A problem

How do we solve a problem like Ma-ri-a?

Short of packing me off to a strange family in Vienna, I do not know. I'm not a nun either so I can't rely on my sisterhood to straighten me out and throw me back in to the arms of God. In fact, I'm probably a sinner, but we'll leave that topic until I'm getting deluded about purgatory again.

I am a problem.
And in the words of Fiona Apple "I'm a mess, he don't wanna clean up" - he being the system, people, anyone.

Again and again, I'm told it's all in my head and that if I really wanted to be getting better, I'd be better already. In the words of Stephanie Tanner (Full House) 'HOW RUDE.' I perhaps have been binge watching Full House on Netflix opposed to opening the curtains, speaking to people or eating any kind of nutritious diet. I have my reasons.

My new care coordinator has enforced what feels like a very cruel regime of getting every mental health professional I come into contact with to robotically repeat the words 'Have you looked at your Wellness Recovery Action Plan?' and refusing to acknowledge anything else. It's great fun. They get their ego stroked by having the power to make me feel two inches tall and I get more and more dissuaded from reaching out for support.

I'm waiting for the moment all my friends start echoing 'but have you tried leaving the house?' or 'how about turning it off and switching it back on again?'. I'm scared they're going to jump on the bandwagon and start critiquing my every move.

I rang to ask for support on Friday after a full day of no sleep and emotional reunions with friends. On my mind all day had been how I just wanted to stop; everything. So when I got home I rang them and they said 'well obviously you're not trying because it's silent around you', sorry Miss are you trying to help or catch me out? It was silent around me as at 8pm I had just got home from being busy since 5am. Surely that's enough for anyone, let alone someone running on zero sleep in the midst of a crisis? Nope, it never is.

I had tried to nap, but when I spoke to my care coordinator I was told to 'get out of (my) bed of sadness'.
What?! I have only been here for twenty minutes. Am I not allowed to try and rest? No, not trying hard enough again.

In fact, it actually turns out when I reach out for support I'm wrong. So I don't. Oh, but wait a minute, I'm not compliant if I don't, if I'm seen as not engaging that's even worse. So correct me if I am wrong, but I am meant to be totally self-sufficient until I'm in crisis, then I'm told 'I need to ask for support' OH BUT WAIT THERE'S A CATCH! It's also wrong to ask for support, acute services can't help me, I have 'felt the full weight of what services have to offer and it doesn't help' so if I'm feeling suicidal and have active suicide plans I'm effectively sent home to fester.

They call it 'positive risk taking' and OH BOY am I so glad they do it, because of course this 'positive risk taking' hasn't put my life in imminent risk twice in as many months. So it's kind of a watch it and wait approach, they'll watch me and wait until I either get better on my own or die. I think if I die they might step in, but then they'd probably have to for the inquest.

Currently I'm festering, the noose in my bedroom has become a friendly face. The clothes, rubbish and old food on the floor and everywhere I have decided to take a similar approach to. I'm going out watch it and wait for it to clear itself up, if services have taught me anything it's that every mess will clean itself up if tackled with enough hostility.

Everything smells like tar, seen as I've single handedly turned my room into a Parisian smoking room. If only my dealer would get back to me I could upgrade to Amsterdam café.

Emotionally, I think I'm dead. There's nothing left in me to feel. I've accepted my fate and I'm on schedule with my plans, to hopefully *fingers crossed* be dead by Christmas, though honestly I might drag it out to New Year's. We'll see.

I'm all done with being rejected by the services meant to be supporting me. I've learned my lesson, that if I'm going to kill myself it's best to just sit and ignore me. I promised myself that if I reached out for support again and got rejected I'd just let things take whatever course they're going to.

After all I can't win either way, and I'm not going to get any better. I've been told time and time again, it's my job to improve things. But without hope, I guess it's down to me to make things better in the limited options I have, the most favourable (and only option beside suffering endlessly) being death.

Well, that's a light note to end on. Byeeee!

How to manage a Scrooge

Hello, hi chaps.

My brain is being really nasty tonight and no amount of crafting the words 'cunt', 'wanker' or 'I hate you' is pacifying it. Honestly, I made a bracelet, moisturised my hands, watched TV,  made a cup of tea, wrote letters to people I'm angry at AND MORE. Even the crisis team would have a hard time arguing with that dedication, nonetheless my brain or whatever has infested it is still beating me up.

So I thought I would write this post, seen as the dreaded Christmastime is drawing closer day by day.

For the purpose of this post, my definition of a 'Scrooge' is someone who goes silent when Christmas is mentioned. Typically, they're the people found ordering presents online to 'get it over with'. They don't want to walk round the shops, carols chiming in their ears as everything glitters and sparkles.

The people I am referring to are the people who find Christmas an immensely painful and draining time of year emotionally. They want to curl up and hide until the season has passed.

