The dog.

Depression. The black dog right? Erm, no. Have you ever met a dog – regardless of its colour. Sorry Churchill, dogs are the worst analogy for depression in the world. Dogs are fun, they’re full of life, full of love, happy, cute, enthusiastic, outgoing – Dogs are not depression.

Depression is different. It’s hard to explain, but if you’ve ever been there, you know and you don’t forget. Depression is not a feeling. It’s a place. A place where no one ever wanders, you’re just there, and although there’s millions of other people wandering there at the same time, you are alone…so fucking alone.

It’s difficult to describe the place, but is dark. Not like 4pm in December, cosy up on the couch dark – Black. But not your favourite pair of black jeans black, a different black – buried alive black. It’s weighted, not like an endorphin filled workout, not like a bit of holiday timber, painfully weighted, lying on the floor with 200 bricks on your chest combined with a lead helmet and chain mail suit – that feeling constantly. It’s slow, like bleeding to death. Constantly trying to apply enough pressure to stem the blood, but as you do, new wounds just keep appearing. It’s hopeless – and not in a Sandra Dee devoted to you way. No. Hope. And as much as those around you say that you’re going to get through it, you can’t see any way at all that that is possible. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel.

That’s the place – the tunnel, except the tunnel is bricked up, at both ends, it’s filling with water and you’re in the middle, wearing your chain mail suit and lead helmet, bleeding to death, with no where to go and no one to save you. That’s the place.

Then, there’s stage two of describing depression – the feelings that that place evokes. So many feelings, that equate to just one – nothingness. Confusion – why do i feel like this? I have so much, so many people that care – why do i feel like this? I am weak. They would be better off with out me. I cannot cope. Frustration – I don’t want to feel like this, it is a stupid way to feel, I have no reason to feel like this, it’s all in my head, so I should be able to stop feeling like this. Guilt – Everyone is putting up with me, I am a burden to them, they are taking pity on me, I don’t want pity, I’m going to push them away. Loneliness – no one understands this, I don’t want anyone near me – I might rub off on them, please don’t talk to me, don’t tell me to cheer up, don’t tell me to be more positive, don’t tell me to rest. Exhaustion – a different level, it’s hard to breath, its hard to think, it’s hard to move, I am tired, but I cannot sleep, I am a zombie. Detachment – nothing is real, i’m not really me, this is a mask, I’m smiling, but I’m dying inside.

The final stage, suicidal. I’m dying on the inside, so why not just die. It will be over. No more fighting, no more exhaustion. Done. I’ve had enough of life, and that’s OK isn’t it? I’ve processed the thought ten thousand times, so it’s a choice right? I always get back to the same conclusion, so that must be the only way?  I’m going to drown anyway. I can’t breathe properly. People will get over it.

I grind my teeth until my temples are sore. I stop. And I think. 10 seconds of combat from somewhere inside. Someone has to find you, someone has to tell your family and perhaps, tomorrow will be better. I become numb, I press auto pilot, and I continue.

Having DID complicates things, sharing a body, sharing time, its depressing. And as much as having one lot of depression going on is hard, simultaneously having up to 9 cases going on at once is a different ball game. Everyone can be a different stages at once. Tee is nearly always suicidal and that’s difficult. To come home feeling OK, like the day went well, to sitting in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor 3 hours later, with no knowledge of what has happened – well, that’s depressing in itself. Depression is a cycle, that’s incredibly hard to break free from. It’s an illness and a symptom all at the same time. Depression is running at 100mph, just to stay standing still. Depression, for me, is the hardest thing to admit, I am ashamed, and I am embarrassed. But, I am depressed.

So that’s depression, a place. The tunnel is bricked up, at both ends, it’s filling with water and you’re in the middle, wearing your chain mail suit and lead helmet, bleeding to death, with no where to go and no one to save you. You feel confused, frustrated, hopeless, guilty, lonely, exhausted, detached, suicidal and numb.

Depression, is definitely not a dog.

 

I D.I.D it…

Day to day life with any mental illness is different. You have to adjust. You have to make changes – some minor, and some major. You have to consider things that other people don’t. You face difficulties, challenges, barriers. You have to battle.

Dissociative Identity Disorder is complicated, and it makes everyday life a complex combination of intricate processes. You must plan your day around the other alters, you must do things in a certain way, avoiding certain things. Every decision is contested, you never make the right choice. DID is also flooded with a tsunami of other illnesses, psychosis, anxieties, depression, PTSD, OCD, mood disorders, physical ailments – All experienced by different alters.

Like any mental illness, DID starts the second you wake up – that is of course if you’ve been to sleep, although with DID, it’s hard to tell – I can’t remember being awake all night, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You look for clues, writings, drawings, times on social media, conversations the others may have had – DID is being a detective, always. Again, that’s assuming you wake up in your bed, and don’t switch out at 3.45pm in a park, shop or pub, wondering where on earth you are, what the hell you’re wearing, and who the fuck you’re with.

