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

Why Do We Wear Masks?

Everyone does it, no one is an open book for the whole of their lives. We wear masks to protect ourselves, to protect our hearts, minds, jobs, and reputations. We do it to survive. For some, the mask is a tube of lipgloss or the right cut of suit. For others it's a hair colour, a car, a marriage, or a standard of living. For those suffering from a mental illness, a mask can be a simple smile when they want to cry, or an 'I'm fine' when all they can think about is how grateful they'd be if the world stopped spinning.

Sadly, some masks are safer to remove than others; lipgloss and a sports car hide far fewer dangers than a fake smile. Removing some masks brings consequences. Devastating consequences... And strangely, removing the simplest of masks can be most traumatic.

My mask slipped once and seven months on, the conflict it caused hasn't been resolved. See, when my dad died, things happened that I couldn't deal with. Too much happened all at once, within a horrible 24 hour period. It was so bad that my mask didn't just slip, it shattered entirely and what my family saw was the brutal reality I'd been hiding. Pain. Anger. Scars. So much intense emotion that it bubbled over. Or rather, exploded out of me.

It was the wrong time for my mask to fall away, because what lay beneath couldn't be understood by those who faced it, especially not while they were grieving. However, it was also the most logical time for me to snap, while under so much pressure and feeling so many conflicting and confusing emotions... If only if it were that simple for others to rationalise.

When dad died of cancer, that wasn't beyond comprehension. It was horrific, but we all know it happens. We hear the stories and see the cancer research appeal adverts. Its's part of life and so families crowd around hospital beds, they care for their loved on on the palliative care ward and cry together as they say goodbye. That's what a terminal disease does in many cases. Even none terminal illness draws family in. The visit hospitals. Bring grapes. Come to visit your home with a box of chocolates and the notion they could, perhaps, cheer you up for a while.

But when was the last time you saw a bi-polar awareness appeal ad or a borderline personality disorder coffee morning? I bet your answer is never, despite suicide being a huge killer and depression being predicted to be more widespread than cancer by 2030. When was the last time you took a box of chocolates and a listening ear to a depressed friends house?

If you have done those things, I'm so grateful you're in the world, because you are exceptional. You are an exception to the rule. Why? Because while physical illness can be brutal on the whole family, the biology can be grasped with somewhat more ease than understanding why a loved one is screaming at you, or why they're taking a razor blade to their own skin.

There are so many misconceptions about mental illness compared to physical illness, so many that explaining them away can feel like an impossible task, especially to someone who may feel exhausted and vulnerable anyway without justifyingbsymptoms of tgeir illness. It's easier to hide a disorder than face the myth-based accusations that come from revealing it, whether your disorder is recurrent depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, or a phobia. That's part of why I'd kept a lot hidden in the months leading up to my dad's death. Of course I wanted to protect my dad from worrying about me, but on top of that I didn't want to deal with the fallout a revelation would leave in its wake.

Only a few people knew I was on antidepressants between January and March, and it took a lot for me to tell mam that I was cutting again, that I was sliding back into the dark pit of despair which had often been part of my life. I didn't want people to know. I eanted it dealt with as privately as possible. It wouldn't have been fair to discuss it while dad needed us to support him anyway... but I hadn't been prepared for how difficult it would be to hold back the tide of emotion that would follow dad's death. After he died everything I'd been suppressing unintentionally poured out of me, and it did it in the form of enraged words.

That was how I lost people I once loved. My inner monster raised it's head and found itself unmasked. It snarled and snapped at more than just myself, and it caused irreparable damage. And why is the damage irreparable?

Because I was blamed for it, even after I apologised for my angry words.

I was blamed for an intensity of emotion that couldn't be controlled and for a condition I was actively seaking treatment for. No amount of apologies were accepted and in the end I felt I didn't have a voice at all because I was ignored. I said sorry for reacting as I did while at crisis point, and people turned away. They left me. Those same people who'd gathered around dad just days earlier vowed never to have a relationship with me again, because I had a different illness they 'wouldn't make excuses for me'.

I was going to list what was said about me following the disintergration of my mask, but the list is long so I made another post for that which can be found here if you're interested. All I'll say her is that loved ones turned away. They turned away because I'm sick. Because my mask failed me when I needed it most.

That's what people with a mental illness face when their illnesses becomes obvious; stigma, blame, guilt and their anger at their own condition reflected back at them from people who cannot understand that their behaviour is a condition, not an attack or a malicious attempt to manipulate and control.
I snapped once. On one stressful day, and for that I've been locked out by members of my family for seven months (and counting). I can't say sorry again now, because I've already apologised for what I said, and to apologise again would require apologising for an illness which is not my choice to have. Ibwon't do that. I've apologised for losing my temper. I've apologised for what was said in the heat of the moment. I won't apologise for my illness too.

I can't take back what's done, but nor should I need too. No one expects someone suffering a heart attack to apologise for the inconvenience their attack causes others, yet with mental health, people dole out blame. They accuse and chastise. That's why most of us who suffer mental illness have become proficient at keeping our masks in place. The consequences of revealing the truth are too demeaning, too brutal, too cruel to risk while already vulnerable.

But here's the truth; we shouldn't have to wear a mask all day, everyday. That confinement is no good for recovery and no use for promoting understanding. We need to encourage empathy and support. We need to educate, not humiliate, but we're also the least equipt to handle that education because we are vulnerable. Ending stigma towards mental health problems can't be left to sufferers alone. We need more advocates for equality with other illness, for securing government funding. We need to work together, patients, carers, health professionals and others with a voice to change the discussion on mental heath and remove the disguises we're forced to hide behind.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

After The Mask Slips

This links in to my post about why we wear masks. Below is a list of things that have been said to me since my mask slipped.

