Virtually I have moved here.
In real life, I am moving from my litle abode in middle class Oxfordshire, to another little abode, where students live, in York. I got into uni, move in date is 17th September.
I'm sure I'll ramble about it on wordpress and twitter
Laura xxx
Monday, 29 August 2011
Friday, 5 August 2011
letters and a downward spiral
It’s been “one of those weeks”.
I’m writing this trying to decide how I feel, but the honest answer is, I don’t know how I feel. I’m completely empty. Numb. It’s a horrible feeling.
At the beginning of the week, I decided that I was going to write a letter to my new counsellor. I met her last week and had a brief chat with her. I’m not sure what caused me to write the letter, I suppose I’ve reached the stage where I can’t keep running from the past and what happened. It took a very inspiring lady to get me to realise this. She knows who she is.
So I wrote the letter. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Nearly two thousand words of horrible memories and raw emotion. On Wednesday I went to the counselling place, with the letter and asked to speak to my counsellor. I should have thought it through; I had turned up unannounced and had to wait just over an hour to see her. I could feel my breathing getting unsteady and was aware that I was shaking, but before I reached ridiculous levels of panic, my counsellor appeared. I handed over the letter and she read it then and there. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just needed to be honest, but didn’t have the ability to form articulate sentences out loud to do this. She was audibly shocked by what was written in the letter; my friend’s suicide, my character reversal at school, getting thrown out of lessons, the attempted, forced sexual activities from someone that I was subjected to. The conversation that followed wasn’t what I was expecting (or what I wanted). She had her own take on what was written in the letter; she said that the self harm was because I’m angry with myself and don’t know how to be angry with other people, that I need to stop blaming myself and that I need to express this emotion.
It’s a learning curve, but I really resent being told that I am something; that I’m angry with myself. I’m not angry with myself, I did some incredibly stupid things, but anger isn’t something I feel. I’m hurting. And I want to control that hurt.
She continued to talk, repeatedly asking me to express some form of emotion. I couldn’t do that. I sat, listening, answering, but not feeling. She asked me when I was due to start at university. I told her that if everything goes to plan, it should be the middle of September. There was a long pause after I’d said this. She then said that because I’m moving in six weeks, she refuses to continue my treatment because all the issues which have been written in the letter can’t be address in this space of time and I can’t be helped. That, quite literally, was that. My letter has been put in my file and I was free to go.
It was been the biggest blow I think I’ve ever had. I’m not going to big myself up, but from my perspective, it took a lot for me to write that letter and admit everything, it took even more to have the courage to go the counselling place, wait, and hand it over. To then be told that treatment is being stopped and I “can’t be helped” was one of the worst things I could have been told. I feel truly let down. I feel let down because it’s taken a number of years for me to accept that I need help, that I want help and I am not being told I can’t have it. No mention has been made about being transferred to another service when I move, so I assume nothing is being done in that respect. It hurts. It’s actually made me feel pretty shit.
I rang my Connexions advisor after this. I didn’t know what else to do, she was the only person I could think of who might be able to calm me down. This is where the emotional overload started, I cried hysterically down the phone to her, making very little sense. After establishing where I was, she gave me strict instructions to remain there and she would come and meet me, which she did. We talked things through, she calmed me down and she listened.
Fast forward two days and we find ourselves at today. The emotions have disappeared. I don’t feel anything. I still feel let down, but that isn’t an emotion. I smile, but I don’t feel happy. I cried at a sad programme, but I don’t feel upset. I am completely numb. My motivation has hit an all time low and I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t want to socialise with people because I don’t know how to. I want to sleep but I can’t, even after abusing the ampitrityline prescription my GP gave me and tripling what I should have taken, I still find sleeping difficult. I wake up in cold sweats after nightmares mixed with flashbacks, or I just don’t sleep and lie in bed watching rubbish on TV until 5am when I collapse in a groggy state.
I’m scared, I’ve never been this scared. That is the only thing I can identity how I feel. And the worst part is, I don’t have anyone to turn to.
I’m writing this trying to decide how I feel, but the honest answer is, I don’t know how I feel. I’m completely empty. Numb. It’s a horrible feeling.
At the beginning of the week, I decided that I was going to write a letter to my new counsellor. I met her last week and had a brief chat with her. I’m not sure what caused me to write the letter, I suppose I’ve reached the stage where I can’t keep running from the past and what happened. It took a very inspiring lady to get me to realise this. She knows who she is.
So I wrote the letter. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Nearly two thousand words of horrible memories and raw emotion. On Wednesday I went to the counselling place, with the letter and asked to speak to my counsellor. I should have thought it through; I had turned up unannounced and had to wait just over an hour to see her. I could feel my breathing getting unsteady and was aware that I was shaking, but before I reached ridiculous levels of panic, my counsellor appeared. I handed over the letter and she read it then and there. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just needed to be honest, but didn’t have the ability to form articulate sentences out loud to do this. She was audibly shocked by what was written in the letter; my friend’s suicide, my character reversal at school, getting thrown out of lessons, the attempted, forced sexual activities from someone that I was subjected to. The conversation that followed wasn’t what I was expecting (or what I wanted). She had her own take on what was written in the letter; she said that the self harm was because I’m angry with myself and don’t know how to be angry with other people, that I need to stop blaming myself and that I need to express this emotion.
It’s a learning curve, but I really resent being told that I am something; that I’m angry with myself. I’m not angry with myself, I did some incredibly stupid things, but anger isn’t something I feel. I’m hurting. And I want to control that hurt.
She continued to talk, repeatedly asking me to express some form of emotion. I couldn’t do that. I sat, listening, answering, but not feeling. She asked me when I was due to start at university. I told her that if everything goes to plan, it should be the middle of September. There was a long pause after I’d said this. She then said that because I’m moving in six weeks, she refuses to continue my treatment because all the issues which have been written in the letter can’t be address in this space of time and I can’t be helped. That, quite literally, was that. My letter has been put in my file and I was free to go.
It was been the biggest blow I think I’ve ever had. I’m not going to big myself up, but from my perspective, it took a lot for me to write that letter and admit everything, it took even more to have the courage to go the counselling place, wait, and hand it over. To then be told that treatment is being stopped and I “can’t be helped” was one of the worst things I could have been told. I feel truly let down. I feel let down because it’s taken a number of years for me to accept that I need help, that I want help and I am not being told I can’t have it. No mention has been made about being transferred to another service when I move, so I assume nothing is being done in that respect. It hurts. It’s actually made me feel pretty shit.
I rang my Connexions advisor after this. I didn’t know what else to do, she was the only person I could think of who might be able to calm me down. This is where the emotional overload started, I cried hysterically down the phone to her, making very little sense. After establishing where I was, she gave me strict instructions to remain there and she would come and meet me, which she did. We talked things through, she calmed me down and she listened.
Fast forward two days and we find ourselves at today. The emotions have disappeared. I don’t feel anything. I still feel let down, but that isn’t an emotion. I smile, but I don’t feel happy. I cried at a sad programme, but I don’t feel upset. I am completely numb. My motivation has hit an all time low and I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t want to socialise with people because I don’t know how to. I want to sleep but I can’t, even after abusing the ampitrityline prescription my GP gave me and tripling what I should have taken, I still find sleeping difficult. I wake up in cold sweats after nightmares mixed with flashbacks, or I just don’t sleep and lie in bed watching rubbish on TV until 5am when I collapse in a groggy state.
I’m scared, I’ve never been this scared. That is the only thing I can identity how I feel. And the worst part is, I don’t have anyone to turn to.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
twitter, a reference and tea (lots of tea)
To Whom It May Concern
It is with great delight that I recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation. Whilst I have only known her for a short period of time she has proved herself as a highly valued Twitterer and it is with great confidence that I can say that she would be an esteemed new member to your organisation.
I first became aware of @Zoe_Smith through her blog, which I read quietly for a few weeks, before deciding to follow her on Twitter, something which I have since realised I should have done a lot sooner. I can distinctly remember one of the first things which @Zoe_Smith said it me on Twitter and it was virtual offerings of plasters with monkeys and giraffes on them; this appealed to my childish side and also made me realise that I’ve always had boring plasters and never patterned ones. Since then @Zoe_Smith has not once let me down and has continued to offer virtual plasters, hugs, pain relief, hot chocolate and most recently tea, after indirectly convincing me to try it and converting me. This proves that @Zoe_Smith has great leadership qualities and is able to assist other people either in real life or virtually. I have not shared with @Zoe_Smith my next opinion and I must apologise in advance if it offends her at all, but in many ways she is a virtual Twitter mother to me, something which I am forever grateful for, even when she makes me cry ridiculous amounts. Should you or anyone else in your organisation ever need help, I believe that she would response immediately with necessary requirements, be that tea, hugs or just a friendly ear. Evidence of this can be seen on Twitter on the evening of Friday 22nd July 2011.
@Zoe_Smith is also highly observant and frequently states what the weather is like in St Andrews, Scotland, which brightens up my Twitter feed each morning (or dulls it down, as the case often is, because it is usually raining.)
As well as being an avid Twitterer, @Zoe_Smith also writes a blog, as previously mentioned. Through this, her creativity is apparent through her #newprojects such as the Lunatics Lexicon and Alternative Mood Scale, both of which should be made available to Mental Health Professionals everywhere as soon as humanly possible. It is through Mental Political Parent that I have learnt how amazing @Zoe_Smith is, as well as how incredibly strong she is. Whilst I have told @Zoe_Smith how much I admire her, I don’t think she realises that she has given me and so many other people the strength to keep going.
Nothing is beyond @Zoe_Smith. Should you be looking for someone to Tweet photos of on-going projects which your organisation is carrying out I would not hesitate to recommend @Zoe_Smith.
Should spam emails ever be an issue within your organisation, @Zoe_Smith would be able to deal with them quickly and fairly, by blocking, reporting and getting a bread knife and hunting them down. This shows that time wasting will not be an issue, although tea/diet coke breaks are an absolute necessity.
@Zoe_Smith is an intellectual, funny, compassionate lady and someone I am very glad that I have “met” through Twitter, proving the importance of social networking in the 21st century. It is without any hesitation that I would recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation and strongly believe that she will continue to be the remarkable person that she is now.
If I can be of any further assistance or can offer any more information then please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours faithfully,
Laura
It is with great delight that I recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation. Whilst I have only known her for a short period of time she has proved herself as a highly valued Twitterer and it is with great confidence that I can say that she would be an esteemed new member to your organisation.
