Feminism is a Cancer

Today I opened my twitter account to find a direct message from a man I spoke to last night telling me to fuck off and declaring war. This can as a surprise as our conversation the previous night had been civil and ended peacefully. In fact, it wasn't me who pissed him off, but someone else entirely, yet he say the need to lash out at me because I identify as a 'feminist'.

I know. Shock horror.

But feminism is a cancer spread by women who hate men, right? It's all militant feminazis who want to subjugate men, who disagree with shared parenting and deny female on male domestic abuse happens. It's corrupt movement seeking to oppress men. That's what Twitter would have us believe...

Men's rights activists jump on anyone who believes in equality but identifies as 'feminist', telling them that they're wrong about what feminism stands for. They remove an individuals right to identify as something by inserting their own narrow-minded view of what a movement is. Some even deny the history of feminism, corrupting it into something where suffrage is separate and the women who fought for contraceptive rights were simply following a trend rather than making progress in women's rights.  They will state that suffragettes weren't feminists and contraception is the result of science and the Catholic churches teaching that contraception is wrong was doomed to failure right from the invention of contraception and so women campaigners were simply following the trend rather than doing anything revolutionary.

They are wrong. On all counts.

But I guess I should start by saying what the feminist movement actually is.

• A series of political campaigns seeking to reform women's rights in areas such as women's suffrage, reproductive rights, equal pay and workplace discrimination, sexual harassment and violence, domestic violence, and other areas of abuse of females and gender equality.
• First wave feminism involved the women's suffrage movement and a campaign for political equality. It originated in the 18th century as a social movement for the emancipation of women, and although the term 'feminism' didn't appear until the 1880s, it is accepted to retroactively cover the early years of what was more commonly known as the 'women's rights' movement. First wave feminism centred around middle and upper-class white women.
• Second wave feminism brought it to the masses, including ethnic minorities, the working class, and those in developing countries in a continued attempt to battle social injustice and cultural inequalities.
• Third wave feminism continues to fight for financial, social, and cultural equality, for greater influence of women in business, politics, and the media, and for reproductive rights.

What feminism isn't

• A movement seeking to interfere in 'men's issues'.
• A movement seeking to subjugate men or take away their rights.
• A group of women who hate men and encourage others to do so.

Anyone who claims feminism is the latter is misinformed, whether they're a man hurt by abuse or are a woman seeking to 'punish' men. Yes, there are misadrists who claim to be feminists, but they have misappropriated the title and true feminist - those of us who believe in equality - are as upset about their misuse of the title to further their own agenda as men's rights activists. We want to claim back 'feminism'. Although, in truth, we never lost feminism. The movement is still ours, it is simply unfortunate that the media and certain activist choose to give the negative minority more of a voice than the decent majority.

So what actually happened to make me want to speak out?

Well it started out with me replying to a man who claimed feminists 'blamed all men'. He indicated that feminism was a movement for women who hated men, however, he also responded positively to my reply.

In fact, the man in question even seemed to support true feminism as a movement seeking equality.

He even thanked me for my comment.

At this point another Twitter user got involved. 

Yup. He entered by calling those who share my beliefs useless. He didn't enter the conversation advocating men's rights, he started by casting scorn towards a woman he'd never spoken to before and dismissing her views out of hand.

He then resorted to re-writing history and name calling. We can note the problem with his claims as the suffrage movement had a great deal to do with getting women the vote and it is accepted as part of the wider feminist movement. Also, women - including scientists, midwives, and others - had a great deal to do with campaigning for the prevision of contraceptives to improve the lives and survival rates of women and children, especially among the working class where multiple pregnancies often lead to the death of mothers and children, and led to illegal and dangerous abortions taking place.

He then went on to accuse me of lying, despite his arguments being largely fabricated. The suffragettes WERE feminist, based on their goals and how we define both movements. Around about here, I blocked this chap. I read his twitter stream and his many replies to me (not all are shown above) and cane to the conclusion there'd be no reasoning with him. I can only presume he's had a bad experience with a woman who has hated men or a women who has taken something he felt entitled to, and as a result he's lashing out at any woman identifying as a feminist or who is brave enough to speak out against misinformation. 

At that point, myself and the original poster also ended our conversation in an amicable and understanding fashion and I went to bed. Only this morning, I awoke to discover he'd sent me further messages, ones which took on an entirely different tone and showed the same behaviour of the 'gentleman' I blocked. Someone else had upset him, so he chose to lash out at an entire movement and at me personally. He then blocked me do I couldn't respond to being sworn at. 

You've reached much higher equality...

That does not mean we are equal, and that is why we still need true feminism. With that in mind, I want to discuss the day to day sexism/discrimination/inequality I've faced in the last ten years, so from age 21 onwards, my adult life.

• When I chose to study in a male dominated field, a woman (stranger) announced I should 'go show those men'. That is discrimination, not feminism. That woman assumed I'd have to prove something based on gender. That is a type of women on women discrimination which sets men and women up in confrontation. Rather than mentioning gender, she should've just wished me good luck. Feminism needs to educate women on female-female discrimination as well as male-female discrimination.
• One of my university lecturers set the class a group task. We were in teams of four and our team included the only two females on the part time course. The lecturer told us that our team wouldn't manage the task because of us; because women's brains apparently work differently and aren't technical enough. At the end of the task we lined up our models without our names attached. He picked up the one model which was wrong and told us 'I know this is yours', at which point one of the men in our team pointed out that he was wrong, and our submission was among the correct line up, not the incorrect one. That wasn't the only time said lecturer made a prediction based on sexism which was later proved wrong. Three out of the four student who earned a first class honours degree were in that team then, one was me, one was the only other girl.  On my course there were two women to about thirty men, yet four first class degrees were awarded an two went to the women, two to the men, giving women a higher success rate. That same lecturer had mocked the idea I could achieve a first during a private meeting I had with him, he even went as far as to say 'if I got within a few marks of a first, he'd give me the extra marks'. I managed it on my own merit, scoring above 90% in some modules
• When I was pregnant with my first child, my line manager reduced my goals on my performance review from 'earn promotion to a senior role within two years' to 'return from maternity leave'. My career no longer mattered, the sole focus seemed to be the fear that I wouldn't return from maternity leave.
• I was not allowed to have leave to attend antenatal classes, despite pregnancy appointments being protected by law. The company determined that antenatal classes were optional and therefore I couldn't have time off, ignoring that antenatal classes are done to prepare women for birth, to ensure they and their babies have a safe experience where the mother is well informed. This is an example of employers interfering in women's issues, denying them the right to attend appointments we should be accepted as 'normal' because they don't see them as important.
• The recession hit and redundancies had to be made. The letter announcing my redundancy was issued the day I gave birth, and when I arranged a meeting to raise concerns, the boss saw me, but his lawyer advised him not to as it had been more than two weeks since the letters were sent. I spent two weeks going in and out of hospital after I gave birth due to complications. There was no way I could've appealed within two weeks because I'd just given birth, but the law protects employers over women. When I did have a meeting with the boss, they brought three people while denying me the right to being in an outside advocate, which felt a lot like ganging up on me. They then lied in the meeting, included most of my absences in their assessment which led to my redundancy, despite the law prohibiting pregnancy related illnesses being used in such a manner, but they mis-recorded my illnesses. They also gave points to people who had attended a training course which they'd refused to give me because I was going to be on maternity leave for a year, meaning I was automatically at a disadvantage because I was a pregnant female. Over the next two years, all of the breeding age women/women on maternity leave in my role were made redundant. I was made redundant, despite being requested by certain clients and having no warnings, while men with disciplinary warnings were kept on.
• Work stopped paying my maternity pay when they made me redundant. I had to kick up a fuss to get the money which they were legally obliged to give me. In addition, they'd 'encouraged' me to take all my holidays before maternity leave so my holidays didn't carry into the next year, but because they made me redundant mid year, they took pro-rata holiday pay out of my redundancy despite the fact I'd only taken my holidays early on their advice. They then denied having given such advice and told me it was my choice to take all my holidays at once. It seems to me that they tried every way possible to pay me as little as possible, using my pregnancy to do so, something that couldn't be done to a man and is, therefore, discrimination.
• A certain type of men repeatedly tell me I can't do certain jobs or tasks because 'women are physically weaker'. Blokes, just because it might take longer or require more effort, that doesn't mean I can't do something.
• A group of colleagues openly say discussing how all trains should have strippers and pole dancers to entertain men. Me and another woman were excluded from the second part of a team night out with the same colleagues because the men decided to go to a strip club. Such behaviour excludes women in professional roles and encourages the objectification of women. It enforces the cultural norm that professional or respectable women shouldn't stay out and should go home while powerful men can stay out having their fantasies fulfilled by almost nude women who are valued for their bodies over their brains.
• Men and women pressure women to conform with make up use, shaving, etc, even when medically contra-indicated.
• I was paid significantly less for doing the same job with the same qualifications as male colleagues. This was eventually addressed, but it shouldn't happen at all.
• I've sat an listened to male colleagues talk about how perfectly normal and even moderately pretty women are beneath them or are 'dogs', despite the men in question not exactly being fine physical specimens themselves. I've never listened to a group of women dismiss the average man in such a way. I'm sure some do, but I haven't experienced it.
• Women have claimed my desire to have kids and spend time with them is due to 'brainwashing by patriarchal society'. It is taking a choice and determining what I should choose for me. That is another type  of female-female sexism.
• The way women dress is still peddled as a reason for rape, rather than the buck stopping with the rapist.