I was:
'Selfish' - Interesting, considering that defending another person caused the situation which broke my mask.

'A brat' - Because I couldn't control my emotions due to a mental illness.

'Not the only one who was hurting' - I knew that, but I wasn't just hurting. I was suicidal. I was and still am on a ledge where jumping makes most sense. my illness isn't 'hurting' me. It could kill me.

'Using self harm to hold mam hostage' - Not true, I'd hidden it until I desperately needed help and even then she doesn't know the half of it.  I cut to survive, not to control.

'You Blow up and make a fuss' - A man fom an accident, a man in pain, might scream and shout. People would offer consoling words and medics would administer pain relief.  But mental anguish... when someone with a mental illness screams their pain they're 'making a fuss' at best and 'psycho' at worst. Neither of those analysis are correct, though, and both stigmatise.

'You just take' - This one was for someone I'd never asked for anything, except a lift to a job interview once, and I didn't ask. He offered. Also, apparently I've never done anything for him... I'm not even going to tackle that one because it's untrue and a tangent that isn't covered by this post.

'There is only so much someone can put up with, mental illness or not' - People will weather storms of physical illness but mental illness isn't seen as an illness, as something which isn't a choice. It's seen as a character flaw.

'Your problem is you think you're the only one' - Not true, but at that point I felt I was dying. That's why I attempted suicide the month after this falling out. I was in need of help just to stay alive.

'Misguided' - I don't get that one.

'If you want anything else, bother someone else' - Can you even imagine saying that to someone with a physical illness or disability? But with mental illness it's apparently ok.

'You haven't got a clue' - Apparently I wasn't the only one.

'Unbelievable' - Yup, that I was responding to an illness is unbelievable.

'You really are an idiot' - Where do I start with that?

'A problem of your own making' - I didn't turn myself into this thing I am. No one would choose it. It's a nightmare than never seems to end and I cant run away from myself. Not without giving in to the suicidal thoughts.

'When I think you can't get any lower, you prove me wrong.' - That's how I feel about my black pit of depression too, but thank you for your disgust at me.

'Ignorant, selfish arsehole' - Nice. Not suffering a mental illness which affects my ability to cope with stressors or rationally think through stressful situations. I'm just an ignorant, selfish, arsehole.

'You put unbelievable stress on mam' - The person who claimed that has it backwards, but more than backwards he's basically indicating my illness needs to be hidden so it doesn't stress others. not like a physical illness where help can be sought.

'I don't know what good I personally get from this relationship' - Because relationships are all about personal gain.

'You think you are the only person in the world who is suffering' - I don't, my friendship group includes people with severe depression, anxiety, and other chronic illnesses. We support eachother all the time. I've stayed up all night talking others out of suicide before. I'm aware others suffer but that doesn't mean I can supress my illness anymore than someone with a physical condition could.

'I personally cannot and will not put up with it anymore' - Can you imagine if I'd said that to dad because watching him become ever more sick was worsening my mental health. I wouldn't have considered saying it. Never in a million years. But with my mental Illness? That's acceptable, it seems.

'Disgraceful behaviour' - My illness is disgraceful. that one just leaves me feeling defeated.

'Obstructive' - I'm not being obstructive, my illness prevents me doing certain things.

'Refusal' - I'm not refusing to do things, I can't do them. a paraplegic doesn't refuse to walk, they just can't do it. why do we use different language for mental health?

The way we talk about mental health and how we speak to people suffering mental illness is in direct opposition to how we talk about other illnesses and how we speak to others with disabilities. Why?

That's the real question. Why?

Pseudonymous Zombie

Trapped In My Own Head

There are times when I'm silent despite the tears rolling over my cheeks, even though in my head, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs. I'm clawing at the inside of my skull, trying to escape the monsters which torment me. But all my attempts to escape are in vain. They always have been. Every light I think I see blinks out, leaving me in a dark pit which seems ever more sinister.

You see, the monsters don't want to let me go and they extinguish every spot of brilliance which might lead me to freedom. Three of them are as familiar as old friends now, although they're my jailers rather than much loved companions. Their names? Despression (D), Anxiety (A), and Suicidal Ideation (SI). They claw at me, feed on me, slowly eating me alive while I writhe in the dark, trying to find a way to escape but knowing it's hopeless. There is no escape hatch in my mind and despite my screams, no help is coming.

There are probably other monsters tearing chunks from me too, but they're as of yet unnamed. Vague, undiagnosed, not like the three I'm on first name terms with. Those three seem to have been my life long companions. I can't remember when I finally learned the names of the beasts who'd began to torment me before my age reached double digits, nor can I remember when they first clawed at my still developing sense of self.

The struggle has gone on so long now, that at times it feels like I'm going mad, losing control of my mind. My thoughts spiral. Worries and paranoia tumble over each other until I can't understand what I'm anxious about, and A mocks me as he predicts catastrophe after catastrophe. Meanwhile, D whispers his insidious lies, telling me that no one could truly love me, that I'm worthless, that my family would be better off without me. D is best friends with SI, who is arguably the most dangerous of my three tormentors. She is the executioner. A and D are mere interrogators, they're torturers and judges. It's SI who sharpens the weapons of my demise, because it's SI murmurs constantly in my ear, plotting all the ways I could end my life and tempting me with them daily.

