50 shades of fucked up

There are nights I cry so hard that my body aches and I shake uncontrollably having to smother my face into an aligning pillow so no one hears me. There are also nights when I’m ecstatically happy and i think that everything happens for a reason. And there are also nights where I feel nothing at all. but there is never a night when you don’t cross my mind.

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lost and alone seeking reassurance

the unknown is categorically terrifying, it evokes my deepest and most sincere fears, you can not plan for it and you defiantly can not escape from it (it turns out no matter with how much persistance you pursue this with). I am currently sat in my new university room, shaking and sweating out paranoia. I’m entirly isolated within the prison of my own mind, consistently and forcefully telling me im going to fail before I have even begun.

For him …

youth and nativity both contributed to allure me to him, he was dark, secretive and older (turn on for any teenage girl). He was a broken and lost man, and there is nothing more intoxicatingly attractive in the world. I yearned to fix him, to complete him; yet the sobering reality is his coldness absorbed me, I became consumed by his damming darkness and acquired an obscene obsession to releasing his pain.

He was never loving or compassionate and the concept of empathy, was one of which completely surpassed him. The mask remained firmly positioned throughout our whole charade of a relationship. Emotions always had to be suppressed, it was always just sex. Although always pleasurable and giving, consistently cold; I would trace the scars that littered his forearm like forbidden secrets, as his kisses burnt my lips like cigarettes, I still embrace and relish these moments with a sickening sense of nostalgia.

As I cut myself on the shards of his broken disposition, the overwhelming desperation to evoke feeling relinquished and all that remained were two numb people, desperately searching and seeking to feel something real. The day he left I fell, yet I didn’t hit the ground for the brutal truth is, I have been falling ever since, to this day I still yearn for his painful embrace, to be reunited with his beautifully damaged soul.

the secrets of a Bipolar

Fear is one of the most horrific, powerful emotions ever invested within a human being. It strips us of the limitations we place upon ourselves, because everything we want is out of our comfort zones, and sometimes we need that fear to push us.

Without the fear of failing, I wouldn’t of got were I am today, fear is positive in this regard, however panic is were it all disintegrates and unravels. Am I scared about moving the entire life I have created over the past 18 years to a different city, and starting university? absolutely (I mean the thought of having to do my own washing strikes fear into me like nothing else), but this is me embracing that fear.

They say the best way to deal with fear, is to put a face on it and confront it. So that’s what I am attempting to do through this blog; you see I am not the typical student, I’m not scared of the social hierarchy (or who’s the best person to hang out with). Because the truth remains that even after all these years and getting here, there’s still a minute section of me which is terrified of failing and letting those around me down. But I think in reality if we are all being honest that section lives deep down within all of us, revealing our deepest seated insecurities (even those who appear super confident have them), no one wants to admit or be told that they are not good enough.

I am aware and have a competent understanding that in reality, I am probably not going to impact this world I walk on in a huge or overly significant way (there goes my seven year old dream of becoming prime minster). There are just over seven billion people that walk this world alongside me, but I do still believe what we do is important. After all we impact each others life significantly with friends or lovers, and no one can deny how special that is. For example A made a huge significant impact on my life, and restored the chance of me having a future, he made me laugh when I didn’t even want to smile and trust me on this; everything that we do is still important. Okay so yeah, you know what we probably aren’t going to be the next ghandi or Nelson Mandela and restore or initiate civil and world peace but that doesn’t make us any less important on this planet. Our lives are what we make of it, and im going to ensure that I am the hero of my own story, the lead actor so to say.

“If we were rain, she would be a hurricane and I would be drizzle” admittedly I am certainly not a preacher of fate, but there are ways things seem to fall together in life, through the people we meet, things we do. But for me it is the people we meet that really change our fate, in a sad way A will always be the hero of my story, because when he first found me I was just a damp squandering drizzle, yet he gave me the strength to turn into a hurricane. The ironic thing about this metaphor is hurricanes are strong, a force of nature and sometimes even dangerous. It’s not to say that A made me perfect (I don’t think I would have wanted him to do that) I still make mistakes and get things wrong but as life goes on I am gradually beginning to realize that that’s okay, cliche as it sounds it is how we learn (I mean after my 18th I will never mix tequila and whiskey together).