DID brings natural anxiety, like having to stay close to the toilet when you have diarrhea.” I can’t go there because it’s likely to trigger and if I switch then there will be a massive drama”. You must plan your day around avoiding triggers, I must go the extra five minutes around the block rather than go past that building, I must not walk down that isle in the supermarket because of the triggering smell, I must go out between this time and this time because I’m less likely to bump into people.

There are two different types of systems in my eyes, those that communicate, and those that don’t. I’ve experienced both.  There is something called co-consciousness, in which people can hear their alters via internal dialogue. Increasing communication between alters is often the agenda for any good therapist (Bad ones go straight for integration – not cool), however it’s an incredibly difficult process, particularly for systems in which the alters don’t get on. Why would you want to communicate with someone you detest. No thanks. I’ve had co-consciousness before, for 8 years, full on noise, commentary on every single thing in your life, constant bullying, insults, hatred – no peace, ever. It was in hospital, in 2015, that this stopped, completely. I missed it at first, then I got used to the quiet. Apparently, it’s a step backwards, but I’m reluctant to get it back. I get the odd sentence now and then, but nothing like it used to be. Of course, like any person to person relationship, there are other ways to communicate, writing, drawing, texting – body language doesn’t work as there’s only one body involved!  The main way we communicate now is through other people, therapists, nurses, family, friends.

So, exploring DID in everyday life further, well, it’s pretty difficult to do just about anything. Relaxing, with a good TV show or a book – nope, not with DID, you see, with anything that allows ‘singletons’ to switch off and daydream – well, that’s dissociation, and that is an open door for any of the others to take over. And reading, well, everyone reads at different speeds so as you’re on the first paragraph, someone else is trying to turn the page. You have to concentrate not to switch, every second of every day.

Even without full communications, there are physical feelings that occur that generally mean someone is not happy with the decision you just made – ketchup over brown sauce!? Decision making is difficult at every single level, decisions over what to wear are just as difficult as whether to immigrate to Australia or not, every decision is a massive decision – and with 9 very different people sharing the body, someone is always going to disagree.

For me, there’s two different types of switch, one fast and one slow. The fast one is often caused by unexpected triggers, it takes a matter of seconds and produces the worst headache known to humanity. The second is much slower, it can build over minutes or hours, its very irritating, like a wasp circling you, or static on a television. It brings an incredible amount of stress and anxiety, because you know it’s going to happen, you just don’t know when. Physical changes also occur when a switch happens – I know, but seriously. Pulse, breath rate, blood pressure, allergic reactions, responses to medications, side effects to medications, eye colour, accent, posture, face shape – these are all things that have been recorded, by different people at different times. Illnesses also vary between alters, experiences of psychosis, anxieties, depression, self-harm and suicidal ideations, PTSD, OCD, anger issues, mood disorders, physical ailments (such as asthma or arthritis) – are all rooted into the system

Normal day to day things like making appointments, going to work, eating a balanced diet, holding down relationships, take an incredible amount of effort to maintain. Especially, if you’re like me and hate admitting any mental illness – there’s only so many times a dental appointment can cover up a therapy visit. There’s only so many times the car can break down, because you switched before you got to work and an alter went to the park.There’s only so many times you can skip a meal because you think someone else has eaten. There’s only so many times you can have a headache to avoid intimacy because you feel like someone else is present.

So, to reiterate, DID makes everything hard, it’s a constant war of different battles. For me it’s a debilitating illness. I hate it. Occasionally, it’s hilarious, some of the situations you end up in make you step back and think, having DID is the only way in the world this scenario could be possible. Day to day life is difficult and exhausting.

But it’s life. It’s DID. It’s them. It’s me.

 

 

The E’s.

Living each day with any mental health condition is tough. Different versions of tough, but tough nonetheless. There’s two significant differences between people with mental health conditions, and other people. The definition of two words, effort and exhaustion.

If you’re here because of your mental health, the word effort is enough to fill your lungs with dread. Watching a ‘normal’ person go into a shop to buy a can of coke and reappear like nothing happened, seeing them post pictures on social media of their super productive day, knowing that they’ve watched an entire box set.

How? How do they do that?

Effort is constantly challenged by people who don’t understand. Why don’t you get dressed? Why don’t you go for a walk? You’re not helping yourself. Make an effort.

Just Stop. Seriously, stop.

It’s not that I didn’t make an effort to get dressed, I didn’t not leave the house on purpose, it wasn’t my intention to do nothing today. But I did something. It used up every ounce of effort I had in my body. I fucking breathed. Over and over again, I breathed. And I’m still breathing right now.

Effort is so different in my world. I am making an effort every second, not to switch, not to burden you, not to cry. I’m making an effort to stay out of hospital. I’m making an effort to live.