Being trapped inside my own head with such gaolers is hell. So many times I just want out of there, that dark cell where my screams go unheard and the monsters remain invisble to the people passing obliviously by my dead outer shell. Mental illness is a lonely prison where friends often don't exist, but where hungry demons of your own creation feed on your spirit and drain you of energy. They devour your will to live until all that's left is the desire to die.

I don't want to live this way any more. I don't want to cry and scream as I try to escape my mind. I want to be normal, and if not normal, I would like to push SI from my mind and have the strength to fight back against A and D. I want some quiet. Some peace. I want the scars to heal, then maybe I can heal too.

There's a problem with that though. Some people say they want to become who they were before their illness, but I was a six year old girl back then. My personality and knowledge hadn't finished developing. I don't know who I would be without D and A, and that itself is terrifying. Although perhaps not as much as the feeling that there's a bigger predator circling, one caused by traumas in the past, which simply hasn't been given a name yet.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

The Pros and Cons Of Using Mental Illness Tropes As Halloween Accessories

I'm seeing a lot of posts about Halloween and how mental illness shouldn't be used as a basis for costumes and decorations. On one level I agree. On another, I don't. My view is going to be controversial, so remember it's just an opinion. A different perspective.

Do I approve of straight jackets and pill bottles as costumes and props? No. Of course not. That sends the wrong messages. Do I frown upon plaques engraved with the word 'Asylum', with 'No one leaves' written in blood underneath. No, I don't, because it's a useful spoof. Actually, I'd very probably get one of those plaques for my house, despite suffering from several mental conditions (and probably more as of yet undiagnosed as I've only had my first meeting with a psychiatrist last Friday). And why do I feel differently about those two examples using mental health as inspiration during Halloween?

One promotes fear of psychiatric intervention.
One recounts the horror of past thinking and cruelty.
One encourages fear of patients.
One recounts the horror that patients went through in the past.
One encourages stigma.
One could actually be used to show how fear and stigma hurt the vulnerable when those with power choose to abuse those in need.

Of course, others will have different views, but it's all a matter of perspective. As another example, personally I'd rather watch a horror film about ghosts in an abandoned victorian asylum - patients seeking revenge upon their jailers - than listen to another news report on how an arsonist/murderer had a history of mental illness whether or not it's relevant to their crime. One shows that cruelty does permanent damage. Once seems to indicate that mental illness causes crime, even though most murders are committed by people without known mental illnesses. The importance is blame, one points to the failing of the mental health care system due to stigma, one encourages fear of patients.

It's the same with halloween accessories. The past is what it is, a horrifying place that we need to remember in order to prevent it happening again. Seeing a halloween asylum sign doesn't mock mental illness. It says that in the past asylums were terrifying places that people often couldn't escape. Terror is the theme of halloween, so why not show that truth? Many monsters are representations of taboo subjects. While the once spawned fear they can also bue used to create understanding. Maybe I feel that way because I write paranormal novels. I've used real monsters to help others understand very human problems. The idea of something being ghastly, reprehensible, and to be feared can be useful. As long as you make the right thing ghastly. The asylum of the past, the stigma of the past, but never the patients.

The message I take from the theme of abandoned asylum where only ghosts and past suffering linger, is that history shouldn't be repeated because it leaves a legacy of cruelty and oppressed people. It's a reminder how not to treat the mentally ill.

That's different to dressing up as a patient in a straight jacket, or carrying bottles of pills or pretend sedatives. It's different from pretending to be a psychopath who has become dangerous. People shouldn't be encouraged to fear mental health patients. Mental health patients shouldn't be made to fear modern psychiatric hospitals, doctors, and nurses. We need to end the stigma around mental health in the modern age. However we should still all be afraid of the asylums of the past. Of the experiments, dehumanisation, and neglect.

A cartoon can educate. Satire can tell the truth through a lie. Personally, I wouldn't be averse to putting an aged looking asylum sign on my front lawn for halloween. If it got people talking, I could educate them about what being trapped by a mental illness is really like. However, if someone turned up in a straight jacket, or in a white coat while threatening to 'take me away', then there'd be a problem. They'd still get an education but my wording might not be so gentle.

But what do I know. I'm the person who expresses twenty two years of mental health issues through a zombie character. Maybe horror and the paranormal is just my way of finding a voice, or saying that I don't always have one. I guess my point is that we need to be careful about what we take personally (I know that can be impossible, I have probable #AvPD, but I try). Some 'fun' is damaging, certainly, but some 'fun' is an opportunity. You just need to decide how to best use that opportunity. Look at the film, 'Suckerpunch'. An abused girl gets labotomised, that could thrust the film into a negative light. It is about layers of psychosis, but in reality it's about the abuse of patients by their families and nurses. The villains are not the patients but the carers, and the message is that mental health patients need to be protected, not victimised. At least, thats what I take from it. Even a trope or stereotype can be used to pass on an educational message. You just need to know which ones to use.

I know that view is controversial, and I certainly don't mean to offend. As I say, this is just my opinion as someone within the mental health system, currently under crisis care, who just received my psychiatrist report this morning. I have enough real stigma and abuse directed at me, from someone I love telling me I use self harm to control others, to an ex-friend's husband telling me to kill myself, and to do it right by using a gun, not pills or scraping wrists. To me, that abuse need tackled head on, and if we can use a celebration (Halloween) to educate, even if it's through an asylum sign, then we should embrace that chance.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

How Not To Talk To Sick People

1. "It's all in your head."

