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.

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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?

the third person in my relationships – Bipolar

That annoying feeling when there is a third person who just wont leave your relationship, come on we have all been there; well safe to say mine is not the jealous ex, but the disorder which both controls and dictates my life – Bipolar.

I have a hard time trying to navigate my emotions ( and I don’t just mean that time of the month) that consequently makes forming sustainable and healthy relationships so impossible, that building a zoo on the middle of Mars is more likely.

The problem is you can pretty much guarantee one of two modes, firstly the overexcited ‘oh my god lets do everything now, coffee look here’s coffee I want some more coffee do you, lets go bungee jumping, followed by skiing and then follow it of by reading all of Maya Angelou’s poetry in one night?’ (okay so guys I cant blame you for that one). Secondly theirs the even less appealing, lets stay in bed for fourteen hours, shut down and maybe if I don’t talk, and I mean not a word, stay in absolute silence all of this will go away and I might just finally dissapear.

Hyper-mania is terrifying because your the only one who is unable to see how bad you really are ( say what!? you cant go off and sleep with random strangers on a night out despite knowing them for a whole 5 minutes, what about walking along a line roofs with your eyes closed).

I read a brilliant car metaphor on a young mans blog and honestly the only way I can describe it is , its “like going at 100 miles per hour down a 20” however I would also add with no breaks or stops. It is hard to find someone who is prepared to go at that speed and in turn, stay around to hold that same girl, only covered in blood and scars, let alone ever commit to loving her.

Breaking up with my shrink and my meds

Break ups are hard and often uncomfortable but sometimes totally necessary. So recently I sent that text saying I’m sorry but this just isn’t working out, its not me its you, however not to my boyfriend but my therapist; you see we had what can only be described as a complex and secret relationship (you know what they say secrecy adds to the excitement). But I decided enough was enough, this could, granted be one of the worst life decisions I have ever made (I have always said that i shouldn’t be able to make my own decisions) and send me plummeting into a deep depression, but hey whats life without a little risk, right?

I decided that I was going to be riding solo a few weeks ago, bearing in mind I was not in truth wholly sober when I pressed the send button to that text, and fair enough to say I was wandering if the pounding sensation in my head was pure, unrefrained regret or, just a sever case of hangover; I am going to conclude with the latter, as even walking down the alcohol aisle makes me feel hungover.

Although as many relationships go, mine and my therapists was lets use the adjective turbulent, he would say stop being crazy, and I would do something even more insane, but it was still difficult. This is someone who had been a huge part of my support network, who I had when I was possibly in such a dark and terrifying space he almost knew me better than I knew myself, but I did it. Not with courage I will admit I mean sending a text come on really!! its almost as bad as getting your friend to breakup with him for you. But it was a step into the unknown and a new direction, and I must admit it felt liberating I guess, as it always does, to be lost in the right direction.