, so you just stop that now, okay?". I was so stunned I immediately stopped sobbing. I know she was trying to be kind, but what my face had to do with my mental state is beyond me. Over the years I have heard similar statements, 'You're too smart', 'You're too old', or my personal favourite, 'You should know better'. However well meaning, these are all ridiculous and unhelpful things to say to someone who uses knives to get through the day. I am neither an imbecile or a petulant child to be chastised or coddled. Mental illness does not know my age, race, sex or how wonderful I am at baking. My depression doesn't give a shit if I work hard, or spend my holiday's volunteering as an aid worker in a war torn country(I don't but you get the point). Try and imagine what it would take for you to pick up a piece of glass and tear at your own skin. And then imagine being told to 'snap out of it' or 'cop on'. It would probably make you feel like shit, and when you're down that low, you're an expert at making yourself feel like shit.

5. Don't stare
This is nothing more than good manners, it's rude to stare. Just because it looks like I went a few rounds with Edward Scissorhands, doesn't give you the right to look at me like I'm a sideshow freak. When your scars are visible it is incredibly difficult to not feel embarrassed all the time. When I started self harming, and even in my twenties when I did most of the damage to my arms, I didn't think of scars. You can't think of something so practical when your mind is imploding. I didn't know I would spend the rest of my life literally wearing my depression on my sleeve, because most of the time I didn't believe I had a future. I spent so much time hiding them, so much time being ashamed of my body and what I had done to it. I still cry sometimes when I look at what I have done to myself. But I am trying really hard to not feel so uncomfortable in my own skin, to not hide my battle scars from the world, so please don't make it harder. I can't speak for anyone else, but I would rather you asked me what happened than pointed me out to your friend on the Luas and eyeball me with horrified expressions. My scars might be ugly, but they are part of who I am. I wish I had never self-harmed, but I did, and without it I wouldn't be here right now.

I can't tell you I go out into the world every day, proud to be me, scars and all. I can't even say I do it once a week. But I am trying to see them for what they really are, proof that I went through hell and I am still here. That's what they are for all of us, because if you're reading this, you're still here and that's pretty damn impressive.

Going out

I don't expect anyone to understand what I'm about to say, although I think a few of you will identify with some of it.

Yesterday I almost self-harmed, which would have been the first time since I was in hospital in July. The urge was so strong I had to walk out of my house, because only a small part of me wanted to resist. The thing is, if I had given in I would have felt better instantly. Cutting myself is the quickest way to regulate my emotions, and it is guaranteed to work every time. It only takes a few seconds, and in a house you are surrounded with suitable tools. Not self-harming was obviously the 'right' choice, but my sadness and pain remained, until I eventually gave up trying and curled into a ball on the couch.

Your probably thinking something awful must have happened to cause such distress, but that wasn't the case.

A friend of mine is having birthday drinks this evening, and kindly invited me. I was excited to go, because she is a wonderful friend and I haven't seen her in a while. My usual anxiety around social occasions and leaving the house aside, I foresaw no difficulties with going. Until yesterday, when I started to think about what I would wear. Before going further I should point out that one of the 'coping strategies' my therapist has put in place is that I have to choose outfits for social occasions in advance. This is in order to avoid an hour spent changing clothes with increasing frustration, until I eventually end up in tears or refusing to leave the house. This strategy has worked in the past, so I went ahead and started looking through my clothes.

Since leaving St.Pats, my weight restored to a healthier number, I have struggled with my body image. Anything that draws my attention to it sets of a tirade of judgmental thoughts and feelings of intense shame and disgust. So things like walking, sitting, bending over...breathing...I essentially feel ashamed of and repulsed by my body from the time I wake up, until I go to sleep. Even then I sometimes dream about muumuus and heavy duty mobility scooters. Things got even worse after my last weigh in. Showering usually ends in tears, I've thrown out piles of pajamas because they had elasticated waists and I can't bear to be touched by anyone, lest I see the revulsion flicker in their eyes. That being the case, I wisely decided, or rather that masochistic ED voice decided, that I should start out by trying on a tiny pair of shorts. I know that these shorts are a size 6/8, I also know that they are high waisted, which I hate. But when I was at my lightest, they were gloriously baggy on my things and the material at the back sagged divinely where an ass should be. But that was 11kgs ago, I KNEW they would not fit the same. So of course I put them on. And that was that, my ED exploded back to full force.

Since short-gate I have been a ball of misery; I am still wearing, and slept in, the clothes I put on yesterday morning. I have seriously considered taking everything that isn't loose or over-sized out of my closest and burning it(then the rain started, stupid rain). The thought of going out, facing people, showing them how enormous I have become is terrifying. I want so much to see my friends, but I can already feel the mocking glances as I stand next to these beautiful women like some sort of before and after advert. That voice keeps telling me over and over that nothing I do will make me look any better, so what's the point in trying?

When I sat down to write this, my hope was that I would be able to look at the situation more rationally, once all the emotion was laid out in front of me. No amount of words can change how I feel about myself right now, my own and yours will fall on deaf ears. But there is a whisper, very faint, that if I let the shame and fear control me today, it will only strengthen their control. I'm still not sure what I am going to do, although fashioning a dress out of an industrial bin bag is currently the number one outfit choice. Maybe with a belt to jazz it up?