I'll hold my hands up, this is me. 👐

Christmas and New Year can be truly exhausting for people with mental health problems for a number of reasons. This could be, but is not limited to:

-the time of year may have traumatic experiences tied to it
-the pressure of having a 'HAPPY CHRISTMAS' and again a 'HAPPY NEW YEAR' can feel too much
-the person may not have anywhere to go for the festivities and as a result be a very lonely time of year
-families can be cunts
-there may be pressure to spend time with abusers, people who aren't supportive, people whose presence is harmful to the individual etc.
-financial stressors (let's be honest, everyone feels this burden this time of year but for some it can feel deeply shameful, embarrassing or depressing)
-cultural/religious differences, REMEMBER NOT EVERYONE CELEBRATES!

So here's some handy hints on how to help your much loved Scrooge this Christmas.

1. Let your Scrooge lead conversations about the festivities, by this I mean please don't bring it up unless Scrooge does. Christmas is everywhere, sparkly reminders of sadness are everywhere. Pushy emails telling us to HURRY UP AND BUY OUR LOVED ONES PRESENTS fill our inbox. It's in every shop. Allow your Scrooge the space to get away from it for a while, offer your Scrooge that safe space to talk. If Scroogie wants to talk about Christmas, EXCELLENT, but let them lead it.

2. Don't tell your Scrooge to 'get in the spirit' or any other meaningless drivel. It will hurt Scrooge's feelings and be incredibly invalidating. You don't know people's reasons unless they tell you, how do you know you're not telling a sexual violence survivor to essentially cheer the fuck up or a widow to 'just not think about it'?

3. Please (honestly, PLEASE) don't talk about all the exciting things you're going to be doing unless a)Scrooge has asked or b)you're inviting Scrooge to be part of the fun. Christmas is so lonely for some of us, we don't want to hear about how loving and special your family are, we want to feel included in the 'magic'.

4. Help your Scrooge plan in advance how to get through the season safely. This can include helping Scrooge work out safe plans for Christmas day and New Year's. This may mean for some of us simply not celebrating, celebrating on a different day, having engaging activities in place, helping create budgets or to do lists, having crisis plans at hand and friends ready to help. Scrooge will love you more for your support than for any present you can buy.

5. Asking Scrooge directly about whether they want to be included on Christmas card lists or whether they want to receive presents etc. Please understand that we appreciate your kindness, but sometimes total avoidance is easier. It can also be difficult to have surprises sprung upon us, so only do that sort of thing if you're sure that's okay with your dearly loved Scrooge.

6. Enjoy yourself and be merry. More than anything we want to see you enjoy yourselves.

7. Finally, please remember we weren't born conditioned to hate Christmas. I'm sure many of us can think back to happier times, many of us are determined to make it a positive experience once again. Just accept where we are with that right now and buy us kittens (kittens are optional).

So that about wraps that up, excuse the pun. I'll add to this list if anything else comes to mind.

To all my fellow Scrooges, take care and look out for my post because I intend to make a more in depth coping techniques post at some point.

Take care friends xx

Thoughts

I’m a virus.

A plague to the system.

Something to be dissected, analysed and treated.

I’ve grown weaker and weaker.

Yet untreatable.

I remain a problem.

Like a child sat on the naughty step, being conditioned to behave as they tell me.

If I act out, they’ll ignore me.

If they ignore me long enough maybe I’ll cure myself.

Maybe I’ll grow tired of my stupid games.

Maybe I’ll learn to be an adult,

and learn to view the world like one.

I’ll stop rolling the dice playing suicide

and learn to curl up and die on my own.

I’ll stop using my imagination.

I’ll look at cold, hard facts.

Stop holding on to hope.

Like a child flying a kite.

I’ll watch it slip through my fingers,

and tell them I couldn’t hold on anymore.

It was unavoidable.

Like all those tragic suicides in the headlines.

THEY COULDN’T HAVE DONE MORE.

UNAVOIDABLE.

My parents can’t afford a funeral.

So maybe I’ll die at sea,

sink down and let the waves roll over me.

Maybe they’ll disown me,

let the state dig my grave.

They couldn’t clean up their mess before,

so let the state pay.

If they ignore me long enough I’ll learn never to speak.

I know they see me as a manipulator,

my dialect of depression and suicide just a tool in my trade.

Dirty, dirty words.
Attention seeker.
What is wrong with me?

My voice keeps hammering,
crafting to the same tune.
I WANT TO DIE.

“Okay, so that’s today, last week, last month, last year?
Is there anything actually new dear?”

It’s not enough.

S.O.S.

Send help,

save me.

Look at me,

pathetic baby.

Crying over the same thing again and again.

I’m shouting, I’m screaming.

Pinch me,
am I dreaming?

I don’t know what’s worse,

the nightmares or breathing.

Real life feels like a dream,

but the dreams have me screaming.

But what do I want?

Because it isn’t their attention.

I’m sad, did I mention?

I’m just looking for a way to not be.

