We found love in a hopeless place.

I should begin by apologising for the predictably clichéd Rihanna reference. As cringe-worthy as it may sound, this lyric could not ring truer to my experience of finding love. 

I have, for the past four years, been crippled by mental illness and have spent the majority of those years in hospital. Through endless days of depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder, self-harm and anorexia, my life was stripped of happiness, of comfort, of enjoyment, of love and of hope; that is, until I met Jordan. We met as inpatients on a locked eating disorder ward, a place utterly devoid of hope. Alarms, blood and vomit, screaming and darkness, locked doors with no keys, loneliness. To some, a relationship between two people with mental health problems may sound like a disaster waiting to happen, as in many cases these relationships can be, but with Jordan, it is different. 

He builds me up more than my illnesses wear me down. He makes me feel loved, precious and beautiful. He has seeped into every relationship in my life; my friendships are so much stronger, my family life is much less strained. He gives me the strength to carry on when I cannot see the point in living. He is my reason to recover, my sustenance and my hope. When I am with him, I am a version of myself I never thought possible: I am the Alice I have always yearned to be. But more than that, I can bring him out of the darkness a little, I can hold him, comfort him, love him, and make him feel just as he makes me. I am part of someone else, I am not alone, and neither is he, and that feels wonderful. There are, of course, difficulties in being in a relationship where both people have mental health problems: we argue, we are overly sensitive, we have to worry on a deeper, more dangerous level about each other, but somehow, we always seem to find a way through those trials and each time, we come out stronger than before. Since meeting him, I have left that ward, and I am slowly but surely recovering. Every day is still a struggle, but now my burdens are shared with him, and his with me. I have hope in my life again, and laughter, music, love and tenderness. So, in a way, I am so glad that I have been through, and continue to go through, so much pain because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been so lucky as to meet him.

 

This is it.

It's been about a year since I posted on this blog. In my last post I promised to write more, a promise which, evidently, I have failed to keep. Yet a lot has changed for me since I last wrote and I have, of late, found my fingers itching to begin again. So here I am, with my tail between my legs, tentatively asking you to give me another chance. 

I find myself somewhat incapable of producing words to describe how this last year has been for me; if I were to use a cliché, it could be described as a roller-coaster, except roller-coasters tend to suggest an element of fun and excitement, of which my year has had very little. I have been in and out of various hospitals, putting a huge strain on my friendships, my family and perhaps also on myself. Aside from the day patient unit I am currently attending, my most recent stay in hospital was five months on an adult eating disorders ward. I suppose now would be the time to also tell you that I have Anorexia Nervosa. Although not a recent development, my eating disorder is something that I have always tried to keep on the down low; for a long time I was able to do that, perhaps because I didn't 'look ill' (I hasten to highlight the fact that weight, inpatient admissions and so on have no bearing whatsoever on the severity of the illness- it is first and foremost a sickness of the mind) or perhaps because I was so deep into deception that I actually deceived myself. But of course, these things have a tendency to find their way out of the woodwork eventually, and come out it did. My illnesses(or was it just me?) caused me to lose my treatment at the specialist personality disorder unit, lose touch with many of my friends, with reality and with myself. I was in a haze of starvation and for a long while I felt invincible, superhuman. I could do everything everybody else could but I didn't need to eat. But slowly, that energy was drawn out of me and I found myself almost incapable of climbing the stairs to my bedroom. I lay in bed at night, scared to sleep because I could feel my heart slowing down, and scared to wake up because what was there to live for? I was so numb, and that worked for me. I was free from the torture of misery and self hatred that used to consume my mind. But it was not sustainable, and I was caught before I faded completely, or at least my body was caught. I went as an inpatient to a specialist eating disorders ward, and I was fed. I gained weight. But in my mind the storm was brewing once more, for the feelings that I had for so long dampened with starvation began to creep up on me again. I went through the motions, meals and snacks, rest, medication et cetera, but while my body changed, my mind most certainly did not. That is, until recently. After being an inpatient, I moved downstairs to the day unit where I have been for just over four months now, and it has been immeasurably helpful, a world away from the impersonal, clinical, acute environment of the ward. I am surrounded by people with the same goal- to improve, to get better, as opposed to being immersed in a competition as to who is the sickest, the thinnest, the most distressed. While every meal, every bite is a struggle, I am starting to come to the realisation that being debilitated by this abhorrent illness is no life. It's not the life I want, who would want it? Just the other day, I walked past a middle aged woman in a wheelchair, emaciated, unable even to stand. At first, I felt ashamed of myself, my size, my weakness. But then I realised: I don't want to be in a wheelchair in 40 years time. This realisation, of course, bears no judgement on that poor woman, for she did not choose to be ill, she cannot just decide to be better, nobody can. But seeing her suffering made me even more determined to fight for my recovery. It will undoubtedly take time, and hard work. But if I can avoid spending my life in hospital, starved and isolated, I will do everything in my power to do so. I have a deep longing, that has been growing for some time now, to be free. Not just from my wretched eating disorder, but from depression, from self harm, from anxiety disorders, from BPD (although I strongly question that diagnosis). I want to be able to sleep at night. I want my mother to be able to fall asleep without worrying if she will find me dead the next morning. I want to be able to smile without being disingenuous. I want to go to the pub and order something more than a diet coke (I don't even like coke!). I want to travel, to learn, to help other people, to love. I want to have normal ups and downs, joys and sorrows. I want to live. Not a half life, a life. I can't do this any more, being desperately ill. I've had enough of the struggle, of the turmoil within. And no, I'm under no illusions that this will be easy. Hell, it will be the most difficult thing I have ever done, but it must be done, if not for myself then for everyone around me.