Insight

Over the last year I've spent a lot of time trying to explain my eating disorder to family and friends. To most people, risking permanent medical problems, and even death, in order to loose weight is incomprehensible. They don't understand when I tell them that I am fat. They assume I am fishing for a compliment, or reassurance. The reality is, you could tell me a million ways that I look fine, and I will never believe you. I can't believe you, because people lie. I know this because I lie, all the time. I lie to therapists, doctors, my family, my friends and to myself. It's much easier to keep quiet, wear a mask, than show people the ugly truth. But I want to help people to understand eating disorders, that's one of the reasons I write this blog. Understanding the problem is the only way to find a solution, or at least do damage control. Today I found myself in a difficult situation, but I am hoping I can use it to bring you inside my head a little bit.

I was discharged from my last hospital admission in July. On my last day I had a final weigh in and this, along with other information, was sent to my GP. I was to attend my GP monthly for physical monitoring, and my GP would then share the results with my psychiatric team. Two weeks after discharge I had my first visit, and in the space of two weeks I had lost 2kgs. As soon as my eyes took in the number on the scales, I felt dizzy with relief. That abusive, hateful voice in my head was blissfully silent for the first time in months. My doctor was less than pleased; a gentle but stern lecture followed and I promised to try harder. The following month, my weight stayed the same. As my GP explained the importance of reaching and maintaining a healthy weight, I was being torn apart on the inside. I was a failure, I was weak, I was fat and ugly. As soon as I left I started sobbing. The noise in my head got louder and louder, until all I wanted to do was rip myself apart, tear flesh from bone and let all the pain bleed away.

So I stopped going to my GP. My psychiatrist warned me that if I didn't go and see her, he would have me weighed in the clinic. I assured him I would go, but every time I picked up the phone I was overcome with fear. I am 30 years old and I am completely and utterly terrified of the scales. I won't even keep them in my house, which is unusual for someone with an eating disorder. Today I had to attend the clinic for a weigh in, after ignoring repeated requests to see my GP.

I woke up at 4 this morning, my appointment was at 9.30. For five and a half hours I sat in my kitchen, staring longingly at a glass of water and the coffee machine. I was thirsty and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton(a side-effect of my medication), but not a drop of liquid passed my lips. I was hungry, and I am supposed to eat within half an hour of waking. I threw my bowl of porridge in the bin. At 5 I took my dogs for an hour long walk, after which my head was throbbing. But I still couldn't drink anything. At seven I had a shower, after debating for an hour how much moisture my skin would absorb and if it would have a significant effect on my weight. I dried my hair until it felt like straw, because wet hair weighs more than dry. Clothes were next. Despite the cold, a string top was a definite and a bra was out of the question - I couldn't risk the 0.05kg. I always wear leggings for weigh ins, no excess fabric to tip the scales. But just in case I pulled out every pair I owned to find the lightest pair. This took about twenty minutes because plain leggings tend to weigh the same amount. But I found an old, worn out pair that are almost see through at this point. Ankle socks, obviously. I ran the hair drier over my hair again, just to be sure.

I was freezing in my worn out leggings and string top, but shivering burns calories so I threw on a jacket and headed for the clinic. I don't remember the 5 minute drive, all I was thinking of was numbers. I'm pretty sure I didn't check my mirrors once and my legs were shaking so badly I couldn't change gears properly. Thankfully, or regretfully, I arrived safely. In the waiting room I ran through every 'bad' thing I had eaten in the last 3 months. I ran my hands over my hips, feeling the flesh where there used to be bone. I moved in my chair, noticing how it was no longer painful to sit on a hard surface. I flexed my arms, stretching the muscles that were growing back where they used to be so beautifully wasted away. I pulled at my face, my neck, pinched my thighs. All the while feeling more and more disgusted and ashamed of myself. I had thrown away all that hard work, for nothing. I had given up when I was so close to being the perfect weight. People were laughing at me, the fat girl who says she has an eating disorder.

As much as I pleaded with the universe for the number not to have changed, I knew it had. Logically, I had been eating relatively healthy, high protein diet and combined with long, vigorous walks with my dogs meant I was slowly rebuilding muscle tissue. I knew my weight would be up, that was after all the goal right? But when I stepped on those scales, and saw where the pointer stopped, all reason went out the window. For a split second, everything inside me froze, and then my brain exploded into action. If I just cut myself a little bit, it would help. No, maybe we need to binge and purge? Definitely not fatty. Back to self-harming...no I'll get caught. I couldn't think through all of the screaming in my head. I hung my head as I left the clinic, certain the nurses were thinking I was a time waster. I didn't need weigh ins, I was a heifer. I had to roll down the windows to make it home safely, the rain pelting down was the only thing keeping my mind present enough to steer.

I wanted to crawl into bed when I reached home, curl into a ball and cry. But the eating disorder had other plans. I didn't deserve to lie down, we needed to plan. Check my new BMI...19.3? Ten minutes of staring in horror at the big, green HEALTHY WEIGHT on the screen. Another ten minutes of using online calculators to figure out how I could lose 2kgs in the next two weeks...twenty minutes checking how many calories are in apples, bananas, oatcakes. Then a walk in the rain with the dogs while looking at apps that calculate how many calories you have burned. Off come the leggings and on with my standard uniform of baggy jumper and tracksuit bottoms.