They fill me with lies and truths I can’t bear to hear.

I don’t really want to die.

I just want to make a mess somebody else will clear up.

It’s just who I’ve grown to be.

Are they right?

Am I an awful person?

I never wanted their attention.

I’m trying to clear it up,
I’m bleaching the tiles in my mind’s bathroom.
There’s blood on the walls and vomit in the sink.

I thought it was the mess I made,

but the walls are bleeding.

Shit, there’s even blood dripping from the ceiling.

The. Walls. Are. Screaming.

I don’t even know how my heart is still beating.

Their words, they chase me.

Am I still breathing?

I open the medicine cabinet and I take everything I find.

‘This time, the choice is mine’.




Don't worry it's a metaphor.

dear friends

dear friends,

please know that i'm trying.
please forgive me when i lie to you because the pull of my mind is greater than my loyalty.
it's a cruel brain to live in when suicide is more comforting than friends.

if i cancel a plan it's not because i don't want to see you, it's because today just existing is taking every ounce of energy.
but also,
i can't bring the hurricane to you when i am circling the eye of the storm.
when things are so bad, it's easier to suffer alone because i am so scared of pulling you in.

i'm sorry i bring my chaos to you,
i'm sorry i'm not grateful when you coax me away from the edge of a building
or that i don't recognise you when i wake up covered in wires.
i hope one day i will be grateful, because i don't want your efforts to be in vain.

there's just rain,
rain, rain, rain.
and my god it's been raining for a while now i'm just sorry the clouds are still grey.
when i know so badly you want to see summer in me.

i know you feel frustrated, scared,
maybe even resigned.
i notice everything you do and i'm sorry if you don't think i do.
it's just so hard to say 'thank you' and admitting just how much i have taken,
feeling forever a burden.

i never wanted to be like this
and i am telling myself daily that if i owe it to anyone,
i owe it to you.

so i'm trying to be better,
because i'm tired of breaking hearts.
my friends are the glue that fix the broken parts.

i know you don't want to hear this,
but right now i'm so unsure.
if i do leave you,
please know that i never meant to break you anymore.

so i'm sorry if you're crying,
but i know and knew when i had nothing else i always had you.

let's hope there's rainbows soon,

all my love

sophie xxx

25/9/17

writing would insinuate that i have some kind of idea as to what i am writing, but the thing is, i don't.

i have realised for every thought in my brain there are five other thoughts to explain it. five other explanations for every single thing. 

it's very confusing.

so i got sectioned today and honestly i could have avoided it. i could have just told them i'd work with them in the community, give them the medication i have been stashing and they could have gone on their merry way. 

but i couldn't and they quite rightly said that if i can't engage there was no point me seeing them. it wasn't that i couldn't engage, in my head i was engaging. 

i can't and won't let myself be fooled again. 

one small person desperately begging to be acknowledged, one larger person telling them 'no, not this time'. 

now i worry that dignitas won't see me because i got sectioned. but i figured that is okay, because it's only a section two and i can be very selective with what medical information i send them. 

i should be at home now, dying. i think i would have done it sooner if only the codeine wasn't mixed with paracetamollllll. 

anyway, last night this voice spoke to me, she sounded so young and timid and she asked me

"where is sophie?" 

"i miss her"

and i couldn't answer that because the person she was referring to wasn't me. 

the staff have kept me on eyesight. i didn't say i wanted to be, nor did i communicate anything that would suggest they should. i was just honest.

they keep staring at me, what are they staring at? where is sophie?

i miss her

thye keep telling me to go to bed but there is something i am looking for first.

the worms stopped moving & the coral reef in the garden went. 

the more i think about it, the more sad i am. not in an intense 'i am going to fling myself from a building immediately' kind of way, but that i have looked at the email from dignitas sat in my inbox for a couple days umming and ahhing over what to do and tonight i decided to sign the document to be a member.

i do what i'm supposed to, i keep up appearances as i was always taught to. the same way you'd sign your name on the dotted line without really knowing what the terms and conditions say because it'll get you out of whatever situation you're in quicker, i say and act as i am supposed to to ease the discomfort felt by those around me (and probably to avoid feeling vulnerable). maybe this was always part of my role as The Abused Child™, managing those around me's emotions by suppressing my own needs. 

outwardly i'm functioning, inwardly i know i just dodged a hospital admission last week and i know i've stopped looking when i cross the road, again.

people want me to be okay - and so i am.

but let's be honest, it's a lot easier being 'okay' and 'getting over it' in a society that demonises people with mental health conditions more complex than depression or anxiety. the idea of starting uni as 'the mental one' really doesn't appeal and so i push myself to say and do the things expected of me so i can pass as normal and try to dodge the stigma that being mentally ill comes with.

i walked on to uni today, not excited, just numb. doing what i'm supposed to. freshers events start tonight and i'm sat staring at my bed wondering what time is acceptable to crawl into it, wanting never to emerge again. alas i will, i'll get up tomorrow and do everything i'm supposed to and act as if everything is fine. i'm a really good actress.