You wouldn't tell someone with a fractured skull that it was all in their head. Don't say it to someone with a mental illness. The location of the damage doesn't change its existence.

2. "You're lazy."

You wouldn't say it to someone bed-ridden with a spinal injury. Don't say it to someone with depression. Being unable to function is harder on the sufferer than the bystander. Support, don't accuse. And if they manage to do something they enjoy? Congratulate them on doing that, because even that took more energy and willpower than you appreciate.

3. "What have you got to be depressed about?"

You wouldn't ask what someone had to get cancer over, don't ask a depressed person to justify their illness. Not all lung cancer patients are smokers and not all depressed people have a trauma in their past.

4. "Stop worrying."

You wouldn't tell someone with scoliosis to stop their spine curving, so don't ask someone with anxiety to stop worrying. It's a symptom, not a choice.

5. "You're doing this to manipulate/control someone."

You wouldn't tell someone who lost a leg that they did it to control someone, don't say it to someone who self-harms or is suicidal. You can't control anyone if you're dead, and self-harm is usually about coping, not controlling. Don't judge.

6. "It's a case of mind over matter."

You wouldn't say this to a paraplegic, don't say it to someone with a mental illness. Their mind is the problem, after all, it isn't functioning properly. It can no more force itself to function normally that someone can overcome paralysis by willpower alone.

7. "I don't believe you."

You wouldn't say this to your son if he found a lump on his testes, don't say it to your daughter when she says she's self-harms/wants to stop existing/feels empty. Many illnesses take away loved ones, both physical and mental. Get the appropriate help and stand by her.

8. "I can't be around you when you're like this."

You wouldn't say it to someone struggling through chemo, don't say it to someone who is getting their medication adjusted/suffering withdrawals. They are suffering. They didn't ask for it. Empathise.

9. "You refuse do to x/y/z."

You wouldn't tell a one armed man that he refuses to clap. You'd accept that he can't clap, which is a different thing. Don't tell someone with anxiety they refuse to pick up the phone/reply to a letter. Chances are they just can't do it, even if it seems like the simplest thing in the world to you.

10. "Just don't think about it."

You wouldn't say this about a heart attack, don't say it about a mental illness. It is not that easy. The person with a mental illness is very probably trying not to think about it in a way those with other illness never do because negative thoughts play such a huge part in so many mental conditions. If the sufferer could turn off the noise, they would.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx

If We Talked About Physical Disability Like We Do About Mental Disability...

My aim is to do a comic strip every now and again. Something not as personal as my drawings but a more general commentary on life with a mental illness. Here's the first, Zombies Are Human Too, Vol 001.

Pseudonymous Zombie

xxx

Labelling Mental Health

There was supposed to be another post before this one, following on from my PIP/Crisis Team posts, but as I was sat in my drowsy, exhausted-but-unable-to-sleep state last night, I doodled what I was feeling about myself. Now, as I sit in the small hours of the morning, in another drowsy, exhausted-but-unable-to-sleep state, I've decided to share it.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to finally be getting treatment, a psychiatric diagnosis, but having listened to the list of 'problems with Pseudonymous Zombie', I feel like a collection of labels. Depression. Anxiety. Agoraphobia. Socialphobia. Avoidant Personality. Then there's my symptoms, which reads like a list of reasons to avoid me; reasons I'm a bad friend, bad daughter, bad sister, bad mother, bad employee, bad person. Part of that is because I'm blamed for a lot of my symptoms, partly ir's because I've grown up witnessing the stugma which is inherent in much of society. My reaction is to hide away as I try to somehow survive the criticism, accusation, and anger directed at me.

But here's the thing; I'm not my labels. I'm not even my symptoms, no more than a paraplegic can be measured by their disability. My symptoms may be hard to deal with at times. They're difficult for me too. I'm still me though, and when I'm judged for my labels and symptoms, it only makes my condition worse because I feel less than human; like a monster who should stay away from 'normal' humans.

I am not my labels. I am not my symptoms. Don't judge me on them because when you do, you make me into a second class creature. Instead, try to be patient. I know it's hard, but I promise that it's hard for me too. I don't want these conditions. I don't want these symptoms. 

I can't just change myself, no more than a man who loses a leg can just decide to walk without support, therapy, and medical intervention. I am trying to get better, so if you care, please don't shout and accuse. Don't shower me with scorn or tell me you've had enough of me. You wouldn't do that to a physically disabled person because you wouldn't confuse who they are with their symptoms (not if you're a decent person, at least). Please give me the same respect.

Pseudonymous Zombie 

xxx

Two Hundred and Eighteen

218. That's the number of times I put a razor to my leg at 3am and pressed down, drawing it through my skin and then watching as blood welled and trickled over my calf. My left leg is scars from just above my ankle to just below my knee. Scar, after scar, after scar, one on top of another. In the past I've had words cut into my skin. 'Help' was the first phrase I wrote. 'Kill yourself' was the last. Not that the words are visible now. Not under the scars I've added since.

218. That's the number of cuts it took to calm myself out of putting my suicide plans into action last night.

Why cut?
Sounds contradictory doesn't it, that hurting myself can stop me from doing something worse. I know a lot of people who've never been where I am can't get their head around it when I say cutting gives me control. It's a pain I can choose to stop if I want. It's also a distraction. Very rarely it's a punishment, and when I start out punishing myself it quickly becomes soothing because I'm so used to being calmed by that familiar pain. I've acclimatised to it because I've been using cutting to cope since I was fourteen. It's how I self-soothe.