If we go further back, to the ages 16-21, I was also subject to;

• Unwanted physical contact by a man trying to shoving his hand down my top.
• Bullying by men/boys for not being 'feminine'.
• Being lied to in order to obtain sex.
• Being told what jobs were suitable for women.

On a wider scale, women are still under-represented in politics and business. Women are still classed as a 'risk' as we are more likely to take time off during pregnancy or as parents, and their careers and earning potential suffer both because of employer discrimination and social discrimination (society rewards the workforce, but not parents raising the next generation, who will be responsible for the future stability of the economy, country, etc. Unwanted sexual contact or references are still accepted as 'normal' or as 'inevitable rights of passage', which means many women live in fear of unwanted male attention. While men and boys are suffering increased pressure to look a certain way, a problem which needs to be addressed, women still face greater barriers and pressure based on appearance.  In developing countries, (and even in some subcultures in the developed world) women are still seen as property to be owned and denied the right to fulfil their potential. Every day, women suffer from discrimination which brings with it physical harm, emotional trauma, and sexual abuse. It adds to anxiety, stress, depression, fractured sense of self, mental health issues, and physical health.

That is why we still need feminism, and why it's false to claim that the balance has swung the other way towards the oppression of men. 

Are there issues with a minority of misandrists? Yes. Just like there's a problem with a minority of full on misogynists. That doesn't mean women don't face every day sexism or that men should feel threatened by feminism. We need to treat each other with respect and as people. And if you resort to name calling and swearing at strangers, then your risk defeating your own cause. It's not on. 

While on Twitter I noted some people using the hashtag #FeminismIsACancer, users seemed to share the beliefs of the examples shown here. It's time tnose of us who are genually after equality reclaim the frase 'feminist' and ensure that future generations understand equality, not oppression, is what society needs.

Pseudonymous Zombie

xx

Stigmatised

The stigma attached to mental illness can make every day feel like a battle. People with a mental illness are often seen as liars, manipulators, or lazy benefits cheats. We're supposedly psychos and abusers; people no normal person would want in their lives. It doesn't matter that such descriptions are more often wrong that right, the notions persist and as a result the most vulnerable members of society are met with disbelief, disgust, and even anger. And that's if we aren't just dismissed outright.

Whether it's the friend who is 'done' because your mental condition makes you process things differently, the family member who says 'you're more trouble than your worth', the doctor who says 'we can't change your personality', the CMHT nurse who discharges you because you aren't 'engaging', being cast adrift is a common problem for patients. It's a lonely place to be. A place where even community mental health teams can gaslight vulnerable patients into believing there's nothing wrong or they just aren't trying hard enough. Family members abandon family members. Support networks disintegrate and people who are already suffering become costly statistics and nothing more.

We need to put more work into helping rather than condemning. Condemnation exacerbates the problem, creating a situation where already desperate people become ever more desperate. We need doctors and nurses to be up to date with current understanding and best practise. We need support groups for both patients and their families to ensure support networks say strong and have access to factual information rather than internet fallacies. We need more community facilities. We need more well trained nurses and psychiatrists. We need more counsellors and we need to stop limiting the number of sessions of talking therapy that patients can access as the current system allows people to be 'written off'. We also need to protect sufferers from discrimination, including in the workplace and by health professionals. People need to feel safe and supported, in all aspects of their lives.

Then there's moronic morning TV presenters who think they understand mental health better than doctors, nurses, and mental health advocates, spouting nonsense which encourages further stigmatisation and prejudice. When you make 'liars' into a bigger issue than 'sufferers' you allow the belief that people are faking to dominate the discussion. You breed discontent and allow claims to spread that the sick are lazy cheats, content to live off hardworking taxpayers money.  Of course, there are a MINORITY of people who misuse any system, but the vast majority of people using welfare are genuinely in need. No one would choose to live off £600 a month if they had a choice. It's bloody hard to do!

Many claimants have worked in the past and would work again if they could. They paid into the very system which they've since come to rely on. That's how the welfare system is supposed to work. When you can, you pay in, then if you can't, society will help you survive. Instead, we allow this myth to spread that claimants get thousands of pounds off the government and have no interest in work, and then the very people we should be helping become targets. The vulnerable become victims of a system set up to drag them under and no one defends them because everyone is too caught up in being outraged by fallacies. We need to stop encouraging an environment where people feel ashamed of, or feel the need to hide, their illness.

We need to start thinking about how we talk about mental illness, then we need to make some changes to what is 'acceptable', especially what is acceptable for public figures to say.

