The first time.

Its funny to think that everything we do now, everything that provides a fundamental corner stone to our individual sense of normality, was once the very opposite. Our comfort zones were once so small, that shuffling across the floor on your bum, was once such a milestone, that your parents eyes filled with tears. Everything you do now, you did once, for the first time. Your favorite food, you had once never tried. Your bike, you had once never ridden. Your significant other, you had once never kissed. Everything.

Its sad to think, that what I’m about to explain is now a part of my normality. My comfort zone now has infinite boundaries, I am no longer phased or shocked by what was once the most exploitative position I had ever found myself in. The events aren’t really ordered, as I was imploding all at the same time – how wonderful.

The first time I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital, I was 16. I never, ever thought it was going to happen. A few weeks before I was on coursework catch-up for GCSE geography, and then, my parents were handing me over into the care of the NHS. The first time, I was voluntary, although anybody that’s ever been assessed for a hospital admission knows that ‘voluntary’ is a loose term, it’s often followed with the sentence ”if you don’t agree to go, we may have to look at a section”, I was 16, my parents, my teachers, CAMHS – they all said I needed help, and so I went.

The first time I packed my bags, I didn’t know what to take so I just took a couple of days clothes as I thought I was only going to be there a few days for assessment. The first time I was driven to the hospital, I cried, all the way there, I begged my parents to take me home. When I got there, I dried my eyes, I didn’t want to seem weak, there was a girl stood looking out of the window, she didn’t flinch when I came in, a new arrival was a part or her normality, I was in her comfort zone. We were showed around quickly, and then my parents left. The first time I heard the words level 3, I didn’t understand, observations? Observing what? They explained that it was procedure for a new admission but unfortunately for me, it was Easter week, and the consultants, who were the only people who could reduce these observation levels, were on holiday. I was stuck on a level 3 for a week, which for the first time, was a really long time.

The first time I was followed into the bathroom, I tried to excuse myself. I was waiting for the staff member to leave the room, but they didn’t. They were…observing. I was phased.  I refused. I said I wouldn’t go for the whole week, I lasted a few hours, until it was hurting. I tried negotiation, bargaining, bartering – until I had them stood in the doorway with their back to me. I tried to wee so quietly, but half way through, I surrendered and for the first time I was consumed by the embarrassment. I had a similar battle with my first hospital shower, there was no way I was going to be watched in the shower – but it happened. My first night trying to sleep was odd, I was in a room kitted out for a person with a physical disability, so it was very spacious, there were 126 tiles on the roof. It was the first and only time that I slept in the bed. There was a member of staff sat at the door, and they changed over every hour, some talked, some didn’t. I was so lost.

The first time I met the other patients changed my life. To see people at their lowest, and to care about them then, is the most humbling experience. Everyone had a story, but we were sharing a chapter together, out paths were very different, but we were at the Junction hand in hand. Its difficult to speak about them without mentioning names, but seven years on, I’m still in touch with all of them. These young people, taught me more about life and love and understanding, than I had ever known before. On paper, we were defined by illness, disorders, suicide attempts – Practically, we were best friends, hugging each other, laughing, playing board games, causing trouble.

Over my first admission, things got worse. I got worse. At this time, I wasn’t diagnosed, I was experiencing the symptoms, but I had no idea what was wrong with me. I was loosing time and I couldn’t explain the description of the behaviours that had happened during the time. I had lost my identity. As far as I could describe, I was being possessed. I was terrified.

The first time I smuggled a razor blade in, was between the bottom piece of Velcro on my trainer, they were searched, but the Velcro was never undone. The first time I put something around my neck, it was a grey shoelace. Everything changed. There was never any going back, self harm became a part of my comfort zone, locating ligatures or things with a sharp edge consumed my day, finding places to hide them, thinking outside the box, outsmarting the staff. Each night, would be worse, pints and pints of blood, filling the shower tray, blocking the drain, – at 16 years old, I was making numerous attempts on my life every night. It became normal. My mind was killing me.