I first became aware of @Zoe_Smith through her blog, which I read quietly for a few weeks, before deciding to follow her on Twitter, something which I have since realised I should have done a lot sooner. I can distinctly remember one of the first things which @Zoe_Smith said it me on Twitter and it was virtual offerings of plasters with monkeys and giraffes on them; this appealed to my childish side and also made me realise that I’ve always had boring plasters and never patterned ones. Since then @Zoe_Smith has not once let me down and has continued to offer virtual plasters, hugs, pain relief, hot chocolate and most recently tea, after indirectly convincing me to try it and converting me. This proves that @Zoe_Smith has great leadership qualities and is able to assist other people either in real life or virtually. I have not shared with @Zoe_Smith my next opinion and I must apologise in advance if it offends her at all, but in many ways she is a virtual Twitter mother to me, something which I am forever grateful for, even when she makes me cry ridiculous amounts. Should you or anyone else in your organisation ever need help, I believe that she would response immediately with necessary requirements, be that tea, hugs or just a friendly ear. Evidence of this can be seen on Twitter on the evening of Friday 22nd July 2011.
@Zoe_Smith is also highly observant and frequently states what the weather is like in St Andrews, Scotland, which brightens up my Twitter feed each morning (or dulls it down, as the case often is, because it is usually raining.)
As well as being an avid Twitterer, @Zoe_Smith also writes a blog, as previously mentioned. Through this, her creativity is apparent through her #newprojects such as the Lunatics Lexicon and Alternative Mood Scale, both of which should be made available to Mental Health Professionals everywhere as soon as humanly possible. It is through Mental Political Parent that I have learnt how amazing @Zoe_Smith is, as well as how incredibly strong she is. Whilst I have told @Zoe_Smith how much I admire her, I don’t think she realises that she has given me and so many other people the strength to keep going.
Nothing is beyond @Zoe_Smith. Should you be looking for someone to Tweet photos of on-going projects which your organisation is carrying out I would not hesitate to recommend @Zoe_Smith.
Should spam emails ever be an issue within your organisation, @Zoe_Smith would be able to deal with them quickly and fairly, by blocking, reporting and getting a bread knife and hunting them down. This shows that time wasting will not be an issue, although tea/diet coke breaks are an absolute necessity.
 |
| taken from here |
@Zoe_Smith is an intellectual, funny, compassionate lady and someone I am very glad that I have “met” through Twitter, proving the importance of social networking in the 21st century. It is without any hesitation that I would recommend @Zoe_Smith for a role in your organisation and strongly believe that she will continue to be the remarkable person that she is now.
If I can be of any further assistance or can offer any more information then please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours faithfully,
Laura
Thursday, 21 July 2011
regret
I don't feel very good today. It could be a massive come down from the large quantities of drugs that have been pumped through my system since Monday (finally had surgery, but that requires a whole other blog post and now I'm not in the right place).
Yesterday I cut myself. Before hand it was all I could think about. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I gave into the voices and did as they said. They'd been quiet for a few days, I miss that quiet. So yes, I gave in, And yes, I regretted it instantly. But I didn't regret it enough to not do the same thing again today.
Cry.
Guilt.
Sick.
Panic.
Yesterday the counselling centre rang me. Two and a half weeks I have been waiting for that phonecall. Two and a half weeks ago was when I dragged myself there because I didn't trust myself to be at home by myself. And what do I do? Ignore the call. Just as I have been ignoring the fact that they have been ringing me every 30 minutes sience 2pm this afternoon. I don't want to talk. I don't know what to say. Yes, I have fucked up. I gave in and I hate myself for it. I want my happy bubble back. But most of all, I want to know what the hell is wrong with me. I cannot do this.
Yesterday I cut myself. Before hand it was all I could think about. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I gave into the voices and did as they said. They'd been quiet for a few days, I miss that quiet. So yes, I gave in, And yes, I regretted it instantly. But I didn't regret it enough to not do the same thing again today.
Cry.
Guilt.
Sick.
Panic.
Yesterday the counselling centre rang me. Two and a half weeks I have been waiting for that phonecall. Two and a half weeks ago was when I dragged myself there because I didn't trust myself to be at home by myself. And what do I do? Ignore the call. Just as I have been ignoring the fact that they have been ringing me every 30 minutes sience 2pm this afternoon. I don't want to talk. I don't know what to say. Yes, I have fucked up. I gave in and I hate myself for it. I want my happy bubble back. But most of all, I want to know what the hell is wrong with me. I cannot do this.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Today...
Today has been a good day.
- I don't have a rare blood disorder. They messed up, twice.
- I can have surgery
- Today I feel happy and unpanicky.
- I was out for most of the day and didn't feel tortured by loud noises which were invading my head
- I coped being around people
- I have an excited, manic feeling and I can't sit still for very long.
- I feel happy.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
anti order
I started writing a blog post this morning, but it is saved in my drafts along with a load of other shit, and will gather cyber dust until my brain has the ability to function and do something slightly normal. Until then, you're going to get some spontaneous crap which flies straight out of my head and won't make much sense.
Today I had the privilage of meeting one of the top haemologist consultants in the country (this was repeated on numerous occasions throughout the appointment) to discuss my crazy blood. What has so far been established, as I may have already said a lot, is that my blood isn't clotting. This is bad. What hasn't been established is why my blood isn't clotting. This is also bad. This new consultant decided to draw me a nice picture/list thing detailing his doctoring thoughts. What he concluded is that I may have a rare blood disorder. I was unable to process anymore after that.
After being sat in the cancer and haematology unit at the hospital where my father spent some of his final days, it has been the most enormous slap in the face that potentially something is very wrong with me. Whilst the Big C hasn't been uttered at all (or at least since December when there were mumblings) being in a unit with people so critically ill has given me the biggest reality check ever.
Yes, they could be erring on the side of caution, I fully accept that, but the words "rare" and "disorder" being uttered in the same sentence by some top consultant has scared me more than I can put into words. I am hoping and praying that this is some technical mistake (made twice by some incapable arseholes) or that they will turn round with massive smiles and say "it's okay! You're okay! Stop worrying!" It's been a long time since somone smiled at me in hospital, at least not a real, celebrationary smile symbolising okayness. I miss that. Things are very much passed being okay.
I suppose it's also a shock because this is yet again, another instance of me being linked to a disorder. I already have erratic "disordered" eating. I already have compulsive "disordered" behaviour. I feel like I am a walking disorder, except I can't do the walking bit very well all the time.
A friend asked me this evening "how did it go with the blood posse?" I love her for trying to cheer me up and add a bit of humour to the current situation. I've given up being positive and trying to hold onto what's good. It hurts too much. Just throw me in a wheelchair and leave me be. I'm sick of being prodded and poked by different people and still getting the same answer: nothing.
I feel like I've hit self destruct, yet again. I can't bear being sat in the house, for sheer fear of what I will do to myself. Instead I returned from the hospital and passed the afternoon "seeing my friends". Actually any form of human contact is too much and I sat in the local park for 3 hours, sent a rambling text to L out of sheer desperation. But it's okay, I think I'm seeing her tomorrow. I think. I hope.
The children were too loud, the birds were too high pitched, the dogs were too yappy, the wind was too windy (yes, that does make sense) and all of it hurt my head. I wanted to scream "shut up! Can you not see that I am trying to have a crazy moment?" but I know that is not socially acceptable and the presence of police made me feel that I couldn't outwardly express my feelings. Nice area I live in, with police strolling through a children's park on a weekday afternoon. The walk home wasn't much better: too many old people, too many people full stop actually, dead birds being dead on the path and youths in That Alleyway, meaning I had to walk the longer way home. And the shower is dripping. I can hear it now. It's too loud.
/end selfish rant.
Oh fuck.
Today I had the privilage of meeting one of the top haemologist consultants in the country (this was repeated on numerous occasions throughout the appointment) to discuss my crazy blood. What has so far been established, as I may have already said a lot, is that my blood isn't clotting. This is bad. What hasn't been established is why my blood isn't clotting. This is also bad. This new consultant decided to draw me a nice picture/list thing detailing his doctoring thoughts. What he concluded is that I may have a rare blood disorder. I was unable to process anymore after that.
After being sat in the cancer and haematology unit at the hospital where my father spent some of his final days, it has been the most enormous slap in the face that potentially something is very wrong with me. Whilst the Big C hasn't been uttered at all (or at least since December when there were mumblings) being in a unit with people so critically ill has given me the biggest reality check ever.
Yes, they could be erring on the side of caution, I fully accept that, but the words "rare" and "disorder" being uttered in the same sentence by some top consultant has scared me more than I can put into words. I am hoping and praying that this is some technical mistake (made twice by some incapable arseholes) or that they will turn round with massive smiles and say "it's okay! You're okay! Stop worrying!" It's been a long time since somone smiled at me in hospital, at least not a real, celebrationary smile symbolising okayness. I miss that. Things are very much passed being okay.
I suppose it's also a shock because this is yet again, another instance of me being linked to a disorder. I already have erratic "disordered" eating. I already have compulsive "disordered" behaviour. I feel like I am a walking disorder, except I can't do the walking bit very well all the time.
A friend asked me this evening "how did it go with the blood posse?" I love her for trying to cheer me up and add a bit of humour to the current situation. I've given up being positive and trying to hold onto what's good. It hurts too much. Just throw me in a wheelchair and leave me be. I'm sick of being prodded and poked by different people and still getting the same answer: nothing.
I feel like I've hit self destruct, yet again. I can't bear being sat in the house, for sheer fear of what I will do to myself. Instead I returned from the hospital and passed the afternoon "seeing my friends". Actually any form of human contact is too much and I sat in the local park for 3 hours, sent a rambling text to L out of sheer desperation. But it's okay, I think I'm seeing her tomorrow. I think. I hope.
The children were too loud, the birds were too high pitched, the dogs were too yappy, the wind was too windy (yes, that does make sense) and all of it hurt my head. I wanted to scream "shut up! Can you not see that I am trying to have a crazy moment?" but I know that is not socially acceptable and the presence of police made me feel that I couldn't outwardly express my feelings. Nice area I live in, with police strolling through a children's park on a weekday afternoon. The walk home wasn't much better: too many old people, too many people full stop actually, dead birds being dead on the path and youths in That Alleyway, meaning I had to walk the longer way home. And the shower is dripping. I can hear it now. It's too loud.
/end selfish rant.
Oh fuck.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Dreams/Reality
I don’t like night time. Just putting that out there.
I don’t like staying in other people’s houses because I find it impossible to promise myself to behave “normally” during the night.
I don’t sleep. Instead I pass the time by watching various DVDs; recent choices have been the Outnumbered boxset, Bridget Jones, Bend It Like Beckham and Friends series one. I’m not particularly fussed about what DVD it is (providing it’s not the Black Swan, still recovering from the last mindfuck that caused). If it passes the time, then it will do. Often I don’t watch it; I just like to have it on in the background because I find the silence too loud. The background noise stops me thinking and keeps me distracted for long enough for sleep to be possible. I do, eventually, end up falling asleep, no matter how hard I try and fight it.