• LISTEN.
• DON'T DISMISS EMOTIONS AND EXPERIENCES AS UNIMPORTANT.
• DON'T AUTOMATICALLY ASSUME A PATIENT IS LYING OR MANIPULATING.
• LISTEN MORE. DO SO CAREFULLY AND WITHOUT JUDGMENT.
• STOP USING DISCRIMINATORY WORDS LIKE 'CRAZY', 'PSYCHO', 'NUTS', ETC.
• DON'T ASSUME PEOPLE ARE BEING DIFFICULT WHEN THEY SAY THE CAN'T DO SOMETHING. YOU WOULDN'T TELL A PARAPLEGIC THAT THEY JUST HAD TO THINK POSITIVE AND WALK, SO STOP TELLING THOSE WITH SOCIAL ANXIETY TO GO OUT/ANSWER THE PHONE, ETC.
• ENCOURAGE OPEN DUSCUSSION BUT DON'T PRESSURE ANYONE INTO TALKING IF THEY DON'T FEEL ABLE.
• DON'T ACCUSE PEOPLE OF NOT ENGAGING. IF TREATMENT ISN'T PROGRESSING, LOOK INTO ALTERNATIVES RATHER THAN ABANDONING YOUR PATIENT/FAMILY MEMBER.
• LISTEN. I KNOW IT'S IN THREE TIMES, BUT IT'S IMPORTANT THAT THE PERSON WITH THE ILLNESS HAS THEIR THOUGHTS ON THEIR CONDITION AND THEIR TREATMENT ADDRESSED.
• DON'T SPREAD MYTHS. THERE'S MORE THAN ENOUGH MISINFORMATION OUT THEIR FROM ANGRY EXS AND PSEUDO-SCIENTISTS AND 'HEALERS' WITHOUT ADDING TO IT.
• DON'T JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS BASED ON A LABLE. YOU WOULDN'T JUST A PERSON BECAUSE THE HAD CANCER OR EVEN SOMETHING MINOR LIKE A HEADACHE, SO WHEN SOMEONE IS BRAVD ENOUGH TO SAY THE HAVE DEPRESSION, SCHIZOPHRENIA, BIPOLAR, BORDERLINE PERSONALITY, SOXIAL ANXIETY, OR PHOBIAS, ETC, DON'T JUDGE THEM. I HAVE BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER, BUT THAT IS ONLY ONE PART OF WHO I AM, AND IT'S A PART I TRY TO CONTROL.
• IF YOU'VE HAD A BAD EXPERIENCE WITH SOMEONE WHO SUFFERS MENTAL ILLNESS, SEEK YOUR OWN HELP AND SUPPORT, BUT DON'T TAR EVERY PERSON WITH A SIMILR ILLNESS  WITH THE SAME BRUSH.
• REMEMBER THAT THOSE WITH MENTAL ILLNESS WANT TO BE BETTER. THIS IS NO FUN FOR US EAITHER.
• LISTEN. IF WE'RE TALKING, IT MEANS WE TRUST YOU TO SOME DEGREE. THAT'S A GIFT, SO LISTEN.
• REMEMBER, WE'RE PEOPLE TOO, AND THAT'S WHAT MATTERS.
• STOP JUDGING, AND LISTEN.

Pseudonymous Zombie

xxx

Sabotaged Life Lines

It's a long time since I did a 'this is what's happening/happened and this is how I feel' post, which is really the purpose of this blog. This blog exists so I can:

1. Protuctively let out my feelings rather than turning to self harm.

2. Process thoughts, reasons, and events.

3. Educate others to help end stigma faced by sufferers of mental illness.

4. Be myself without fear (hence the pseudonym).

In spite of good intentions, my last Zombie post (excluding the one related to the General Election) was way back in January (thereabouts). That's kinda what I want to talk about; why I haven't written anything and why this blog seemed to become a pointless endeavour after January. My reasons for not writing are as important as my reasons for writing, because they are the very reasons why more people need to write about their experiences. No one ever changed the world through silence and inaction.

Now, I want to make something clear; the feeling of pointlessness with regard to this blog did not come from my internal mental state. Many feelings of pointlessness do come from within, but this specific case came from external interactions with those who either had a duty of care towards me or who we relative strangers. These people, these carers workers and people I've only ever spoken to online (and live continents away from), seemed to make it their mission to sabotage my life lines. I don't know why the want to do that, but it's a type of behaviour faced by sufferers all over.

January started off quite positive. I saw a consultant, was given additional meds that helped me sleep, I was put on the waiting list for therapy, and was also promised another consultant appointment three months later. I managed to move past the fact I'd already been on waiting lists for help for the better part of a year and accept being put on yet another, and at least there seemed to be movement. I was still being seen by the Community Mental Health Team's 'Step Up' Team and I felt hopeful enough that my self-harming behaviour began to lessen in frequency. 

Then things fell apart.

First, Step Up insisted on pushing 'graded exposure' for my agoraphobia and social phobia. I said that I didn't want to do the graded exposure until I had done the stress tolerance stuff and therapy, because until then I wouldn't be equipt to deal with the stressful emotions triggered by graded exposure. It seemed pretty sensible to me to get help with emotional control before putting myself in a high stress situation. It seemed too much like setting myself up for failure to focus on graded expose when I knew I wasn't equipt to deal with it. It's not that I don't want to do graded exposure, just that I want to do things in a sensible order. 

Ha ha ha. How naive of me.

Step Up disagreed with my request to delay graded exposure and informed me that if I didn't show signs of improvement they'd discharge me for not engaging. 

I admit, at that point I got a little upset because I was engaging, I just wanted to do things in an effective order, rather than trying to stitch up the wound without first removing the  weapon responsible for the damage in the first place. Or, if you want another metaphor, I wanted to call the anaesthetist before handing the surgeon a scalpel. I got so upset, because I felt I was being threatened into compliance and made to feel like I wasn't trying to help myself that my mind told me it was all pointless. 

It told me there'd be no help.

It told me I couldn't trust the Community Mental Health Team.

It told me I wasn't worthy of help.

I wan't to emphasise that I did not shout or lose my temper. I was upset, yet, but despite the reputation of those with Borderline Personality Disorder, I tool a deep breath and told my 'care' worker that I was getting upset and we needed to drop the subject for the week. She continued to push, and push, until I broke down. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised, that same woman dismissed the inappropriate touching I'd experienced from another child as a pre-teen as 'childhood experimentation' rather than listening to what I was saying about how it hadn't been what I wanted, how pressured I'd felt, and how the guilt had continued to affect md all my life. She dismissed, rather than addressed, so it shouldn't havd surprised me to learn she'd rather dismiss me than adress the root cause of my problems.

She left my house while I sat sobbing my heart out on my husband, begging for a knife, while vivid imagery of what I'd do with it played in my head. A woman who'd been assigned to me after Crisis Team discharge because I was still at risk walked out of my house after sending me into a spiral. She put me back where I'd been the night I was first put on the Crisis Team's caseload.0. She set me back by months. And she walked away.

Not a good thing to do to anyone with a mental illness, but add into the mix Borderline Personality Disorder, and you have a powder keg of self-hatred and devaluation.

At my next Step Up appointment, my assigned care worker brought her line manager with her, presumambly because of the tensions the week before. She didn't forewarn me that she would bringing anyone else, though. She could've phoned my husband in advance. Instead, she brought a stranger to my home with no prior warning, despite knowing I have social anxiety and take a long time to trust anyone. My needs became secondary to the needs of the person assigned (and theoretically trained) to help me.