The first time I experienced restrictions was when the room was stripped bare. No curtains, no sheets, no pillows or duvets, no mattress. Clothing was kept in a locked room and was given out each day, towels were counted in and out, pockets were searched every hour. I wasn’t allowed any leave. I wasn’t allowed in the garden. I was imprisoned. The only fresh air I got was through a mesh covered window.

The first time I went AWOL, was around 7 in the evening, it was April, and it was dark. I remember being at the fence, and then the next thing I remember, I was miles away from the hospital. I phoned my dad, but I was in the country side, which for a townie like me, all looks the same, I stumbled upon a road sign and I waited there. Shortly after, for the first time, I dealt with the police.

Nowadays, the police are part of my normality, however as anyone who has encountered the police on their journey with mental health will tell you – they are exceptionally uneducated. 6 years ago, they were worse. And there was I – Never had a detention, head girl in primary school, top set all my life – In handcuffs and leg restraints being bundled into the back of a van by 9 police officers. At 16 years old, I learnt about pain compliance, and how ineffective it is to use on those experiencing mental health issues – I cut my own wrist at night – I hardly think a thumb in the back of my ear is going to solve the problem.

The first time I was sectioned, was by a nurse, it was the middle of the night and I was trying to leave. He just read rights at me, it made no difference. It wasn’t until the day after, when I was placed on my first long term section,that I realised what that meant. I no longer had any control. I was legally detained under the mental health act. I had fallen to what I thought was rock bottom.

The first time I was injected, was a fast tranquiliser in order to get me to A&E due to an overdose. I couldn’t believe that it was happening, I was being darted like something from the discovery channel. I was pinned to the floor by 6 members of staff and 4 police officers, who then proceeded to drag me into an ambulance and handcuff my legs and arms to the trolley.

Now, all of these things have happened to me hundreds of times. They progressively got worse over the many admissions.They build my normality. I am never shocked by the infinite darkness created by my mental health, the blackness can always get blacker. Six years on I can recall the sheer detail of each experience – but I bet you can’t remember the topping on your first slice of pizza.

My ‘mental’ CV

There comes a time in everyone’s life, where they have to write a CV. A Trip Advisor review of your own hotel, give yourself five stars – for everything. How are you going to make people want you?  You have to sell yourself. You have to pimp yourself out. Your entire life must fit on to no more than a page and a half. Everything you’ve ever achieved, might simply be tossed aside because they don’t like the font you’ve chosen. You’re in a race, but you can’t even weigh up the opposition, an anonymous time trail, yet falling short, could make you miss out on the job you are most perfect for, because someone else has a 200m Frosties swimming badge from 1996.

I don’t have a 200m Frosties swimming badge. But, I can swim. In fact, i’m an excellent swimmer. I can swim in ice cold grade 5 rivers in the middle of December. And that, is kind of how CV’s work.

I was predicted loads of GCSE’s, all A’s and A stars. But at 16, the only paperwork I had was a section 3 and an admission pack. I didn’t sit any of my exams. The education section of my CV is blank, and yet I have been educated, not only by school – by mental health hospitals – an entirely different curriculum – A university in it’s own right.

”I’m a very patient person” I used to play scrabble with 3 people experiencing psychosis. They didn’t understand the game, but they wanted to join in. They couldn’t spell and they added up their scores incorrectly. They made up words, and then backed each other up, whilst my absolute blinder of a seven letter word ‘was clearly made up’. We once played for about 14 minutes, before one of them flipped the board, sending a hundred tiny letters into each and every crevice of the ward, it took about three days to find them all. And then I played again.

”I am able to empathise” I once returned to the ward from a meeting with the doctor, I was in a terrible mood as it hadn’t gone well. When the door was opened, my friend was lying on the floor, sobbing. Her grandma had passed away the night before. Many staff were trying to drag her to her feet. I walked over, moved there hands off her and got down onto the floor with her. We laid there for 3 hours. We didn’t say much. We cried together.