The Wanderer Returns.

Good evening to you all, dear readers. It has been a disgustingly long time since I have put pen to paper (or more accurately, finger to keyboard)! Since starting a new therapeutic programme last year, my mind has been so overwhelmingly full that the notion of articulating my utter confusion has become entirely laughable. I did today, however, stumble across a wonderful blog which inspired me to once again don the old writing cap and attempt to share with you a little of my mind. 
Having read through my previous blog entries, I realised that I tend to only write posts with a definite point, whether it be moral sentiment or (highly flawed) philosophical thought. While articles of such a nature are not in themselves a bad thing, I find that not only are they incredibly taxing to write (one does, after all, only have a limited repertoire when it comes to deep, meaningful topics), but they can weigh a little heavy on the hearts of those that happen upon them. That being so, I have decided that I will give this blog a little re-vamp, a 'buff and polish', if you will. I will try (and most likely fail) to continue to share my commentaries on weighty topics, but to intersperse them with lighter, more frivolous posts on the mishaps of being, well, absolutely batty.
On that note, I must love you and leave you, reader, for dinner time (aka TORTURE) is upon us, and is, unfortunately, mandatory. I promise, however, that another post will grace your screens in the near future; until then, listen to my current obsession and ache at the brilliance. Over and out.

Dearest Beth.

A letter to my dear friend Beth, and to all those in need of encouragement in desperate times.

Dearest Beth,
As I write this, I keep in mind that my words will not take your pain away. I cannot do that, although I dearly wish I could. But I hope that I can at least bring you a little comfort in these dark and painful days. Life can be so cruel and it often seems so much easier to just give up and die. You feel that death is the only way out and that nothing can help you, but this is a lie, formulated by a cruel part of your mind. Although now, it seems like you keep falling uncontrollably into the black hole of misery and that you just can't stop, there will come a time when a little sunlight will start to shine on you, you will start to claw your way out of the hole and days will begin to seem slightly brighter and less cumbersome. It is impossible to imagine it on a dark day but it's true. I may say all of this and know that it is true, but I do also know the reality that it feels like your suffering will never come to an end and that there is no hope of a life beyond this horrific pain. But that is a feeling, and feelings are not facts, they cannot be trusted. This doesn't take away from the fact that you have those feelings. They are awful, unbearable and completely agonising. They are your reality, but it helps me to remember that they are only feelings, terrible ones at that but still feelings nonetheless. Of course, there will be days you will fall again but knowing that things are bound to get better is a thought that sustains me, even in my darkest hours.
I love you so much and I wish that you had never had to endure this pain. I wish I could wrap you in my blanket and cuddle you and protect you from all sadness and pain. It seems so unfair that such a brilliant, loving person should suffer as you do. Having said that, pain makes you stronger and wiser. Without it, we would never know what good is, for we must have something to compare the goodness to. And the good times seem all the sweeter having tasted the bitterness of unfathomable misery. You may feel as though you deserve the pain, but you do not. I know that self hatred often comes with the package of depression, and it is hard to feel that you deserve joy and happiness, but you do. You care so deeply for others and never fail to make me smile. You make me want to carry on, just so that I can have a lifetime of happy memories with you. A person with the ability to love and care as deeply as you is left naturally vulnerable to the unbearable pain that you are feeling, which is ironic, as you, of all people, do not deserve to feel this way. It can make you feel so alone, separate from all the people that you love, and this makes surviving even harder. But this is what depression wants. It wants all happiness to desert you. It wants to destroy relationships, isolate you, make you become so introspective that you cannot see the beauty and hope that the world exudes. If you let it, it will take everything that makes life worth living from you. But you can fight it. By staying connected to people, not hiding yourself away and continuing to talk about how you feel, you can battle against the dark cloud looming in your head and keep your sanity and the ones you love. You are able to not lose yourself in the misery, as impossible as it seems, because you are not alone; you have me and so many other people who love you so much. It would shatter my entire world to lose you. I don't say this to try and blackmail you into not killing yourself. I say this because I love you, need you and can see a future for you. A happy future, full of love and laughter, friendships and happiness. As clichéd as it sounds, you will get through this, and you will live the life you deserve. There is so much to look forward to in the rest of your life, even though I know you struggle to see it. Simple things like hugs, and walks on the common. There are so many jokes you have yet to hear, stories you have yet to tell, places you have yet to visit and people you have yet to meet.
I know that none of this makes the pain you are feeling go away, or hurt any less. But your future is full of hope, and hope is the one thing depression cannot take, because other people can hold it for you. I have so much hope for you, even if you cannot hold hope for yourself. But I am here for you, no matter what. I will never give up on you, never stop loving you and never, ever stop hoping that one day, you will be able to say you are truly happy. And until then, I will hold you and comfort you, wipe your tears and share your burdens. I am not perfect. I will fuck up. I've let you down so much before and will probably let you down again, but just know that I am sorry, and that I love you and will never stop caring. I don't have the all the answers but I will sit with you in your darkest moments, comfort you when you feel so desperately alone and frightened, fight against the darkness with you and never let you go.
It is not easy for me to write any of this, because I find it so hard to believe it for myself, but I know that what I am writing is true. I know it must be hard to read and believe this, when even getting through the next hour seems impossible. Just know that I do know what it is to feel void of all happiness and hope. I know what it is like to want to die more than anything and to wish that you had never been born. I understand how utterly desperate you feel, how tortuously alone you feel and how you feel that nothing will ever be good again. I know what it is to feel that every smile is fake, every laugh is forced and every word is full of deceit. I know that life seems pointless, living seems futile and each breath feels as though you are being mocked for still being alive. I understand, I feel that too. I can't take those horrible things away from you. But I can say that I am still alive and so are you, and that proves that we are stronger than every single one of the disgusting, disturbing thoughts in our heads. Those thoughts are not you, they are the depression. You are not depression. We will survive this, beat it and move on from it. It seems like absolute agony now, but it will get better, whether that is in a day, a month, or a year. And then we will be glad we carried on and fought through it, instead of giving up.
I love you, and I'm here for you, no matter what. You will survive this. I believe in you.
With all my love,
Alice.