21st jan 2014

i spend most of my evenings crying these days, 

stuck in the diagnostic self-destructive ways. 

i know a happiness, it's just gone for now,

rainy days and rainy cheeks, sadness we won't allow. 

brighter days are to come,

equally is sadness and a lot of rum. 

piña colada, my favourite drink

for every season i'm on the brink. 

cut me, tear me, break a bone.

someone hold me, i am so alone. 

6th feb 2017

when people ask me how i am i lie, it's almost a habit now.
every time i feel the pain in my cheeks when i twist my face into a smile when it doesn't want to smile at all.
how do i tell you?

when the professionals ask if i have any thoughts of suicide and i say
'some' and i smile it off as if there's a hope inside that carries me.
please ask me
'any thoughts of living?'
and i'll say 'none'.
i'll still laugh it off because i am the punchline.
but they don't ask,
so how do i tell you?

when they say
'what's wrong?'
but nothing is wrong
and nothing is right.
i just bury this guilt deep inside.
guilt that i shouldn't be alive and every day i am feels like a knife in your back.
a knife in her back.
how do i tell you who she is?

when people ask me to stay safe for others, to stay safe with others
AND I DON'T WANT TO.
but i am really trying.

how do i tell you that i hate every moment pretending?

5th feb 2017

it's dark inside my head when i think of you;

not in a good way. 

never in a good way.

your hands are on me, 

they are acid and i am alkali.

'stop it, you're hurting me!' i beg,

but you're a young, white male™

an your cologne smells like privilege. 

you don't pander to beggars, 

you never have.

and so, no, you do not stop.

my skin is burning under your touch

and i am supposed to enjoy it?!

i am supposed to enjoy it.

i close my eyes and press on my eyelids 

until my optic nerve responds with kaleidoscopic distractions.

i don't know how else to get you out of my mind.

the sirens sound

i panic.

i am running.

faster! faster!

ESCAPE.

beads of salty terror run down my forehead 

into my eyes.

burning like your touch.

i stop,

look around to see where everyone has hidden.

but they are not hiding 

and there were no sirens.

my heart is tachy,

just like your charm,

just like your pimpled fucking face.

i thank my body for protecting me,

today there is no danger.

you are not here.

just in nightmares.

just in moments i give myself to anyone who will have me.

you took my autonomy, 

i'm easy, a slut,

absolutely gagging for it.

gagging for peace of mind.

4th august 2012

lost words so sincere,
being silenced: her biggest fear.

light so bright
she closed her eyes,
everyone else is
full of lies.

tell her to reach out,
to try to touch it.
hopelessness she feels
she masks.

light is hope
hope she doesn't want.
hope is life,
life makes her scared.

'touch it, feel it, try it' they dared.

and so she did.
and so she fell.

so fast,
so swift,
so smooth.

opened her,
found no one to soothe.

silent screams,
her biggest fear.
her last words so sincere.

15th feb 2013

suffocated, voiceless,
scared and restless.
words unspoken,
still so broken.

warmth and kindness won't thaw a stone heart.
pretend princess,
insides torn apart.

blood from the thorn
of her cruel, thistle crown.
remind why it must be worn,
take if off and she will d
                                       r
                                         o
                                           w
                                             n.

scars remind her,
the world is vast.
searching for an answer,
still haunted by the past.                                    

dear s.p.

5th august 2012

sylvia plath,

you wrote with a math we fools don't comprehend.

wise thoughts i shall lend

from you,

to understand

the darkness

embracing your one man band.

no grace, grace-less?

no faith, faith-less?

no hope, hopeless?

did you reach

or were you holding in

the all consuming black din?

in those lines

in your fine rhymes.

every syllable packed

decades passed, still attacked

by many a fine literaturist.

cinder bones but you exist,

still.

sharp words so bitter on the tongue

unravelling for meaning:

articulate yarn undone. 

10th feb 2017

there are going to be some days where my pain is really bad,
there are going to be some days where my brain is really sad
and i need you to tell me.

tell me pain is transient,
tell me sadness will wash away.
tell me my mind is an ocean,
sometimes stormy on a cold winter's day.

tell me painkillers soothe
and that blankets comfort.
tell me good times may run dry.
but that it still rains in the desert.

tell me the world is vast,
but that i'm going to explore it.
tell me even great people have a past
and that no one will make me ignore it.

i miss you so much.

i've been home a week now, things are 'stabilising'.

in the dark hours it's easy to forget that there's any progress at all. the nights feel so empty and cold. my thoughts are writing, rewriting, spinning a web of words that move so fast i can barely acknowledge them before they've left. my thoughts are a quill, scratching and scribbling wildly in the air, they disappear just as fast as they have formed.

my brain writes poetry faster than my heart beats, but the words bleed out of me faster than my brain can clot them.