Finally, three hours after my weigh in I stopped. I had hidden my lumpy, hideous body under shapeless clothing, I knew what I needed to do to get back in control of my weight. Now I could sit and replay the moment I looked at the scales over and over in my head. That's about as good as I am going to get today, but the majority of my day will be spent obsessing about food. Ruminating over every morsel I ate recently, or that night I had wine, or how twice last week I only walked for 7 kilometers.

Maybe none of what I just described will make any sense to you, or maybe some of it will. I don't know anyone who enjoys being weighed and I know plenty of people who avoid the scales as much as I do. But I think the main difference lies in the intensity of our reactions to the situation - you might decide to eat less carbohydrates or work out more, I'll figure out how I can starve myself without anyone noticing.

I was, I am.

Before I delve into the next part of my story, I wanted to give you more of an insight into the ball of neuroses that is my mind. But I wanted to do so with as much honesty as possible; no re-written sentences and deleted words. During one of my sojourns in a psychiatric facility, I did a stream of consciousness writing exercise. We were asked to write two pieces; the first as the person we were before our current mental health difficulties took hold, and the second as the person we were in that moment. I pulled the two pages out recently for the first time since I wrote them, and my beliefs about who I am have changed very little since that day. So I am going to share them with you, in the hope that you might better understand how I ended up where I did; or that you might see something of yourself in it and know you aren't alone in your thoughts. Bear in mind that I wrote this without thinking, so forgive me for the poor quality.

Then and Gone

I am a quiet, introverted girl who enjoys the simple things in life. I love curling up with a book. I like clean bed sheets and hot showers. I like holding my boyfriends warm hand and his lips on mine. I like talking to my sister and my dad, even though they are far away sometimes. I love crisp Autumn evenings and pumpkin carving. I love cold Winter days and bright Christmas lights. I love deeply and openly and I am not afraid to trust my heart. I educate myself in my spare time to exercise my brain. I like to cook and delight in food; a cold glass of rosé wine with a friend over a trivial joke or a deep conversation. I care about others and can put their needs ahead of my own. I laugh often. I want to see my friends. I listen to music. I love to watch movies for hours and discuss them at length. I make jokes, I work hard and am happy making my house a home. I like walking in the evening and then cosying up on the couch. I am friendly and can talk to others, and even though I'm weird, people like me. I have had some bad times in life but I have fought back and I am winning.

Now

I was born to parents who hated each other for most of my life. My mother tried to leave me when I was one. My father left when I was seven and then I became the hated one; the symbol of all that was wrong in my mothers life. She remarried when I was e;even and he didn't want me either because I wasn't perfect. At school I was the freak, at home I was the unwanted and in my head I became the ugly one. At eighteen my mother and sister left me and I was alone. At eighteen I tried to kill myself for the first time and I was sad when I failed. I have never been enough for my parents, I needed to be replaced with others. I have hated myself for as long as I can remember. I am lost, broken, disgusting. I am damaged goods. I have been beaten by woman and man for my crimes. I hurt people. My life is a series of failures with no end. I cannot remember what love is. I find no pleasure in life. I remain only to not hurt the few who still love me, but I am unworthy of their love. I am a waste of space, I am destined to die and I despise myself. It is all my fault.


When I had to read them out, I cried for the person I had lost. Grieved for her. I no longer mourn who I used to be, I have long since accepted that the old me is gone. Which is probably sadder than anything else I have written.

Phase Two

In 2012 I was 27 and I found myself single for the first time since I was 19. I also found myself in need of a new place to live as the apartment I shared with my sister was being sold. Happily, a casual friend of mine was also seeking a roommate so we rented a house together for a year. Before I get to the boring serious stuff I just want to say that I loved living in that house. Other than the fact that it was colder than the North Pole for the entire year, and that the shower mostly just dribbled water on you, it was a pretty fun year. I laughed all the time, made brownies in mugs, drank far too much wine and definitely ate too much Chinese food. But the best part was my roommate, who went from someone I saw on nights out, to one of my closest friends. Also one of my most understanding and patient friends, who never gave up on our friendship, even when I was so lost in my illness that I couldn't even be counted on to meet for coffee. Hell, she is still tolerating my unreliability while I struggle with my compulsion to be anti-social. So despite what I am about to divulge, that year of my life was a pretty good one.

At the beginning I struggled with my new single status. I was a serial monogamist, because without a boyfriend I had nobody to validate me, or make me feel loved. Even when my relationships were breaking down, and both parties were miserable, it was better than being alone. Even though I knew I could never be good enough for the other person, knowing they had picked me meant there must be something acceptable about me. So when I found myself without that emotional crutch, I floundered, desperate to find some way to avoid falling back down into that black hole. For the first few months I was single I threw myself into the dating game, or more accurately, the one night stand game. Just as I had done in college, I used sex to make myself feel wanted. I tried to tell myself it was all fun and games, the single life, but it started to eat away at me. The short term feeling of being wanted by someone paled in comparison to the self loathing and remorse that lingered for days afterwards. I needed something else, anything that would separate me from the emptiness and sorrow.