Why do I fight sleep? I’m scared. I’m scared about what will go through my mind in the form of evil dreams. Recently my dreams have consisted of me grabbing blades and repeatedly slashing my legs until I have skin literally hanging off and I’m lying in a pool of my own blood. It makes me feel sick just thinking about that dream, mainly because it results in me waking up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe and actually wanting to do that for real.
There’s an alleyway near my house. This is the setting for another one of my “favourite” dreams. I’m grabbed by Man Who I Had A Bad Experience With and shoved against the wall. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the rest of the dream and I don’t have the ability to type everything out for fear of it being real. This dream has meant that I can’t walk down the alleyway after dusk, and even in daylight I’m aware of my quickened pace and probable erratic behaviour down there. I hope to God the homeowners who overlook said alleyway never look out their windows when I walk through there.
Lately I’ve been trying the whole “Positive Mental Attitude” approach to life, PMA for short. It is often something I’ll scream on Twitter, but in real life I find this incredibly draining and nothing short of a lie. I don’t like who I have become, I am ashamed of who I am. I put that shame aside and got help, but that help has gone into limbo and I don’t know what’s happening: I’m still waiting for New Counsellor to ring me. I don’t do phones and I don’t do waiting. It’s been a week. That’s long enough thank you. I look at the “old” me and I wish that was the me now.
Ironically, “Not Gonna Get Us” just started playing on iTunes. Well I disagree, someone is going to get me and I don’t have the power to stop that.
I wish I could try and put into words what it feels like inside my head. Or draw a picture, but art isn’t my forte and I don’t know who to eloquently write what’s happening. Maybe that will be my next challenge. I don’t know.
I don’t know. I don’t know much at the moment.
I don’t like staying in other people’s houses because I find it impossible to promise myself to behave “normally” during the night.
I don’t sleep. Instead I pass the time by watching various DVDs; recent choices have been the Outnumbered boxset, Bridget Jones, Bend It Like Beckham and Friends series one. I’m not particularly fussed about what DVD it is (providing it’s not the Black Swan, still recovering from the last mindfuck that caused). If it passes the time, then it will do. Often I don’t watch it; I just like to have it on in the background because I find the silence too loud. The background noise stops me thinking and keeps me distracted for long enough for sleep to be possible. I do, eventually, end up falling asleep, no matter how hard I try and fight it.
Why do I fight sleep? I’m scared. I’m scared about what will go through my mind in the form of evil dreams. Recently my dreams have consisted of me grabbing blades and repeatedly slashing my legs until I have skin literally hanging off and I’m lying in a pool of my own blood. It makes me feel sick just thinking about that dream, mainly because it results in me waking up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe and actually wanting to do that for real.
There’s an alleyway near my house. This is the setting for another one of my “favourite” dreams. I’m grabbed by Man Who I Had A Bad Experience With and shoved against the wall. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the rest of the dream and I don’t have the ability to type everything out for fear of it being real. This dream has meant that I can’t walk down the alleyway after dusk, and even in daylight I’m aware of my quickened pace and probable erratic behaviour down there. I hope to God the homeowners who overlook said alleyway never look out their windows when I walk through there.
Lately I’ve been trying the whole “Positive Mental Attitude” approach to life, PMA for short. It is often something I’ll scream on Twitter, but in real life I find this incredibly draining and nothing short of a lie. I don’t like who I have become, I am ashamed of who I am. I put that shame aside and got help, but that help has gone into limbo and I don’t know what’s happening: I’m still waiting for New Counsellor to ring me. I don’t do phones and I don’t do waiting. It’s been a week. That’s long enough thank you. I look at the “old” me and I wish that was the me now.
Ironically, “Not Gonna Get Us” just started playing on iTunes. Well I disagree, someone is going to get me and I don’t have the power to stop that.
I wish I could try and put into words what it feels like inside my head. Or draw a picture, but art isn’t my forte and I don’t know who to eloquently write what’s happening. Maybe that will be my next challenge. I don’t know.
I don’t know. I don’t know much at the moment.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
suspicious adj. sus·pi·cious
I was meant to be having my operation tomorrow, however this isn't the case anymore. I received the news on Friday that it had to be cancelled because my blood still isn't clotting and I don't have enough red blood cells and that I am anaemic. My nurse was bemused about the fact that I hadn't been feeling ill or had any tell tale signs that my iron levels were so low, I, on the other hand found it amusing.
I don't find it amusing anymore. Pyschology is a bitch: now I know that I should be feeling ill, I really am feeling awful. I don't have any energy, my skin is a really attractive grey/white colour, I keep getting waves of nausea and my hair is still falling out in handfuls (okay, nothing new there). My boyfriend was ever so kind today and said I looked like a "tramp trying to go cold turkey". Thanks, love you too.
On top of that I have been feeling more and more anxious over the past few days, which is turning into utter paranoia. I don't feel very safe and it doesn't seem to matter where I am, that feeling of panic and knowing that someone is watching and following me doesn't go away.
And I'm still waiting for my new counsellor to call me; I've been waiting a week and predict another instance of me turning up there in a mental state needing to speak to someone but ending up legging it again.
Mental. Beware.
I don't find it amusing anymore. Pyschology is a bitch: now I know that I should be feeling ill, I really am feeling awful. I don't have any energy, my skin is a really attractive grey/white colour, I keep getting waves of nausea and my hair is still falling out in handfuls (okay, nothing new there). My boyfriend was ever so kind today and said I looked like a "tramp trying to go cold turkey". Thanks, love you too.
On top of that I have been feeling more and more anxious over the past few days, which is turning into utter paranoia. I don't feel very safe and it doesn't seem to matter where I am, that feeling of panic and knowing that someone is watching and following me doesn't go away.
And I'm still waiting for my new counsellor to call me; I've been waiting a week and predict another instance of me turning up there in a mental state needing to speak to someone but ending up legging it again.
Mental. Beware.
Friday, 8 July 2011
5 years time
Five things you like about yourself:
1.I'm loyal
2 I am fairly witty
3.I don't need to be surrounded by people to be happy - I'm independent
4.I will do whatever to help other people
5.I didn't give up
Four long-term goals you want to achieve:
1.Go to university in September and complete my degree
2.Complete a PGCE teaching degree and become a teacher
3.Have my own house
4.Recover
Three short-term goals you want to achieve:
1.Do a skydive for YouthNet next summer
2.Keep talking
3.Get a job when I go to uni
Two people who make you feel good about yourself: I cannot choose just two people, that's impossible, so I will divide it into two groups
1.My amazing friends E and H
2.The people who have really helped me
One realistic change you can make to your life to improve your situation:
1.Keep talking. I have already said that, but it really is the most important thing I can do at the moment.
1.I'm loyal
2 I am fairly witty
3.I don't need to be surrounded by people to be happy - I'm independent
4.I will do whatever to help other people
5.I didn't give up
Four long-term goals you want to achieve:
1.Go to university in September and complete my degree
2.Complete a PGCE teaching degree and become a teacher
3.Have my own house
4.Recover
Three short-term goals you want to achieve:
1.Do a skydive for YouthNet next summer
2.Keep talking
3.Get a job when I go to uni
Two people who make you feel good about yourself: I cannot choose just two people, that's impossible, so I will divide it into two groups
1.My amazing friends E and H
2.The people who have really helped me
One realistic change you can make to your life to improve your situation:
1.Keep talking. I have already said that, but it really is the most important thing I can do at the moment.
This has reminded me of Noah and the Whale's 5 years time. Have a video-
I stole this from here. A bit of positive reading, which has helped me a lot over the past few weeks.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
first steps
What stopped me getting help sooner is often a question I ask myself. I know there are plenty of organisations, such as the Samaritans, which offer support, but it’s always been the first step which I have feared most. To people who aren’t familiar or aware about what it is like to feel that low and a complete danger, it probably seems really simple. In the case of the Samaritans it’s a choice of ringing, texting, emailing, writing a letter or going to a walk in centre. But it isn’t that simple.
There have been so many occasions when I’ve picked up the phone and tried to ring them, but what actually happens when you pick up the phone? What do you say? What do they say? What happens if I panic and hang up before I am able to talk? What if they think I’m just time wasting and they hang up?
Going to a walk in centre was never really an option for me. There is a Samaritans centre in the city closest to where I live, but I was so ashamed of who I had become I wasn’t able to go there. I was ashamed that I had resorted to cutting and damaging myself because I couldn’t get through the day in any other way. I felt like a freak; everyone else seemed so normal and could cope with things that were thrown at them. And then there was me, falling apart and feeling so low. That was terrifying.
Eventually the first step I took was texting the Samaritans. I can still remember the exact text I sent “I need help. Please.” Within half an hour someone has replied and that one text started a dialogue which lasted a few months and was the kick I needed to get “proper” help.
Lack of belief and confidence in myself was probably the single biggest thing that stopped me getting medical help sooner. The simple truth is I didn’t think that I was worth having help. My GP is lovely; I have so much respect for her. But actually seeing my GP meant overcoming more hurdles. The receptionists scared me. I thought they could see right through me and they were plotting against me and would be calling in the mental health services who would then lock me up. When I made the decision on the morning of one of my appointments that today was the day that I would be honest and admit to what was going on in my head and what I had been doing, I then panicked all day about whether I was making the right decision. I was fortunate in some ways, because I had already been seeing my GP regularly about my hip, so I didn’t need to make the initial appointment and speak to the receptionist on the phone. That wait in the waiting room was agonizing. It was one of the longest waits of my life – I’m not a patient person in normal circumstances and I was so tempted to say “fuck it” and leave. But I didn’t. I sat and waited. I can remember feeling dizzy and thinking my heart was beating abnormally fast. Looking back, as much as I regretted it at the time, I did the right thing in staying and waiting to be seen by my GP.
It isn’t as simple as making a GP appointment and willingly sitting down and telling them everything. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s been small steps: sending that opening text, admitting everything via text and then realising that I do need help. Sometimes I have moments of thinking that I’ve made a mistake in telling my GP how I feel. But then I remind myself that I’m cutting myself less, yes, I still have days, like Monday when I feel a complete danger to myself, but I was able to do something about it and try and make myself feel safe. At the time, it didn’t feel like a positive step, but sitting here now, I know that had I not touched base with the counseling centre on Monday, I would have cut myself. And as pointed out to me, that could have been fatal. It’s small steps. At times it feels like one step forward and two steps back, but there have been positive steps forward and I’m hoping to keep making those positive steps forward, even if they are tiny.
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There have been so many occasions when I’ve picked up the phone and tried to ring them, but what actually happens when you pick up the phone? What do you say? What do they say? What happens if I panic and hang up before I am able to talk? What if they think I’m just time wasting and they hang up?