i want to cry.
i don't really want to cry, but i really want to cry.

i watched final destination and it's sequels. i'm too scared to stand in puddles now, too frightened to hold a butter knife on the off chance i slip and jam it in a plug socket.

i had a shower earlier, my shower ghost came.
i heard them banging on the door, shouting 'ITS THE POLICE' and i thought 'oh god what have they got to tell me?' and i remembered she's already dead. it wasn't the police, it was no one at all. as i sat on the floor shaving my legs i told myself

"it's not real, it's not real, it's not real, it's not real, it's not real."

i thought how nice it would be, if it was the police knocking on my door asking me if i had seen her, because at least when she was running she was alive and she found her way home.

nearly every week since i found she was gone i thought how fucking wrong movies are, when the white middle class woman finds out her child or her husband has died and she screams.
NOOOOOOOOOOO.

because death isn't that dramatic, but at the same time it's worse.

i remember waking up to a message from her mum and i read it and i just couldn't take it in. i thought 'no, this isn't how it works' because i wasn't screaming, i wasn't exploding; i was struggling to breathe, imploding.

it wasn't delicate like a movie scene, i was ugly crying, whaling at the top of my lungs feeling so, so distressed but at the same time completely removed. because she can't be dead, because things are going to get better for her.

the image of myself from the outside that day, a birds eye view, reverberates within my chest. i was never taught that people can die so young, nor was i taught that not everyone gets better. i was never taught how to cry delicately or how to mourn.

often i feel like i'm not entitled to feel so bereft, so crushingly devastated that she's gone.
because in our conversations years before she told me she was afraid,
'what if the only way out is, you know...'
and she meant suicide.

for goodness sake sophie why didn't you fucking hear her. 
she was telling you she was afraid.

i remember one night she messaged me, a message so sweet it frightened me half to death because no one is ever that sweet intending to stick around. i remember ringing her, trying to subtly ask what she had done and as she told me i thought

'no. no. no. this isn't for you, you do not deserve this. stuff like that is reserved for people like me'. 

and she sounded so resigned, she just didn't care.


i wish i had told her that i never minded her ringing me up night or day, i wish i had told her that i would talk to the police everyday if it meant she was okay. i wish she had heard the conversations i had with the police and how every time i'd despair, not through any kind of anger, but through that heart dropping helpless feeling. i wish she knew how many times i had cried wondering where my friend was, because the thought of being without her was just too terrifying.

it's weird, i remember when the police asked me where i thought you'd be and they'd find you and you'd say to me:

'how did you know?!'

and i'd say 'just a hunch'.

that just a hunch told me you were gone that day, that just a hunch knew. that just a hunch has served it's purpose now, i don't want anymore hunches.

i miss you so much.

oops i did it again

-title courtesy of britney.

'oops i did it again' referring to the fact that again i was admitted to hospital.

• um, 10th time lucky?

last week i was plagued by confusion, the type of confusion i can't even begin to explain. in fact, i am trying to explain it but my night meds are fogging my brain right now. 

i felt really confused when the crisis team suggested admission. i mean i know i had been hysterically crying down the phone to them about how i didn't want my niece to have to be told that her auntie had killed herself. but what this really necessary? i know i was actively trying to kill myself more than i was trying to live, but i was trying to live.

ever to believe in fate, i was actually trying to hang myself as the crisis team called to tell me they had found a bed. as in, they called as my face was turning blue and as my eyelids were getting heavier after i'd told myself that i wasn't going to stop this time. 

before my friend drove me to the ward i made a comment about how i wasn't looking forward to being admitted as i didn't want to be on constant obs to begin with - as is protocol. oh THE IRONY.

i kindly asked the doctor to take me off obs and low and behold the bugger not only kept me on obs, but kept me on bloody eyesight. 

~~for people who aren't ward wise: there are different levels of observation that are decided on a person's risk & presentation. these tend to be on a scale of 'so-fucking-close-that-if-you-try-to-move-inappropriately-the-alarms-will-be-pulled' (arms length), then 'every move you make, every step you take, we'll be watching you' (eyesight) then it's '15s' and maybe they have every 30 mins, but after that it goes to 'general obs' which most patients are on which is hourly checks. ~~

eyesight obs are very uncomfortable, peeing with the door open kind of uncomfortable, having someone sat watching you from the door as you sleep kind of uncomfortable.

it felt like as soon as i got to the ward i just stopped. all this energy it had taken to just be existing just drained right out of me and i was just staring and crying in different places on the ward. so needless to say, monday was crap and tuesday followed the same tune. when i got off eyesight obs i looked at myself in the mirror and thought to myself 'wow, i'd probably have kept me on eyesight too'. my eyes were sunken and dark from 2/3 days of minimum food & fluid intake, my hair was greasy as fuck and i just generally looked dishevelled.

today, wednesday, i woke up and i had the fucking sensational feeling of it BEING A FUCKING GOOD DAY. which was an immense relief. it was a really good day. 

anyway, i'm here until tuesday & have been given a patient information leaflet on lithium to mull over. 

over and out until i have less of a sedated brain, gonna go ask a nurse for a talk ~or something like that~ because my brain is like 

1. Press the big red button
2. Do it
3. Press it already

• PRESS
• THE 
• FUCKING
• BUTTON
• ALREADY

and the big red button will not only jeopardise my life, but also jeopardise my changes of getting better because if the nurses found me doing said thing it'd be instant discharge. 

k bye 4 now

i don't trust them, i do not fucking trust them.

today i found out about a friend i have spoken to in a few year's death. this has shaken me up a bit, and honestly i won't claim it's because we were close or anything, we weren't. it's because i remember watching her in and out of hospital, frustratedly urging her to get better. urging her in my mind to stop self-harm and to see the cycles in her behaviour, my younger self lacked compassion for her situation i'll be honest.

recently what with being a psych ward yo-yo myself i had thought of her and suddenly understood a lot more than i thought i had previously. hearing the news of her death stole the breath from my lungs, it's tragic it really is. the only refuge for those left behind in the wake of suicide is that at least they are now in peace.

i remember sharing phone calls with her when i was younger, we'd planned to meet up. we spoke frequently before both going separate ways. i was always frightened that my behaviours might influence her and this is something i will carry with me even though we hadn't spoken for years.

her death not only upsets me, but confirms thoughts in my mind that i am doomed. every time someone kills themselves i compare myself to them, what is different between us? what lead this person to suicide? why am i not dead? it's not a healthy thought process i guess and it's somewhat obsessive with the amount of time i will dedicate trying differentiate between them and me.

selfish or not, in my head a death translates to 'what does this mean for me?' and i am genuinely confused.

anywho, being confused i rang my "treatment team", treatment team in inverted commas because i'm not sure how much they treat or what exactly they are treating. my care coordinator wasn't in today so instead i was passed to the duty worker (for those that don't know, each day there's an appointed clinical-ish person for dealing with enquiries, crises etcetera). usually the duty will have a chat with me and steer me to 'safety planning' *vomits* (safety planning is essentially making plans to not kill yourself).

today when they answered and i very briefly explained what i was confused about, duty put me on hold to read my notes and then said 'i don't want to engage in conversation about this over phone', something about him wanting to get the correct context. he invited me in for an appointment to discuss possibly being referred to the crisis resolution & home treatment team. he thanked me for agreeing to come in, it made it easier for them. CRHT (Can't Really Help Team) are essentially a bunch of nurses who wander round in pairs visiting people in their homes, medicating them, helping practically e.g. buying food, bringing meds. their purpose is to prevent hospital admission, but also to manage acutely high risk patients in a way more specialist  than what regular mental health teams are able to do.

i'm convinced they enjoy the job because the notable time spent travelling between patients means they have an excuse to leave very soon after they get there.

"hi, how are you?"
"terrible."
"are you going out?"
"no, too depressed."
"oh excellent! that means you're less likely to kill yourself then! byeeeeee!"

some of the staff are very friendly and compassionate, others clearly feel their time could be better spent elsewhere.

any who, so i got to the MENTAL HEALTH CENTRE which is exactly what it sounds like. a drab, grey, foul smelling building that houses pretty much every team you can think of in the east side of the city. it always smells like the patients with extremely poor hygiene. i told the receptionist i was there to see duty and they told me to go sit down in the waiting room, which may i add has every kind of fucking boring magazine marketed. Pottery Weekly anyone, Middle-aged Housewives Monthly? no? how about Tractors on a Tuesday? (these aren't real, i just made them up - accurate though).

i hear the receptionist say 'the AMHP is here' (Approved Mental Health Practitioner - someone specially trained in the mental health act, with the power to be like 'yup you're sectionable kiddo'). HA, HA, HA. WHAT. what on earth have i just walked into?

two nurses invite me into a room with eccentric chairs that are meant to be accommodating, but they literally smell like mental health act assessments. i don't trust the chairs anymore than i trust the nurses.