At that point, when I discovered she'd brought her line manager, I felt like they were telling me I was the problem, without words. To me, my mental illness is the problem, one I need support to recover from through a care plan that takes into account my specific needs. 

That's important. All patients need to be seen as individual cases. When someone has chest pain, you work out whether its a heart problem, a lung problem, an irregularity or an jnfection, be it bacterial or viral. You don't give an  asthma inhaler to someone who need coronary bypass surgery. Care providers have to consider what a particular patient actually needs rather than pushing the treatment which is easiest from them to offer. A simple solution that only deals with external symptoms but not internal causes would've been pointless, but that seemed to be what 'graded exposure' would provide. Apparently the very people employed to help me  with that problem didn't want to provide a care plan to suit my needs though...

The pair once again went over how I either had to do graded exposure or there would be no point in remaining under their care.  It seemed to me that they we implying:

There was no point in someone coming around to talk to on a bad day. 

There was no point in support with mood diaries and activity/productivity. 

There was no point in building the trust with mental health services that might keep me alive. 

They said there was no point in continuing to be under their care, and with that they flipped my BPD switch from trying to engage to wanting the distance because I felt I could no longer trust them, a problem compounded by the lies my original care giver then gave in front of her boss.

The week previously, I'd shown her my mood diary, and she barely glanced at it. Shd didn't discuss any of the issues noted on it and offered no support. Then, once her boss was there, she announced that I wasn't engaging and I'd only filled in 'a couple of days'. At that point I got rather angry, so angry that rather than shouting, I tensed up and started shaking as I dug out the previous weeks mood diary sheets, barely able to speak. I also opened my mood diary app on the phone. I gave both to her and pointed out that I'd logged my mood religiously, every hour or two, for two/three weeks and reminded her that she'd seen the dated sheet the previous week so her claim that 'I'd only done a few days' was an outright lie. That cemented mistrust and ensured that when they again pressed to discharge me from their care I just said 'fine' because I wanted them out of my home, and out of my sanctuary.

They went, and the very next day I received a letter from them stating that I had chosen to end my involvement with them. Yup, they claimed I had chosen it, despite how obviously upset I'd been when the matter was first raised. I hadn't chosen. They had.

 In respose, I wrote a seven page complaint letter detailing everything that had happened and sent it to my consultant, who had wanted to leave me in Step Up's care. I pointed out that they had wanted to end their own involvement, and that what upset me initially was their threat of removing support I clearly needed. I had not chosen to be discharged, and to receive a letter saying I had added insult to injury, but it appears that my care doesn't matter.

To this day, I haven't received a response, and that was January.

Months later, when I didn't receive the promised follow up appointment with the consultant, my hubby contacted the Community Mental Health Team. It turned out the consultant had left and my letter had gone ignored, but the nurse I spoke to promised to chase it up and have someone contact me.

That never happened.

Roll on yet more months and several Crisis calls, and I've been advised to reprint and resend my complaint letter as no one knows what happened to it even though my hubby delivered it in person so we know it reached them. Problem is, I keep forgetting to do so. I'm also scared to do it, because I'm scared those people who are responsible for assisting me might take offence at my complaint and deny any further help. It's bad enough that, despite several Crisis calls on days when suicidal thoughts have become too much, I still only receive a call from a Community Mental Health nurse every four weeks, and not to help me or ask how things are. They phone every four weeks with the sole pupose of asking if I wish to remain on the waiting list for therapy. 

I don't even have a designated CPN. The nurse who last phoned me from the Community Mental Health Team said the list was getting shorter as people decided they no longer wanted to be on it, but I still have no idea when I'll get any help. That's right, the waiting list isn't going down because the service is efficiently seeing patients, it's relying on people dropping off and slipping through the cracks. Sometimes I wonder if they're hoping I'll slip through the cracks too.

Just like I did in 2012 when I had post natal depression and ran out of counselling sessions

Just like last year when my counsellor decided he couldn't help me before we ran out of my designated sessions*.

Just like I did at university when the counsellor went off of long term sick leave.

Just like I did at fourteen, when the system decided I didn't need help because I understood why I was self-harming.

Just like in 1997, when child services failed to pick up on the psychosomatic symptoms which we indicating a problem was beginning to develop.

I don't feel I have the support I need, and that feeling is so strong that asking for help now seems pointless. It took years for me to push for help, and now it seems a useless endeavour. 

I've stopped keeping a mood diary, because no one's looking at it to see how best to help me. I'm an author but I barely write because I don't have the drive. My self harm is increasing again, as are my feelings of worthlessness and periods of suicidal ideation. I had a shower today and brushed my teeth... for the first time in two weeks! 

The process stressed me out so much it's triggered my anxiety and I want to cancel the reason I showered. My mam and Uncle are coming over to watch Eurovision with me and hubby, but now I don't want them to because simply washing and dressing has left me fraught. And that, combined with my shame at going so long without taking care of myself, is setting off my depression. I need help. More help than pills alone. But I don't trust the services because the Community Mental Health Team sabotaged what should've been a life line.

What is the point in trying to stay afloat when no one is willing to help you fight against the riptide?

What's happened with the Step Up Team and consultant has fed into my lack of drive as far as this blog goes, but ontop of that a girl I've only ever spoken to online saw this blog and decided to go on the attack, telling me I'm self-centred and weak, whining rather than just dealing with my problems. She completely ignored that this blog was discussed with my Crisis workers before I started it because we thought it might be beneficial to me while I awaited other services. This blog exist so I can HELP MYSELF. 

This is me dealing with my problems. 

This is me saying x, y, and z happened, it affected me this way, now I understand it, I can try to find a way to move passed it in a healthy way. 

This is me saying 'I've hidden this all my life and hiding has made it worse, now I'm going to speak, for myself and for others. Hopefully someone else might see this and realise they're not alone'.

This is me saying it's #oktosay I'm not OK, and although that person's ignorant comments affected me and stopped me posting for five months, I have to do this, because if I don't, I'm letting ignorance and stigma prevail. 

I didn't train myself to face my enemies head on, without crying, even when they were intent on beating me up, just so I could fall at the words of an ignoramus on the other side of the planet. There are bigger challenges to overcome, and so I'm going to write. I'm going to draw. I'm going to share my story in the hope that one day there'll be a happy ending. Not a 'happily ever after', because no one is always happy, but I hope to reach a point when I can be at peace in my own head.

So I'll keep reminding myself it's #oktosay, because the only way to ensure that services are available, that care givers and governments are heald accountable, and that stigma is squashed, is to make sure plenty of voices are heard. 

Sometimes it feels like screaming into a void, like yelling for help in space where no one can hear me or see me in the darkness. The Community Mental Health Team don't seem to care as long as I don't kill myself and become a negative statistic for them. Cuts made by the Conservative government have ensured there isn't the number of NHS staff required to provide a better service. Because of austerity, it's harder to get the medical help needed to survive. 

I'm also in debt because I lost my job due to my illness, and after the stress of sorting out PIP the very idea of applying for ESA triggers anxiety, depression, and self harm. I'm at risk financially, because the government themselves are sabotaging life lines by making benefits unobtainable to the very people they are also denying treatment. Lack of money incresses stress, stress exaserbates my illness, my illness makes it hard to get an income. It's a cycle of despair that keeps dragging me back towards another suicide attempt. 