Hope.

Day of distraction number 4. Having ended with CAMHS and the outreach team I've been attempting to stay very busy indeed, with some success. It is now the end of the week and, as predicted, I am stronger than I was last Sunday evening. I have my wonderful friends to thank for this, although I can't really remember much of the week at all. They have, this week, been so brilliant and supportive and for that I am eternally grateful. I know that I am loved. Despite this, however, I am completely heartbroken. I have had to say goodbye to two people who are, and will continue to be, incredibly important to me and who have helped keep me alive. My world feels desolately empty without them and although I am currently somewhat inebriated, I still find the thought of never being able to confide in them again agonising. They have been the fuel for my fire for months on end and without them my flames are dwindling. Even as I write this, tears are blurring my vision and my heart feels as though it is being ripped from my chest. But they have given me something far greater than comfort. Though I never thought it possible, they have given me hope. I spent so many hours sat in their presence utterly broken, scarred and wretched, yet not once did they doubt that I could have a life worth living. I can no longer see them, yet their hope lives on in my heart. I often believed their hope to be unfounded and yet, now I can no longer know them, I must hold hope for myself. This hope will tussle with my will to self destruct for years to come. They have planted a seed in my heart and they hope that, in time, the seed will flourish and bloom into a magnificent flower. It is now my greatest desire to make them proud of me. The video below, which I spent today making with my amazing friend, describes a little of how I am attempting to cling to this hope of a better life in these dark and difficult hours. I will never cease to be thankful that I met my two incredible therapists, just as I will never cease to miss them. I will take a part of them into every relationship I build for as long as I live. Hope is the stuff of life and we all thrive on it. I hope this video provides those in terrible pain with some hope; my thoughts are with you. Just as they have held hope for me, I hold it for you. I struggle so furiously to survive and I hope that I do not let these people who mean so much to me down. As I conclude this drunken but completely heartfelt soliloquy, I will leave you with an acronym, that despite being somewhat clichéd, is entirely appropriate:

Hope: Hold On, Pain Ends

Endings.

Endings are always hard. They throw up so many emotions, from intense affection to total abandonment. They can make you doubt yourself and your feelings and can make you question your ability to cope with hardship. For me, next week will probably the hardest of my life. I find endings and goodbyes torturous and I am beginning to realise that I am grieving the relationships that have been so helpful to me and, now that I am getting older, have to end. I have to say goodbye to two people who have been instrumental in keeping me alive these last two years. I have relied so much on these relationships- they have helped me to survive my despair and build resilience to my distress. They have shown me that in the future, I could have a life full of happiness, friendship, love, comfort and satisfaction, instead of the turbulent, unstable and utterly miserable life (if you can call it a life) that I have been living for so long. I also have to say goodbye to my school, which used to be my paradise and in more recent months has become my hiding place. The thought of not ever seeing these people again is so painful; it makes me want to die- I do not feel as though I will survive these endings. I am terrified that I will be forgotten and that once I leave, I will cease to exist in their minds, which is a grim thought for me, as I derive comfort from knowing that people are thinking of me. What I have been noticing, however, is that while endings will inevitably be painful and full of raw emotions which sometimes will make me want to destroy myself, they can also be incredibly powerful and helpful in building inner strength and moving on to a better place. For although these relationships have been immensely helpful, life saving in fact, the truth is that I have not recovered and that I seem to be stuck in this rut, and this is where an ending can be important in the healing process. If I do not move on, although these relationships may help me to survive the pain, it can mean that the pain does not go away. It is only when these relationships come to end that I have to learn to stand on my own two feet and move on, to grow and to thrive. It breaks my heart to have to say goodbye to all of these people who have meant everything to me, and although I feel such a terrible loss at these important relationships coming to an end, I know that, unlike genuine grief, the people who mean so much to me are not actually dying; they will survive the ending, as will I, and all people involved will continue to benefit from the relationship for years to come. I will never forget the people who have meant so much to me, and I hope beyond all hope that they will not forget me. Even though the next seven days are going to be agonising for me, I will be a stronger person at the end of next week than I am today. These endings mark a new, hopeful beginning for me, one that may lead to a happy life and that is a tiny ray of hope to hold onto in the darkness of the coming week.

Wonderland.