Another metaphor M gave to me was that some people are like supernovas (if you dont know what one of these are google it), they shine brightly and intensely light up the whole sky, yet there hermatia is that hey die rapidly, because of being so bright they burn themselves out. This metaphor, extended as it is I know translates beautiful to suicide, I think in August I had just burnt myself out from trying to shine so brightly. But, I do believe that some supernovas continue on for a long time shining just as bright, take M for example; he has had his fair share of life experience but he still burns bright, not in some aspects of his life but within himself and with his compassion and understanding.

For him

He never wrote me poems. We would fuck in his car, or on his bed where numerous other girls had been or while I was crying (classy I know). We saw each other naked so frequently I have the image engraved on the back of my eye lids and in my retina, present every time I close my eyes. He ripped my underwear off holding me down while I would caress his chest. I was always vulnerable, but there’s something about loving a broken boy, the concept of fixing him, I diddnt get to fix him of course; I just cut myself on the shards of his broken disposition.

I would wake him with kisses, whereas he woke me up with hickies, for a long time, I thought they were the same thing. Then I learnt that kisses aren’t promises, and hand holding is not a contract, we should build our bridges on today because its the only foundation that is certain.

I will always remember him though, how predictable he was within his unpredictability; I asked him one while we both got high, why it was that I could write novels about him until the words got tired of being anagrams of his name – but at the same time he would never reciprocate. He blew a smoke ring and broke it with his finger. “dunno” he said. We would inevitably fuck again later, because I was drawn to his self destruction, like a moth to a flame, I would crave and yearn for his pain.

I found him the other day sitting on my floor, staring at a picture from when I was young. “God” he said, “I really fucked you up”. And thats the moment I released we really do only accept the love we think we deserve.

Broken

Depression is the deadliest of diseases, for there are no blood tests or scans, it  hides and lurks in the corner of your soul spreading its venom and numbness until you can go on no longer. Depression isn’t the pain riddled poems or the blood stained wrists, its the night terrors and waking up in relentless cold sweats.

The book thief, is a book of which is predominantly narrated by death, maybe that is the reason it is my favorite novel to ever be written, my favorite quote simmers down to, “even death has a heart”. I must emphasis and state I am neither naive nor ignorant and I don’t imagine a warm embrace with death, yet surely it has to be better than the sweet entice of a blade, or living an absent life that doesn’t even belong to me.

When most people imagine the future, it is perfect and picturesque filled with joy, career’s, marriage and children. When I envisage my future there is nothing …. literally nothing. I should in all probability find that terrifying yet I don’t most people have a substantial fear of death, yet i participate frequently in activitys which improves my chances, no such luck, it says something about you, when you cant even kill yourself correctly. Carved on my arm is the word “fail” I remember clearly doing it after putting a cigerate out on my forearm, it was the moment I realised I had failed at every aspect of my life. Academically I never achieved what I aspired to, in truth (sorry if your reading this) but I hate the majority of my pathetic friends.

But you know what I hate the most, living with people who are not my mum and dad yet still taking part in this fucking charade, I detest them and that’s the honest truth, only no one really likes the truth,it ironic really, when you think about it, we crave it but we never want to hear it, not really.  And people would call me selfish for saying that, so you don’t.

I miss my mum more than anything in this entire world, and I would easily give up the rest of my days for just one hour with her, I miss my dad, the thing that screws us up most in life is the picture of what things were supposed to be like, A once said that to me. And maybe he was right, I used to think he was right about everything, but some people deserve the pain, they deserve bad things to happen them. I am a big believer in karma, and hey maybe that’s the reason I go to bed every night and think about killing myself whilst cutting up.

I have an extreme internal conflict when it comes to my dad hence why I rarely speak about him; I have said no more than he wasn’t  a very nice man to most, because I don’t think I could say the whole truth out loud. People love the phrase its complicated, but really im starting to think that maybe not so much, I deserved everything I got, it was all my fault. I say I don’t know why I cut, but I think deep down inside I do, I just don’t want to admit it to myself. The situation with my mum and dad really fucked me up and it fucked me over. I finally want the game to be over, but life just wont let me stop playing.

It stained me and it doesn’t mater how hard I scrub it wont go.

Relentless recovery

Its liberating, exciting and somewhat thrilling (well what can I say, I am a self confessed geek). Instead of letting anxiety plague and invade my world, I’m allowing positivity to prosper at the prospect of moving to university in 11 days! We have all heard the saying (I live for cliches, I know) about new chapters and new beginnings, but I can honestly say with sincerity, that I truly do believe there is something in that.

