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.

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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.

Unawnserd Questions

The roses are dying, screaming for light

The violets are crying, done fighting the cold night.

I look at you, and promise im just fine,

when under my shirt im bleeding in straight lines.

The razor blade in my pocket is gleaming with pride,

While im concealing the fact, that I’m dying inside.

Everyday I am consumed, eaten alive

by the securities I suppress, deep inside.

Scars, forever decorating my skin,

on the outside and yet deep within.

Days go past – years go by

My emotions still hidden, help, I want to die.

Maybe the best place for me is locked in chains,

for my mind is far past insane.

Should I follow my brain or my heart?

Should I stay, or should I depart?

it’s so very hard to decide,

should I stop, or continue my suicide.

I tell myself not to be afraid,

after all its only a little, shiny blade

.

crimson

And as she pulls up her sleeve,

removes the braclets,

reveals her skin

the jagged, ugly scars littered from within,

These scars represent a millions uncried tears.

She cant say anything, nothing at all

so adverts her eyes and concentrates, staring at the floor.

two words suppressed, “im sorry”.

And shes not sure who to

herself, her friends or her poor bleeding skin

but this girl,

shes falling apart, shes apologizing for what she hates.

herself.

What a juxtoposition I know!

Stephan Chobosky once wrote “I am both happy and sad and wandering how that can be”. Well recently as you can probably tell from my varied blog posts, I have been up and down more than a well used Yo Yo, but you know what, that’s okay. In my opinion you have to look at happiness as a journey and not a destination, the world would be a pretty weird (or even weirder) place if everyone was always happy.

As weird as this sounds, and I don’t know about you, but on occasions I even don’t mind tearing up; I think there is a stage were so much “stuff”  (in other words bullshit) happening, the only logical option is for you just let the tears cleanse it all away.

I spent today doing nothing overly exciting just shopping for university when I had an epiphany, that you have to look at were you started, and compare it to were you are now; and hey, you know what, you might not quite be there. But as long as you keep on going and believe you can get there you will (trust me if I can, anyone can).

Five years ago, I was a pretty messed up kid who just got everything a little bit wrong (and I don’t mean the wrong hairstyle), I was that one who, went for the older guys, partook in activity such as drugs when I shouldn’t have, exclusions, you name any teenage drama and I’m sure we can tick it off, (It is fair to say I had more issues than vogue). Now im going to the university of my dreams, I got good A level results, and am on the right track, admittedly I am not quite there yet, but I have come such a long way. Without reflection on it, we rarely think of our lives in this analytical way, but its something I can only recommend indulging in.

The sad aspect is only small, it’s not really sadness either more of a niggling insecurity and anxiousness surrounding leaving everything I know behind and starting over, but I think everybody would find that a little bit daunting and overwhelming. And at some point you have to accept that we are who we are for a lot of reasons, some we might never know.

The truth about self harm and suicide – the reasons why

When certain types of scorpions are placed into a fire, they sting themselves to death.

I think there is a lot that can be said for that (not just that I need to get out more), you see this is an extended metaphor for the practices of human behavior. In situations were people, who consistently suffer from mental illness feel trapped we either, attempt to, or succeed in ending our lives before the pain can intensify any more. Recently I have been feeling increasingly like the scorpion (without the tail, of course). I feel this is an obviously simplified to the complex question of why?

I hate it when people ask me why I tried to end my life (what do they expect me to say, for fun?) how do you attempt to explain to someone, that dull and chilling ache, or that dissapointed feeling in the morning because you woke up, and had to rise to another day.

People say its just in your head snap out of it, what they fail to associate with these types of disorders is the physical symptoms which accompany them. That’s the weight penetrating through your chest, the sweating hands and episodes of hyperventilation where you just cant breathe. How do people expect us to talk about it when it’s sitting on our lungs, forcing us into silence. Until you have been in a situation similar to this, you will find it hard to understand, but in truth its the only way I see out. Straight and fast. I got into the university of my dreams, to study a subject which I am so passionate about (I know geek is no longer sheek, I did say I needed to get out more), have a good family, amazing and supportive friends, but this haze is still submerging me.

I hate unanswered questions, I think that’s why I like history so much, because its not just what and how a situation or event occurred, its all about building a sustainable foundation as to why. After five years of tearing my flesh apart and cutting I still don’t know why I do it, (despite some people finding that hard to believe). The truth about self harm is that its a coping mechanism which often prevents suicides. the sick truth is cutting up makes me feel alive, in control and fearless; and there is no rush out there like it, pain seems to unfortunately, be the drug of my choice.

But the truth is, the romanticism that surrounds self harm and suicide both sickens and disgusts me (life is not like Romeo and Juliet); It takes away from the issues as real, medical illnesses that people have to hide and live with for the rest of their lives. Glorification of self harm by posting pictures on social media, suggests to me a generation of lost souls and screwed up kids (but hey, what do I know anyway). I just know that for me, that razor is my oldest enemy, and at times my only friend.

Think about this for a minute (ehhh brain work, I know) you never, or to be more accurate I should state upon only rare occasions, see older people walking around covered in scars. Is that because people did not indulge or give into weakness and tempation, or because they just never made it that far?