nurse 1 starts: 'so what's brought you in today?'
me to me: well clearly you have, you fucking loons. 
me to them: 'um, i don't know'
nurse 1: 'so we were reading your notes, so don't feel like you have to repeat anything because we know everything that has been going on.'
me to me: oh of course you fucking do. wait, what has been going on?
me to them: 'okay'.
nurse 1: 'we read an email you sent to your care coordinator, what are your beliefs on this now?'
me to me: beliefs? BELIEFS? do they think i'm delusional?
me to them: 'what beliefs?'
nurse 1: 'your beliefs about death, that you'd be better off dead.'
me to them: 'well i can't tell you about that because there is no good response'
nurse 1: are you scared you'll tell us you want to kill yourself and we won't react?
me to me: what the fuck hun, what are you talking about.
me to them: 'no i'm afraid that there's no good outcome. i don't know, none of this matters'.
nurse 1: 'why doesn't it matter? do you have any plans?'
me to me: it doesn't fucking matter because you're not listening, you have your own agenda.
me to them: 'no, i don't make plans. i don't like to make plans.'
nurse 1: 'that's because you only make suicide plans isn't it?'
me to me: can you fucking quit it, like are you ok hun. i don't make plans because i like to have free time to kill myself in. 
nurse 1: 'can you just confirm that you are in fact thinking about ending your life?'
me to me: what the fucking fuck has my care coordinator written in my fucking notes for these two dimwits to have brought me in here to interrogate me?
me to them: 'I DON'T KNOW, PLEASE STOP THIS.'
nurse 1: 'what lead you to reaching out today?' 
me to them: what

thankfully, someone knocked the door and invited interrogating lady out of the room.

nurse 2: 'so.... how was your bus journey?'
me to me: clutching at straws clearly
me to him: average.

interrogation nurse 1 reenters and informs me the Can't Really Help Team will indeed take me and asks whether i'd rather they go to my home address or whether i'd like to see them at the local psychiatric hospital. hahhahahaha. these idiots.

i think it was at that point i said i didn't want home treatment then got up and left.

i left feeling really riled up and honestly quite scared, the duty worker hadn't even spoken to me for five minutes on the phone and then i'd been cornered in a room with two nurses. one asking whether i was eating, taking my medication, drinking etcetera and then trying to force words into my mouth whilst forcing the CRHT on me.

i found out a few hours after i'd left the appointment that the referral had gone ahead and they're visiting tomorrow at 10am. excellent, what for?

on the way home i felt so angry and scared, i was meant to pick up meds but i couldn't sit still in the pharmacy. there were a lot of Normans™ out. Normans™ are a special brand of people that could easily be robots they look so generic and they're always doing generally peopley things and they just scare me because they always fucking look at me. they could easily be government programmed trained robots watching 'people of interest'. scary.

most importantly, thoughts to the deceased. rest in peace SP, in many peoples hearts and memories you will remain xxx

sunday evening was bleak, i had shared a couple of my posts and then gone on to write a very sincere suicide note which has remained unpublished. i tell you, i wanted to post it so bad but i realised if i did then i was cutting strings. that suicide note would speak untold truths about myself, things i couldn't leave the world without saying, things i would feel bad not saying before going and as long as i don't publicly share it i have a reason to stay.

honestly though, it wasn't me clinging to life that prevented me posting it and throwing myself in front of a train. it was the fact that if i posted it, people would worry and when you're planning to kill yourself, worrying people is very low on the list of desires.

side note: apologies if i often talk about violent things quite casually, it's quite deliberate because if you find my writing disturbing, i believe it'll make you think about what it's like to co-exist in my/anyone else's brain with these thoughts and images. 

in my experience, people like to be as far removed from pain as possible, it's the 'how are you?'s which aren't really a question, it's just on the conscience-appeasing tick list along with the 'well i'll be here if you need me's which aren't followed through. people don't like pain because it demands attention and for the most part, how on earth do you react to it?

that's rhetorical, i don't even know how to answer that, although i wish i did.

any who, back to the point, sunday was bleak. i fell asleep on monday at 7am. by the time i had woken up at 9am for my care coordinator's visit i was simply too tired to kill myself. excuses, excuses. 
instead, for reasons i can't remember i decided to pick a fruitless battle with my care coordinator to leave me alone and discharge me.

it's probably worth noting that over the weekend i had decreased my medication and by sunday had decided i didn't need it at all. AND HONESTLY I WISH I WOULD JUST LEARN MY LESSON BECAUSE WHENEVER I START PLAYING WITH MY MEDS I TURN INTO A RIGHT NEUROTIC FRUITCAKE.

to quote myself in an email of idiocy to my care coordinator:

"To recover I would need to be unwell in the first place, which is arguable because there's no categorical proof that any state of mind is preferable over another. There is no proof and will never be proof that I'm the irrational one and everyone else is rational, its just as possible that it is in fact the opposite and in which case, how could I trust anyone?"