Yes, sometimes I do what you do, in fact, I completely over compensate. I take on far too much to prove that my mental illness will not get the better of me. It does. Always. To do what you do, I put in one hundred times the effort. Going to the shop for an hour – takes the whole day out. A stroll around the park resembles Everest. Having a conversation is like a job interview. Putting in effort is part of the deal. You have to accept that it takes more than it should. That the smallest thing could leave you exhausted.

 

Exhaustion is another word completely misunderstood. When I say ‘I’m tired’, that is not to be met with, “maybe you should get an early night”. Tired means something different. Its half of the sentence. A shortened version of, “I’m tired of being ill, I’m tired of battling, I’m tired of living”.

Putting in so much effort, leaves you exhausted. You begin to notice every breath because you’re having to concentrate on taking it. An hour in a shop leaves you dead on your feet, and not in that common turn of phrase way, no, in an, I actually feel dead, way- I can’t function, I can’t hear you, I can’t process what you’re saying – my eyes are glassy and my pulse is nil.

Exhaustion takes many forms, physically, emotional, mentally. It’s the hardest one to deal with. Exhaustion makes everything worse. It saps your energy, you have nothing left to give, no motivation. Exhaustion is painful. It’s tension, everywhere. From my head, to the tip of my toes. And I can’t relax, I can’t switch off, I’m not even sure what that feels like anymore. My mind is active always, processing things that I shouldn’t even notice; calculating, counting, conspiring. Sleep isn’t the answer for exhaustion, it doesn’t help, it merely adds a separation between one day of exhaustion and the next. Some days I have no sleep, sometimes I go weeks without sleep, some days I sleep all day. It makes no difference. Time has no bearing on exhaustion, I am just as tired at 8am as 8pm. I sleep at night only because that’s when society says I should.  I am tired.

Having DID complicates it even further. Just because the mind isn’t conscious, doesn’t mean the body isn’t still active. Imagine if when you thought you were asleep, you’d been to the gym all night, imagine the exhaustion. Imagine sharing a car with eight people, and you squabble over who’s using it, every second of everyday, imagine the exhaustion. Imagine trying to steer your life in the direction you want to go in, and someone decides to push you back to the start every day, imagine the exhaustion.

I’m always tired. I’m always exhausted. I was exhausted this time last year and last month. I was exhausted yesterday, and the day before.  I’m exhausted right now.

Maybe I should make an effort and get some sleep. That’ll solve it, right?

 

 

Summertime Sadness. (TW)

I hate summer, well, the combination of heat and sun, which I guess in the UK could be any part of the year. But in winter, the days are shorter, which means a shorter battle with my own mind and it means I can use “it’s dark” as a viable excuse to be in my pyjamas, under a duvet, shutting out the world.

In summer, I have an issue. Sleeves. If you’ve stumbled across this blog because of your personal mental health journey, then you already know what I mean. If not, sleeves cover things – scars. Not just any scars, scars that have big stigmatised arrows that say, I have a mental health issue; I’ve been so low, that I’ve cut my own body just to feel something different. I’ve been so low, that I needed to find a way to show people how much I’m hurting, because I can’t verbalise it. I’ve been so low, that I’ve slashed my own wrists in an attempt to end my life.

Scars, in different places, of different colours, a literal timeline of how bad things have been over the years. Yes, as all the romanticising internet pictures say, scars remind you that you survived, but they remind you more of the desperate place you were in at that time. You spend your entire present, trying to cover the past. Long sleeves in all weathers, sometimes with a bobble, bracelet or watch on the end, to stop it riding up. And as it’s always covered, it’s the one part of your body that doesn’t tan, practically highlighting what you’re trying to cover, because it’s now also a different colour to the rest of your body – And if you expose scars to the sun, you burn, instantly. Bandages or supports, and the excuse that you’ve sprained your wrist is always a favorite of mine on holiday. Carrying a coat or bag draped over your arm is always an option for a short dash. Foundation and make up also a valid cover up for small scars.

Some people, like me, have mastered the art of covering up. Some people don’t mind showing their scars. Each to their own. In hospital, scars are part of the norm, and you never flinch. You see scars, and you empathise, you don’t judge. In society, that acceptance isn’t quite as prominent, people stare, people judge, and there is nothing more soul destroying than catching someone looking at your scars.  Sadly scars are teetering on the edge of becoming a trend. They are so, not cool. And the fact they are being made romantic is so detrimental and disheartening to those who are really suffering.

So, self harming with regards to having DID. Well, my wrist is covered in scars, and I’ve never cut myself. Switching back with slashes on your wrist, bruises on your neck and blood everywhere is terrifying. Tee is a prolific self-harmer, in many, many ways. Having scars that you have no recollection of causing is a difficult thing, her actions affect my life, my body. My arm has little feeling left and every time I get undressed, I’m reminded of the pain. It creates resentment. It feeds my embarrassment. It’s a physical sign of mental illness, something which I’m terrible at admitting.

Some scars fade, others, for life. Hypocritically, I advise you to use your scars to remember how tough it’s been, how dark it has been. Use them to help you appreciate the sun.

I’m just going to wait for winter.