Cutting myself was the terrifying act which made me seek medical assistence in my early teens. My doctor referred me to a counsellor but the next time I saw him he told me that because I understood why I was cutting, and because I wasn't cutting severely, the counsellor had decided I didn't need to be seen...

To me, that's a bit like saying 'we've found a tumour, but don't worry, it's small and not serious yet so we aren't going to treat it'. The world seems to disagree.

That first experience of asking for help was sixteen years ago. It seems like a lifetime ago, yet it set me on a course that I'm not sure is reversible. It taught me that seeking help was futile unless I actually became suicidal rather than 'just' depressed. No one cared to address why I was cutting or try to prevent escalation. I wasn't ill enough to merit care.

Insidious illnesses take control...

I guess it was the age old problem, lack of funding meant only those with the greatest need could be treated. However, that ethos condemned me. I dread to think how much it's cost the NHS and student services to keep me alive since because I've struggled all my life. If someone had intervened then I might have recovered. At the very least I might have developed 'positive' coping methods rather than 'negative' ones.

There's the problem, you see; if you find the courage to ask for help with depression and then get told that someone doesn't want to see you, it damages your ability to request help in the future. You already know you won't get it because you aren't on the brink. You don't ask for help and you develope your own ways to keep yourself alive. The decision not to treat a teenager who's asking for help lets the wound fester. It encourages it. I still have scars on my arm which are a physical representation of what was going on in my head as a teen.

Back then it wasn't always bad. Yes, my self-esteem had been irrepairably damaged by long term bullying and other issues and that didn't help my state of mind, yet still there were some months I managed to live a normal life. Some I didn't, however, and that was when I'd drag sewing needles or the pins of badges over my skin. It was later that things went completely to hell.

When I started university at eighteen, my depression was already getting worse. Then my freshman year turned out to be horrific. Looking back, undiagnosed social anxiety had me on the back foot from the start. I moved into halls of residence but I couldn't gel with the girls in my flat. I didn't like to go out into crowded spaces. I couldn't join them in clubs and bars. I was an exceptionally private person and let very few people get close to me.

Feeling like an outsider in my flat, during my first experience of living away from home, was heartbreaking. Especially as my younger brother took possession of my bedroom at home so I never really felt I could go back without being in the way. The result was I spent most of that year staying overvat my boyfriend's parents' house, especially after he became my fiancé. He had one of those high level beds with a desk under it. I hated the bed so I used to sleep on the floor next to his computer, listening to its fans whirring all night because he never turned it off. To me, that was better than being in the flat with the raucous drunkards who couldn't wash a dish to save their lives.

Seriously, there were monsters growing in the fridge and every surface of the kitchen, even the dining table. I kept my plates in my own room because it was the only way I could avoid coming in to find some new green and blue growth  over my belongings. It was disgusting and the clutter made my depression worse, especially as the other girls realised I was an odd introvert and merely lived with me rather than engaging with me.

The change of environment, loneliness, and the feeling uprooted on top of pre-existing stresses led me to start cutting again, just so I could cope. I fantasised about jumping off the Tyne Bridge and drowning myself. If it wasn't for my fiancé, I would have done it. He's the reason I sought help again at all.

Unfortunately, help is rarely forthcoming...

I'd had to move to a new doctors when I moved out of home and into halls which was unfortunate. I joined a practice which university recommended. That proved to be a mistake. My new doctors kept their main surgery for general, local patients. They had a second door in the side street which led to a grubby upstairs surgery. That premisis was where they ran drop in clinics for students.

The students unlucky enough to register with that surgery were only allowed to go to the drop-ins run out of the grim upstairs rooms. Getting an appointment with the main surgery was almost impossible as the receptionists actively turned us away. That arrangement made me feel like a second class citizen when I was already feeling worthless which wasn't helpful, but that wasn't the only problem with the practice. In addition the drop-in was run by triage nurses who weren't qualified to deal with my problems and had to refer me to doctors, who had to be seen at the drop-in and were only occassionally available on a sit-and-wait basis. More than once, I'd spend an hour waiting to be seen only for a nurse or doctor to announce she was going home sick and we'd all have to come back another day. The effort that took was almost insurmountable as my depression became  progressively worse and smothered my motivation.

'Luckily' the university operated a counselling service for students. Unfortunately, that didn't do me much good as the counsellor went on either long term sick or maternity leave, I can't remember which, before I managed to trust her enough to open up. I gave up on student services after that.

By the age of twenty I'd determined that there was no real help out there. That seeking it was a pointless endeavour because I just wasn't suicidal enough. So I continued on, struggling, cutting, binge eating, hating myself more and more with each passing year but hiding behind a masquerade of being a functioning adult, going to university and work but avoiding socialising to quite a degree.

The masquerade is hard to keep up...

I didn't get better. I just learned to live with the numbness, fear, hopelessnes, and self-doubt. I had no professional help and lot happened over those years which made it difficult to fix myself. I changed course twice, we bought a house, we were in car accidents, I was diagnosed as 'sub-fertile' and when I finally got pregnant after years of trying I was sick for eight months solid. I was sick to the extent that I weighed less in my last week of pregnancy than I did in my first. The pregnancy was fraught with worries, suspected miscarriages and health concerns about the baby. It wasn't the experience I'd hoped for. Alongside that, my husband was made redundant and then, the week I gave birth to our daughter, I was made redundant too. We had no money. Our mortgage went into arrears. I had to work sixty hours a week setting up a business to keep a roof over our heads. In the weeks before my daughter's first Christmas, I broke down in poundland because I didn't even have the £3 I needed to buy her three books.