For me university is a place to start over. (Not that there aren’t aspects of my life I like), its not about getting a group of new friends, or being academically challenged, its more egocentric than that (I guess that makes me pretty vein); its about applying my new found self confidence, and optimism. Although as you can tell from this blog I don’t mind sharing my story, It will be a enriching experience to go somewhere were people know nothing about me, and I don’t become that girl with bipolar,or the one who tried to kill herself, but i’m just me.

An update (in case any of you are interested) in the university preparation world. Firstly there’s actually a lot of shit to do, in fact between the nervous breakdowns whilst waiting for my results to eventually be published, to completing the summer reading, which is a pile of books which amounts to the size of Evarist (okay so maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but you get my point, there is a lot!). But im enjoying reading the academic publications of historians, I think its important to set yourself goals, not just the realistic boring ones (like get through university without dying or ending up in a mental asylum) but one day, I would love to be the one publishing books of historical significant, this I feel is more realistic than my seven year old goal; which resulted in me planning to become the next female prime minster (I have always been ambitious as you can tell).

Its kind of a funny story…

you know that really funny thing that happens, (no, I don’t mean that video on Facebook) im referring to  that time you were accidentally admitted into a psychiatric unit; (not what you were thinking huh, me either). The hysterical laughter of which plagued the corridors, will taunt me until my very last breath, and that’s without the traumatized shrieking and repetitive rocking.

Okay so I can see how trying to take your own life can be perceived as, well maybe a little crazy and hey, even slightly disillusion. Not that anyone will ever believe me but I wasn’t insane for my actions that night (I promise) I was just growing a little tired of life’s bullshit (but I guess we have all been there).

I understand (sort of) that I had to remain with the doctors in white coats, especially after being asked if I regretted my actions, and well me being me, spontaneously but alas truthfully coming out with, “only that I diddnt go with the rope”. But believe me when I say (yes thats right trust the crazy person) I did NOT belong in that place, and I remain certain a year later; that my stay in the secured unit, caused me sever psychological damage (I came out in a worse state then when I had gone in).

one of my viewers suggested being more positive, so looking at the plus side, I did have several very attractive (I’m talking solid 9’s) doctors of which I wouldn’t have minded examining me!

It was only when I was hospitalized, that I realized, I was actually ill, despite taking a cocktail of pills washed down by a bottle of yagar (now you understand the dread of waking up, not only the reality of my actions to face up to but also the killer hangover). I never really believed I was ill. You see my disorder had been lying dormant for years, but it was only once I received a diagnosis I began to accept that there was something wrong with me.

I still don’t think I will ever come to a full acceptance (im stubborn like that) but with a few beautiful people I’m slowly getting there. There are two people in my life who got me through some really dark abysses, who made me see I can do things, (turns out I just needed a bit of hand holding, reassurance and self belief). I will refer to them as M and A.

A gave me hope, he built me back up and returned my wavering self confidence, (every time I would tear it down, he would build it back up again and again) he was also one of the first people to ensure he was always there, no matter what the situation (or how stupid) I was being. Although I think me and M see the world through very different perspectives, I can honestly say (although I don’t think he’d believe me) that im not sure I would be here writing this blog without either of them and for that I am eternally grateful.

living with a mental illness, or in fact life as a more generalized concept is difficult but I really do believe we mend each other, cliche as this sounds (I know) people fixed my broken pieces and put me back together (bit by bit, it took a long time!). I feel very lucky and privileged to have both M and B in my life.

having a mental illness is hard, but talking about it shouldn’t be! the only way to get rid of a social stigma is to refuse to conform. I’m not proud of having Bipolar, but im proud of how I deal with the curve balls it throws in my life, and I never have been nor ever will be ashamed of it.

what happens when fear paralyzes you

Deep breaths, count from one to ten; panick attacks are becoming ever more consistent within my life causing the same chilled numbness, I write this as sweat is trickling down my forehead, my hands are shaking uncontrollably (typing is a nightmare) and I am entering into the realm of hyperventilation.

Now I can comprehend why people call an ambulance, mistaking them for heart attacks. I can not explain the overwhelming sense of impending doom that correlates to a panic attack, I don’t think there are words in our dictionary which can express the terrorizing fear coursing through my veins. Its like having someones hands tightly gripping your neck and squeezing relentlessly until you pass out. It’s like screaming for help, only no one can here.