“We're all mad here. Im mad. You're mad” 

Intriguingly, and somewhat ironically, I have been finding that aspects of my life can be likened to those of the events in the children's fantasy tale of Alice in Wonderland. Alice, having followed an odd looking rabbit concerned about being late, finds herself falling very rapidly down a strange and scary hole,

“Down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.” 

before emerging in a room of strange delicacies that completely alter her body and being faced with a set of doors that she cannot fit through.

While Alice's experiences are a little reminiscent of an acid trip gone wrong, her situation vividly reminds me of my own. I feel as though I'm falling, and each time I think I have hit rock bottom, the ground beneath me crumbles and I continue to fall, and I, like Alice, have no idea how in the world I will get out again. I stare at the person who is supposed to be me in the mirror but my body warps before my very eyes, each day I feel larger and less sure of what I am than before and I loathe what meets my eyes.

“How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another.” 

I find myself presented with options for my future, similar to the doors which Alice struggles to get through in the story, but I can never fit through the doorway that could lead to the potential wonderland. So I am stuck in perpetual free fall, utterly lost and bewildered, unable to make a decision about anything and unconsciously doing everything in my power to destroy everything in my life that is good.

“Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.

'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat. 

'I don't know,' Alice answered. 

'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter.” 

Alice had a wonderland to look forward to, after a terrifying yet exhilarating adventure. This is where the difference in the our situations lies; all I see before me is darkness, pain and death. I cannot see that things will ever get better, or that I have a hope of a life better than this painful existence. And there's nothing wonderful about that.

Weakness.

Having recently written a post on the strength and resilience of humanity, it has struck me that while we all possess immense strength, we are also all incredibly vulnerable. On some days, our ability to survive and to thrive shines out like a beacon of hope in the dark. Yet on others, the black cloud that traps our minds is all consuming, and this cloud leaves us so emotionally drained and sensitive that anything can trigger a breakdown of epic proportions. As one of my therapists once said to me 'It's like having the top layer of your skin removed'. Everything is felt that little bit more acutely, rawly; you have scraped the bottom of your resources jar and you barely have the energy to hold your head up. And it is at this time, our weakest, that calling out to others is vital. So often people withdraw from the world when they can't escape from their own skull, but this only perpetuates the pain. It can often be the hardest thing to do- it can feel humiliating, exhausting, not worth the effort but asking for help will, more often than not, bring you some comfort. It will drag you a little way out of the hole that is being dug around you and it will shine a little light into the gloomy corners of your mind. And no, others won't be able to take the pain away. They won't be able to make everything OK and they may not even be able to comprehend the pain you are in, but in desperate times, even a hug, a cup of tea and a shoulder to cry on can help to begin to heal the raw agony of emotional pain. We cry out for help at our weakest, and humanity will answer this cry, this plea. And that is, in my mind, possibly is humanities greatest strength of all. 

Strength.

Living with a mental illness is all consuming. It drains every drop of energy you have and leaves you feeling hollow, numb and utterly miserable. So often, the hardest thing to do is to carry on living and attempting to function as normal. Sometimes, it seems impossible to do. But I genuinely believe that within all of us lies an almost superhuman strength. It is this strength that drags you out of bed in the mornings and that makes you smile even though you're dying inside. The strength comes from a place no unchallenged human mind can unlock, but in the face of adversity, we discover that we are far stronger than we ever believed possible. It is this strength that has kept you alive thus far, and this strength will continue to pulse through you when life is unbearable. It does not make you feel better or make things easier but rather gives you the ability to work through the hardship with the hope of a life that, one day, may be worth living. The really wonderful thing is that this strength is by no means separate from you as a person. You are the one who is immensely strong and powerful. You are the one who finds the ability to carry on living when you would rather be dead. You are outstanding, beautiful and you have the power to conquer the unbearable pain that for so long has crippled you. And you must remember that you are not alone. Your strength will naturally draw other people to you, and together, you can climb your Everest. 

Still alive.

My new video on my YouTube channel. Please have a look. 

So I'm back...

Although I'm pretty sure that nobody will have missed my writing, I'm back. I've been away for a while, staying on a psychiatric ward for acutely mentally ill adolescents. It's a little odd- despite being someone who has always been able to express their experiences well, I find it almost impossible to talk or write in detail about the ward. I was there for nearly three months and although I met some of my best friends there, and it stopped me from killing myself, it was really horrible. These last few months have been utterly unbearable. Again, oddly, I'm lost for words. My blog is generally written with intent to provoke thought in the reader, or to encourage others, but I don't seem to be able to think of anything to say. All I can say is: I'm still alive, despite everything, despite all of my attempts to end my life. And if you're reading this then you, too, are alive. And that is something. Currently, you are winning the frantic battle that rages on in your body and mind. Even if your life is as you want it to be, it is still an achievement that you are alive. So well done. Keep going.

Sleeves.

While some people have tattoos covering every inch of their body, I have scars. On my arms, my thighs, my ankles, my calves, my chest, my breasts, my tummy, my feet. I hurt myself. I wish that it had never come to this. I wish that I could have said to myself all those months ago, 'Alice, put the blade down'. But I can't. It is done. And now I spend every day hiding what I am from others. For fear of hatred. For fear of being called attention seeking. For fear that someone will look at me think I am as disgusting as I feel. But being stuck in this skin is unbearable. How can I accept myself if I can't even be honest about who I am? I've got to the point where I just want to roll up my sleeves and say 'This is me. I am what I am. Accept it or piss off.' Because although it's not pretty, it's what I have made of myself. I have no idea who I am inside but I look at myself and I know what has happened. I'm sick of feeling this way. I'm sick of lying, of hiding, of cringing away from the body that I have marked. It's not the scars that I'm scared of showing, it's what they reveal. 