That was a bad year. My confidence plummetted still further and I was stressed constantly. Anxiety prevented me sleeping and I was exhausted all of the time. Eventually my doctor referred me to a Cognitive Behavioural Therapist. I was offered antidepressants as well but I didn't want to become reliant so I didn't take them.

Sadly, CBT didn't do much for me. Funding meant the counselling service could only provide between six and twelve sessions, but no more. Yup, no matter my condition, my treatment was limited because of the underfuning of mental health services in the United Kingdom. I didn't go to my last appointment. What was the point? I was still depressed, despite my therapist saying I was improving, and I was about to be cast asunder by him. Once again the notion that seeking help was pointless reasserted itself. I'm not sure I've ever really functioned properly since then, but what could I do?

We then had our second child, a son. Because of money issues I was back at work a week after giving birth. When I had an operation the next year, I sat emailing clients from my hospital bed. I never stopped. I never rested. Every day was an act of survival. All I did was work and worry, and feel completely worthless. My children deserved so much better than what I could provide and that was a constant nagging declaration in my mind. I didn't get better. I cried. Me and my husband fought horribly. Most months, I wasn't sure we could even be together any longer. It was year after year of hell. Eventually I managed to find new employment which paid more than my business. I though 2015 might finally get easier.

'Better' is a hard place to find...

Then my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Terminal cancer. He was given four years but there was just something about the situation, about his mad rush to get his affairs innorder including refurbishing the house he wanted to leave to us, that made me think four years was optimistic.

For the first time in quite a while my dad made the effort to spend time with me. The whole thing was confusing. I'll go into the problems stemming from my relationship with my dad another time, but it's safe to say being told he had cancer caused a great deal of conflicting emotions and even my grief was confusing. I often didn't know whether I was grieving for my dad or for the father-daughter relationship we'd never had. It was only in those months of treatment and uncertainty that I managed to vocalise something I'd struggled to say since my teens.

I managed to say 'I love you'. And I meant it.

For the first time in goodness knows how long we hugged and he said 'I love you too'.

I don't know if it's a good thing that we got closer then, or whether it led to more pain because we didn't have enough time to fix all the problems that had made me unable to tell him I loved him in the first place. That was hard, and it got harder and harder every time he was admitted to hospital and it became more and more obvious that four years was unlikely, that even two would be difficult.

The hum of anxiety and depression had never left me since my teens, but late last year, after dad's cancer diagnosis, I went into a tailspin. One worse than ever before. The diagnosis raised childhood problems. My head filled with things it would be unfair to raise but which would never be resolved by silence. I didn't tell my dad any of the hundreds of things I wished I could explain. I ignored the past and let dad know the one thing that mattered; I loved him. Because of how my brain works, how I've been trained by experience to turn off my feelings for people if I need to, I had to choose to let love back in because I'd shuttered myself off from dad so many years ago. But choose I did.

Syill, during the months that followed, my need to cut grew a hundred times worse. I even ended up carrying a knife in my bag so that I could cut wherever I needed to. Parked in a car park. Locked in the bathroom at work. Anywhere. Rather than doing a few cuts at a time like I used to,  I'd do ten. Then twenty. Then fifty. Then a hundred. Up and up and up. And I became more suicidal than I'd ever been before. While driving to and from work I'd imagine driving away; running, vanishing, dying. I day-dreamed about driving off the coastal cliffs near my home. It became so bad that in January, despite having avoided it for years, I went back to the doctors. This time I accepted the antidepressants. I was also referred to counselling again, and placed on a waiting list.

Then my dad had died in March, more than three years earlier than the estimate he'd been given, and the day after his death my family imploded. Grief caused a number of people to say things they shouldn't have. My depression led to anger and I lost my temper, I shouted because it was the only way to avoid breaking down and my family fell apart. Thats how bad I am. Anger is another coping mechanism. I shout when I can't bear to cry because I simply can't function like a normal person. I've never had the help I needed to be able to.

Now several people I love won't speak to me. At all.

Apparently I'm disposable...

One of those who fell out with me won't speak to mam either because she was more concerned for my mental state than his in that moment of falling out. The other has told me that I only self-harm to control mam. That, despite me having hid my self-harm from her for months until I just couldn't any more. Apparently I'm manipulative because I let my mam know I was falling apart and she wanted to help me rather than telling me to stop being childish, selfish, disgusting, the way others did.

I lost three loved ones in two days, and two of them blamed me for that. No amount of apologising or explaining could change that because, with me, they saw behaviour they couldn't understand rather than an illness.

Everyone had gathered around dad. Wanted to support him. Mourned his loss. He had cancer and we watched him fail. With my mental illness certain people saw me as inappropriate, as disgusting, as if I chose to feel what I felt. That's the difference between physical illness and mental illness; people see mental illness as a choice, but no one would choose this. No one would choose to live in a state that made them want to die.

In the aftermath, someone I cared for deeply told me he'd had enough of making exceptions for me. Making exceptions for me, because I'm ill but he won't accept that. He tells me he understands mental illness but that I'm a brat whose behaviour disgusts him. He claims the coping strategy which has cept me alive for sixteen years is actually just a way to control my mam. He says that not everything is about me, indicating he thinks I think it is, and ignoring the fact I hid my worsening depression while dad was sick. I hid it. I told no one but my husband and the doctor how much I wished to simply not exist because everyone had enough on their plates.