Going to a walk in centre was never really an option for me. There is a Samaritans centre in the city closest to where I live, but I was so ashamed of who I had become I wasn’t able to go there. I was ashamed that I had resorted to cutting and damaging myself because I couldn’t get through the day in any other way. I felt like a freak; everyone else seemed so normal and could cope with things that were thrown at them. And then there was me, falling apart and feeling so low. That was terrifying.
Eventually the first step I took was texting the Samaritans. I can still remember the exact text I sent “I need help. Please.” Within half an hour someone has replied and that one text started a dialogue which lasted a few months and was the kick I needed to get “proper” help.
Lack of belief and confidence in myself was probably the single biggest thing that stopped me getting medical help sooner. The simple truth is I didn’t think that I was worth having help. My GP is lovely; I have so much respect for her. But actually seeing my GP meant overcoming more hurdles. The receptionists scared me. I thought they could see right through me and they were plotting against me and would be calling in the mental health services who would then lock me up. When I made the decision on the morning of one of my appointments that today was the day that I would be honest and admit to what was going on in my head and what I had been doing, I then panicked all day about whether I was making the right decision. I was fortunate in some ways, because I had already been seeing my GP regularly about my hip, so I didn’t need to make the initial appointment and speak to the receptionist on the phone. That wait in the waiting room was agonizing. It was one of the longest waits of my life – I’m not a patient person in normal circumstances and I was so tempted to say “fuck it” and leave. But I didn’t. I sat and waited. I can remember feeling dizzy and thinking my heart was beating abnormally fast. Looking back, as much as I regretted it at the time, I did the right thing in staying and waiting to be seen by my GP.
It isn’t as simple as making a GP appointment and willingly sitting down and telling them everything. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s been small steps: sending that opening text, admitting everything via text and then realising that I do need help. Sometimes I have moments of thinking that I’ve made a mistake in telling my GP how I feel. But then I remind myself that I’m cutting myself less, yes, I still have days, like Monday when I feel a complete danger to myself, but I was able to do something about it and try and make myself feel safe. At the time, it didn’t feel like a positive step, but sitting here now, I know that had I not touched base with the counseling centre on Monday, I would have cut myself. And as pointed out to me, that could have been fatal. It’s small steps. At times it feels like one step forward and two steps back, but there have been positive steps forward and I’m hoping to keep making those positive steps forward, even if they are tiny.
it's not goodbye
Last night was my school leavers ball. It was very different in comparison to the ball I went to on Saturday; it might not have had dodgems hired out, a massive marquee or a posh four course meal, but actually, in my eyes in was perfect in every single way. I suppose it highlighted the major differences between my school - an average mixed state school and my boyfriend's school.
No expense was spared in making my boyfriend's ball a really spectacular evening, but in all honesty, as amazing as the whole event was, it all seemed very staged and it marked some very big contrasts between the "rich kids" and the "nerds" who gained some form of scholarship. There wasn't a sense of community. When I look at my ball, it was an average evening, people still looked beautiful, but what was evident was how much people cared about each other. Students mixed with the teachers, laughed with them, drank (too much) with them and although it is a standing joke in the school, there was a real sense of community. One of the boys did a brilliant speech, highlighting the best parts of the 6th form, the head boy and girl gave out awards and our year head made a speech which had a number of people in tears by the end.
Like in any school, there have been ups and downs, but looking back, my seven years at secondary school couldn't have been better. I am incredibly proud to have been part of such an amazing school and I am so glad I chose to go there. But I am even more glad that I was able to meet the people I have. They are the people who picked me up on my worst days, the ones who made me smile when I thought I'd never smile again, the ones who knew when I needed a hug and the ones I had the laughs with, the tears with and the drunken parties with.
I strongly believe that distance doesn't matter in a friendship. Whilst I may not see these people everyday, I know it's not the end, it's not goodbye. The friendships will change, but they will remain. From the bottom of my heart, I thank these people, they are incredible and I love them more than words can say.
No expense was spared in making my boyfriend's ball a really spectacular evening, but in all honesty, as amazing as the whole event was, it all seemed very staged and it marked some very big contrasts between the "rich kids" and the "nerds" who gained some form of scholarship. There wasn't a sense of community. When I look at my ball, it was an average evening, people still looked beautiful, but what was evident was how much people cared about each other. Students mixed with the teachers, laughed with them, drank (too much) with them and although it is a standing joke in the school, there was a real sense of community. One of the boys did a brilliant speech, highlighting the best parts of the 6th form, the head boy and girl gave out awards and our year head made a speech which had a number of people in tears by the end.
Like in any school, there have been ups and downs, but looking back, my seven years at secondary school couldn't have been better. I am incredibly proud to have been part of such an amazing school and I am so glad I chose to go there. But I am even more glad that I was able to meet the people I have. They are the people who picked me up on my worst days, the ones who made me smile when I thought I'd never smile again, the ones who knew when I needed a hug and the ones I had the laughs with, the tears with and the drunken parties with.
I strongly believe that distance doesn't matter in a friendship. Whilst I may not see these people everyday, I know it's not the end, it's not goodbye. The friendships will change, but they will remain. From the bottom of my heart, I thank these people, they are incredible and I love them more than words can say.
 |
| “True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings” William Shakespeare |
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Just another manic Monday
I've been slipping in terms of writing this blog.
Saturday
It was my boyfriend's leavers ball and I am still in awe of how posh and formal it was. He goes to one of the best independent schools in England and money certainly didn't seem to be an issue during the evening. There was a champagne reception, served by the school's events team, which in itself was on a completely different level to previous balls I've been to at my own school. Four course meal? Check. Casino? Check. Raffle, with actual decent prizes? Check. Professional photography? Check. Bottle of wine costing £38? Check. Oh, and dodgems hired out? Check. Brilliant.
Sunday
There isn't much for me to say here, I'll leave it as a six year old's birthday party with a hangover is not fun. Forty screaming children is enough to give anyone a headache, without it being the morning after the night before.
Monday
I had my "urgent" blood tests yesterday. I don't know what was wrong with me, usually I'm fine having blood taken, I'm used to them so having a dramatic reaction to it is never something that has been an issue. However, yesterday proved to be one of those times when my body was doing its own thing. The vein in my left arm has been butchered a fair amount recently, meaning the phlebotomist eventually decided that she wasn't going to get any blood from that arm. Cue the butchering of my right arm. It was the most painful blood test I've ever had and I am ashamed to say that it reduced me to tears. And I promptly passed out after.
I had a GP appointment straight ater my blood test and Dr N (who is the only doctor I am willing to see) was, as usual, running fashionably late. One of those things, but having to wait an extra 40 minutes does nothing for my nerves and I would have been running (in a metaphorical sense) if I hadn't had 5 tubes of blood in a biohazard bag with me. I never really know what to make of my GP appointments. Being able to touch base with her is useful but I'm very aware that each time I leave that room she is looking more and more concerned. She won't give me any more pain relief, which I am glad about due to my irrational medication fear, but her reasoning for this has left me feeling uneasy: she isn't convinced that I can be trusted with monitoring my own medication without having the temptation to not take the required dose. I've never admitted to her that there is a crazy part of me wanting to listen to the voices telling me to overdose, so covering my shock with a neutral expression proved to be fairly difficult. There's also the fact that because I've reacted so severely to previous medications, there is too much of a risk for me to take anything else. Thank you body.
Yesterday was just one of those days I think. After I left the GP surgery I freaked out. I didn't feel safe and I couldn't think straight. I can't remember all of the day, but around 3pm I left the house and saw, H, a close friend for an hour before going down to the counselling centre because I was so scared that I was going to harm myself. I spoke to the manager, G, there and tried to explain what was going on in my head. I'm not sure whether I made any sense and if I'm honest, the whole thing has blurred into a very surreal experience. G had that concerned look; this seems to be a trend, I walk into a room, people look concerned about me. I can remember him begging me not to cut myself, because it could be fatal as my blood isn't clotting at the moment. He made me go and sit in one of the private meeting rooms to calm down, although this had the opposite result and I freaked out more and left.
In a sort of daze I went to the youth centre in the hope that L, my Connexions advisor would be there. She wasn't, and the centre was shut. I rang her and was greeted by a voicemail message saying that she was out the office until Monday 11th July, which is probably just as well because I have no idea what I would have said if she had answered.
Like I said, yesterday afternoon is very blurry and only certain things stand out. I can remember thinking that I need to go home, but also that I needed to buy an onion, although why I thought that I don't know. I don't even like onions. I can remember almost getting run over and someone hurling abuse at me. It was my right of way as it was a zebra crossing. I can remember that when I was stood outside the supermarket G rang me in a frantic state asking where I was, to which I replied "I'm buying an onion" and then he kept asking me if I was safe and did I need someone to come and find me. I found that funny, because of course I was safe if I was buying an onion. Aftter saying that to him in a fit of manic giggles I hung up and decided that it would be in everyone's interests if I ignored all his calls for the rest of the evening.
Somehow I calmed down before I arrived home, gave my mum the gift of an onion, for which I think she was very grateful and was informed that I was having surgery on Monday. Short of being punched in the stomach out of the blue, I don't think I could be any more shocked. The first and only thought that I've had regarding surgery since then has been "no, I can't have surgery then, I need to see and speak to L on Monday." Although obviously that is not a valid reason to not have surgery which is why today is going to be spent going shopping to buy new PJs, slippers and a dressing gown for the big event next week, once I find the energy and motivation to get out of bed and try and look presentable.
Oh.
Saturday
It was my boyfriend's leavers ball and I am still in awe of how posh and formal it was. He goes to one of the best independent schools in England and money certainly didn't seem to be an issue during the evening. There was a champagne reception, served by the school's events team, which in itself was on a completely different level to previous balls I've been to at my own school. Four course meal? Check. Casino? Check. Raffle, with actual decent prizes? Check. Professional photography? Check. Bottle of wine costing £38? Check. Oh, and dodgems hired out? Check. Brilliant.
Sunday
There isn't much for me to say here, I'll leave it as a six year old's birthday party with a hangover is not fun. Forty screaming children is enough to give anyone a headache, without it being the morning after the night before.
Monday
I had my "urgent" blood tests yesterday. I don't know what was wrong with me, usually I'm fine having blood taken, I'm used to them so having a dramatic reaction to it is never something that has been an issue. However, yesterday proved to be one of those times when my body was doing its own thing. The vein in my left arm has been butchered a fair amount recently, meaning the phlebotomist eventually decided that she wasn't going to get any blood from that arm. Cue the butchering of my right arm. It was the most painful blood test I've ever had and I am ashamed to say that it reduced me to tears. And I promptly passed out after.