My life is at risk because these illnesses do kill.  But today I'm still here. I've been cast adrift, but I'm still alive, so hear me yell for a life line.

Pseudonymous Zombie

xxx

*Patients only get 6-12 sessions of counselling or CBT following a referral. How many other illnesses or conditions get a time limit? Been in a severe car accident? We can only operate on you for 6-12 hours. If you aren't stable after that, tough. In labour? If you don't push out your offspring within 6-12 hours, we aren't going to attend to you... Yeah. No. That doesn't happen.

Why We Shouldn't Vote Conservative - A Plea

I'm the type of person who's more than willing to rant and rave about political ideals, but I very rarely resort to begging. Today I'm going to do the latter because today's focus on the Tories funding mental health staff is really bothering me. I'm going to be honest, which some might not like, but as we're told so ofter that it's ok to say we're not ok, here goes...

I beg you, if you care for your friends and family who suffer from mental health conditions, do not vote Conservative. They are trying to buy votes by preying on the vulnerable while masking seven years of damage done to mental health services and NHS funding provision.

In the last seven years, funding to mental health services has been cut.

The number of mental health patients waiting to be seen has risen.

Poverty has increased (see food banks) which also increases cases of poor mental health.

Doctors are being squeezed, yet it is those doctors who need to be able to asses a patient and refer them to appropriate mental health services. A&E staff deal with suicide attempts. They refer people to specialist services. Yet they are under funded and over worked.

Thirteen months ago, I attempted suicide. Thirteen months on from that attempt, and several crisis calls later, I am STILL on the waiting list for the treatment I need.

Thirteen months, and counting.

So far I've been given no estimate for when I'll receive treatment.

A mental health nurse rings every four weeks to see if I still want to be on the waiting list...

What other long term, chronic, and life threatening conditions lead to patients being repeatedly asked if they still want help?  In what other field of medicine is it normal to just not treat patients in the hope some of them will go away and shorten the waiting list?

When I first had my assessment appointment before going on the waiting list, the nurse told me that they were severely understaffed, that he couldn't tell me when I'd be assigned a nurse and that there wouldn't be doctors available for medication reviews as they were too short staffed. He also told me that mental health patients are colour coded. Amber is 'needs help'. Red is 'really needs help/at high risk'. I was told that I was amber and only through being red would I be seen quicker. They deem me mber, despite already having attempted suicide, because the only way to be deemed red seems to be actively planning suicide at the moment they speak to you.

What other illness is ignored until you are at imminent life-threatening risk rather than treating it to stop it getting that far?

We are told that its ok to say we're not ok, but when we say it, we become a statistic, a number on a waiting list waiting to be lucky enough to be seen or unlucky enough to die in the meantime. Our lives stop. We lose jobs. We are treated like second class citizens. Our struggle is made worse by the struggle to survive until the very act of saying we're not ok becomes as pointless as everything else seems to be.

People have a range of mental health issues, I can only speak of mine, but every condition suffers from a lack of funding and staffing worsened by Tory austerity, so I'm begging you, do not be fooled by current pledges. Don't let the Tories buy votes through preying on the vulnerable. The Tories will not protect mental health services, at most they'll mix up the mess they've created through years of under-funding and mismanagement.  They won't protect the NHS.

So for every child who suffers a mental health problem and needs help before it ruins their adult life...

For every mother suffering post-partum depression...

For every person with anxiety, depression, bi-polar, ocd, phobias, personality disorders, or other psychiatric conditions that impact on every day life...

And for every person who feels there's no hope of help...

Do not vote Conservative.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

Lonely

I am lonely.

That's nothing new for someone with depression, the sense of being alone. In many ways I'm lucky; I have a loving husband and two wonderful children who keep me occupied. I love them, they love me. I'm lucky. But like so many sufferers, I can feel alone even in a crowded room.

When I'm empty, I believe no one can possibly understand the hollow feeling in my chest. No one (except my children) can get close to me because I'm so closed off. When I'm anxious, I can't explain the panic I feel from simply being close to other people, or from being surrounded by raised voices - even voices raised to joke or express joy, rather than anger or hate. I feel alone, because I can't put my emotions into words.

I should be able to explain. I write novels. I'm told I write emotive novels. But when it comes to my own feelings, it's not so easy.

A lot of the time, I'm not sure I want to put what I feel into words anyway. People, family, have turned from me before because of what I feel and I'm scared that if my remaining friends see the true me, the broken me, they'll leave too. It would be justified. They should leave me before I hurt them or hold them back just by being me. So I hide. I distance myself. I slip off the radar before I can be found out and cause distress to myself and them.

Unfortunately, I become more lonely because of my retreat, my self-imposed seclusion. Worse, though, I know I probably hurt my friends by pulling away. Perhaps they think I don't care enough to visit or pick up the phone. Perhaps they think I'm being selfish or that I've abandoned them.

Those fears reinforce my self-hatred as guilt runs riot in my head. I hurt people. I don't deserve people. I know hose around me deserve better than I can offer, yet I want to have friends. I want to feel close to people.

I think that's why I'm lonely, the conflict between craving and fearing proximity. I crave closeness but dread both abandonment and causing my loved ones to hurt.

I guess it's natural for lonely people to reach out to others in times of crisis. but that's become circular for me. It's a cycle I can't break.

Push away. Pull close. Push away. Pull close.

Classic borderline, I guess, on top of the never ending depression - the depression I can't remember being without. I know I'm difficult to understand. A lot of the time I don't understand myself.

I do have a message though, to my friends: I love you. I love you so very much that it hurts. I'm terrified of losing you and terrified of hurting you, and I hate myself because I'll probably do both. Experience has taught me that's just what I do. I'm just a horrible person. I must be, for my peers to hate me as much as they did throughout my childhood, and for others to tell me they didn't want me or to decide I'm not worth their time. You're better off without me, but believe me when I say I love you, I'm sorry, and I want nothing but the best for you.

I love you.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

The Hidden Life of A Bullied Girl

I'm going to list five truths. Five experiences I've had as a result of suffering severe peer abuse between the ages of about six and sixteen. I'll explain a little about each as I go. Some of these things my family know about. Some they don't. One of them I've only admitted to anyone at all as of yesterday. It's time the world appreciates just what an affect peer abuse has.

Please note this hasn't been proof read as it was hard enough to write never mind read. I need a break from it. It may also be triggering for people who've been bullied, abused, or who self harm.

1. It was abuse, pure and simple.

By the time I was eight, I was scared of leaving the house. Leaving the house to go out and play almost always resulted in verbal or physical assault.  I would be called names, I had my own theme tune (I couldn't go anywhere without the Addams Family Theme being sung at me). I was hit over the head with the wooden handle of a swinging skipping rope, repeatedly. I had things thrown at me. It never stopped and by the time I reached my teens I wouldn't walk around my village alone because I'd been hit, punched, pushed into rose bushes, intimidate by a girl weiding a metal pole, had my hair pulled, had my hair filled with chewing gum, and been backed up against walls more times than I can remember to be hit and kicked. I'd been surrounded to be verbally or physically abused more times than I care to remember, and the police denied they could do anything. That was bad enough, but what caused a little teasing to become something horrific enough to merit policy intervention was my headmistress in first school. My headmistress who denied there was any bullying in her school and left me stuck in anew environment where abuse could flourish.