That doesn't matter though. Apparently, with mental illness, the very act of asking for help and empathy is attention seeking manipulation because everyone can have a rough time. Everyone can get down. It's not something that should make it hard for sufferers to interact normally...

 
Even after he told me I was manipulating my mam, this person went on to say this, "I have done nothing wrong to you. But you have made my life horrendous and stressful. Just because I don't blow up every day and make a fuss doesn't mean I'm not hurting or depressed."

Do you know what's wrong with that statement? What's wrong every time such things are said to a severely depressed person? It shows a fundamental misunderstanding of a condition. There is a huge difference between hurting and suffering a mix of severe depression and chronic anxiety. Claiming to have done nothing wrong after telling a depressed person they only self harm to control others is laughable. His exact words were holding my mam 'hostage'. Also, saying I blow up everyday was just melodramatic. I exploded once. The day after my dad died because I couldn't cope with what was happening. I apologised the next day. Any argument following was because I was being attacked or asked to apologise again. The person name calling and throwing around accusations was the other party, not me, and we didn't talk regularly enough for him to assess what I did day to day anyway. This person also kept requesting yet another apology. That's the thing with mental illness, sufferers are required to apologise for it.

Would you apologise for being unable to play football if you'd lost both feet?

No one tells a cancer sufferer to apologise for the effects of their illness. No one asks a person with a broken leg to apologise for not being able to walk. But an illness of the mind? A broken brain? That's different. That, sufferers are made to feel guilty for. As someone said to me, "If you think you've apologised enough then you really are an idiot". Or another example, "Maybe people talk to you like you don't have a clue because you go on like a brat. Thanks for confirming I am doing the right thing. Shouldn't have even bothered holding a (wedding) invite back in case of a miracle sincere apology. You proved me right. Don't contact me again to bitch about a problem of your own making."

The 'sincere' thing came up several times because he wouldn't accept any apology I offered. He walked away and decided I was a 'selfish arsehole' who he didn't think 'could get any lower'. And that's the better of those two people I fell out with...

The other one doesn't just ignore me. He turns his back on my kids when they say hello to him, even if I'm not there. He won't let his kids speak to them through a six foot fence. He's taken his anger at me out on my children. And that pisses me off even though I've successfully shut down what I myself feel for him.

So many of my problems come from abandoment. They come from being told I'm not good enough or that I'm some how deficient, from the bullying in my youth and from other relationships. I have an illness which has sprouted from feeling worthless and abandoned, but many people react to it by leaving. By making a sufferer of a mental illness feel worse than they already do.
I developed a survival tactic a long time ago. I can switch off my affection as if I'm flicking a switch. When someone leaves I'll hurt for a day, maybe two, and then I will decide to feel nothing for them. I don't think that's normal. I want to speak to mental health professionals about it, but the ability stems from the same place as my hopelessness, my anger, and my low self-esteem. It's a defense mechanism and right now people are probably judging me because of it. But do you judge someone with a broken arm from shielding it? That's all I'm doing. Shielding the broken part of me. Society treats physical ailments so differently to how they treat mental ones...

You don't tell a cancer sufferer they're only threatening to die to hold someone hostage.

You don't tell someone in a wheel chair that they should apologise for not being able to do things 'ordinary' people take for granted.

You don't tell a deaf person that they're clueless because they can't communicate the way you do.

So why tell a depressed person they're only self-harming or talking about suicide to hold someone hostage? Why tell a person which chronic depression and anxiety that they should apologise for not coping with distress the way 'ordinary' people do? Why tell a depressed person that they are clueless because they have difficulty communicating in a normal way? I have yet to understand it, but I've gone off on a tangent here so lets get back to how I got to sitting on the floor of my bathroom, cutting myself 218 times.

By April everything that had happened, everything I'd lost, was too much to bear and so I picked up a sheet of paper and wrote a letter. I apologised to my mam, husband, and children. I reiterated that I loved them but that they'd be better off without me. I'd struggled for sixteen years and I was finally ready to let my condition kill me.

After addressing that letter to my husband, I popped all of my Fluoxetine pills out of their blister packs and lined the green and yellow tablets up in front of me.

Then I started taking them.

I swallowed one antidepressant after another, fully intending to swallow every pill available. Unfortunately my husband came home earlier than I'd expected. He grabbed the pills from me and called an ambulance. I didn't die that day. When doctors asked if I was likely to try again I said no to avoid being hospitalised, even though I had other plans. I was sent home having failed to take my own life...

But I did achieve something. The hospital's self harm team contacted the counselling service immediatly. They got me an appointment the very next week. After months on the waiting list, I had a counsellor.

The hospital were also going to refer me to the community mental health team. Trying to kill myself seemed to be getting me the help I'd been asking for since my teens. It was just as I'd suspected back then. The only way to get help was to prove myself on the verge of suicide. For the first time I felt a spark of hope... The difficult pill to swallow was that even while suicidal, I was more optimistic than my situation merited. I hoped to get help, but help still hasn't arrived.

No further forward...

Weeks of counselling and a change of pills later and I'm no better. I haven't been assigned to a community mental health nurse yet. I can't see a psychiatrist even though my doctor wants me to because there isn't enough of them available. On top of that, my counsellor has decided he can't help me and has stopped our sessions and put me on the waiting list for more CBT. CBT, like the therapy which had failed me the last time I tried it.