I had a GP appointment straight ater my blood test and Dr N (who is the only doctor I am willing to see) was, as usual, running fashionably late. One of those things, but having to wait an extra 40 minutes does nothing for my nerves and I would have been running (in a metaphorical sense) if I hadn't had 5 tubes of blood in a biohazard bag with me. I never really know what to make of my GP appointments. Being able to touch base with her is useful but I'm very aware that each time I leave that room she is looking more and more concerned. She won't give me any more pain relief, which I am glad about due to my irrational medication fear, but her reasoning for this has left me feeling uneasy: she isn't convinced that I can be trusted with monitoring my own medication without having the temptation to not take the required dose. I've never admitted to her that there is a crazy part of me wanting to listen to the voices telling me to overdose, so covering my shock with a neutral expression proved to be fairly difficult. There's also the fact that because I've reacted so severely to previous medications, there is too much of a risk for me to take anything else. Thank you body.
Yesterday was just one of those days I think. After I left the GP surgery I freaked out. I didn't feel safe and I couldn't think straight. I can't remember all of the day, but around 3pm I left the house and saw, H, a close friend for an hour before going down to the counselling centre because I was so scared that I was going to harm myself. I spoke to the manager, G, there and tried to explain what was going on in my head. I'm not sure whether I made any sense and if I'm honest, the whole thing has blurred into a very surreal experience. G had that concerned look; this seems to be a trend, I walk into a room, people look concerned about me. I can remember him begging me not to cut myself, because it could be fatal as my blood isn't clotting at the moment. He made me go and sit in one of the private meeting rooms to calm down, although this had the opposite result and I freaked out more and left.
In a sort of daze I went to the youth centre in the hope that L, my Connexions advisor would be there. She wasn't, and the centre was shut. I rang her and was greeted by a voicemail message saying that she was out the office until Monday 11th July, which is probably just as well because I have no idea what I would have said if she had answered.
Like I said, yesterday afternoon is very blurry and only certain things stand out. I can remember thinking that I need to go home, but also that I needed to buy an onion, although why I thought that I don't know. I don't even like onions. I can remember almost getting run over and someone hurling abuse at me. It was my right of way as it was a zebra crossing. I can remember that when I was stood outside the supermarket G rang me in a frantic state asking where I was, to which I replied "I'm buying an onion" and then he kept asking me if I was safe and did I need someone to come and find me. I found that funny, because of course I was safe if I was buying an onion. Aftter saying that to him in a fit of manic giggles I hung up and decided that it would be in everyone's interests if I ignored all his calls for the rest of the evening.
Somehow I calmed down before I arrived home, gave my mum the gift of an onion, for which I think she was very grateful and was informed that I was having surgery on Monday. Short of being punched in the stomach out of the blue, I don't think I could be any more shocked. The first and only thought that I've had regarding surgery since then has been "no, I can't have surgery then, I need to see and speak to L on Monday." Although obviously that is not a valid reason to not have surgery which is why today is going to be spent going shopping to buy new PJs, slippers and a dressing gown for the big event next week, once I find the energy and motivation to get out of bed and try and look presentable.
Oh.
Saturday, 2 July 2011
Keep calm. Carry on living.
I had my pre-operation assessment appointment on Wednesday. It went as well as can be expected (it didn't go well...that was expected). I am very grateful for the NHS, without it I would be living in poverty or have crippling debts and I definitely wouldn't have started to accept the fact that I need help. But despite that, my levels of frustration are increasing rapidly.
Upon arrival I was told what would be happening during the course of the 4 hours that I would be there. All seemed to be going well; I was medically checked by a juniour doctor and was still fairly calm considering I was in my least favourite place. Then I saw my consultant. This is where it started to go downhill a bit. One would assume that having been given a pre-op appointment, a date for my operation had been given. No. Of course not. I have been waiting to have this operation since January, but it's been over a year since I first started having problems with my hip. I was told that if I was to have the operation on the NHS I would have to wait until October. Bearing in mind, I am meant to be going to university in York, in September, that is not the best news. There is a government set 18 week wait target for any treatment on the NHS; I have done the Maths, I have gone over 18 weeks by a long stretch.
After that piece of news an agreement was reached between my mum, my consultant and I, meaning I would be going private, hopefully having surgery by the end of July - I'm yet to hear whether this will be possible, but I'm pretty much given up hope.
I'm now facing the decision of accepting having surgery in October, meaning I can't go to university, or having the operation privately. Either way, because of the increase of tuition fees, it would cost the same amount. I can honestly say I do not know what to do, it's one of the hardest choices I think I'm ever going to have to make, and by far the hardest I've faced thus far in my life.
On Friday (yesterday, at the time of writing this) my contact nurse rang me to say that there's been a slight problem with my blood test results. Now read "slight" as "major" and then add in the tone of panic in her voice. In the lab tests, my blood hasn't been clotting, which is potentially serious considering I am having major surgery - I don't fancy bleeding to death on the operating table. I am now having an urgent blood test on Monday to ensure that this is the case, and not a mistake in the lab. This is when my little brain started doing what is does best and put two and two toegther and came up with five. I reread the instruction leaflet which came with some of my medication which I have been taking for my hip. Rare but serious side effects include blood disorders. Other side effects include random bruising, hair loss and the feeling that you're going to have a nose bleed, all of which I have been experiencing. It would also explain why, when I have cut myself (either by mistake of intentionally) that I have literally poured blood and the healing process has been incredibly slow.
Needless to say, I have stopped taking said medication and will be raising it with my GP on Monday, after I've had my blood test.
In a previous post, I said that I promised myself that I would ring the counselling place and arrange to see a different counsellor and make some attempt to talk through everything which has been happening. I didn't stick to that promise, but yesterday I went to the place, spoke to the manager, freaked out, but was told that someone would ring me as an urgent case on Monday. I'm not sure how I feel about this, I'm proud of myself for actually doing it, but I suppose the evident level of worry that the manager had has left me feeling slightly uneasy. He said that there had been a great deal of concern when I cancelled my previous appointment and then ignored numerous phonecalls, but he was also openly concerned by how panicked I was yesterday. I was repeatedly asked to sit still, which I couldn't do, I had to be reminded to breathe and I appeared agitated.
I feel exhausted. I am terrified about the hip situation and any further possible complications. I fear myself and what I could do next, more so now because cutting myself could have potentially very dangerous consequences, which is not ever my intention. The wall of protection I've built over the past however many months seems to have falling down, and I am scared about what that will expose.
Upon arrival I was told what would be happening during the course of the 4 hours that I would be there. All seemed to be going well; I was medically checked by a juniour doctor and was still fairly calm considering I was in my least favourite place. Then I saw my consultant. This is where it started to go downhill a bit. One would assume that having been given a pre-op appointment, a date for my operation had been given. No. Of course not. I have been waiting to have this operation since January, but it's been over a year since I first started having problems with my hip. I was told that if I was to have the operation on the NHS I would have to wait until October. Bearing in mind, I am meant to be going to university in York, in September, that is not the best news. There is a government set 18 week wait target for any treatment on the NHS; I have done the Maths, I have gone over 18 weeks by a long stretch.
After that piece of news an agreement was reached between my mum, my consultant and I, meaning I would be going private, hopefully having surgery by the end of July - I'm yet to hear whether this will be possible, but I'm pretty much given up hope.
I'm now facing the decision of accepting having surgery in October, meaning I can't go to university, or having the operation privately. Either way, because of the increase of tuition fees, it would cost the same amount. I can honestly say I do not know what to do, it's one of the hardest choices I think I'm ever going to have to make, and by far the hardest I've faced thus far in my life.
On Friday (yesterday, at the time of writing this) my contact nurse rang me to say that there's been a slight problem with my blood test results. Now read "slight" as "major" and then add in the tone of panic in her voice. In the lab tests, my blood hasn't been clotting, which is potentially serious considering I am having major surgery - I don't fancy bleeding to death on the operating table. I am now having an urgent blood test on Monday to ensure that this is the case, and not a mistake in the lab. This is when my little brain started doing what is does best and put two and two toegther and came up with five. I reread the instruction leaflet which came with some of my medication which I have been taking for my hip. Rare but serious side effects include blood disorders. Other side effects include random bruising, hair loss and the feeling that you're going to have a nose bleed, all of which I have been experiencing. It would also explain why, when I have cut myself (either by mistake of intentionally) that I have literally poured blood and the healing process has been incredibly slow.
Needless to say, I have stopped taking said medication and will be raising it with my GP on Monday, after I've had my blood test.
In a previous post, I said that I promised myself that I would ring the counselling place and arrange to see a different counsellor and make some attempt to talk through everything which has been happening. I didn't stick to that promise, but yesterday I went to the place, spoke to the manager, freaked out, but was told that someone would ring me as an urgent case on Monday. I'm not sure how I feel about this, I'm proud of myself for actually doing it, but I suppose the evident level of worry that the manager had has left me feeling slightly uneasy. He said that there had been a great deal of concern when I cancelled my previous appointment and then ignored numerous phonecalls, but he was also openly concerned by how panicked I was yesterday. I was repeatedly asked to sit still, which I couldn't do, I had to be reminded to breathe and I appeared agitated.
I feel exhausted. I am terrified about the hip situation and any further possible complications. I fear myself and what I could do next, more so now because cutting myself could have potentially very dangerous consequences, which is not ever my intention. The wall of protection I've built over the past however many months seems to have falling down, and I am scared about what that will expose.
Friday, 24 June 2011
a list of excuses as long as my arm
I feel the need to apologise for my MIA approach recently, although the sane, logical part of me laughs at that because no one reads this, so effectively I’m apologising to myself for not keeping my promise and have some form of outlet of emotions.
But anyway, I do have a legitimate reason: the past two weeks I’ve been doing my final exams (two geography and two philosophy). It was a 50/50 spilt, my first geography paper, which was a resit from January was a dream paper. My biggest worry had been the fact that I had to sit in the exam hall for two and a half hours, trying to come across as an intelligent girl. Ha. This wasn’t too much of an issue actually and I have a small level of hope that I may have managed to do this. Let the waiting game commence now. My second geography exam wasn’t perfect, but bearable. Philosophy followed the same pattern as geography, first was great, second not so great.
I also had my final day at school. My school has been a massive source of support, particularly over the past year. I knew who I could turn to, whether it was my year head, a teacher who knows me very well, a student support teacher or my connexions advisor. I suppose that now all the support has been cut off, I’ve realised how important it was. I can’t deny it I am scared about not having that in my life. It took me a long time to work out who I could and couldn’t trust in the school, and longer still to actually have the confidence to speak out and admit to how I was feeling, even then I was never completely honest. I know the children protection policy inside out, I know what I can say in confidence and where the line is drawn, meaning that information is passed on. At the time, I was very naïve and thought that the people I was communicating with wouldn’t see past the smile. I felt that if I didn’t say what was wrong, they wouldn’t know. I never took into account that they knew me well and half the time could guess anyway. But if I didn’t admit to it, they couldn’t do anything. Or so I thought.