And the image that inspires me, though it's original intent is far from this:

Hypocrite.

Having re-read many of my previous posts, I have come to recognise a trend in my writing. I describe an area of depression that affects myself and others and I endeavour to shed some light on the impact that this illness has on one's life. I then weave duplicitous strands of optimism and morality into my writing in an attempt to cast a positive light on a situation which appears, for me, in reality, to be entirely without hope. 

The truth of the matter is that I am a hypocrite. I tell people to ‘just keep going’ and I remind them that there will be a time when they will feel happy to be alive; I urge them to think of those who love and care for them and to recognise that their survival is a success and yet I spend every day wishing that I had never existed, willing myself to die, feeling completely isolated and as though I will never see light again. It seems laughable that a single person should take heed of my words when I myself am unable to believe what I write. When I put pen to paper, (or in this case finger to keyboard) it is as though my depression pulls back a curtain enough to tantalise me with a sparkle of hope and logic, before filling my entire body and soul with a blackness that blocks, obscures and warps any light that may have once had a chance of finding its way through my sceptical skull. 

And if I cannot follow my own advice, if I cannot believe my own sentiments, then how am I ever to instil enough confidence in another person that my words should help their suffering to be lessened even a little? The words I write are not worth reading for they are the words of a liar. I cannot that everything will be OK in the end. I cannot be sure that one day, you will dance with joy simply because you are alive. The best way I can think of providing something on which one can found their hope of a life better than this is by using the words of one much wiser and more intelligent than I, George Eliot:
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”

Failure.

Before I embark upon another long winded monologue about the ups and downs of living with a mental illness, I'd like to say two things. Firstly, assuming that there is someone who pays sufficient attention to my blog to notice my lack of posts last month, I want to apologise. As unlikely as it is that my words have a large, if any, impact on your life, the aim of my blog is to open up mental illness to people and make it reachable, understandable and acceptable. I also write in the hope that someone may derive a little comfort from knowing that they are not suffering alone. Words haven't come easily to me in the last few weeks and while I still don't feel capable of writing much, I don't want to discourage anyone with my silence. Secondly, thank you to everyone who devotes even a minute of their time to reading my blog. I find it so incredibly encouraging to see that in three months, I've had over two thousand page-views and so many positive and supportive comments! And now onto my main motive for posting today- failure. 

One aspect of mental illness that is almost entirely unavoidable is the often colossal impact that your illness will have on your life. It affects every aspect of your existence: your home life, relationships, education or career and even your physical appearance. Prior to developing depression, I was a hard worker, a high achiever and I most certainly did not know what it was to experience failure, which is a far cry from my current lethargic, disorientated and, ultimately, failing self. I, or rather my depression, perceives my incapabilities (which were, once upon a happier time, capabilities) as failures. I am not only forced to spend my every day in a state of despondent apathy, I am forced by a part of my own brain to consider this to be a deficit of my own making. Something that one of my therapists said to me, however, has made me reevaluate my position. She asked me what my definition of failure was, and then suggested that I redefine my perception of it. For it is a triumph to still be alive after almost eighteen months of virtually relentless agony. It is a triumph that I still find the strength to deny myself the compulsion to destroy myself at every opportunity. The fact that people are still living in the face of pain and suffering proves that they are not a failure. That is not to say, however, that those who have taken their own lives are failures. They are not. Suicide is not weak or cowardly and it is not a failure. It just shows that life fails people, and some are failed by life more acutely than others. Failure does not reveal itself in low grades or poor references on your CV. Failure is simply when you neglect to try your hardest at something that holds meaning for you. This makes 'standardised' successes irrelevant- each person succeeds according to their current capacity and this is irrefutably, undoubtedly a success.

Stagnant.

I realise that I haven't written a proper post in a while, although that isn't for lack of trying. Every evening this month I have sat at my laptop and found myself at a loss about what to write. As with many, if not every long-term illness, depression has a tendency to fluctuate in its intensity, whether it be hourly, daily, weekly or even monthly. And I have found myself in a dip; a dip which has caused me to experience a mental block, perhaps even "writer's block". The painful thing is, the writing is something that keeps me alive; it is an outlet for indescribably strong emotions and without it I am struggling more and more. So instead, I have done some vlogging on youtube- although my speech is less succinct that my writing, it is an outlet which, at the moment, is completely necessary. So linked to this post is my 'introduction tag' video, and from there my other videos should be accessible. As ever, I'm sorry if you're struggling- it's really horrible and if there is anything I can do to help, do just send me a message. 

 

More.

You say I have to get better. You say there isn’t another option.

I don’t. There is.

You sit there in your polite bewilderment

with a pitiful smile lurking behind your shining eyes

and tell me what I must do.

You, with your rational responses coming from

a mind unknown to me.

I do not know you.

Therefore you cannot possibly know me,

for you can never know what it is to be known by me.

I sit there exposed,

Revealing the truths that lurk inside of my dark, lonely skull.

I conceal every cut, I suppress every scream. I hide it.