To me, my counsellors decision felt like further abandonment. It felt like someone else giving up on me. September had come. Five months had passed since my suicide attempt and I was back where I started, only my leg was more scarred than i'd ever thought I'd make it. More scarred than my mam knows. I can't tell her because I don't want to be told I'm controlling her.

One of those who won'the accept my apologies knows I attempted suicide. Afterwards he reiterated that I was controlling mam, but I don't know how I'll control anyone from beyond the grave, which is where I'd intended to end up. But what the hell, it doesn't matter. I'm more bothered by losing my counsellor than losing him now, because I can't allow myself to care.

Not only am I still cutting, and worse than ever, but after my doctor chased up the community mental health team several times after my hospital trip. It turned out the self-harm team hadn't referred me as they'd told both me and my doctor they would. They'd sent a report to the CMHT but that was all. My doctor had to refer me instead and I was only placed upon their waiting list then, several tear and blod filled months after I should have been.

Since that referal I have seen a mental health nurse to be assessed. He agreed that I need treatment and support. He agreed I have severe depression and anxiety and I need help. So he's put me on yet another waiting list. He told me I'm 'amber'; in need of help because I have plans for suicide but lower down the waiting list than others because I'm not 'red'. In other words, I'm not in hospital or currently in the act of stepping off a cliff or swallowing an overdose.

If I find where my husband has my pills hidden and take them all, maybe then someone will throw me a rope. That's what it takes to get help when you have a mental illness. I knew it at fourteen. I knew it when a hospital worker arranged the very counselling I'd been waiting months for in a matter of minutes, all because I'd tried to overdose.

I'm not advocating making a suicide attempt in order to get help. If you're dead you can't be helped at all. I know that, and I want to emphasise it. Yet on my frequent bad days, I want to do it. Not as a cry for help but because I can't bear my existence. I don't care if a failed suicide attempt earns me treatment or if a successful attempt leaves me dead. Either is better than what I'm going through now.

I'd like help so I can see my kids grow up, but if I am beyond help or not worth the effort and funding, then I'd rather just die. Get it over with rather than waiting. Always waiting. Never living.

I don't feel alive anymore, you see. Emotionally I have about four settings now. Numb. Panicked. Enraged. Or more often than not, hopeless. Completely hopeless. So hopeless that there's no point in getting washed or dressed. No point in getting out of bed. I'm not going into that though as my hopelessness and lack of ability to live is covered in my last blog post entitled 'Raising the Dead: The Day to Day Life Of a Zombie'. Instead I'll summarise...

The truth about seeking help with mental health...

What have I learned over the past sixteen years? If you're diagnose with cancer, you'll get help. You'll get treatment to cure or slow the disease. It might fail, yes, but you will see doctors and nurses and they will try to help you. They'll provide painkillers. I would never wish my dad's death on anyone. It was horrific. But he spent his final days surrounded by his family. Surrounded by medical professionals. That's worlds apart from the situations those with mental health problems experience.

We're diagnosed but if our condition isn't going to kill us in the next week, the next day even, then we're told to wait. We're told that we're not a priority. We can have a chronic, life threatening condition for sixteen years or more without ever receiving the treatment we need. For any other condition wouldn't that be medical negligence?

And if we're lucky enough to receive some token attempt at treatment but it fails us? We don't die with people crowding around us talking about the good times. Our illnes isn't even marked down as our cause of death. We die alone with several bottles of pills and enough vodka to drown in. We die as we step on the cliff edge and plunge into the darkness. We die bleeding out from a self inflicted wound. Or we die with our necks bruising under the rough rope of a noose. We die from suicide, not depression, as if somehow the two are seperate. As if suicide attempts aren't symptoms of an illness.

If my next suicide attempt succeeds, I won't die as the documents are likely to say. I won't die of an overdose. I won't drown. I won't die from suicide. I'll die from depression. I'll die from an illness that was allowed to fester in my childhood and became an unstoppable force in adulthood. It's something I don't think I can escape because it is ingrained in me. Part of me. A dark part that has spread through me and left me scarred.

My death won't be today. It probably won't be tomorrow. It may not even be in a months time, but I have a plan, and sooner or later my coping methods will fail and my plans will become action again. I don't doubt it because I don't believe I'll ever get real help. But that should worry me. I've learned to time things carefully now. My husband won't walk in on me next time. He won't save me next time.

But I'm only 'amber', so help can wait.

Wait, even though my mind will continue to torment me, belittle me, tell me that I'm worthless, that my family would be better of without me. I'll hate myself and be more disgusted by myself than anyone else ever will be, even those people who turned away because I've hated myself since I was about eight. I'll continue cutting because it stops me doing worse, at least for now.

218. That's how many times I dragged a razor through my flesh at 3am. It's how many wounds I bled from just to keep myself alive last night. That might be the most I've ever done in one sitting. I don't know. I don't usually count. All I know is that my calf is scarred from ankle to knee, and it isn't the only part of my body I've permamemtly branded with my badges of self-loathing.

And my mam doesn't know, because I cut to control my own emotions, not to control people.

218.

But I dont blame the NHS, or the CMHT, or my doctors. They can only work with the funding that's available, based on how society values mental health services. Everyone understands A&E and why it's essential. Governments know they have to fund A&E. Not everyone understands mental health or its devestating affects, and because of the governments get away with underfunding mental health services. It's time for a rethink. Many of us urgently need the wider world to rethink.

Pseudonymous Zombie
xxx