I had at this point been making myself sick on and off for 5 years. I knew that purging could lower the intensity of my emotions; I also hated my body and still felt massively overweight so the most logical step in my mind was to throw up more often. At first it was once a day, after my dinner. It was perfectly reasonable and safe in my mind, like being on a diet. Then I turned my attention to what I was eating during the day, low calorie soups and rice cakes entered my life. I started walking to and from work, just to get fitter. Weekends were different, because by Friday I was so miserable I turned to the one thing I knew would comfort me, food. You might be wondering why I kept on throwing up and dieting if I was still so unhappy. Immediately after purging I would get a burst of pleasure, many bulimics experience a 'high' after throwing up, which is one of the reasons relapse is so common. That high is addictive, it's like taking ecstasy, but the effects wear off much faster. The other reason is that in that moment, choosing to make myself throw up, I felt in control. For most of my life I had always felt somewhat powerless, bulimia made me feel like I was finally in charge of something, I wanted to loose weight so I was choosing to do this to achieve my goals. That feeling of being in control is just as addictive as the high. No matter what is happening in your life, you know you can do this one thing of your on volition. So I kept throwing up, and then I would binge on sweets and take away at the weekends, and throw it all back up of course.

The bingeing and purging unsurprisingly started to affect my digestive system, so I started taking OTC laxatives once a week. Very quickly I started taking the laxatives everyday, convinced that they would aid my weight loss. When the laxatives stopped working, I turned to micro-enemas instead. One a week turned into twice a week and then before I knew it I was using them every second day. I never worried about what I was doing,In my mind I was completely in control of the situation and I told myself that once I reached the right weight, I would stop.

I had always been insecure about my body, but suddenly my weight and size were all I could think about. All day, everyday, I would pull at the softer parts of me; stare wistfully at other women and their perfect figures; stare for an eternity at the millimeter gap between my thighs. IF I wasn't thinking about my weight, I was obsessing over food. What I had eaten, what I wished I could eat, how many calories were in that apple, what was eating later before I purged, what would I binge on at the weekend...It never stopped.

When I moved out of the house at the end of the year, I couldn't go a day without throwing up. As often happens with bulimia, my weight had stabilised, but I kept telling myself if I just stuck with it, it would start dropping again. At this point, other than a sluggish digestive system, my health wasn't being affected by my behaviour. Which, as I repeatedly told myself, meant I wasn't bulimic. So it was fine, according to Wikipedia, and we all know Wikipedia is the most reliable source of information on the internet. So in April 2013 I moved in with my boyfriends family, and I was 100% fine, other than being too fat.

Bulimia

You might be wondering why, after writing so many posts about my mental health between the ages of 12 and 19, I gave brushed over the next 10 years of my life. From 2004 to 2014 I lived the same life over and over again. I would have a period of being well, then the depression and mood swings would return. I would self harm until eventually I ended up in A&E; be referred back to a psychiatrist; take more medication...round and round and round. Some of the characteristics attributed to my personality disorder were always, and will always be, active. There were however, three significant events during that time that I want to talk about. The next few posts will focus on one of them - the beginning of my eating disorder.

Whenever I have been asked when I started engaging in eating disorder behaviours, my answer is always: when I was 22. At the time I was in a stable relationship, working full time and through a combination of therapy and new medication I had been stable for a few months. I was also very overweight, and that is not an exaggeration or my eating disorder talking. The medication I was taking increased my appetite, and I doubled my portion sizes for every meal. Then my moods started fluctuating again, and instead of facing it I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. Then I started eating whenever my mood would dip to cheer myself up. I have always loved food, so in the short term this strategy was effective. I was filling that hole inside my heart with cake...and chocolate, and sausage rolls and...well you get the picture. As a result, I started gaining weight. But again, instead of facing it, I ignored it, and my weight skyrocketed.

I only have one picture of myself at my heaviest; in it I am wearing an outfit I'd had for a number of years but, as I had almost doubled in size, the flowing baby-doll top was now skintight and bursting at the seams. I don't know how I managed to ignore what was quite literally right in front of my face, but until the day I saw that picture, that's what I did. When I saw that photo, I was horrified and repulsed. My mood plummeted. I became depressed, my mood swings worsened and my fingers were itching to pick up something cold and sharp. I made half-hearted attempts to exercise, but after a few days I would always give up. I just didn't see the point in trying.

I was in the toiler in work one day, hiding in a stall trying to get control over a sudden onset of tears. I had just finished lunch, all I could think about was cutting, and out of nowhere I decided to stick my fingers down my throat. After several minutes my throat was burning, my knuckles raw from my front teeth and my stomach ached from the violent retching. It felt wonderful, that addictive combination of a silent mind and pain. So I started throwing up every lunchtime to help me get through the afternoon. All too quickly, once a day wasn't enough to quiet the tirade of abuse I lashed myself with every waking moment. As I ate breakfast at work it was easy to add it to the purge schedule. I quickly learned the tricks of the trade - ways to ensure I emptied more of my stomach. I didn't see the harm in what I was doing; I had plenty of extra fat to keep me going and really, it was just like taking a Xanax. More importantly, I wasn't self harming right?

I couldn't, or wouldn't, see any connection between making myself sick and self harming. They were completely different, the vomiting wasn't doing any harm. In fact, the vomiting was helping me. My clothes slowly started to become looser, I was actually loosing weight. It was just a diet, and like any diet you had to stick with it. So I started throwing up dinner, as much as I could without alerting my boyfriend. I never questioned why my 'diet' had to be so secretive, but it did. I knew I had to keep it to myself, or it might be taken away. By this point I couldn't go one day without throwing up, I was completely addicted to it. Even when my boyfriend discovered what I was doing, I wouldn't stop. I finally had a way to manage my emotions, to block out my thoughts, and nobody was taking it away from me.