”I am good at moving on, and don’t hold grudges” A patient once walked up to me and punched me in the face. She then proceeded to eat the painting that I had sat working on all morning. I wiped the blood from my nose, washed my brushes, and went for a nap.

”I have a good sense of humor” It is one thing to be able to laugh at funny things. It is another, to find things funny. In the depths of despair, we laughed, every day. In the darkest hours, we howled. We mixed tears of sadness, with tears of disbelief and joy. Minutes after the most horrific of suicide attempts, in restraint, in seclusion, during meds, during meal times, whilst being assaulted by other patients, with blood pouring from your wrist- We laughed. Things that I’m sure other people would simply raise an eyebrow at, we laughed, we laughed until we fell from our chairs.

”I am a strong individual” At 22 I have seen things that many people will not see in their entire lifetimes. Things that are engraved onto my brain. Things you could never imagine or believe. I once broke into my friends bedroom, right through the locked door, I knew something was wrong and nobody was moving quick enough, when I got in the room, she was purple. She was still conscious and looked me in the eyes. I knelt beside her, I said I was sorry, I used every ounce of physical strength I had, and I ripped the ligature off with my bare hands, just as the staff arrived with a knife.

”I am very compassionate” I have met people who have no one. People that don’t get visitors, the don’t get cards, people don’t bring them chocolate or grapes. People who are so alone, in the loneliest place on earth, their own mind. I have hugged these people, every single one I’ve met. I have sat, and listened to their stories, I have bought them chocolate, I have wiped tears from their faces. I have let them shout at me, I have accepted their apologies. I have been someone for people who have no one.

”I am able to maintain a professional standard” I have dragged myself out from under blankets, under tables and answered my bedroom door. I have played Rummy at 4am because it was better than watch my friend put screws into her neck. I have gone 14 days on 3 hours sleep, and still played (and won) Monopoly. I have hosted visitors from behind glass and I never shed a tear.

”I am very perceptive and I’m a quick learner” I learn about other people quickly. It’s important. It stops you getting punched. I learnt their trigger words, their tells, when they were about to launched chicken curry and rice at my face. I learnt when to give space, and when to squeeze tight. I recognised people’s bad days. I learnt to celebrate the smallest of victories, I learnt about pride, about the definitions of struggle and achievement. I learnt not to judge, ever. I learnt when to encourage, and when its ok to say, that’s enough.

”I am very determined” I battle everyday with my own mind, and I am breathing.

That is my CV. I’ve been educated in the rawest of formats. My experience is lengthy and yet, none of it can be sumarised on paper. It seems an A* in religious education is more valuable than dodging flying medicare. Who you are on paper disregards who you are in your heart. How can I sell myself when I don’t know who I am. My curriculum isn’t as mainstream as yours. You learnt about cell osmosis and I learnt about cell extraction. You dissected pigs hearts, I dissected my wrist. You read Of Mice and Men, I read my rights. You had detention, I was detained.

My education section is blank, my experience can’t be written down and I don’t have a Frosties swimming badge.

But I promise you, I can swim.

 

 

 

Crisis sand.

The crisis team. The people you’re meant to call when you’re at the end of your tether.  It’s a hard concept for me. Phoning the crisis team involves the admission, that you’re not OK – You’re in crisis. What the fuck does that even mean? What is crisis? How am i supposed to tell that i’m ‘in’ it, is there a checklist? Apparently I’m in crisis right now.

‘In’ is the perfect preposition for crisis. Because crisis is all consuming. There’s different stages to crisis, but it’s all in one direction. On day one of crisis, you put your feet into the quicksand. Immediately, you think ‘oh shit’ here we go, you know that it’s started, but you convince yourself that you can wriggle your way out, and you choose not to shout for help. At this stage, people notice that your feet are stuck, and they conjure up a traditional pep talk, as if  “stay positive” is going to help you step out of the horrific sink hole that’s about to swallow you whole.