And you tell me that I must do more.

More than forcing a smile onto my tired face?

More than injuring body so that I do not completely destroy it?

More than looking suicidal thoughts in the eye

perpetually throughout the day and fighting the urge to give in?

More than willing this heavy leaden heart to beat on?

More than living when I have no cause?

You tell me I must do more.

What if I just don’t have it in me?

Everyone gets sick.

This weekend has been a bit of a challenge and I have found video making a positive distraction. Have a watch and share to help make a difference to others who are suffering. 

Mental euthanasia.

Always a controversial topic, euthanasia is the wood that fuels many fiery debates. Should a person be able to choose when they die? Is life sacred? Is the value of a life dependant on the quality of a life? If a person is suffering unbearably, do they have the right to decide whether they continue living? Although euthanasia is not legal in the UK and many other countries, many would agree that if someone has a debilitating physical disability that renders them incapable of having a decent quality of life, then they have a right to choose to end their suffering on their terms, at peace with themselves and their decision having had the opportunity to say goodbye to the ones they love. If one is physically incapable of leading a life worth living, then what is the point in living, other than to keep the ones who love you from pain or sadness? But it should not be this way. People should live because they want to and because they are able to experience a full life, not because they do not wish to hurt others. And if they do not want to, why should they? Doctors can decide not to resuscitate a seriously ill patient. Why should they essentially be allowed to decide whether a patient lives or dies, and yet they themselves cannot choose to die with dignity when they choose to.  Suicide can tear families apart, it can break the hearts of the people left behind and it can leave a person to die desperately alone. But in many cases, suicide seems like the only way out for people trapped inside their disabled bodies. Here, however, is my question: What about those trapped by their own minds? Should they not also have the right to choose whether they end their suffering in peace and dignity as opposed to ending up as a stain on the floor in the shadow of a 16 storey building? One cannot tell if the mental pain that is so heavy and unendurable it physically affects everything you think, feel or do is transient or not. Just as families and friends are able, with time, to come to terms with the death of a loved one with a physical disability or illness, families need to come to terms with the fact that people with depression, bipolar, anxiety, schizophrenia, dual-personality disorder and other mental illnesses may also have the wish to die with dignity on their terms, to end their suffering. Mental illness can be unbearable, just as physical disability can. It can rob happiness, enjoyment, peace, love, laughter, fun, hope, dreams and all else that is good from a life, until it is too painful, too full of suffering to endure any more. Euthanasia is intentionally ending a life in order to relieve pain and suffering. Mental illness causes pain and suffering too.

Let down.

Everyone has been let down. We let the people we love down. They let us down. Institutions let us down: Schools let us down. The government lets us down. The people we trust most let us down. Some people have been let down their entire life. There isn't much we can do about it, as failure is in our nature; regardless of how hard one tries not to fail themselves or others.

Humans do, however, have an innate ability that has the power to override the pain of being failed: we are able to love. Love, as clichéd as it sounds, has the ability to heal some really deep wounds. And if we can't help but fail the ones we love, then at least we have the resources within ourselves to fill the hole that failure leaves. I have seen people who have been failed time and time again and although I cannot remove the burden of the damage that has been done, I can ensure that the person knows they are loved, cared for, valued and cherished. It may not make everything better again, but it might help them keep their heads above water, which is really important. 

Warp.

One thing I have come to understand in the past months is that depression drastically warps our outlook on life. 

It is as though you are looking at life through a kaleidoscope, the only difference being that while a kaleidoscope turns light into beautiful mosaic like patterns, depression makes light look dark, colours look grey and the most beautiful of things look, at best, ordinary. Depression warps one's perception of the world around us: Filtering out the good, positive, life affirming things so that what we are left with is a hopeless cavity into which all things are drawn and warped to appear negative, hence compounding our view that there is really no reason for us to live at all. Whatever we have previously enjoyed, believed in or relished is sucked from our world; we lose, in essence, the ability to derive pleasure from anything or to hold on to any hope that life will be good again.  

And regardless of how well my head knows the fact that it is the depression taking away my will to live, it doesn't change the fact that I CAN'T see the point to life. I can't tell the depression to leave my head, simply because I have recognised the cause of my despair. The fact of the matter is, depressed people still FEEL the despair, the loneliness, the hopelessness, the futility, the sadness, the frustration, the impulse to hurt and even kill themselves, the emptiness and so much more. Regardless of what causes these emotions, they are very much present and dominant in the lives of so many people. Depression warps everything good in the lives of its sufferers into something unbearable. And that's hard to live through.

Depression: Get lost.

My second video. Again, it is about challenging things involving mental illness. This time, however, it shows the effect of mental illness on the sufferer and their loved ones.

Please share with others to help spread awareness.

Do what makes you happy.

Today, my mum gave me a book entitled:

'You can feel good again- The good news about depression.'

I got cross. Whether that reaction was justified, I do not know. The problem is, for me, and everyone else with a deeply rooted depressive disorder, there is no good news. Or at least it feels that way. And to be told that your illness is due to you thinking about your problems and being almost 'self-indulgent' in your sadness, loneliness, emptiness, anxiety and so on feels almost as though you are being told that this is all 'your fault'. But then, when I showed them this book, someone that knows me well said to me that yes, this person is wrong in saying that you can dig yourself out of such a deep hole, but they have a valid point. You have to do what makes YOU happy. You have to pepper the darkness and monotony of depression with spurts of laughter, enjoyment and impulsiveness, with love, friendship and fun. Depression sucks all of those things out of life until there you have no reason left to live. And so somehow, we have to put it back in. I don't want to, but I have to. For the people who love me. 

That's why doing what makes you happy makes so much sense. I know that if you're depressed, you won't be happy, but you may be able to find some relief, even for a moment. And then, let's just hope those better moments can just become more frequent. 

What about God?

Can we ever know the truth about God? Before I got depressed, I thought I was a Christian. I thought that God was good. I thought he loved us and cared for us. I grew up in a Christian home with Christian parents and Christian friends, and although I have always been inquisitive, I had never experienced something to make me challenge my perceptions of God. Until last year. Until I stopped living a life and started spending hours on end wishing for death to win. Naturally, all of my morbid speculations caused me to question what lies 'beyond the grave'. Do I just die and stop being? Do I get damned to an eternal hell to burn for all eternity to pay penance for my pitiful, sinful, selfish existence? 

What's more, being at the very bottom of a cavernously deep and infinitely black void makes one wonder why a God who claims to have 

'loved the world so much that he gave his one and only son' (John 3:16)

 would ever subject the beings he claims to have created to the kinds of unbearable suffering that are present in this cruel world: Starvation. Loss. Despair. Rape. Murder. War. Cancer. Loneliness. Depression. It isn't even as though God tries to hide the fact that he lets his people suffer. Take a look at the book of Job (pronounced: jobe) in the Old Testament; Although Job did everything he could to be right with God, God took everything away from him until Job begged for death, simply to prove a point (and display his power) to the devil. Is it not actually a little sadistic that God would create this world and the people who walk the Earth and then allow them to suffer just so he can prove that he has power over them? And then the bible tells people to call to God in times of trouble-

'Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart; and you shall find rest for your souls.' (Matthew 11:28-30)

 when actually, he is only giving us rest from something which he has essentially inflicted upon us. And then we are expected to praise and worship and adore him. But at the moment, I just can't, because waking up every single day wishing you had never been born and dragging yourself through the day suppressing the intense emotions that leave you utterly isolated and completely desperate is not really something I feel like giving thanks for.

Family.

Family: utterly infuriating yet completely loveable. It's really quite hard to find just the right words to describe a family. Possibly because every family is different; they come from a variety of cultures and are formed from so many dynamics that to try and define 'a family' is like trying to fit an apple into a matchbox. It cannot be done (unless you break the matchbox and squish the apple). 

Of course, a traditional family is a father, mother and two perfect children who all sit absolutely within their straight laced stereotypes.

 But it would be a struggle to find even one family like that. You don't need to be related by blood or alike in personality or temperament. You don't need to live in the same house or even the same country. You don't need to want to spend time with them and you don't need to get on and agree on everything. Your family are the people who have an affect on you.

 Not everyone has a mother and a father. Some people have two dads, some people have no parents, some people have twelve siblings and some have none. Some people are adopted and some people are in care. Some people are married, some are single, and some have partners. Some people have no blood relations but that doesn't mean they don't have a family. Family are the ones who drag you out of bed when you can't do it yourself. They pick you up off of the ground, dust you off and wipe away your tears. Families keep things from each other and they protect each other. But however a family is built, they love each other above all else, even if it's hidden beneath petty disagreements or problems that flow far deeper. 

Our family has very little to do with our genetics, but rather our ability to build and maintain thoughtful, meaningful and helpful, but by no means perfect, relationships. No one is without family. Nobody stands alone in this world.

Be aware.

Today is self injury awareness day. Today will be important for so many people affected by the issue. Show them you care and that you're there to support them, don't try to force them to stop, it could be keeping them alive. 

Self injury awareness day 2013

Attention needing.

The phrase 'attention seeking' has such negative connotations. People with mental health issues are often branded as attention seeking or dramatic, usually because a mental illness is not something you can see. But if you think logically, everyone has an innate need for attention, love, care and affection. So in literal terms, every single human being is, by nature, attention seeking. It was this phrase, or rather the fear of being branded so, that caused me, like many others, to brush their problems under the carpet and try and ignore the ever growing pile of worries and loneliness. But soon enough, the carpet will be too bumpy to walk on and you will have to accept that asking for help and telling people how you feel is not weak. It does not make you attention seeking. It makes you brave. Brave for being able to name something that is making you fall to pieces from the inside out. Brave for being able to face the stigmas and social taboos surrounding mental illness. Brave for being able to admit that you can't make it on your own. Everybody needs attention. People with mental health issues are not attention seeking, we are attention needing, just like every other human being.

My stand.

Tonight, I am feeling desperate. Instead of letting my feelings out in unhelpful ways, I made this video. Have a watch. Hopefully someone will find it helpful. Hopefully it'll stop someone doing what I so wanted to tonight.

Discrimination.

Yesterday, I went to a party that turned sour. Being the end of a long and stressful half term, people were pretty determined to go out on a bender and get completely smashed. Which they did. But the usual, standard happy dancing and cuddling turned into hysterical crying, projectile vomiting and careless words slurred at the wrong person at precisely the wrong time.