Over the next few years, until about 2012, I would go a week or two without throwing up, but I always went back to it. I had lost a lot of the weight I had gained, and as often happens with bulimia, I hit a certain number on the scales and stayed there. It didn't matter though, the weight loss had always been a bonus. The purging gave me control; it was the only thing in my life I felt like I had any control over. But more on control later.

So that's how it started. Or at least that's what I thought. The thing about eating disorders is, they don't normally spring up out of nowhere in your twenties. The behaviour, the purging, started in my twenties. But I have come to realise that my relationship with food had been distorted long before that.

Don't Leave Me

I attended the day hospital for six weeks in 2004, attending the same groups and covering the same topics as before. While the day hospital gave structure and routine, I came out feeling just as lost and directionless. I returned to work, took a room with a family my dad knew and attended saw my psychiatrist monthly. The appointments were just 15 minutes long and served only to review my medication, and check the box next to 'No suicidal intent'. Still, I took my pills and tried my best to get on with daily life, fake it 'till you make it. Over the years I have spent long periods pretended to be happy; smiled when I wanted to cry; laughed when I was picturing razors and rivers of blood; kissed when I felt dead inside. I worked so hard at faking it that sometimes I can't take the mask off, sliding it into place is as natural to me as breathing. Not once has faking it improved my mood(despite what countless therapists have said), but it makes other people feel better. If you know me, you've probably only seen my real expression because I've had way too much to drink, or you've had the joy of bringing me to or from A&E. Other than that, what you're seeing is probably an act.

Between 2004 and 2014 I continued to battle depression and self harm. I have no idea how many times I had to go to hospital for stitches over the course of those ten years; how many psychiatrists I saw; how many therapists I spoke to; how many suicide attempts I made. If someone else told me that they couldn't count all the times they tried to end their life, my heart would break for them. But the rules are different for me. On my good days, if I think about it, I chastise myself for being such a nuisance. On my bad days, I berate myself for being so utterly useless, for failing so many times.

I had periods of being 'well', months where I was not self harming or in need of medication. But self harm wasn't the only aspect of my personality that was problematic. I frequently drank until I passed out; I racked up mountains of debt through impulse spending; I hurt people I loved and I allowed others to hurt me. I had no control over my emotions, I could go from one extreme to the other in minutes. Nothing was ever bad, it was terrible; I wasn't just happy, I was delirious. Everything I felt, I felt it with an intensity that never matched the situation. I didn't just love you, I loved you and would die if you left me. And I mean that literally. I don't remember ever saying 'If you go I will kill myself', although it's possible I did, but I know that it was definitely implied on multiple occasions. I know how awful that sounds, and there is no justification for such blatant emotional blackmail. My fear of losing the one person who I couldn't live without far outweighed my morals. That would be yet another characteristic of BPD - tendency to form intense and unstable interpersonal relationships.

If you grow up in an environment where love is not always given, or is expressed in negative ways, the one thing you want most in the world is to be loved unconditionally. All you want is for someone to choose to love you, to fill that need inside to be accepted and wanted. As a child I often felt there was something wrong with me, that when bad things happened it was my fault, always. I remember being 7 or 8, sitting at the top of the stairs one night listening to the noise below, and feeling so very cold and unwanted. Once that feeling takes hold, that shard of icy doubt in your heart, it won't let go. We learn to love by being loved, and if your own parents don't love you, there is no way you can love yourself. To this day, age 30, I still can't name one thing I like about myself, let alone love.

So when someone comes along and loves you, not because they have to, but because they want to, it's terrifying. Yes, terrifying. Imagine yourself balanced on a tight rope, arms outstretched, high above the ground. You're halfway across and the air is still, the only sound is your own heartbeat. You're smiling, you know this is your moment to dazzle the world below. You slowly lift your right leg up and forward, and as you lower it back down there is a sudden gust of wind. You wobble, desperately trying to right yourself. Your arms are stiff, moving up and down to counter the motion of the rope. The rope stills, your arms once again stretched out straight on either side, the terror subsides. You mentally shake it off, maybe laugh at yourself to dispel any lingering fear. You refocus on the rope, on that right leg still poised in the air. Then you notice it. Somehow, during the commotion, you arched your left foot upwards. You are now balancing solely on your toes, your right foot is in the air. If you put the right foot down first you risk pitching forward. Equally, if you put down your left heel first you could fall back. You look down at the ground, down, down, down. The fall will most likely kill you, and if not the pain will make you wish you were dead. You freeze right there in the middle, one false move and it's all over.

Being loved when you don't think you deserve it is like being on that wire. One false move and it will be taken away, the one thing you want more than anything else is the one thing that can destroy you. Everyday you are afraid, of loosing your balance, of loosing love. You let the fear have control, you torment your partner with your insecurities. With baseless accusations. With your insatiable need for reassurance. The more they try to reason with you, to affirm their feelings, the worse it gets. You get smaller and smaller, as the relationship consumes you. You can no longer see yourself outside of the pair; you just want to make them love you every second of the day, even if you drive them crazy in the process.