Stage two is up to your hips. The conflict kicks in and the confusion begins. The realisation that you’re not able to clamber out alone only adds pebbles to your pockets. Your mind comes up with ideas to salvage the situation, unfortunately, this often involves speeding up the process. “No one can help me, so allow me to clear the beach”. Shutdown.  Every vibration of the phone, every ping of the computer, every knock at the door allows the opportunity to push everyone, that’s ever tried to save you in the past, a little bit further away. How far do I have to push, before you don’t come back on to the sand. It’s clearly not safe for you to be around me, you will surely be dragged down too. Run. Run and allow me to face this desolate situation, alone.

You begin to stop moving your legs. Acceptance creeps up in correlation with the sand. Your desire to survive subsides. Your body doesn’t crave life. It craves, fast food, sugar and milkshake, but not life. You health deteriorates. Your ability to function is compromised. Every single second is dictated by the issue, that you’re going to die. And then the tide begins to come in.

Stage three is up to your neck. By this point, you’ve managed to clear the beach, except for the few that refuse to leave, and simply torture themselves, watching from afar, ill equipped to offer a solution. You’re wishing by now, that the innevitable would hurry up. Your body is cold and numb. Crisis has entered every single pore in your body. It’s in every crevice. You can no longer move – you are paralysed. You could shout for help, but, what would be the point. Perhaps you’ll be dragged out again, but you’ll forever tread the sand until your feet are swamped. So you stay quiet and accept your fate.

The final stage of crisis, is the quick sand up to your philtrum, the tiny piece of skin between your mouth and your nose. You can no longer open your mouth to shout for help, you abused that privilege for too long. You simply concentrate on every breath that enters and exits your nose. You’ve become so numb, that the sand is comfortable. Your heart rate has steadied as you feel each grain invade your face. You welcome it. And, as the sludge creeps over your nasal passage, and you are so ready to be swallowed by the blackness of crisis, you throw your head back. You try to get your nose into the air. You wish, for the beach to fill with people, anyone. Throw me a fucking rope. The team try to wade out to you, but the sand has set like concrete. Any effort to remove you, would surely make matters worse. You should have shouted when your feet were stuck, when you were up to your hips, even up to your neck. You have covered yourself in crisis. Well done you!

Metaphorically speaking.

A blog post about suicide.

I guess, it’s not possible to say how suicide feels, because if you know, you can’t write about it. But the moment right before it, right up to the last second, you can write about that. Although, I don’t think there has been a word invented that can portray the feeling. A drought and a flood at the same time in the same place – is there a word for that?  Being suicidal is literally the worst thing in the world, and – It’s worse than death. Allow me to use a few metaphors to try and explain. It’s not in any order – because it’s not like that.

Remember the residential at the end of junior school. Where you did loads of exciting things; abseiling, canoeing, raft building, Jacobs ladder and the leap of faith.For those of you that didn’t go (probably because you had weird attachment issues to your mum), the leap of faith is a 10m pole set about 3 foot away from a trapeze. The idea is to climb the pole, jump, grab the trapeze – hooray, everyone cheers! The thing is, with the leap of faith, it doesn’t matter how many greasy teaching assistants or arrogant young PGL instructors try to encourage people to jump, everyone hesitates. Stood on top of that pole, in the most vulnerable of positions, that’s when your heart races,  that’s when you look down, that’s when you want to climb back to the floor. Once you’ve jumped – that all goes away. Whether you grab the trapeze or not, there’s no need to be scared anymore, it’s over. 

Feeling suicidal is like being stood on that pole. Except it’s 1000ft tall, you don’t have a harness on and your hands are tied behind your back. You’re edging closer, centimeter by centimeter, your legs are trembling, your mind is racing, you are so unbalanced – and there is no safety net. You still want to jump. You know what’s coming, you’ve processed it all one thousand times – and you still want to jump. You can’t climb back down, there is no other way – jump.

Being suicidal is like stalking yourself, following yourself around, pointing out everyday objects as potential deadly weapons. Every high building, every sharp object, every long flexible item, anything that could block your throat. Like a director in your ear, that no one else can hear, and you carry on with conversations, swallowing harder, sweating, wringing your hands, forcing those quick closed mouth smiles whilst clenching your jaw.
”Shit sorry, what were you saying, I was daydreaming” **
** I was completely consumed with the intricate plan to end my life I just developed whilst looking over your shoulder.