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Like I said in a previous post, I cancelled my last counselling appointment. My counsellor carried on ringing me. I carried on ignoring her calls. Eventually, she got wise to this and rang me on an unknown number and I answered. Timing wasn’t ideal, I was sat with the boyfriend watching The Boat That Rocked (good film by the way). Obviously he has no idea what is going on at the moment, so it was a very one sided conversation. She was “ringing to check up on me”. I didn’t take too kindly to this. My replies mainly consisted on one word answers, only expanding to explain that my priority was exams, and until they were finished I wasn’t thinking about anything else. However, I did let slip when my exams finished, so I’m fairly certain that today the calling will start again.
What else? Ah yes. The NHS and how it is interweaved through my life. Last week I received my pre-operation assessment form – 22 pages of personal details and occupational health information. The pre-op appointment is next Wednesday. The realisation that I’m having surgery has hit home. My exams have finished and I had had the attitude of “okay, I still have exams, when exams have finished I’ll think about the operation.” Well, that day has come. And then yesterday I had the fortnightly GP appointment. I don’t really know what to make of it. I’m amused because my GP is proud of me for defying the NHS and carrying on with my education, against the wishes of my consultant, who had told me that dropping out of 6th form would be better for me and my health. So that was slightly odd. She is however, concerned about the self harming and lack of support I now have. I told was honest and told that yes, I am still hurting myself, but half the time I have no memory of doing so, which is scary and disconcerting. She is trying to push me down the medication route. This is a pointless thing for me, I’m already on medication and am refusing to take it, causing a constant battle between my GP and I. I have a (possibly irrational) fear of taking medication. I don’t want to be putting different chemicals into my body and not have any control over what they do. Eventually we reached the agreement that I have to ring the counselling service, talk through what’s been going on and arrange to see a different counsellor, because part of the reason that I’d fled like a rabbit being chased by a fox was a massive personality clash. I found her patronising and didn’t appreciate being talking down to. I found her rude and blunt and assuming. All in all, it wasn’t encouraging me to have an honest dialogue with her. If I don’t ring the counselling service, I will be forced into taking medication.
This may be my plan of action today, although I have a list of excuses as long as my arm: I need to go into town, I need to go to the bank, I need to buy some food, I would like to buy a new book because all this time I now have isn’t healthy. Oh, and I am going out for a pub lunch with some friends from school, partly as an end of school/exams celebration but also a small good luck gathering before I go into hospital. I have some lovely friends, I really do. The counselling service is only open from 2pm-6pm, so my promise to myself is if I don’t ring them today, I am going to go, in person, on Monday.
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This was a lot longer than I was expecting. If you have read it, thank you. But it feels good to let it all out, regardless of whether it’s read or not.
But anyway, I do have a legitimate reason: the past two weeks I’ve been doing my final exams (two geography and two philosophy). It was a 50/50 spilt, my first geography paper, which was a resit from January was a dream paper. My biggest worry had been the fact that I had to sit in the exam hall for two and a half hours, trying to come across as an intelligent girl. Ha. This wasn’t too much of an issue actually and I have a small level of hope that I may have managed to do this. Let the waiting game commence now. My second geography exam wasn’t perfect, but bearable. Philosophy followed the same pattern as geography, first was great, second not so great.
I also had my final day at school. My school has been a massive source of support, particularly over the past year. I knew who I could turn to, whether it was my year head, a teacher who knows me very well, a student support teacher or my connexions advisor. I suppose that now all the support has been cut off, I’ve realised how important it was. I can’t deny it I am scared about not having that in my life. It took me a long time to work out who I could and couldn’t trust in the school, and longer still to actually have the confidence to speak out and admit to how I was feeling, even then I was never completely honest. I know the children protection policy inside out, I know what I can say in confidence and where the line is drawn, meaning that information is passed on. At the time, I was very naïve and thought that the people I was communicating with wouldn’t see past the smile. I felt that if I didn’t say what was wrong, they wouldn’t know. I never took into account that they knew me well and half the time could guess anyway. But if I didn’t admit to it, they couldn’t do anything. Or so I thought.
Like I said in a previous post, I cancelled my last counselling appointment. My counsellor carried on ringing me. I carried on ignoring her calls. Eventually, she got wise to this and rang me on an unknown number and I answered. Timing wasn’t ideal, I was sat with the boyfriend watching The Boat That Rocked (good film by the way). Obviously he has no idea what is going on at the moment, so it was a very one sided conversation. She was “ringing to check up on me”. I didn’t take too kindly to this. My replies mainly consisted on one word answers, only expanding to explain that my priority was exams, and until they were finished I wasn’t thinking about anything else. However, I did let slip when my exams finished, so I’m fairly certain that today the calling will start again.
What else? Ah yes. The NHS and how it is interweaved through my life. Last week I received my pre-operation assessment form – 22 pages of personal details and occupational health information. The pre-op appointment is next Wednesday. The realisation that I’m having surgery has hit home. My exams have finished and I had had the attitude of “okay, I still have exams, when exams have finished I’ll think about the operation.” Well, that day has come. And then yesterday I had the fortnightly GP appointment. I don’t really know what to make of it. I’m amused because my GP is proud of me for defying the NHS and carrying on with my education, against the wishes of my consultant, who had told me that dropping out of 6th form would be better for me and my health. So that was slightly odd. She is however, concerned about the self harming and lack of support I now have. I told was honest and told that yes, I am still hurting myself, but half the time I have no memory of doing so, which is scary and disconcerting. She is trying to push me down the medication route. This is a pointless thing for me, I’m already on medication and am refusing to take it, causing a constant battle between my GP and I. I have a (possibly irrational) fear of taking medication. I don’t want to be putting different chemicals into my body and not have any control over what they do. Eventually we reached the agreement that I have to ring the counselling service, talk through what’s been going on and arrange to see a different counsellor, because part of the reason that I’d fled like a rabbit being chased by a fox was a massive personality clash. I found her patronising and didn’t appreciate being talking down to. I found her rude and blunt and assuming. All in all, it wasn’t encouraging me to have an honest dialogue with her. If I don’t ring the counselling service, I will be forced into taking medication.
This may be my plan of action today, although I have a list of excuses as long as my arm: I need to go into town, I need to go to the bank, I need to buy some food, I would like to buy a new book because all this time I now have isn’t healthy. Oh, and I am going out for a pub lunch with some friends from school, partly as an end of school/exams celebration but also a small good luck gathering before I go into hospital. I have some lovely friends, I really do. The counselling service is only open from 2pm-6pm, so my promise to myself is if I don’t ring them today, I am going to go, in person, on Monday.
This was a lot longer than I was expecting. If you have read it, thank you. But it feels good to let it all out, regardless of whether it’s read or not.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Freefall
I cancelled my counselling appointment on Tuesday. My counsellor rang me at 3.30pm on Wednesday, which is when I should have had my appointment. I didn't answer. She's been ringing me every since then and I have ignored all of her 9 calls. That probably makes me a bad person, but I don't want to talk to her. I don't know what to say but I can't go back.
On Thursday morning (yesterday) I went to see my GP. Every time I go there, that wait in the waiting room is dreadful. Every time I want to turn around and run and keep running until I lose where I am and lose the sense of reality. But I didn't run, I waited. I waited to hear her call my name and I walked down the corridor to her room. I sat down. And I burst into tears and cried for a solid 10 minutes - thankfully I had a double appointment. She looked concerned. I tried to explain why I was crying, but it didn't make sense to me, so I doubt it made sense to her. I explained that I had cancelled the counselling session and that they kept ringing me. She said that they would be worried about me because I'm so "vulnerable and fragile" and by ringing me they are "providing a safety net". It already feels too late for a safety net, I've already fallen and each time I think I've stopped falling, I fall some more.
I have to go back in two weeks. But right now I need to keep it together long enough to pass my exams. I'm terrified that I'm going to walk into that exam room, open the paper and not know anything. I've worked so hard. But. It won't be enough. It never is.
After 10 minutes of crying then a further 10 minutes of trying and failing to make sense of everything, I did what I do best, switch into autopilot mode and go to school for revision sessions.
So I think this is it. I think I have, as some people might phrase it, lost it. I'm freefalling and it's never going to stop.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
never far from fear
Sometimes I feel like I'm leading a double life: the life people want me to lead and the one I'm actually leading, but am too scared to admit to fully.
The one people want me to lead, and assume is me all the time, is fairly simple and straight forward. I like that. I'm a number of things: a daughter, a niece, a best friend, a girlfiend, a student, a carer for disabled children, a mentor and a teaching assistant. Every single person who I know, in whatever role I'm in, all seem to think that I'm happy, calm, collected etc. That's quite funny, in the sense that I'm anything but those things. I wish it was that simple, but I feel like I'm battling a demon which is making being those things close to impossible.
I get up in the morning after fighting with those inner voices, which are telling me to give up, to not get out of bed, because I'm worthless and staying in bed would be better for everyone. Sometimes they win and I listen: I don't get out of bed and I tell my tutor at school that I have a migraine. Nothing more is said on the matter. Why would it be? I've hidden how I felt.
School, as a rule, tends to be something I do on autopilot; after 14 years of education that is probably to be expected. I smile when necessary and pretend that I'm happy and answer "I'm okay" simply because I don't know how to answer otherwise. I don't like being there, but not being there fills me with dread because I know once it's over I'm going to have 3 months of sitting at home with nothing to fill my day, feeling pretty rubbish after surgery.
Work is something which requires a bit more thought and concentration, but because of that, I often find it's one of the times I feel safest: those few hours every week when I'm supervising 20 teenagers with mild disabilities. I don't want to cut myself. I don't want to hurt myself in any way. I'm looking after other people and ensuring that they are safe and in doing so, I don't for one moment need to think or have time to think abut myself. It's one of those rare moments when there isn't a little bit of me wanting to cry out how awful and scared I feel. I should probably state that a child has never been put in any danger under my care. Hurting myself is one thing, but I would never hurt another person, especially through a work capacity.
I don't know how to explain the "secret" side of me. This is the part of me which seem intent to destroying myself, through physical hurt or going over memories which are too painful to drag up. This is the part of me which wants to do and believe everything that the voices say. This is the part of me which finds it hilarious that I offer support and care for other people, because I am incapable for doing that for myself. This is the part of me which makes me angry and not want to see or talk to anyone for days.This is the part of me that torments me when I consider really, honestly, telling someone how I feel. This is the part of me which makes me freeze when I see my GP, so all I can admit to is cutting myself, but never more than that. This is the part of me which made me burn the letter I wrote to me GP trying to explain how I felt.