It took me a long time to figure out who I was on my own, including a small relapse into the land of promiscuity. I still don't like who I am, but I know that I'll still be the same person alone. I know I can be alone, I don't need someone else to survive. Depression does not care what your relationship status is on Facebook, but neither does happiness.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Breaking

Before reading the below, think carefully. The subject of this post is one that some might find distressing, and for others it might trigger unwanted memories. The purpose of my blog is not to upset people, but to show you the pieces of my life in the hopes that someone might find comfort in a shared thought, moment or experience. It is also my attempt to connect with myself, lost as I am, and hopefully to look back at my life with less judgement and to accept it for what it is, and move forward.

It is extremely difficult for me to remember the two encounters I am about to describe, one of them was of my choosing, and the other, was not.

I was eighteen, in college, and searching for validation, for acceptance from others. I desperately wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be the interesting girl; the pretty girl; the funny girl; the fun and carefree girl that boys picked. I was none of these things, still am none of them in my opinion. I briefly dated a few boys in the year ahead of me at college, but I felt awkward and unsure when alone with them. Up to that point I had very little experience with the opposite sex, I had never gone beyond kissing them and was acutely aware that I was one of a dying breed at that age: a virgin. As time went on, I decided that I this was something that needed to change. That if I could overcome the initial fear of sex, I would be less anxious and shy with boys. More importantly, if I couldn't offer them my body, how would I ever compete with the carefree, fun, interesting and pretty girls?

So I decided it was time to rid myself of my virginity, and after considering all the options available to me(none, who would want to see me naked?), I chose alcohol as my method. It was on a night out with friends from college, and after many, many snakebites and a game of 'I've never', I set out to entice my prey. At least that's what I told myself I was doing, that I was being an independent woman and taking charge of my body and sexuality. In reality I was a drunk, damaged girl looking for just another way to hurt myself, to punish myself. As inebriated, obvious and barely clothed(I cringe when I remember my night out ensembles)as I was, I unsurprisingly had little difficulty finding a willing participant. What followed was a quick and painful encounter in the men's bathroom. The deed is mostly a blur in my mind and if my partner in crime was standing right in front of me, I wouldn't know his face. Or any other parts. I made a vague attempt to clean myself up, pulled my skirt down and stumbled back out into the bar to drink myself into a stupor. As seedy and unhygienic as those five minutes were, there is nothing nefarious or outrageous about them. They probably seem entirely unimportant to you, and indeed they did to me that night. But they were important. At eighteen I thought so badly of myself, believed myself to be worth so little, that I chose to loose my virginity to a complete stranger in a toilet. And I did it because I thought I would then have something to offer men, because I knew I had nothing else, and without their advances I had nothing. I was nothing, I was worthless. The next day I was filled with a mix of relief, and shame. Shame that grew and grew, until the very thought of repeating the act repulsed me. I was ashamed of my actions, and ashamed that I couldn't just be 'normal' and glib about it. Either way, I had now had another piece of evidence to affirm my beliefs about myself. I could do nothing right, I would always be a failure.

A few months after the above, having shied away from dating completely, I went out with some old friends. We were going to a nightclub, the type of venue that was definitely not a place I would choose to spend time. A place where a girl in baggy jeans, a tank top and a tie(don't start) would be t turned away from without hesitation. But I went anyway, dressed up in borrowed clothes, a suitable sleepover lie in place with my mother. The night began at a house party, some rich, arrogant rugby player with too much of daddy's money burning a hole in his pocket. I stood awkwardly to one side of my friend for the entire time at the house. These boys were not like the mostly unassuming and good-natured ones I spent time with in college. My relief when we left for the club was palpable.

As soon as we arrived I knew I had made a mistake. It was too loud, too full of people who sneered at my converse, and I quickly lost my friends in the crowd. I couldn't leave until the girl I was staying with did, I couldn't bear the atmosphere surrounding me, so I did the only thing I could think of: started drinking. After a few vodka and cokes I started to relax slightly, found myself a seat in a corner to perch on and watch the world go by. After a time, the rugby player joined me, and I had drunk enough that I was able to ignore his bravado and my shyness and talk to him. At some point a challenge was set, who could drink the most. I can feel your incredulity at my stupidity through the screen. How did I ever think I could out drink a 6ft something rugby player? Hey, I never said I was the sharpest crayon in the box. All too quickly the nightclub was closing, I had drank far too much and discovered my friend had left. Before you think badly of her, I discovered the following day that she had told me she was leaving, but my vodka filled brain obviously couldn't comprehend English by that point. Luckily, the rugby player still had plenty of money in his pocket and offered to share a taxi with me, my friends house was only a slight detour on the way to his house. If I had been thinking clearly I would have remembered that this was not the case.

If I had been thinking clearly I would have wondered why getting out of the taxi early and walking for a bit seemed like a reasonable plan.

If I had been thinking clearly I would have wondered why we stepped off the path and slid down into a wooded area.

I would have pulled back when he kissed me, because I wasn't attracted to him.

If I thought more of myself, I would have stopped kissing him, because I wouldn't have felt a tiny spark of pleasure that somebody wanted to kiss me.

If I hadn't led him on I wouldn't be lying in the dirt and wet leaves.

If I wasn't so drunk I would have said no louder.

If I wasn't so weak I would have pushed harder.

If I wasn't so pathetic I wouldn't have given up struggling and just lay there and cried.

If I wasn't so stupid I wouldn't be sitting in the bathroom trying to scrub blood and dirt off of my friends skirt.

If I wasn't so disgusting I wouldn't be sitting in a waiting room for an STD test.

Over and over I told myself all of these things, I told myself it was my own fault. Then I told myself that it was because he saw me for what I was, nothing more than a warm body when all the other options are gone. But at least that was something right? The worst thing that could happen had happened, I didn't need to be afraid of sex anymore. Sex didn't mean anything, it was just something people did to each other. Because if it means nothing, than that night means nothing, and I can forget it. It means nothing, that night meant nothing and most of all, I meant nothing.

What I know now, is that not one second of that night on that wet ground was a result of anything I did. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. I still only half believe it, although I want to believe in those words with every inch of me. Because they are the truth, even if I can't yet allow myself to accept them. After that night, something died inside of me. Some small vestige of self respect, crumbled and blew away on the wind. I would spend the next year proving to myself just how worthless I was by engaging in another charming BPD trait - promiscuity. Not that I am saying there is anything wrong with casual sex. Have it as often, and with as many people as you feel like. But not it if makes you feel like less of a person; not it if makes you hate yourself. I wasn't promiscuous because I was enjoying it, but because I was now able to use sex to find validation. Only it didn't quite work out that way, it never does.

University - take 1

I started college when I was seventeen, studying science, a degree I had absolutely no interest in achieving. Like everyone else I was both excited and nervous about going to university, and despite my disinterest in my course, I thought perhaps I would at least manage a passing grade and keep my parents happy. On my first day, I was still self harming, had isolated myself both socially and at home, and my mood swings were at their most unpredictable and debilitating. The intensity of my highs had decreased, but the lows completely enveloped me, terrified me. Then you add in anxiety, anger, fear to the mix and I was just a big ball of neurotic fun. At this point I was keeping my problems hidden, so I had no idea what was happening to me. All I knew was that I was different from everyone else, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, with my brain. I believed I was damaged in some way; and even though I already felt completely alone, there was still a fear that if my family discovered the truth that they could somehow reject me even more. I know, how can you be afraid of rejection from people you already feel rejected by? The human brain is a complex and wondrous machine, but it can also be really, really stupid.

I was pleasantly surprised by college; there was such a broad spectrum of people, all of whom had their own interest, backgrounds, opinions, desires...I quickly realised that this was the place where you got to be who you really were. And once you embraced your true self you would quickly find other people who shared some of your interests, whether it be a love of the theater or geeky jokes (Geology rocks, still a classic). Over time I made friends, I had people to sit with at lunch time and in lectures. People to be lab partners with and get coffee.

I had people to go to the student bar with. People to get drunk with during the day when I was supposed to be in a lecture or in work. I can feel your shock from here. That's right, all of my problems and pain didn't suddenly disappear because I had people to watch movies with. My self esteem didn't magically change, in fact I hated myself even more. There are two reasons for this in my opinion. The first, is that I had spent so long mirroring other people that I was struggling to find and accept my own identity. It is a slow process, and a confusing one, so while I was trying to figure out who I was, I still had to use other people to temporarily fill in the gaps. I was one part me, and one part whoever I was speaking to at a given time. Or more often than not, I was one part myself and one part a jumble of the multiple personalities in my vicinity. This was exhausting, and with it came a constant state of fear of discovery. The second reason, was that spending time with my peers, people I considered intelligent and interesting, made me even more aware of my inferiority and failings as a person. Everyone was smarter, funnier, quicker and quite simply, better than me.

So I tried to dull the growing pain inside me with alcohol, and going drinking was an easy way for me to socialise with my new friends. This behaviour rapidly spiraled out of control, to the point that I went to exams inebriated. But exams didn't matter to me, because if people wanted to go to the bar with me then they must like me. It was a misguided attempt at seeking the validation I so desperately wanted.

The other way I tried to find approval was with the opposite sex. Up until that point boys were something entirely out of my comfort zone. I was so self conscious and had my self esteem was so low that interacting with someone in a romantic or flirtatious manner was out of the question. The brief encounters I had with boys up to that point were short lived and awkward. By the time I turned eighteen, towards the end of my first year, I had kissed less than ten people. That ever present fear of rejection made me balk at the very idea of displaying any sort of interest in boys, but I knew that if I could get them to like me, to find something in me attractive, then I would be a worthwhile person. Once again I looked outside myself for validation, and as with drinking, it had disastrous consequences.

I have thought long and hard about discussing this aspect of my personality disorder so publicly. At first I was going to brush the surface in order to save my dignity, but I think there is a lesson to be learned from it, and that is what I want to do with this blog. Find a purpose to all this pain and hurt, and I hope by sharing my mistakes and experiences I can show someone what not to do, or show them that they aren't alone if they have gone through something similar.

However, due to the nature of the next part of my story I am going to post it separately, so that those of you who would rather not read about that part of my story can choose not to.

Anxiety and Loathing

My first experiences with anxiety and panic attacks occurred when I was fifteen. It all started with the Junior Certificate, more specifically with the intense pressure I, and most students, was put under to excel.