She didn't leave me with much hope so my childhood was one of near constant fear, throughout my primary years and beyond.

Thereally was one day I was surrounded, hit, pushed into a rose bush (I was literally sat in it and I was pulling thorns out of my legs for hours), and intimidated with a metal pole. My one friend had to run home to get my mam to intervene. When mam came to chase off the 'bullies', the first words I said to her, while stood there with rose thorns in my legs and arms, were apparently 'but I didn't cry'.

To this day I can remember being proud of that, of not crying. Crying was weak, right? I'd been told so many times to 'toughen up' that not crying was worthy of pride. But it wasn't necessarily a good thing as, by the age of ther teen,  I'd learned to shut up and take whatever was coming without tears, at least whenever I could hold them back. But there's only so long anyone can hold back tears and internalise pain and fear before it causes some serious damage.

2. Resulting vulnerability can lead to unhealthy intimate encounters.

By the age of ten/eleven I'd learned my peers could do what they wanted to me. Hurt me with words, intimidate me, attack me. Fighting was pointless. By ten/eleven I'd learned to treasure any friendship I made because eventually the intensity of the bullying and/or my social problems due to it would drive people away. This left me vulnerable. Very vulnerable.

There was a girl in my year who was... well, mam calls her a sheep... she followed where the bullies led. She went from being horrible, to being my friend, to being horrible again, really really viciously so. Even when we were 'friends' she was in control. We did what she wanted because I didn't want to fall out and lose her friendship. I wanted to keep her happy.

When I was about ten/eleven, that inequaity went too far. We were playing in a tent made from sheets in my back garden. I can still remember the wooden clothes horse which supported the structure. It was held together by hope more than structural integrity. Such tents had been a place of joy to me in summers playing with my siblings, but this one experience was anything but happy. In the tent there was me, my friend, and a girl a year younger than us. My friend asked if we'd ever been touched 'down there'. When we said no, she said we should touch each other.

I feel sick writing this because I didn't want to touch them. I didn't want them to touch me. Maybe she had faced some abuse elswhere or had accidentally seen something inappropriate to make her ask such a thing, I don't know, but at that point I'd fought bullying for so long and had so few friends that I didn't feel I could say no. Even if I ran inside and told my parents, I thought they wouldn't be able to do anything. They'd talk to the other girls' parents, they'd talk to the school or police, but the other parties would insist I was lying, just as they did about the bullying, just as had been going on for years. And anyway I didn't want to lose my friend...

The other two took turns to touch each other, then waited for me to join in. I didn't know how to say no without making my life worse. After all, my life had gotten worse every time I reported anything untoward. I believed that speaking out would've been pointless, detrimental... So I let both girls slide their hands into my underwear and touch me in a way I didn't want to be touched, a way that made me feel guilty and ashamed. Then I complied when they told me to touch them.

I hadn't even hit puberty. I barely understood what was going on down there except that one day I'd start bleeding and it all had something to do with making babies. And even that, I'd only recently discovered. I hated the experience. I was so very ashamed and afraid I'd get into trouble. The memory still haunts me.

For twenty years I've kept that secret, ashamed, disgusted, feeling dirty.  I hadn't wanted to allow what happened, but being bullied had already taught me that reporting incidents and fighting got me nowhere. I was also lonely and wanted friends. Though, as it was, both girls returned to verbally tormenting me not long after that anyway, despite my compliance.

They remained friends with each other, they became friends with others who bullied me, but not with me. They'd made me feel even more disgusted in myself than I already did and stole some of my innocence while doing it. I've carried so much disgust and shame about that for so long, disgust that I did something that I knew to be wrong, something I didn't want, without rebellion, because I was already too afraid of my peers to say no. And I hate myself for that.

I had two more encounters aged sixteen and seventeen which came about through coercion, either from fear of losing someone or because I was lied too. Both were sexual, only one was attempted intercourse. Neither left me feeling happy. In fact, both left me disgusted at myself.

Oh, there was my eighteenth birthday night out too, when some stranger shoved his hand down my top... sad thing about that is, a lot of women go through that last one. Some men just think their hand can go anywhere, and so I accepted it as part of life. By then, I also hated myself so much I was flattered he wanted to touch me. even admitting that makes me cringe, ashamed.

My first positive intimate experience came wasn't until four/five months after that last event, after I turned eighteen, and after I met the man I went on to marry; a man who is still one of my best friends and my rock. I'm lucky I found him.

3. Children slip through unnoticed by mental health services and teachers can worsen symptoms.

In '96, I saw a child services regarding mental health. I can't remember this but my mam's recently mentioned it, as did my new psychiatrist in his recent report. By then I was ten/eleven and I'd already been diagnosed as having migraines due to stress. That's something my new psychiatrist called 'psychosomatic' last week. Telling, right?

By '96, I was already showing symptoms of psychological problems. Yet I wasn't treated beyond being given pills for migraines. I slipped back under the radar and the bullying went on. Only by then I had to do battle with teachers and school nurses too, people who declared me to be 'a sickly child' because I was ill so often. I missed a fair bit of school. It's a wonder I'm educated to the level I am, really, because middle school could've easily destroyed my chances.

So I was a sickly child to the adults at school, at least to start with. As years went by, a number of teachers also told me the bullying was my own fault when they couldn't resolve it. That further destroyed my self image. Said enough times, it also made me confrontational with SOME authority figures when I feel unheard or let down. Afraid of peers and untrusting and argumentative with authority figures. it's not a great combination, although I'm getting better with the latter now I'm an adult myself.

I am. No matter what some would say.

4. Consequences are long lasting.

I am agoraphobic. Open spaces are ok, but it's the crowd side that is too much for me. Being trapped among a lot of people where there's no obvious escape causes disabling anxiety and panic attacks. If I was looking for a reason for that, I'd say it was the times I was surrounded while out playing, or more likely again, when I was surrounded at the bus stop waiting for the school bus. Trapped. Just like I would be the day after, and the day after that.

I think I also have a degree of claustrophobia. It's there when I enter lifts, but also buses. Being trapped in a box with others is nauseating. But then, I can't count the number of times I spent squashed against the school bus window with people behind, in font, beside me all determined to get a reaction from me, make me cry,  or make me say one of the useless pharases I'd been taught in a desperate attempt to reassure me...

'Sticks and stones may break my bones'... 'You're just jealous'... anything that I thought was better than tears.

These days, I'm also known to have social phobia, but I guess that one is self explanatory.

5. Consequences are life threatening.

I can't remember what it was like to want to exist. The peer abuse started so young that I learned to hate myself and fear the world long before I'd finished becoming whoever I'd had the potential to be. Falling apart this year isn't much of a surprise really as it's been coming for more than two decades. I've popped all my antidepressants out of their packet and started taking them before, intent on killing myself. I've driven towards the coast twice, intending to drive off the cliffs and only saved by two lucky phone calls. I've also self-harmed since my teens. So much so that I find the dripping of my blood comforting, a distraction, and because it means I've punished myself for being a horrible person.

