It's been a long time

 I never thought I'd turn my back on writing quite like I did over the last two years. 

The words of my last post still ring true and I think about the terror and distress I was experiencing everyday in my own personal hell. I'm still in hospital, more so now because I have nowhere to live outside of hospital than my own mental health keeping me here.

The last two years, well, blurring into three years now has been all kinds of chaos. There's been a lot of self-discovery, two new diagnoses - autism and obsessive compulsive disorder - and a whole lot of shift in my view of the world. 

Things are less terrifying, more hopeful, but still an uphill battle with my mental health that still threatens to snatch my life away from me at times. This last week I have been recovering from surgery after an OCD behaviour left me in a pretty dangerous situation physically. I have come this far and yet I still can't convince my brain that harming myself won't keep other people alive, alas I do the compulsions and I'm the only one at risk. 

I know I need to break free soon because the suffering I cause myself is awful, but I've never faced a compulsion without acting on it and it terrifies me. 

In writing everything sounds fine, it would be easy to pop on the rose tinted specs and see that I'm fixed. I know I'm far from it. I know there's still a gaping chasm that screams inside of me and I think now more than ever it's chances of swallowing me up are greater because no one's looking out for it. Everyone thinks better means fixed and ready to leave hospital means good as new. 

I can't even tell you my own fate, because I don't know with each day I stumble closer to the idea of discharge whether I'm ebbing closer to falling straight off this mortal coil without even making a sound or whether my battle cries are enough to keep me afloat. 

I don't know, but I guess none of us know our fate. I still frequently of my friend, who fought her demons for years for a life outside of hospital only to die a year on from discharge of covid. 

being the voiceless

No one will want me to talk about this, but I need to.

This hospital, Cygnet New Dawn, has been a horrible experience to me. I've been restrained and injected more times in a week than I'd ever been in my life. 

There's a lot of blame thrown around, staff not doing what they're meant to, patients not trying hard enough. 

I've been assaulted during restraint, having been strangled to pull me off the floor. They dislocated my shoulder that same restraint and I was left so weak and in agony I could barely bathe myself. 

When I made a formal complaint about this, the result was that I was never injured, no one shouted at me and that they did nothing wrong, it was all in my mind.

There aren't the measures in place to protect patients like we're assured by the government or health services. Advocacy can only talk for me, the CQC visited and ignored my disclosures about the care here. The hospital management almost definitely has a bias towards me, seeing me as a difficult/unpleasant patient. When I showed her the bruising on my legs currently she said it was to be expected and they ought to send me to a secure service. 

(I wasn't even struggling when the bruises occurred otherwise they'd be on my arms too. I was sat calmly but upset, but very distressed when a man tossed me over and pulled out my arse for them to inject) as if I were just a worthless prostitute or pin cushion. 

I've been called selfish, lazy, fat, told my hair is ugly, told it's all my fault I'm getting no better here. All manner of things. I've been pushed to the floor, told they wouldn't go near me in case I killed them (as if). 

It's gotten to the point where I have involved every possible service to get them to remove me from this placement. Short of physically harming someone else there's no way out. 

The police are going to speak to me on Saturday. I hope they believe me, otherwise I'm done. I've already given up doing anything here for fear of bothering anyone. 

I gave up an awful lot to come here and I'm just hated. I have no regular support. They took my phone mid restraint and took 4 days to allow me to prove myself innocent and now I'm still having my right to family life breached whilst we go into the third week where I'm only allowed restricted access to my phone.

I've stopped engaging with any of them because I'm not believed. I'm only on 1:1 so they don't have another death here. It's been 3 months and they refuse to change anything. 3 months since I even saw the outside of the hospital.

I can't wait to leave, or die, whichever comes first. 

We are the voiceless because we're 'mental' no one believes us. They can do whatever they like to me because I'm on section so I may as well be in prison for all the freedoms I have. 