In school I wasn't one of the shining stars of my year, nor was I considered a simpleton. I would say I floated somewhere in the middle, with a above average aptitude for one or two subjects. My parents has always told me that I was highly intelligent, and I was expected to demonstrate my intellect through my exam results. At fourteen I had started to have difficulties with my concentration, and found the forty minute classes difficult to sit through. While teachers tried to fill our young heads with historical facts, poetry and mathematical equations I found my mind constantly wandering. My thoughts would drift outside the classroom, daydreaming about unlikely scenarios or ruminating on mistakes and negative experiences. As a result, I struggled to keep up with my studies. At the time I put this down to a lack of brainpower; my inability to focus was clearly an indication of my dull wit.

As the Junior Certificate exams approached, and my mothers expectations of me were mentioned more and more, my fear and unease rapidly increased. During revision sessions it felt as though a metal band was around my chest, tightening evermore, often to the point that I would struggle to catch my breath. I was still self harming at home, but now I started to do so in school - repeatedly racking my nails over the back of my hand until it was raw. Waiting for my oral french exam I managed to draw blood, and tiny scars dot my hands to this day. My exploits with the nail scissors was easy to conceal, but there was no hiding the assault on my hands. I have no idea what my mother said when she discovered what I was doing, but I have a sense of shock and dismay. And anger.

TO her credit, she brought me to see a psychologist. I was hooked up to monitors and asked a series of questions. First a baseline was established, what age I was, my address etc, and then we discussed school and the upcoming exams. Unsurprisingly whatever she was measuring (heart rate? sweat level? To this day I have no idea) spiked when she brought up anything to do with my education. Her diagnosis was Anxiety, and she recommended breathing exercises and walking. The mere notion of going for a walk while I could be busy cramming a years worth of information into my head was...anxiety inducing. As for the breathing exercises, well lets just say I wrote a lot of awful poetry as a result of sitting in silence with my thoughts. At fifteen I had no understanding of how to quiet ones mind, hell I still struggle with it now. The mere thought of Mindfulness makes me shudder. The whole thing was an exercise in futility, I continued to dig furrows in my hands and the sense of impending failure grew and grew.

In the end I did okay in my exams, not quite up to standard, but good enough to satisfy my mum. I was relieved that I had done better than expected, but ashamed that I had not done better. Shame was something that I was deeply familiar with at this point, but more on that delightful emotion later. But overall I believed all of the stress and fear was worth it. Colour me surprised when I returned to school(skipping transition year in order to escape school faster), to discover that the Junior Certificate means absolutely nothing. In the fifteen years since I sat those exams not once have I been asked about my results. The pressure I had put myself under, and had put upon me by others, was utterly unnecessary. All of the tears, nightmares and sessions with my trusty scissors counted for naught. The Junior Cert is brushed off as soon as those results are placed in your hand, and if like me you went straight into fifth year, you start a new, and even more grueling journey to evaluation.

My final two years in school were the worst of my entire education. Worse than being spat on, worse than having my head slammed into walls, worse than being called a freak. My attention span became shorter and shorter, I struggled to complete course work and with every passing day I felt like more of a failure. Clearly I was stupid and utterly useless. My home life was turbulent, to put it mildly, and I had lost almost all contact with my old friends, and had very limited contact with girls in my year. Not only was I weird, awkward, acne riddled and unwanted; now I was also an imbecile. To me these were facts, and unchangeable ones at that.

Anyone who views themselves so unfavourably is going to feel bad, or at least unhappy for a while. Most people's teenage years are difficult at one time or another; I have yet to meet someone who didn't doubt or dislike themselves at some point. The difference for people with BPD, or anyone with self esteem problems, is that we don't just think bad things about ourselves for a while. Our core beliefs about ourselves become entirely negative; at the most basic level we believe we are unworthy, unlikeable, unlovable and that we are entirely to blame for this. You can't hate yourself and attribute your deficiencies to another person, because you believe you are the problem. If you have low self esteem, or no self esteem, you are always at fault.

Have you have ever done something wrong, and felt guilt or terrible afterwards? Or tried something and failed, and felt incompetent or inferior in some way? Unless your Donald Trump you probably have. Try to imagine feeling that way about yourself every second of every day. Everything you do is predicated with crippling self doubt, and a surety of defeat.

I completely cracked under the pressure of the Leaving Certificate. I knew I was going to fall short of what was expected and I cried over my textbooks everyday. I sat in evening study and stared blankly at the pages in front of me. I started walking at the weekends, winding my way up to Killiney hill and sitting as close to the edge as I dared. This was the first time suicide entered my mind. I was sixteen. I cut and cut and cut just to keep myself afloat. The pain no longer served only as a punishment, now the sharp bite gave me relief. It stopped the endless cycle of vitriolic diatribe in my head. I had graduated from a nail scissors to razor blades, and the razor became my most trusted companion. Bad day at school? Slash. Fight with my mother? Slice. Overwhelmed by loneliness? Hack. My only knowledge of the life of a sixteen/seventeen year old comes from my own memories, or television. But I'm pretty sure that being best friends with a Gillette 'Safety' Razor isn't the average experience.

The stress and pressure of exams however, is perfectly normal so I'm hoping you can all understand that part of this post. I'm also hoping you had a better way of dealing with it than me. Or at least a less destructive one.