The hardest part about being suicidal is that it becomes rational (in your mind anyway). You don’t want to fight the battle anymore, and that’s a sure fired way to stop it. The people who are close enough to you to know of your dark thoughts, they say things like “you can’t give up now”, well, actually I can, I will hold that white flag way above my head and I will surrender. I’ve tried, over and over again and as they pull out the “maybe tomorrow will be better” card, your analysis of the past number of years of mental torment, leads you to the conclusion, that actually, it wont. It will be a continuation of the vast shitstorm of your mind, that will push you to your knees, and repeatedly smack your head off the concrete.

Suicide is like an apple, a toxic apple. Some people take a bite, just one bite, and they spit it out. They don’t touch the apple ever again. That one bite reminds them how sweet the rest of the fruit in the bowl is and they eat that instead.
It seems however, some people, like I, get a taste for toxic apples. As much as the other fruit is sweet, the apple is sweeter, it’s shine sells itself as the perfect solution. I’ve taken more than one bite. Fuck it, I’ve eaten a whole orchard. I’ve attempted to take my own life hundreds and hundreds of times.

What is supposed to stop me? The thing with committing murder, the thing that stops most people from strangling their boss when they hand you admin at 4.45pm on a Friday, is the law. Consequences. Prison.  Well, with suicide, I’m not going to go to prison. The prospect is far more attractive – it’s peace, no more anguish, no more torment, no more battling, no more pain. Peace.

The catastrophe. That’s what is supposed to stop you. The foresight of the damage you will cause. The hole you will create in the hearts of those that love you. The fact that someone has to find you. The amount of talk I’ve had with the therapist about it. He says that your family an friends will feel like they weren’t enough, they will be seven times more likely to kill themselves, they will never be OK with it, they will never get over it. But suicide, gets back in your ear, and it lies to you. They will be better off without you. They will be OK. They will get over it.

The drought and the flood, that’s where it comes in. Thinking about what you’re going to leave behind. The emptiness is so full. It’s not that I don’t love you. I love you more than you could ever imagine. I haven’t just lived with you, alongside you, I’ve lived for you. What has saved me, it has all been for you. People think, that when your suicidal, that you don’t think of others – it’s all you think about. And that’s where the illness takes over, because in that last second before you try, it doesn’t make a difference.

I’ve experienced suicide in every form. I’ve seen the nurses cry as they struggle to save me. I’ve seen the eyes of my family fill up when the nurses tell them what happened. I’ve lost a best friend to suicide. I’ve stood with her mum at her grave. I wish with all my heart that it took it away. That I never wanted to jump from the pole. That I could stop stalking myself. That i never wanted to bite the apple again. It doesn’t work like that.

Dissociative Identity Disorder and suicide. The most horrific of combinations. Because in the simplest way to describe it, I’ve tried to kill myself a thousand times, and don’t remember a single one. Imagine waking up, with bruises on your neck, slashes on your arms, tablets in your stomach, items in your throat, on top of a building – and you never intended for any of it. It’s like having someone try to murder you, every second of every day. I have to go into hospital, I have to be saved, over and over again. It wears you down. Another alter wants to die and it becomes contagious. Their irrational thoughts start to make sense. Its quick sand, and you’re being sucked in.

I am being force fed the apple. What does feeling suicidal look like to me, metaphorically speaking, opening my mouth.

 

 

Not CDO.

CDO…It’s like OCD but in alphabetical order, the way I like it. Erm, no. And if that is your impression of obsessive compulsive disorder – you are off the mark – way, way off the mark.

You like your coasters to be symmetrical on the coffee table? You like to eat the orange Smarties first? You hang your shirts in colour order – lighest to darkest. Nice. I appreciate your organisational skills and your attention to detail. But you don’t have OCD.