Voiceless and broken. 

tub of lard

i was called 'tub of lard' daily growing up, i mean it was usually pronounced 'tubbalard' a bit like teletubby friend, but i knew exactly what the sentiment was behind it.

now i'm 24 and i'm lardiest tub i have ever been. it's difficult as both someone who used to be pretty bloody bulimic and as a woman, sat on a psychiatric ward, on medications that twist the chemicals in my body into yogic level pretzels. 

i gained a lot of weight rapidly in recent months thanks to severe neglect of myself, heavy duty psychiatric medications and a level of sitting on my arse that could be compared to the activity levels of someone hiding from nuclear war in a bomb shelter. they'd probably be more active to be fair.

it seems to be this undocumented taboo with severe mental illness and the fact it can make you quite fucking fat.

so i'm here saying hi, i'm fat and we can talk about it.

i recently bought a load of new clothes, some in september, some a couple of days ago. the ones i bought in september tear if i sit down in them and honestly the size 20 bright yellow jeans i just tried on also strained a fair amount under the weight of 112kg of stretch marks, bones, muscle, flub and body hair.

in two years i have gained 32kg of extra me. not all of it was bad, but it's getting a bit undeniable now that i have to order from the plus size section of websites. at the peak of my battle with bulimia i weighed less than half of what i do now with a bmi sitting on the cusp of underweight.

it has, however, gotten to the point where i sweat doing anything, my body creates some very interesting odours from the hidden inner chub and my once impressive jaw line that created lots of edgy selfies is long gone.

i rack my brain to think how the bloody hell i pull it back. once upon a time i was teen dream supreme of the starvation team and now i think more about nandos than i do about sex ...that's probably normal though. 

first step, i guess, is to shit this problem out on to everybody else. 

bare all, declare all and then devour all. 

i developed a new technique recently for giving a shit less about what people think, it was developed whilst sat on the toilet trying to piss whilst being watched (and often looked dead in the eye). 

sit up straight, inhale, exhale and piss. if you can piss on the first try it counts as success,  however even on the second round there is still room for applause. 

so right now i'm pissing, pissing out my thoughts into the toilet bowl of the internet. 

1. stop the judgement

2. share the problem

3. order sweeteners off of amazon along with a cute children's plate set and pretend the problem is sorted.

4. actually do the thing.

i guess my ideas as such on how to tackle my weight aren't really the issue. i'm sure in my years of eating disorder i can retrieve plenty of weight loss tricks. however, the issue is deeper than sweeteners and drinking more fluid.

i'm not angry at myself for having gained weight. my compassionate, wise mind knows better. this year has been unspeakably difficult, that paired with the physical restrictions of being under section; a mobility limiting disability and the actual comfort of eating when there's bugger all else to feel excited about is pretty understandable.

i see a lot of people in my situation and it wouldn't be fair to judge them, so i apply that logic to myself.

i'm not going to start a 2020 'new year, new me' campaign of codswallop, it's too cliche and i don't do cliche. i do authentic.

so i'm going to be here, quietly working on the dynamics of this all and sharing my thoughts as i go. nobody really gives a toss what i'm eating, but maybe i can achieve something else by informing people, acknowledging people and being judgement free.

It's been about a year since I last posted. A lot has happened in that time, many terrible things unspeakable because the pain is still too raw.

Currently I'm in a specialist personality disorder unit, week 5 into the programme. It's difficult. It feels fucking dark.

The reality of living with people as traumatised as myself, if not more, is hard. It's hard to see so many people hurting. 

Most people seem quite attached to the ward, I don't feel that at all. I feel out on a limb, like I'm drowning but someone has thrown me a rescue rope but they can't pull me in.

I've been having a lot more dissociative seizures as of recent. It seems I don't dissociate anymore without my body starting to seize up and intrusive thoughts crowd in to the empty space. 

This place is meant to be my saviour, right now, I resent it. I resent it so hard I keep bringing up the reality of me leaving at my 6 week CPA. The CPA is meant to address whether I am ready to commit to the programme.