I'd NEVER hurt another, not after how often I suffered other people's cruelty, but I often feel I need to be punished. There must be a reason people hate me, after all... It must be my fault.

I'm getting help with that belief now though, and at this moment I'm two weeks self harm free and willing to access crisis support when I get low or anxious enough to consider it. That'said a slight improvement, even though my distorted self image is as fragmented as before.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

A Tale of Ink, Labels, and Closets

This is going to be a long one, sorry, but bear with me as I have a lot of ground to cover...

Thursday was my birthday, I turned 31. A friend paid for me to get two new tattoos which I designed over a year ago but never had the money to get. That brings my total number of tattoos up to four, each designed by me, each meaningful. All reminders of strength, a willingness to fight on, the strength of my ancestors, or of my own achievements. They're positive things for me, it's a creative process I enjoy and my tattoos are always there to remind me even pain can create beautiful end results. But this trip was even more monumental, because its the first time I've left the house in longer than I can remember.

Standing in the street was both wonderful and horrific. Seeing the autumn leaves and feeling the cool of the breeze was excellent. Being among people, cars, buses? That was terrible, anxiety inducing, and on top of that walking made my back pain play up which hurts a lot more than any tattoo. Calling into the chemist was truly horrible. My husband had to ask for what I needed (cream for tattoo after care) because I couldn't speak to the pharmacist. I just stood behind him, feeling like the pharmacist as suspicious of my motives even though I wasn't doing anything wrong, we'd never met before, and I know such thoughts are just my condition playing tricks on me. Feeling judged is part of my social phobia and it makes interaction with others a constant and exhausting challenge.

Actually getting the tattoos was great, however, because I went to the artist who did my last tat. She seems to have a lot of similar interests to me and the hubby, and she is far easier to talk to than I find many people. Sure, I over-analysed everything I said, but it was good. I achieved something. I both talked to someone and achieved going out to do something. That's progress.

But it's also when things got more complicated.

See, my mam, who I adore and who is one of my best friend (along with hubby) doesn't like tattoos. She vocally and visibly doesn't like tattoos. Neither does my mother in law, although she's no longer vocal. I saw the expressions of tight-lipped disapproval from both of them, and that caused anxiety to build rapidly.

Disapproval makes me nervous; I've lost enough people to fear disapproval, but at the same time I've survived losing enough people to know that - over things I find positive, things that help me and hurt no one else - it's my opinion that matters. It's my body. It's my self-image. It's my self-expression.

With everything else I'm a protector; I hide away more than you'd expect from someone with tattooed forearms. I hide my self-harm from most people and especially my kids, because I know they need stability (incidentally, since crisis team intervention I've been almost self-harm free). When I argue with my husband, we restrict it to when the kids are asleep or staying at their grandparents, we hide the problems. Providing safety and stability for my children is my utmost priority, just as it is my husbands, so I hide the ill, desperate side of myself away.

Some days that means hiding a lot. On others not so much. But creative outlets help (part of the reason I write novels, actually, and why I do illustrations for this blog), so to be able to get tattooed and express a part of me openly is nice. It's a bit of freedom when I often feel I need to hide, imprisoned by my depression, anxiety, phobias, the stigma attached to my sexuality, and as of this week, my newly diagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder.

BPD. I needed the diagnosis to get suitable treatment and so that I understand the need to step back when emotion takes over so I can gain objectivity. However, I needed another 'label' and the attached stigma about as much as the world needs Boris Johnson - Not at all.

To me, it's something else I'll have to hide from most people, because there's so much negativity attached to it. You just need to google 'BPD parenting' to be persuaded BPD mothers always destroy their children because they are incapable of putting them first, because they're narcissists, selfish, and inherently abusive people. One 'therapist' even claimed on twitter that BPD parents were incapable of loving their children.

How offensive is that? And no, this isn't an unjustified BPD rage. I'm calm right now. I'm rational. But as peer abuse (you might call it bullying) undoubtedly had a profound affect on my development and subsequent mental health problems, I strongly disapprove of false, stigmatising statements that misinform and may cause others to be judgemental towards a person they know nothing about. That particular 'therapist' seems to make so many black and white statements that she sounds more BPD than me.

And here's the thing: I CAN and DO love my children. I love them more than anything. I love my husband. My mam. My friends, even if I don't see them as often as I should. BPD is wrongly seen as an illness which prevents emotion and empathy, but that's just not true. Maybe some sufferers have disconnected so completely as a reaction to their heightened emotional state, but that's not true of all. In truth, BPD means I feel things MORE, not less, and that's true of a great many of us. Probably the majority, to be honest, otherwise it would seem more accurate to disgnose Anti-social Personality Disorder, which does include a lack of empathy. Or at least Narcissistic Personality Disorder which is characterised by caring only for ones own needs, at the detriment of others.

I'm hurt easily, yes, and my temper can burn brightly, although usually only when provoked into defending a loved one. My temper flares when I'm defending my mam, my husband, or my children, (or, for some reason, defending the following of best practise procedures at work). Most of my major arguments with my husband have been over something he's done which has risked our family home and/our our kids wellbeing (financially). For example, his panic when he was made redundant led him to acquiring debt and going into mortgage arrears which he didn't tell me about. I didn't know until the mortgage man turned up on the doorstep (while I was home alone and 36 weeks pregnant), and then when debt collectors started ringing. Once I knew, I sorted the issues, but I was furious, and I did do the 'I hate you, don't leave me' thing then.

My condition also means I worry intensley about my children. so much so that the first time my five year old crossed the street on her own to go and 'seek' a friend, I felt ill. I was breathless and nauseous even though I could watch her cross the streetvto ensure she was safe. But guess what? I didn't put my own emotional needs first, before my child's development. I didn't act as the internet claims a BPD person would inevitably do, and satisfy their emotional needs first and foremost. I let her cross the street, knowing we've taught her road safety and knowing that she has to be allowed to grow without having my fears pushed on her.

She's at the age where she wants friends outside the home, and she loves the girl across the street who is two years older than her. I'm fine with that. That's my daughter growing and I'm pleased she has friends and has fun interacting with other children, because I wasn't much older than her when the peer abuse started in my life and did huge harm, harm I never want my children to face.

That's what I do. Bury my anxiety so my kids can have a bright future, then let it out when they can't see, or hear, or through writing and art. So much of what I've done, right down to my hobbies are about conquering irrational fear/anxiety specifically so my kids can have wonderful experiences without me projecting my anxiety onto them. I started to swim and kayak, my husband's hobbies, despite anxiety about drowning, which I inherited from my mam. I did this specifically because I will not allow my irrational fears to be passed on to my children. I want them to swim, to learn water safety, to go on adventures with the scouts (if they wish). Or they can travel. Dance. Write. Be doctors. Soldiers. Pilots. Midwives. Ice Cream Van Owners. I will not allow my emotional insecurity to dictate my childrens' futures or destroy them... Yet the internet claims I will always put my needs first.

Truth is, what I need is for my children to live happy lives, content with themselves and their achievements, which is something I rarely feel for myself.