I have OCD. My room is currently a shit tip. My curtain isn’t quite shut all the way on one side, there is a picture hanging slightly off center, and the lid on my moisturizer isn’t quite on right – how annoying.  Annoying, however, is the wrong word.

The first stage of OCD is noticing. It doesn’t bother you, until you see it, until you think about it. I noticed those three things less than 20 seconds ago. I’ve tried to ignore them to carry on writing this blog. I’m now boiling hot, my heart rate has increased, I’m clenching my jaw so hard that I may shatter my teeth, my toes are curling, I feel like the room has filled with a noise that no one else can hear. 40 seconds. I can’t physically stand it anymore. I am not annoyed, I am distressed, in every sense of that word, utterly distressed.

Done. Closed the curtain, adjusted the picture, put the top on correctly.
Fixed it. My own little hero.
It wasn’t worth not fixing it. The smallest action, to ease the worst of feelings – the easy way. Except i never stop noticing, I am a slave to fixing it. I am trapped as my own little hero. I will never be done.

My OCD is illogical, I know that – and that makes it worse. Please don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter, because right now, that thing that is distressing me, is all that matters in this world. I know that it’s unreasonable. I know that washing my hands 64 times wont make them any cleaner than the 63rd time. I know that it doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to do what I have to do. It is not a positive ‘trait to my personality’ – and you definitely wouldn’t want me to come and ‘clean you house’. It’s an illness. A really fucking tough one.

I try to fix myself. I challenge OCD. How long can I go without fixing it. I walked over the grass slightly as I turned around the bend in the park. I got four steps. I was fine, until I noticed. Until I thought about it. Not just one thought. I was entirely consumed.

OCD: Go back and walk that bend properly.                                                                                 Me: No, it doesn’t matter, keep walking.
OCD: Go back.
Me: Keep walking.
OCD: Go back, Go back, Go back. Do you want this conflict, for three days, I will make you go back. You will go back, if you go back now, it is done, that is the end of it, or, you can think about it for days.
Me: I’ve walked for 5 minutes now, there’s no point going back, it’s unreasonable, I didn’t even touch the grass, you will not consume me.
OCD: OK, if you don’t go back, your dog will die.
Me: That’s illogical. Scientifically, stepping over grass can’t cause my dog to die.
OCD: Time to imagine your dead dog…
Me: *Goes back, walks the bend properly, feels defeated, decides not to challenge OCD again for a while*

The second stage of OCD is looking. OCD makes you look for things to notice. Things to fix. Everything is wrong. Everything needs fixing. The thoughts take over. They’re illogical, unreasonable, they don’t make sense, but I don’t have the energy to challenge it. The relief stops coming, but I seek it. I can’t be my own little hero, I can’t make it right.

Fixing takes over. Finding solutions to problems that don’t exist in the real world, yet are catastrophes of my mind. Ifs and buts are part of every day, every hour, every minute. It’s exhausting. It’s hard to say what I obsess over, just anything I notice. And the thought,  crawls in through your ear like a cockroach, and lays eggs in your brain. Your mind is as contaminated as the glass you’ve just noticed.

Having DID and OCD is difficult. DID is the umbrella diagnosis, OCD is one of the many other things we have to deal with. Tee has prolific OCD, myself and Ben have traits. It adds complications as always. We all notice different things, we all try to fix them in different ways – opposite ways. A never ending cycle of looking, noticing and fixing.

Keep your coasters symmetrical, eat the orange smarties first, order your shirts in color order. Stay organised, have attention to detail, be ordered. Celebrate that as a trait of your personality, clean each others’ houses if you must. But those three letters, OCD, in that order, stay away from them, don’t utilise them because you hoovered twice in one day.

I’m trying to fix things, please don’t devalue my tools.

 

 

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.