I want to.

I just don't want the 1:1 observation, no leave and no independence or freedom. I want to be able to prove to people that I can do well, but at the moment they don't trust me and that lack of trust drives me further into myself, into my illness.

More than anything I just want to be back home in Brighton with the beach beside me, the gales messing up my hair and my fish tank placed cathartically in front of the sofa. 

I just want a life. That's all I came here for, I didn't come here to be misunderstood, distrusted and spied on at any given time. It's wearing me down completely. 

At the moment I feel painfully secular, as if there's no one to talk to. I feel painfully misunderstood and undermined when I do voice my opinions. I want it to work, but I don't want it like this. 

a man o'war

my brain is a man o'war, splayed out on a beach.
will the sun dry me out and finish me off? will someone brave and kind throw me back into the sea?

man o'war being my siphonophore of choice because i relate to my deadly friend.

man o'war are much like jellyfish, with a reach much further (165ft!) and a sting far more powerful (said to be fatal). in that it's very hard for people to get close to them without getting stung and suffering because of it. do you see the semblance yet?

man o'war can even sting weeks after washing ashore, relatable too i guess in how stubborn they are in surviving. my brain is the tentacles, reaching out, but defensive, armed even.

they couldn't help again

tentatively, i am starting believe there's a ray of light reflecting onto the shattered shards of my heart.

things recently have been tiring.

it's the same story really. girl feel hopeless, girl tries to kill herself, girl gets conned into believing people can help, girl gets let down and made to feel as if it's her fault.

the con really is in believing other people can help. other people can only ever guide and hold hope. the decision to open eyes to a new day each morning is my own.

a week ago i tried for 4th time to get hit by a train. it was weird walking away from a near death experience unscathed bar a bruise & some scratches.

i posted a suicide note up before i left hospital, knowing i was going to kill myself (or at least try). the hospital said they couldn't help again, i was too suicidal to be helped.

i got home, charged my phone up so i could listen to music and i found somewhere new i could access the tracks so that people wouldn't know where to find me or how to stop me. the materials i had at home to kill myself i couldn't find.

i was walking along the train line away from the obvious point of access so people wouldn't see me. i saw my friend message me she said 'please let me see your face pop up again one last time'. it caught me off guard, i answered a call.

the police spoke to me, i wouldn't tell them where i was, i knew if i did they'd stop the trains & foil my plan. they'd ring, i'd talk and then hang up, repeat. they put a friend on the phone.

i was walking in the middle of the track and i told her

'i think a train is coming'
'i can see the light reflecting on the rails'
'there is. there's a train coming'

what was said from there is a muddle. i was hysterically walking up the track, crying and reciting how people couldn't help. i didn't want to do it anymore.

the train was coming straight at me, i was staring it down and talking to my friend.

'i'm scared'
'i'm really scared'
'i don't know what to do'

it was 20 metres away when i jumped back over the rail, it was 5 metres away when i stepped back so the outer parts of the train wouldn't hit me.

the force knocked me over. the train horn sounded. it screeches past.

my friend 'are you there?'

...

'yes i'm here'

the train stopped at the next stop i watched it linger there. i spoke to the police on the phone, still refusing to give my location knowing that the incident would have been reported and they'll know where i am now anyway.

a train comes from the station, lights on full beam, it slowly creeps up the track and comes to a stop seeing me lingering.

i see blue flashing lights and i run.

torches are searching for me and i hide in a bush.

i didn't die, i am alive but people knowing what a failure i am is scarier.

the police approach me and i tell them i was having a picnic. i shrug it off.