I hate myself for who I have become. I hate myself for letting it happen. But most of all I'm scared, because I can't trust myself. And sometimes, I really want to just do what the voices say.
The one people want me to lead, and assume is me all the time, is fairly simple and straight forward. I like that. I'm a number of things: a daughter, a niece, a best friend, a girlfiend, a student, a carer for disabled children, a mentor and a teaching assistant. Every single person who I know, in whatever role I'm in, all seem to think that I'm happy, calm, collected etc. That's quite funny, in the sense that I'm anything but those things. I wish it was that simple, but I feel like I'm battling a demon which is making being those things close to impossible.
I get up in the morning after fighting with those inner voices, which are telling me to give up, to not get out of bed, because I'm worthless and staying in bed would be better for everyone. Sometimes they win and I listen: I don't get out of bed and I tell my tutor at school that I have a migraine. Nothing more is said on the matter. Why would it be? I've hidden how I felt.
School, as a rule, tends to be something I do on autopilot; after 14 years of education that is probably to be expected. I smile when necessary and pretend that I'm happy and answer "I'm okay" simply because I don't know how to answer otherwise. I don't like being there, but not being there fills me with dread because I know once it's over I'm going to have 3 months of sitting at home with nothing to fill my day, feeling pretty rubbish after surgery.
Work is something which requires a bit more thought and concentration, but because of that, I often find it's one of the times I feel safest: those few hours every week when I'm supervising 20 teenagers with mild disabilities. I don't want to cut myself. I don't want to hurt myself in any way. I'm looking after other people and ensuring that they are safe and in doing so, I don't for one moment need to think or have time to think abut myself. It's one of those rare moments when there isn't a little bit of me wanting to cry out how awful and scared I feel. I should probably state that a child has never been put in any danger under my care. Hurting myself is one thing, but I would never hurt another person, especially through a work capacity.
I don't know how to explain the "secret" side of me. This is the part of me which seem intent to destroying myself, through physical hurt or going over memories which are too painful to drag up. This is the part of me which wants to do and believe everything that the voices say. This is the part of me which finds it hilarious that I offer support and care for other people, because I am incapable for doing that for myself. This is the part of me which makes me angry and not want to see or talk to anyone for days.This is the part of me that torments me when I consider really, honestly, telling someone how I feel. This is the part of me which makes me freeze when I see my GP, so all I can admit to is cutting myself, but never more than that. This is the part of me which made me burn the letter I wrote to me GP trying to explain how I felt.
I hate myself for who I have become. I hate myself for letting it happen. But most of all I'm scared, because I can't trust myself. And sometimes, I really want to just do what the voices say.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Nicola
Nicola died on 7th May 2008 after overdosing. Two days before she had taken her French GCSE speaking exam; it later emerged that she got an A. She would have been so pleased about that. Various people gave her various nicknames, I called her Nessa, taking the first letter from each of her names N.E.S, and at the time it seemed cool. Times change…
One of the most important things in Nicola’s life was modelling, put her in front of a camera and she became the biggest poser to ever walk the planet. But not in a conceited way, she remained realistic and wasn’t one of those girls who’s main ambition was to be the next Katie Price. Nicola was incredibly impulsive, I never managed to find out what she truly wanted to do, but she often spoke about being a doctor. Who knows, she could have made a good one. She loved being centre of attention and making everyone laugh. They laughed and she laughed too. Probably, given the opportunity, she would have been a hilarious drunk: one of those people you really want to be with on a night out. But even in nursery, when I first met her, she was a livewire. I craved the friendship from someone who was bubbly and confident, even at the age of 3. The French language, it would seem, has been weaved throughout our friendship since day one, when I said “I can’t speak French,” after being forced to partake in language lessons at the European nursery we both attended. Her reply? Dancing around the tables singing “it’s easy peasy lemon squeezy!” Remembering that now still brings a smile to my face.
Nicola was sixteen when she died and had so much to live for, not just in terms of academics, which undoubtedly she would have done well in, but the simple things. I remember how excited she was about learning to drive and passing her test. And then being able to buy a car and drive up from Sussex to see me whenever she wanted. Like I said, she was impulsive.
Travelling was another large part of her life. Every few months, she would go back to her home town in Ireland and see her extended family. She was well travelled compared to your average 16 year old. I was so jealous when she spent 3 months in Australia, just because she could (and because independent schools have ridiculously long summer holidays.)
No one saw it coming, because even in her final days, she had a smile on her face. I’ve been told that she was quieter, but everyone thought that it was because of exams and the family situation. I will never forgive myself for not being there when she needed it. Even more so, because I didn’t go to her funeral. I wanted to shut it out and pretend it wasn’t real. I couldn’t face the truth: my best friend was dead and I wouldn’t ever hear her voice again or be able to converse with her every day. So I sat outside one of the schools in my town, waiting for my French exchange to arrive for the week, (a week which, incidentally, was horrific…Nicola would have loved the stories) on the day of her funeral and shut it all out. I will never forgive myself for not saying goodbye; visiting her grave a few months later wasn’t the same.
Nicola, you have taught me a lot, by not being here. I should look out for my friends, not think about myself as much and speak up if I disagree with something.
Talk to people.
Trust people.
Some of that I have succeeded with. My friends remain the most important people in my life, along with my family, and in many ways are the siblings I’ve never had. Speaking up if I disagree is definitely not something I need to work on. Talking and trusting however…well, I haven’t done quite so well there.
Nothing in the world can ever replace what an amazing friend you were. All I have are memories. And I will hold on so tight to those memories that it will hurt. I will love you forever, Nicola. Thank you for being the sister I never had and one of the most influential people in my life.
One of the most important things in Nicola’s life was modelling, put her in front of a camera and she became the biggest poser to ever walk the planet. But not in a conceited way, she remained realistic and wasn’t one of those girls who’s main ambition was to be the next Katie Price. Nicola was incredibly impulsive, I never managed to find out what she truly wanted to do, but she often spoke about being a doctor. Who knows, she could have made a good one. She loved being centre of attention and making everyone laugh. They laughed and she laughed too. Probably, given the opportunity, she would have been a hilarious drunk: one of those people you really want to be with on a night out. But even in nursery, when I first met her, she was a livewire. I craved the friendship from someone who was bubbly and confident, even at the age of 3. The French language, it would seem, has been weaved throughout our friendship since day one, when I said “I can’t speak French,” after being forced to partake in language lessons at the European nursery we both attended. Her reply? Dancing around the tables singing “it’s easy peasy lemon squeezy!” Remembering that now still brings a smile to my face.
Nicola was sixteen when she died and had so much to live for, not just in terms of academics, which undoubtedly she would have done well in, but the simple things. I remember how excited she was about learning to drive and passing her test. And then being able to buy a car and drive up from Sussex to see me whenever she wanted. Like I said, she was impulsive.
Travelling was another large part of her life. Every few months, she would go back to her home town in Ireland and see her extended family. She was well travelled compared to your average 16 year old. I was so jealous when she spent 3 months in Australia, just because she could (and because independent schools have ridiculously long summer holidays.)
No one saw it coming, because even in her final days, she had a smile on her face. I’ve been told that she was quieter, but everyone thought that it was because of exams and the family situation. I will never forgive myself for not being there when she needed it. Even more so, because I didn’t go to her funeral. I wanted to shut it out and pretend it wasn’t real. I couldn’t face the truth: my best friend was dead and I wouldn’t ever hear her voice again or be able to converse with her every day. So I sat outside one of the schools in my town, waiting for my French exchange to arrive for the week, (a week which, incidentally, was horrific…Nicola would have loved the stories) on the day of her funeral and shut it all out. I will never forgive myself for not saying goodbye; visiting her grave a few months later wasn’t the same.
Nicola, you have taught me a lot, by not being here. I should look out for my friends, not think about myself as much and speak up if I disagree with something.
Talk to people.
Trust people.
Some of that I have succeeded with. My friends remain the most important people in my life, along with my family, and in many ways are the siblings I’ve never had. Speaking up if I disagree is definitely not something I need to work on. Talking and trusting however…well, I haven’t done quite so well there.
Nothing in the world can ever replace what an amazing friend you were. All I have are memories. And I will hold on so tight to those memories that it will hurt. I will love you forever, Nicola. Thank you for being the sister I never had and one of the most influential people in my life.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
emotion disassociation
"It's good to see you looking a bit brighter and happier."
Oh the irony. Actually I feel anything but that. But the smile, putting my head down and remaining fairly quiet seems to be working. I very nearly burst out laughing at that comment this afternoon.
Something I have realised though, is that taking on everyone else's problems makes me forget what is going on in my head for a short while. Looking after a twelve year old girl when she is ill and there are suspicions of her having an eating disorder is one of the better things I have achieved today. Trying to sort out the mess that a young girl has got herself into regarding boyfriends, self harm and drugs is again something which takes my mind off things. I am a complete hypocrite, I am very willing and able to give the latter girl advice and support her, and yet that same advice I can't follow myself. But that disassociation, however damaging it may be for myself in the long run, is the only thing which keeps me going and stops me collapsing onto the ground in a trance like state of utter paranoia and panic.
I am my own worst enemy.
Oh the irony. Actually I feel anything but that. But the smile, putting my head down and remaining fairly quiet seems to be working. I very nearly burst out laughing at that comment this afternoon.
Something I have realised though, is that taking on everyone else's problems makes me forget what is going on in my head for a short while. Looking after a twelve year old girl when she is ill and there are suspicions of her having an eating disorder is one of the better things I have achieved today. Trying to sort out the mess that a young girl has got herself into regarding boyfriends, self harm and drugs is again something which takes my mind off things. I am a complete hypocrite, I am very willing and able to give the latter girl advice and support her, and yet that same advice I can't follow myself. But that disassociation, however damaging it may be for myself in the long run, is the only thing which keeps me going and stops me collapsing onto the ground in a trance like state of utter paranoia and panic.
I am my own worst enemy.
the truth is...
The time is 9.50am. And I have cut.
On the surface, that would seem like it is a bad start to the day, when actually it's anything but that. It was an amazing sensation watching the blood run down my leg. I can't really explain it, I know it's wrong and like I discovered yesterday, people can judge you as a weak person, but I can't stop.
I know I'm slipping. I'm slipping back into the habit of not being able to manage the smallest of things without resorting to hurting myself. I'm hurting on the inside, so I have to hurt myself on the outside. And the worst part is, I can't even explain why I'm hurting so much. I can work out the things which aren't right: exams, health, school, parental job insecurity. But I can't link those reasons to my actions. All I know is that when I cut, I feel better. That feeling of "betterness" lasts for a while and then I remember. The way I see it, unless I stop thinking, I can't break this cycle.
I want to cry and cry but I can't. I don't have the ability to cry anymore. I have single handedly pushed so many people away and only now am I starting to realise the consequences of this. Right now, I need someone to sit down next to me and give me a hug and tell me that everything is going to be okay. Even if I don't believe them, I need to hear it.
I guess the truth is, I am feeling incredibly lonely and isolated from the world.
On the surface, that would seem like it is a bad start to the day, when actually it's anything but that. It was an amazing sensation watching the blood run down my leg. I can't really explain it, I know it's wrong and like I discovered yesterday, people can judge you as a weak person, but I can't stop.
I know I'm slipping. I'm slipping back into the habit of not being able to manage the smallest of things without resorting to hurting myself. I'm hurting on the inside, so I have to hurt myself on the outside. And the worst part is, I can't even explain why I'm hurting so much. I can work out the things which aren't right: exams, health, school, parental job insecurity. But I can't link those reasons to my actions. All I know is that when I cut, I feel better. That feeling of "betterness" lasts for a while and then I remember. The way I see it, unless I stop thinking, I can't break this cycle.
I want to cry and cry but I can't. I don't have the ability to cry anymore. I have single handedly pushed so many people away and only now am I starting to realise the consequences of this. Right now, I need someone to sit down next to me and give me a hug and tell me that everything is going to be okay. Even if I don't believe them, I need to hear it.
I guess the truth is, I am feeling incredibly lonely and isolated from the world.
Monday, 23 May 2011
just because I'm smiling doesn't mean I'm happy
Today I had my second counselling appointment. I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I'm glad I went. I hated every minute of it and couldn't get out of the building quick enough.
I went in with an open mind. I was honest in how I felt, I admitted to self harming and answered the questions which I was asked. A few too many conclusions were drawn from the hour appointment/session, whatever I should call it.
I'm a grief stricken teen who can't cope with the loss of her best friend and her father. I've turned to self harm because I am over stressed and can't absorb anymore emotion. I don't have a degree in counselling, so maybe I should listen to what they say, but really? As evil as it sounds, I have no memories about my father, so it is very hard to have emotions about someone who I didn't know. Yes, of course I wish I had a father, but do I miss him? I always feel like a bit of a fraud when I go to his grave...like he's not my father to miss. In an ideal world, I would have a father, but I can't change it.
When you lose your best friend, it's like part of you dies too. There will always be part of you which wonders "if I'd done this differently maybe..." or "what if..." I will always hold the blame. Nothing can change that, countless people have said "it's not your fault", but the truth is, I'm pretty sure they would feel the same if they were in the same position. I cared about her. I loved her. And I let her down. Three years have passed, and I still miss her. So maybe there is an element of truth of saying I can't cope with her loss, but I can't change it.
As for the self harm, the truth behind it is I cut to control the pain I'm in. I can't control the pain from my hip/knee, but this I can. That small amount of control grounds me. Some people are strong. Others are weak. The message I've got from today is that I'm a weak person; that makes me feel rubbish and worse about myself.
I would like to cut myself. I feel like my wall of protection has been knocked down and now everyone can see me for who I am: a fucked up teenager who can't control herself. And that realisation truly sucks,
I went in with an open mind. I was honest in how I felt, I admitted to self harming and answered the questions which I was asked. A few too many conclusions were drawn from the hour appointment/session, whatever I should call it.
I'm a grief stricken teen who can't cope with the loss of her best friend and her father. I've turned to self harm because I am over stressed and can't absorb anymore emotion. I don't have a degree in counselling, so maybe I should listen to what they say, but really? As evil as it sounds, I have no memories about my father, so it is very hard to have emotions about someone who I didn't know. Yes, of course I wish I had a father, but do I miss him? I always feel like a bit of a fraud when I go to his grave...like he's not my father to miss. In an ideal world, I would have a father, but I can't change it.
When you lose your best friend, it's like part of you dies too. There will always be part of you which wonders "if I'd done this differently maybe..." or "what if..." I will always hold the blame. Nothing can change that, countless people have said "it's not your fault", but the truth is, I'm pretty sure they would feel the same if they were in the same position. I cared about her. I loved her. And I let her down. Three years have passed, and I still miss her. So maybe there is an element of truth of saying I can't cope with her loss, but I can't change it.
As for the self harm, the truth behind it is I cut to control the pain I'm in. I can't control the pain from my hip/knee, but this I can. That small amount of control grounds me. Some people are strong. Others are weak. The message I've got from today is that I'm a weak person; that makes me feel rubbish and worse about myself.
I would like to cut myself. I feel like my wall of protection has been knocked down and now everyone can see me for who I am: a fucked up teenager who can't control herself. And that realisation truly sucks,
Saturday, 21 May 2011
£0.70
"How are you feeling?"
"Okay."
"And honestly?"
"Not good."
"Have you cut yourself?"
"Yes"
"How many times?"
"I don't know"
"Are they bad?"
"Some bled"
"When did you last cut?"
"Today, at lunch, I bought a compass and cut in the toilets."
"Okay...Did you make you feel better?"
"No."
The price of self harm: 70p. 70p for a compass, then a shaky walk to the toilets. Cut. Be sick. Plaster on a smile. Walk into tutor. Sorted.
"I'm fine."
It's funny, I say it so much, I'm starting to believe it myself. I'm not fine, but the magic smile fools people. And they really do think I'm okay. Except my doctor. I couldn't fool her. And I'm annoyed at myself for not trying harder. It's hurting too much and I am a bad person for lying to so many people, when really, all they want to do is help me.
"Okay."
"And honestly?"
"Not good."
"Have you cut yourself?"
"Yes"
"How many times?"
"I don't know"
"Are they bad?"
"Some bled"
"When did you last cut?"
"Today, at lunch, I bought a compass and cut in the toilets."
"Okay...Did you make you feel better?"
"No."
The price of self harm: 70p. 70p for a compass, then a shaky walk to the toilets. Cut. Be sick. Plaster on a smile. Walk into tutor. Sorted.
"I'm fine."
It's funny, I say it so much, I'm starting to believe it myself. I'm not fine, but the magic smile fools people. And they really do think I'm okay. Except my doctor. I couldn't fool her. And I'm annoyed at myself for not trying harder. It's hurting too much and I am a bad person for lying to so many people, when really, all they want to do is help me.
Thursday, 19 May 2011
"I want to scream so I can't hear"
simply because I love this song. When everything else fails, I can rely on this song, to calm me down.
let's start again
Today I cannot explain how I feel, not a great start for my blog, or in this case, not a great restart to my blog. So why did I start this blog? I am clearly not all that good with words so why am I writing? I have failed at communication, so maybe a blog is the answer. Actually my doctor and counsellor suggested it. I can't (and won't) talk about how I feel face to face with someone, so this, in many ways is an outlet.
In all honesty, I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't even remember when it started. I could bullet point everything which makes me unhappy, but it seems somewhat heartless. I guess the starting point was three years ago: my best friend killed herself. Shortly after this, I started self harming. In the space of a few months, this slowly got worse and I was very close to taking my life. I blamed myself for my friend's death, and to a certain extent, still do. It says a lot about a friendship when you don't notice someone is that unhappy.
Two years and various self injuries later, we find ourselves in January 2010 I stopped self harming. I got a hammer and smashed my wrist and that was the last thing I did. I got help, although to this day, no one knows what actually happened, I have always and will always stick to the story of slipping on ice. Getting help from medical professionals symbolised the end. I felt safe. I trusted myself.
So why am I writing this now? Well, I'm self harming again. I'm a little bit messed up, some people have referred to me as crazy. I hear voices. I don't really know who I am anymore. The triggers? A2 exams in a matter of weeks - geography and philosophy, the latter I am definitely failing at the moment. A university place depending on me getting decent grades. A group of school friends discovering alcohol and spending a lot of time (and money) drinking - something which doesn't really appeal to me. I drink to numb, not something which can necessarily be done in public. My mum is going to lose her job...cheers government. And the small matter that for the past year I've had ongoing hip problems and pain, resulting in very little sleep, reduced mobility and my life being turned upside down with the news that this summer I'm having major surgery, meaning crutches, more pain and no summer lovin'. Could be worse sure, but right now, I feel pretty rubbish. It's one thing after another.
But when did it all truly start? I remember feeling sad, incredibly sad. Loosing interest in school and other people, spending hours staring at the ceiling of my room hoping for sleep but sleep not coming. But when does sadness become depression? I don't know. Does anyone know? Probably not.
Oh and frigus...
Noun, frīgus (genitive frīgoris); n, third declension
1.cold, coldness, coolness, chilliness
2.the cold of winter; winter; frost
3.the coldness of death; death
4.a chill, fever
maybe that sums me up.
In all honesty, I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't even remember when it started. I could bullet point everything which makes me unhappy, but it seems somewhat heartless. I guess the starting point was three years ago: my best friend killed herself. Shortly after this, I started self harming. In the space of a few months, this slowly got worse and I was very close to taking my life. I blamed myself for my friend's death, and to a certain extent, still do. It says a lot about a friendship when you don't notice someone is that unhappy.
Two years and various self injuries later, we find ourselves in January 2010 I stopped self harming. I got a hammer and smashed my wrist and that was the last thing I did. I got help, although to this day, no one knows what actually happened, I have always and will always stick to the story of slipping on ice. Getting help from medical professionals symbolised the end. I felt safe. I trusted myself.
So why am I writing this now? Well, I'm self harming again. I'm a little bit messed up, some people have referred to me as crazy. I hear voices. I don't really know who I am anymore. The triggers? A2 exams in a matter of weeks - geography and philosophy, the latter I am definitely failing at the moment. A university place depending on me getting decent grades. A group of school friends discovering alcohol and spending a lot of time (and money) drinking - something which doesn't really appeal to me. I drink to numb, not something which can necessarily be done in public. My mum is going to lose her job...cheers government. And the small matter that for the past year I've had ongoing hip problems and pain, resulting in very little sleep, reduced mobility and my life being turned upside down with the news that this summer I'm having major surgery, meaning crutches, more pain and no summer lovin'. Could be worse sure, but right now, I feel pretty rubbish. It's one thing after another.
But when did it all truly start? I remember feeling sad, incredibly sad. Loosing interest in school and other people, spending hours staring at the ceiling of my room hoping for sleep but sleep not coming. But when does sadness become depression? I don't know. Does anyone know? Probably not.
Oh and frigus...
Noun, frīgus (genitive frīgoris); n, third declension
1.cold, coldness, coolness, chilliness
2.the cold of winter; winter; frost
3.the coldness of death; death
4.a chill, fever
maybe that sums me up.
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