Thank You

Will get back to creativity soon, well as soon as I can.

First I want to say a few 'thank-yous'... they won't be read by the people concerning them probably but they need to go out into the void.

To the Doctor in the purple scrubs at Southport Infirmary... thank you for being kind and for getting me that referral so soon.

To the triage nurse... thanks for not making me roll up my sleeves for my obs.

To the on-call psych in the Bickerstaffe Ward... thanks for understanding, and not making me talk... for being thorough and increasing my meds.

To the man who showed me the way from the ward to the pharmacy... thanks for talking about nothing to do with mental health.

To Will... there aren't enough words to express how much I love you, and how thankful I am.

To my warrior K... thank you for sticking with me and messaging me.

To all of you bloggers... thank you for your kind messages.

Speak soon. x

I can't talk
About
What's been
Happening
What's been
Going on.
I won't mention
The Ward
The Psych
The Place.
I shan't utter
The thoughts
The images
The pain.
For you
And for me
Or not.
No looking back
No reminiscing.
Just
More pills
More changes.
Just
Another chance...

Hello all.

Stand Still

Taking a little time to stand still, to feel ill... to cry.

Thank you so much for the comments/e-mails/messages of wellbeing.

Look after yourselves, see you soon.

I hope.

Not sure what has brought this post on. It's not one of the ones I promised myself I'd write, perhaps I'll save them for next week.

I was thinking about suicide, again, actually.

Possibly spurred on by my next psychiatric review on the 19th Feb. I was thinking what I would tell them about myself, my state of mind, my feelings...

It feels like something I am bound to. A path I can't get off of.

It feels like I will do it, definitely, one day. Feels like all the events that make up my life are just preparing me for it.

No worries, I won't do it now... I mean I'm not in danger.

It was just like a realisation. All those attempts which failed... were they a sign to tell me how to do it right?

The pills haven't made me better... because they know they're a short-term solution?

Oh well.

List

For once, I actually have a stockpile of posts to write... a poem inspired by a Springsteen lyric, as suggested by Dana... a poem based on the last post...

But today, I am going to do a short post about my 'list'.

I first wrote about the list back in 2007... believe it or not. It was my homework from my psychiatrist to think of five 'positive' words about myself and then put a big piece of paper on my bedroom door for other people to do the same... write things about my character which they thought to be good.

You might've noticed Dana being kind enough to give me words periodically.

Well, rather stupidly, I tore the list up in a particularly vitriolic fit sometime last week. When I received a new word the other day I decided to re-instate said task and make a new list.

So... I invite you to start your own self-development posters... make them beautiful, show them off and let's give each other a few gifts made of words.

What goes on inside that head of yours?

Did your Mother ever say that to you? I remember mine saying it to me... so often, even before she found out about the self-harming. Every time my siblings and I got into a fight, which - of course- was my doing as I was the oldest. Every time she said I had put on weight. Every time she thought I wasn't concentrating on school or college as much as I should be.

The last time though? That was the time which cut right through me.

I had been taken to hospital by my GP after an overdose. I was taken to the children's ward - even though I was 17. My Mum and my youngest sister followed in the car, they stopped at the shop downstairs to get me a toothbrush and some toothpaste then came up to the ward. They waited outside whilst my stomach was pumped and I was hooked up to monitors and IVs.

I hope to God that my sister didn't see any of it. I didn't want her to come into the room but Mum said that it would make me guilty for what I had done. It did. Everyday I wonder whether E (my sister) had seen them working on me. I pray that she didn't.

Then they both came in with a consultant and a psychiatrist and a nurse. They gave me my homework journal from my bag and a red felt tip pen. They told me to write about my day, in detail. Then once I had done that they all left the room, my Mum only stopping to leave me a pile of 20p pieces for the phone.

I called her later, after my Dad had visited. His visit was short and he didn't look at me or talk to me. He got out his phone as his boss called... just to talk to me. To see if I was okay. MickMac from Romford... you got me through that night. I haven't spoken to him since.

In the morning the psychiatrist spoke to me, and then at lunch to my Dad who had just arrived. He said my Mum was too hurt to see me. Between them they arranged to let me home that afternoon.

I snuck into the bathroom to call my friend E from my mobile. I had done it last night too, to ask her to tell everyone at school I had tonsilitis and to speak to someone.

I got out of the nurses scrubs I had been given as pyjamas. Got back into my college clothes and got my bag. Dad drove me to a pub for dinner, and then home.

When I got home my Mum was there, having taken the day off work... because of me. She ran me a bath. I asked if she'd call my friend A to excuse me from my Young Enterprise final that evening at Specsavers... she said no, that I would go as normal and be back in college the next day.

So I went. I gave my speech, I got a lift home with A and I went to bed.

Then, as my Mum came in to turn the light out she thought I was asleep... she leant over to pull my sleeves back, to see my scars. I let her think I was asleep. She corrected my sleeves and whispered "What goes on inside that head of yours?"... then she went to bed. I heard her crying for at least an hour.


Why did I post this? I've never documented it before. Never let myself diarise any of my attempts.

But now, on the day I don't want it to happen ever again I am going to get it out. Catharsis, as they say.

Inside my head? Anything could be going on.

PS I spoke to an old friend from Primary School the other day and found she has just been told she suffers from a similar thing to me. I hope I can help her... now that our lives have brought us full circle.

I love this place

You know?

With the pictures and all of you reading and everything.

It's good.

Unlike me.

Hesitant

I find it a little laughable... updating you all on my current mood. Since it changes so often.

But - right now - at 00:00am GMT - I am alright. Ok.

It makes me laugh because earlier on we got stopped by the Police (routine vehice stop... plus we have GSY plates) and I had a panic attack. I reached for the keys *of all things* to hurt myself and I did. I stopped breathing properly. I relished in the pain.

But, having moved on from that, I'm not doing do bad.

Uploaded snow pictures onto Facebook, and it cheered me up looking at them.

So yes. Right now... Nikita is ok.

I hope you all are too. x

Go Away

This is me, turning my head away.. away from the camera, away from people, away from reality.

In myself, I feel good. I had a good day... snow, IKEA, tidying... can't go wrong.

But in my head? In my head are dark thoughts. Thoughts which tell me to run away. To look away. To push people away.

I find myself doing it automatically. Not returning the calls from a friendship I am so desperately trying to cultivate. Being moody with Will. Worrying about things which don't need to be worried about.

An episode is on the horizon... but will my awareness of this be enough to push it away?

Slipping away

I've been having thoughts recently, almost lonely thoughts.

Wondering what will happen when one day you can't even see my scars. Everyday I notice that one or another of them has slipped away... never to be seen again. For some reason it feels like when I don't have them anymore, or they can't be seen, the bipolar and borderline will be meaningless. Like I'll have no 'proof' of my suffering.

I know how terrible this sounds. Missing scars that I put there myself. It sounds like I want attention, and can only get it subliminally... read like a code on my arms.

This evening I sent a horribly bitchy e-mail to Will at work, I know when he reads it he'll be so upset.

But I haven't sent another to apologise. I haven't called him to say sorry.

It's like I feel better in myself, but now that I do I am pushing away the person who makes me feel best.

I feel like I'm mourning the scars of years ago. Just like a loved-one they can't be replaced, not even with new ones.