***

later the doctors assess me in an empty room, i'm scrunched into a ball on a mattress.

they ask me what happened.

i am crying to splutter out the words. oozing self-hatred and disgust. i don't want to be seen, i am alive.

an unfamiliar doctor says 'so what you're saying is that it was a close call tonight'

the doctor who usually shouts softens.

he looks at me and asks me what they should do.

i tell them i don't know, i tell them to send me home.

they come back and tell me i can go home. if they section me i will try to hang myself, if they admit me voluntarily i will leave the hospital to attempt suicide. i have to wait until morning though.

i tell them,
no. i am going home now.

and they exchange looks, plead with me to stay until morning 'when people are around'.

they go back into their room, hushed voices and human rights are thrown around.

i go home.

***

i could have died, i wish i had. i didn't.
my friends saved me.
i couldn't kill myself with my friend listening in. i couldn't bear the trauma.

i live. i try to live. i try to make things better.
i try.

one week on and i am alive.

nothing is magically better, it never will be.
is there a slither of hope? yes.
am i sure i can make it? no.
do i want to die? no. i am terrified this illness will take me like it took my friends.

the professionals can't save me. i have to do that myself, i will try.
i know suicide is a way out. i have lost too many people to believe otherwise.
i will try in spite of knowing suicide works.

i will try.
it's all i have got.
it will have to do.

grief

grief is such an odd concept to someone who hasn't experienced it.

the time when you begin to understand is a time at which you wish you already understood. it sweeps in like a hurricane, devastating, life-changing and sudden but enduring. the suffering doesn't stop at the initial shock, it's instead the beginning of a long path to returning to some kind of normalcy.

you can rebuild your home, but it's changed. you can replace your possessions, but they don't have the same feel. the home you knew and took root in, is gone.

relationships lovingly built over years disappear instantly, all that's left is presents from two christmases ago and a bunch of tangled memories you'll begin unpicking for answers.

there's no way up, or out, or sideways or anywhere, not to begin with. to begin with it's completely unimaginable ever living without them, even if you did not see them often there was comfort in knowing they were there and in the blink of an eye heartbreak has taken it's place.

i dream about her, Sasha, she was my friend. she was more than my friend though, she was down in the depths of hell with me when i was battling my way through it. she was dependable, she was loyal, so, so loyal, she was loving, she was someone who understood. we lived together in hospital for months as teenagers, finding solace in one another and a whole host of ways to torment the nurses.

after hospital she was the naive wild child who wanted to experience everything and wanted her friends alongside her as she did. she suffered so much and as i got better i found myself in a new role 'sensible friend'. if sasha went missing i'd be trying to reach her, trying to steer her towards safety and i worried relentlessly for her. she wasn't much younger than me, but i felt a great deal of responsibility towards her because i knew she trusted me and she seemed so vulnerable.

Sasha told me things she hadn't shared with other people before, she spoke to me and trusted me when she was too scared to even talk. i felt so honoured to be that person, to share a hug with her when even hugs would terrify her.

that sense of responsibility absolutely broke me when she died. the loving young woman we all adored and fought for, was gone. the guilt felt enormous, i couldn't live with myself feeling as if i could have done more, seen her more, told her i loved and cared about her more.

to begin with i cried, then i wondered round as if hadn't happened, then i tried to jump off a cliff, then finally i just laid in bed, stopped my medication, stopped eating, stopped drinking and i waited to join her. that was all in the first week, grief is exhausting.

what followed was 11 admissions to psychiatric hospitals, pretty much one after the other. barely staying out days at a time. i could not comprehend life. i grew an obsession with suicide and dying, it became my only goal.

i still can't comprehend it if i think too much about it. i am just living in the now, hoping blindly that the future will be better.

i have entered a new stage 18 months on, the dreams.

in the dreams i see her, i speak to her, i try to save her, but she laughs and she dies again. the format changes each time, sometimes i am protecting her. sometimes i am telling her how much we all miss her and begging her to comeback. each time it feels real. each time i wake up feeling bereft all over again.

i walk around the day after the dreams noticing her favourite things, noticing things that relate to her, each one feels painful. each one feels like a knife in the stomach and yet i carry on, keeping it to myself because i'm not sure other people would understand.

grief, it's complex.