You don’t pick the PICU, the PICU picks you…

Psychiatric hospital. The most unreported place on earth, you see more on current TV about death row, isolated tribes of the Amazon rain forest and the deepest part of the ocean. I bet everyone has an image of what they would expect, based on the old faithfuls, One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest, Girl Interrupted, Shutter Island etc. Those of you with a bit of perspective might have stepped back a little and assumed that it’s clearly nothing like that, surely there’s not a queue for medication, forcible injections, physical restraints, isolation cells and people breaking out every day. Surely not. Well, actually, yes.

I’ve been unlucky enough to experience all angles of being an inpatient,a number of different hospitals, both acute and intensive care wards, as both an adolescent and an adult. There is a lot of difference between all of them. However, there is one big difference evident throughout my life, that between the acute ward and ‘the low stimulus environment’ – Psychiatric intensive care (PICU).

There’s a number of reasons for a PICU admission, but at the fundamental level, you’re deemed to need more ‘intensive care’, a higher staff ratio, less stimulus, less people. In Lancashire, the average acute ward has 20 Beds, the PICU, an average of 6, with the same number of staff each day and night. Having a rare and complex diagnosis, if i’m unwell enough to need hospital admission, then i’m normally unwell enough to need a PICU. Ben and Tee at their most destructive can be extremely difficult to manage, to the point of almost needing forensic services – a whole different level.

My previous PICU admissions have all been transfers from acute wards, meaning that the acute ward felt they could no longer keep me safe. It’s now care planned to go straight to the PICU, to save the trauma of a transfer. When Ben and Tee are at their lowest, Tee is extremely suicidal and acts upon her intentions many times a day in whatever means possible. Ben, can be, and was, extremely violent and aggressive, targeting members of staff, other patients and property. This ticks both the PICU boxes: being a danger to self or others.

The PICU is sold as being low stimulus, but the more common phrase you hear on the ward is ‘restrictive’. The acute wards are based on least restrictive practice, you make your own drinks, go outside when you want to, interact with the other patients etc. pretty much just being observed and kept safe as you do so. The PICU is different, they can adjust the environment to keep you safe, your care plan is much more specific and your observations more prominent – you receive intensive care. But yes, what you see in the films, is not alien to a PICU patient.

My experience on the PICU was uncommon, however i saw it happen to other patients occasionally, so it was defiantly not just me. I was in restraint for around 6 hours a day for the 8 weeks, this involved numerous IM medications. I was in seclusion over this period every day for an average of 13 hours, and then a long term segregation in which I didn’t leave seclusion for 9 days. I was restricted in all sorts of ways, 1 square of toilet paper per visit – no matter what, no paper or polystyrene cups, access to a plastic cup for a matter of seconds, finger food (sandwiches) at all times – without a plate, no toothbrush, specific clothing, no magazines, no crayons, no music, no bed sheets, no mattress, no curtains, limited access to the shower, observed at all times by at least one member of staff, no phone, no shoes or socks. If it could be restricted, it was. After around 8 weeks, as things settled with Ben and Tee, the restrictions were lessened slowly and one by one, for a further 20 weeks, I experienced the PICU environment.

After a while, you get used to the environment, being observed taking a shower becomes the norm, waiting outside your bedroom to be fobbed in comes naturally, having no laces in your shoes is on trend. The people you share the PICU with become your family, watching them be restrained is heartbreaking, but it’s a harsh reminder of the environment. Having fewer patients, meant that they each were given an explanation of DID, the staff had time to introduce myself, Ben and Tee all separately and the other patients developed their own relationships with each of us – something that is almost impossible on the acute ward. The PICU has its positives, you have less people to argue over the telly with and infinitely better relationships with the staff, they have time to get to know your story and your care plan, and they’re all on the same page – something that’s fundamental when working with DID.

I guess everyone’s experience of the PICU is different likewise everyone’s reasons for needing more intensive care. I guess I wanted to dispel the myths from people trying to dispel the myths. People think that restraint, injections and restrictions are a thing of the past in mental health hospitals, when in actual fact, they’re still very much a part of it.  I guess that’s why they’re unreported. Lets stick to learning about the isolated tribes in the Amazon and the bottom of the ocean. It makes better television.