Additionally, there is no preferential treatment in our house, despite what is said about BPD parents 'splitting' their children into the 'good' one and the 'bad' one. There is also no violence or emotional abuse. We're the sort of household where the concept of a smacked bottom is a game, not a punishment, because it isn't a genuine threat. We use non-physical methods of teaching our children right from wrong. We use time outs ( though not often), refusing treats (again, rarely needed), etc. And my husband and I work together to ensure continuity of discipline and care. We both treat both of our children the same.

Despite what the internet claims about BPD parents, I do not use my children to hurt my husband; I'll leave using kids as weapons to my younger brother. He's very good at that, but I don't have the stomach for such behaviour. I do not rely on my children to make me feel loved, either. Sure, it hurts when they say they don't want me or that they 'aren't my best friend', but I also understand that's normal three year old behaviour.  I do not rage at my children either, because they are my world. See, although I meet the criteria for BPD, I am not the self-centred monster some would have you believe.

I will always put my children first, even when it comes to my phobias. I'm petrified of strangers and dogs, but I will always stand between my children and stray dogs or unsavory looking characters. My fear does not come before protecting them because I love them and they deserve to come first. They are so much more important to me than I am to myself.

During the economic downturn I was made redundant, the week I had our daughter, our eldest child. Despite that, I set up a business. I worked for years, for next to nothing, for no emotional or health benefits, just to keep a roof over my childrens' heads. I even worked via my tablet while in a hospital bed, waiting for an operation, because what I was doing would pay for my children's food, clothes, and trips out. And I only took two days off after my operation Everything I do is for my children, but the stigma against BPD suffers would state this can't be true. It'd claim I must be lying. But I'm not lying. I'm not manipulating. I'm not perceiving things differently from how others see them, and I know this because it is other people who tell me I'm caring for my children, even when my sense of worthlessness makes me feel I'm failing them.

The 'claims' we've read recently about BPD have upset my husband as much as they upset me, because they aren't accurate. Not all BPD sufferers are narcissists. Yes, some have narcissistic traits. I have more avoidant traits. Do you know what that means? I'm more of a people avoider and then people pleaser than a people user. Narcissists have used me because I am constantly worried about what other people think and feel and seek to please. When I make mistakes, I apologise. When people need me, I'm there. I've spent all night talking a friends out of suicide more than once, even while suffering suicidal ideation myself. I am not an unfeeling narcissist. What I am is often over-sensitive, often empathetic individual who often cares too much rather than too little.

There are website after website of people discussing their 'psycho' and 'manipulative' BPD exes, and while I'm sure some BPDs are abusive to be involved with, that could be for any number of reasons. Maybe they have a more severe case. Maybe they have co-morbid Narcissistic Personality Disorder, or narcissistic raits. Maybe they are in denial about their condition. I don't know. what I do know is that the descriptions are not representative of every BPD sufferer. Why? I suspect because many of us are too afraid of negative backlash to discuss our problems and how the affect us, and if our partners are happy with us they don't need online support forums and so no one sees that side of the coin.

But there is a flip side.

Guess what? I'm self aware. I know my flaws and I'm getting help for them. To some who claim to understand what BPD means, that might come as a surprise. in fact, they may somehow twist that statement in an attempt to prove I'm manipulating you, my readers. But I'm not. I wear my heart on my sleeve. this blog is about honesty. Brutal honesty.

I've always understood aspects of my personality, even before it was given a label. That understanding has allowed me to sustain a loving and committed relationship with my husband for nearly thirteen years (and we're stronger now, despite my problems, than we were a year ago). It's allowed me to begin raising two beautiful children who are both doing well at school/nursery, who are openly affectionate but also confident in expressing their personal preferences and beliefs, who behave exactly like normal five and three year old children - and I know this because they're constantly watched by our family of teachers, special needs teaching assistants, and people who've studied child development.

I am not damaging my children. Why? Because my mental illness is treated as equal to a physical ailment by my support network. I do not depend on my children and I have the support of both family and trained professionals. Which brings me to my point, BPD parents can be good parents, but stigma allows the circulation of misinformation which means people with an illness are discriminated against rather than helped to live fulfilling lives. We need to start treating mental illness like other illness. Diagnose. Treat. And do not blame and accuse the patient. You wouldn't accuse someone with a physical illness of being unfit to parent just because of their diagnosis, you would see how they managed their illness first. It's time we did the same with mental illness.

Remember, most crimes (including domestic/child abuse) are committed without the culprit suffering mental health issues. My BPD doesn't mean I'm abusive, just like anothers lack of mental illness doesn't guarentee them not to be. We MUST stop demonising what we personally don't understand or have not experienced. That goes for invisible illnesses, disabilities, sexuality, gender indentification, all of it. Just stop. It's wrong. It's unnecessary. It does more harm than good.

It's also the reason I might choose to stay in the closet about suffering BPD. I'll talk to my doctors, my nurses, my mam, and my husband - those people I need for BPD/Depression treatment to work. I'll even talk to twitter about my conditions, but only under a pseudonym for now. But I won't put that diagnosis next to my real name in public. No more than I tell the general public I'm bi-sexual.

That is, actually, pretty much how I deal with my sexuality as well. I'm open to talking anonymously - campaigning to #endstigma, even - but not to those know me. Family wise, only my husband and mam know about my bi-sexuality. My husband in much the same as me (although he's told none of his family yet, and may never). My mam reacted to my revelation (only last year) as she would to a tattoo; with displeasure and eventually an unwillness to discuss it at all. That left me feeling as though part of me is wrong, broken, not quite right. Much the same as many think of mental illnesses, to be honest.

Not that it'should my mam's fault. She is from a different generation, that'sounds all. She doesn't stigmatise others but she isn't thrilled at knowing I falling under the LGBT label. Straight is easy, simple, understood. I guess that's why a lot of parents want their kids to be straight; it's easy and isn't stigmatised. But the world isn't fair or easy onavigation people. Sometimes it's a struggle.

Such is the life of the zombie in the closet; I have ever more to hide because of unjustified stigma. Learning to accept myself is hard when others don't accept me, but what the hell; this is the hand I've been dealt. But goodness, I hate labels.

I'm a person, not just #BPD, #LGBT, or #Inked. it really is time we ended all stigma; about mental health, sexuality, gender, body modification, all of it. Don't judge people because of the myths surrounding a label. Get to know them. Don't stigmatise; there are shades of gray (and a rainbow of colours) which require understanding, empathy, acceptance, and/or support, but not outright vilification (and that's from a 'black and white thinking' BPD). Based on the stigma around my labels I should be a narcissistic, abusive, greedy, promiscuous, thug. Yet I'm not. I'm an empathetic, overly-protective woman, who has been with the same man since she was 18, and who has psychological scars left over from going through years of torment herself, and who is actively engaged in getting treatment for those scars to get back a normal life.

For most of my life I've been 'high functioning'. I'm in a stable, traditional marriage. I've worked since I was 16. I am capable of critical thinking, even if SOMETIMES I might need a night to get an emotional reaction under check first. I am not my Recurrent Depressive Disorder, nor am I my Borderline Personality Disorder, or my bi-sexuality, or my tattoos. I am me. Nothing more and nothing less, and I am formed from 31 years of experience and learning, I am not a stereotype.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx