Stigma

So, I haven’t written on my blog for a while. I wish I could say it was because I had jetted away to an exotic land where I sipped cocktails and learnt to Samba, perhaps I had been in a treatment facility, receiving top quality therapy and improving my mental health. Well, I haven’t. I’ve been struggling, and not just with the whole debilitating mental illness situation, something that isn’t new to me, but which I have extensively protected myself against for 8 years – Stigma.

I know that stigma surrounding mental exists, and that’s exactly why I never opened up in any detail. Until this blog I’ve never spoken openly about my experience and the complexities of my mental health – I’m embarrassed and ashamed. Over the past 8 years I’ve heard each and every misinformed, uneducated, bigoted comment that exists – pull your socks up, it’s all in your head, chin up, cheer up, buckle up, and all the other ups!  I’ve simply nodded, sighed and thanked the idiot for the support.

After I started writing this blog, I shared it only with people I knew could relate, and didn’t know me personally. I got positive feedback, people found it relatable and those really close to me (who I shared it with slowly, one by one) gained a better understanding, I thought I was doing a good thing – It didn’t matter if it helped me or not – If it helped one person get through a dark moment, it was worth it. All my friends and family wanted me to share it, but I was adamant that I didn’t want people to link it to me. I deliberated for months, and then shortly after the anniversary of my close friends death, I did it. I pressed share. I filtered out a few people, but I did it. No going back, button pressed.

At first the response was positive, supportive, what had I worried about. This is 2016, people are so accepting, right? Wrong.

I won’t go into what happened, but my blog was shared in a negative light.  People I have known for years, were now questioning their safety around me, questioning my daily life, questioning me. You know, like they would if someone was blogging about their cancer battle or their struggle with diabetes. People became arm chair psychologists – like I wasn’t seeing a real one. Tell me more about this DID thing then – who are you now? So you self harm? Let me see your arms. You have OCD? Do you want these in alphabetical order? Why are you suicidal? What do you have to be depressed about?

How do you answer that? Fuck off seems a little impolite.

For weeks, I’ve been going to delete my blog and to be honest, I still might. I can’t seem to find any inspiration to post anymore of my story. But yet, to succumb to stigma, seems defeatist, and I’ve gone through far worse than taking shit from ignorant people. It seems that even in 2016, people have no education about complex mental health conditions. Sad really.

I currently have a chest infection, maybe I should blog about that instead – I don’t think anyone will ask to see my phlegm in response.

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.