"It's just as possible that the symptoms that are 'treated' are things which on a higher level may be beneficial to my survival. It could all be an elaborate plan to disarm me to control me. How can I trust other people's judgement when I can't verify their intent? And I won't ever be able to do that because there's no way of being able to look inside someone's mind at their intentions."

sorry sophie, what?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

i give myself a bloody headache. 

so monday i spent obsessing, and i really mean obsessing, over the fact that nothing was straight forward and everything was complicated and that the sun might be the moon and the moon might be the sun and the sun might swallow people whole because nothing makes sense and i wonder if daffodils can feel when people tear them from the ground and i wonder where the pied piper put all those children and really, really can we come to some conclusion that NOTHING MAKES SENSE. AAAAAAAAAGHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

i blame philosophy, that shit really fucks with my head ...or it might just be racing thoughts because i get them too. by tuesday i was feeling less loopy and decided to start taking my meds again and to ask my care coordinator to ignore my previous email.

wednesday was characterised by

"OH MY GOD I AM BETTER NOW, I AM BETTER, I AM BETTER I NEED. TO. DO. SOMETHING! anything, SOMETHING, ANYTHING."

and so far thursday's been a bit of 'oh wOw i feel vulnerable.' followed by me making a cup of tea, drinking said cup of tea and thinking 'oh Yes, that's better', proceeded by 'hanG On a minute i feel really Vulnerable this isn't okay' proceeded by another cup of tea and so forth.  it probably didn't help masses that i woke up not where i was or what day it is. 

today, i've felt young, as in the kind of 'oh-crap-i-need-to-protect-myself-because-someone-is-going-hit-me-in-a-second' and the 'okay. so i'm just going to cry here on my own because there is no one around and i feel scared'. it's as if i'm six again and there's danger everywhere. i'm an overgrown child walking around in denim dungarees with toys in my pocket so that i can distract myself from my thoughts with farting pink slime or the side-to-side motion of a yellow slinky. 

however, in today i have found some kind of acceptance however fleeting it may prove to be. i feel okay in the knowledge that sometimes the line between 'bad' and 'terrible' is simply a cup of tea, it's also weirdly okay to be sad and not be killing myself - what a revelation. and actually, today whilst i was sat on my bed thinking of things i wanted to do, whilst simultaneously not wanting to do anything at all i thought 'hmm maybe i'm a bit depressed' and actually that' probably the closest i will come to admitting that i'm Not Okay™ just yet.

i should know better

what really bothers me, i mean what really fucking irks me, is that i should know better and yet i don't.

this time last year i was preparing to travel south east asia with my friend. little did i know i'd come home and spontaneously book a manic 10 day tour of europe. i was planning festivals, i was going out and seeing my friends all the time. i was selling all my stuff to follow my dream and go into nursing.

i had done my years being the chaotic teenage mess, i had scarred my body and gave my liver a run for it's money with paracetamol. i had hit the home run with stitches and a skin graft, becoming psychotic after an overdose of sleeping pills was just another story to tell the grandchildren. i knew my local CAMHS wards better than the staff, always finding a way to fight the system.

i was bored of it, i needed more and so i did the therapy. picked a goal and aimed for the stars.

i was well, i knew better.

i knew tall buildings, train tracks and pills came with a price. i hadn't self-harmed in 2 years, i hadn't overdosed in 2 years. i had been discharged from mental health services for a year and had managed without colliding into an emergency mental health act assessment. dare i say it, i was happy.

fast forward to february 2017, on my second placement as a student mental health nurse. i was doing it. i had crossed the line from chronically hopeless patient to chronically chirpy nursing student. when my patients stopped to ask me dumb questions, i smiled and i gave my best clinical advice and then i went to my mentor to get my pat on the back for saying the right thing.

i had been 'the enforcer' of the mental health act to my detained patients. i frowned sympathetically as my patients told me how much they hated their medication and i was that bloody person to tell them how side effects were worth it for the stability.

i took the compliments as people thanked me for my input as a group facilitator, i smiled sympathetically and pretended i was trying to understand - when i knew fucking well what it was like. i was a respected student nurse, i was also the enemy. i knew the system from a professional perspective, but also as a patient.

now, when the local acute ward nurses look at me in despair as they see i've been admitted a-fucking-gain they say 'we don't know what to do, we can't bullshit you, you've worked in this system. you know people die, you know the system doesn't work'. so rather than pretending to keep me safe, they ask me 'not to hang (myself) on the ward please because it's a lot of paperwork' and 'if i really want to kill myself, i know what i have to do'. it's not even cruel. i understand, if i am so intent on fucking dying why implicate good nurses when i can do it in my own time? if i'm going to set fire to myself, i should be polite enough not to do it on trust property.

i know setting myself on fire and the half hourly pretend hangings don't get me anywhere. i know this behaviour is exactly the thing which feeds into this fucking behaviour. i am my own worst enemy. i know smashing my head against a wall isn't going to make it stop, but bloody hell it's worth a try.

i should know better, but i don't.

because i am deliberately my own worst enemy, i hurt myself even when i don't want to because of The Rules™. because if i am not LIVING then i should be DYING and i can't give that up, it's all i have.

maybe one day i'll attempt suicide, either half heartedly or determinedly, and it will be that one time it works. one time is enough. i think of the three friends i have lost to suicide, the most recent the most devastating and in the sickest, most warped sense i idolise them because they're free. of course, i miss them dearly too, but they're free and i'm still here.

i was eight the first time i attempted suicide and wanting to be gone has been the only constant in the last fourteen years, so please forgive me. forgive me for knowing better, but doing it anyway.