It was at this party that I had my first encounter with external mental health discrimination. Of course, since becoming mentally ill, I have discriminated against myself many a time, saying things such as 'I'm crazy' 'Who'd want to be friends with a psycho?'. I punish myself for being unwell in unimaginably horrible ways, and I'll have to live with the mental and physical scars even if I do recover. But never have I experienced any external derogatory treatment about my problem until one of my best friends got drunk and told me what she actually thought. I hope she didn't mean it, and I don't think any worse of her for it but it has made me realise how people's suffering is made one hundred times worse by the prejudices that surround mental instability, even if the unwell person experiences no active discrimination. I didn't tell my best and closest friends about my mental health problem for 5 months, because I was too ashamed and utterly terrified that they would reject me and not want me around any more. And all of that fear came from the social taboo that being mentally ill was something to be secretive about, something to be apologetic for.  But if you had a broken leg, you wouldn't walk around on it without a cast and hope that the problem just went away. You wouldn't hide it from people and you wouldn't be scared of being called a cripple. So why should a mentally ill person suffer in silence for fear of losing friends and being treated badly? We discriminate against ourselves for something we have no control over. Other people discriminate against us for something we can't change alone. And this has to stop. 

Please watch this video. It couldn't be more true.

Time To Change - let's end mental health discrimination

The Vintage Emporium.

Nestled in a side road leading off of London's infamous Brick Lane lies a hidden gem that is home of the 'hipsters', 'indie kids' and the absolutely fabulous individuals who just have too much swag to be labelled: The Vintage Emporium. Just above street level sits a beautiful little tea room, furnished in classic Victorian style. A mish-mash of mis-matched arm-chairs and pouffes cluster around interesting tables and the whole room is lit by flickering candle light and filled with interesting scents and mellow music. Bunches of dried flowers or herbs hang from the ceiling and two dogs wonder round the room stealing crumbs off your plate. The experience is utterly enchanting: perfect for nursing a Sunday morning hangover with an espresso, for a catch up with friends over a home-made Victorian cake or for an intimate date. 

Below the tea-room is a vintage shop selling all kinds of incredible vintage items. It's definitely worth having a look.

Visit the vintage emporium!

After the Storm

I had to share it. It's my all time favourite song and has been for years. It speaks to me so strongly and y'all probably already know it, but I could listen to it all day. If you're having a hard time, listen to the chorus.

'And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears, and love will not break your heart.'

After the Storm- Mumford and Sons

And after the storm, 

I run and run as the rains come

And I look up, I look up, 

on my knees and out of luck, 

I look up.

Night has always pushed up day

You must know life to see decay

But I won't rot, I won't rot

Not this mind and not this heart,

I won't rot.

And I took you by the hand

And we stood tall,

And remembered our own land,

What we lived for.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And now I cling to what I knew

I saw exactly what was true

But oh no more.

That's why I hold, 

That's why I hold with all I have. 

That's why I hold.

I will die alone and be left there.

Well I guess I'll just go home,

Oh God knows where.

Because death is just so full and man so small.

Well I'm scared of what's behind and what's before.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.

And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.

Get over your hill and see what you find there,

With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

Mumford and Sons website

NB: This song and these lyrics do not belong to me. They are copyright Mumford and Sons.

Friends are like biscuits.

It’s hard to be sure of anything when you question life and your entire subsistence, but one thing I have grown to be sure of in my worst year of existence yet is that friends are the most effective life-support systems. 

When you are plugged into your friends it is nigh on impossible for your heart not to long to beat, to share that ‘in joke’, to laugh hysterically until a little bit of pee comes out, to be unashamedly, whole heartedly who you are and to feel loved for being that person. 

And you just have to live for those tiny moments until things start to look up. These moments are what drag me out of bed in the mornings and these moments fight back against the darkness that is constantly fogging up my mind.

I dedicate this blog to my friends. I owe them my life so this is, I know, a pretty poor alternative. Although I do not care much for my life now, they assure me that one day, I'll be glad that I didn't manage to poison myself with paracetamol.

I shall leave you with a parting parable: As iwastesomuchtime.com (procrastination central) wisely said: ‘you can be miserable before you eat a biscuit, you can be miserable after you eat a biscuit but you can never be miserable while eating a biscuit’. It’s the same with friends. 

The Rain Room.

When you have depression, it can seem nigh on impossible to motivate yourself to get up, out and do normal, mundane things- let alone laugh or socialise like before!
Luckily, we all have someone who cares. You might not know they exist, but they care. Me, for example. I sometimes cry for people I don't know because I can feel the pain they are feeling. 

I consider myself to be incredibly lucky. I have the best friends I could ever wish for and they, to be blunt, are the reason I am not yet six feet under. They have, on occasions, dragged me out of bed and into London despite my protests, they have made me laugh, experience life. They have checked me over and asked those awkward questions nobody wants to ask to make sure that I am not destroying myself from the inside or the outside. And the other day after college, when I wanted to go home, get into my tracksuit bottoms and cry into my pillow they dragged me to the Barbican to see the 'Rain Room'. The picture above pretty much says it all. It was a room, indoors, where it was raining. But when you walked into the rain, it did not rain on you, only around you. It sounds less awe-inspiring that it is. When I entered the rain, I felt completely free. All around me was this iridescent waterfall, and the light in the blackened room made the water sparkle. I felt untouchable. It was incredible. The queue may have been two hours long but the wait was utterly worth it, because in that moment, with my best friends, I realised for a second that there was the potential for joy in life, although I can't see it most of the time.

Visit the Rain Room- Barbican.