Life

I'm still doing it, still living.

I spend my days in a stationary shop, working simply as a sales assistant.

I spend my evenings with my Mum and my sisters.

I spend every moment missing my William.

Having trouble getting cleared for September by Occupational Health. Please keep your fingers crossed for me.

Give me a chance to hold on

No, I don't want to talk about it. Any of it. For some time now I shall block out the events surrounding my 20th Birthday.

At the moment I am staying with my Mum. Getting back on the meds. Starting work on Monday.

Pain drifts in and out of our lives. Crushing moments and devastating pain keep us on our toes. Some of us thrive, some of us take a very definite dive. This time - again - I took a dive. I hope that some day these dives will be my education in keeping my head above water when I eventually crash into the suffocating depths, because it's going to keep happening - again and again.

The glowing tan of a seasoned and salted sailor is back with me. The call of the waves and the rustle of a spinnaker are humming to me gently. They want me back, they want to fix me to the bow of a Beneteau... to air out all of my pain, to bruise my legs. The foredeck of a large yacht is where I should be, with my beau sitting at the back. Feeling the wind, feeling the blackness trail behind us as we set off until finally it detatches and we are free again - to dance and sing in the skirt of a wave.

Each morning I go to the top of my Clos and I send a kiss to William, a smile to the glistening waves and the faint glimmer of hope that one day once more the sea will envelop me.

Secrets

Last week I tried to end my life again, because I thought it would get William a place to live for a while.

***

Sorry for not being around, I love you as always.

'ello

Sorry all, I am here... but in the background.

Thank you for lovely birthday messages.

Will let you know more, when I know myself!

x

You're so fragile tonight
Been up hurting all night
It's not trivial like they think
Yes you're desperate and you're hurt.

Thought about it so many times
Too afraid to open your eyes
To see the sadness that's inside
Just sit back and stop time.

You're tender and you're tired
You can't be bothered to decide
Whether to live or die
Or just forget about your life.

'You're Tender and You're Tired' - Manic Street Preachers

I posted those lyrics because I can't get my soul to speak to anyone at the moment.

Things are changing, rapidly - too rapidly for me to handle. As much as I like to deny it change unsettles me and it takes me a while to ease into things. If I am not afforded time with a change then I quickly become distressed. I can tell when this is going to happen but can't often stop it.

As you know I am currently without professional human support right now - it's just me, William and a hefty dose of quetiapine twice daily. Unfortunately with the recent changes and those yet to come I have become - unwell? I'm not sure that's the right word but I can't find an alternative.

I'm not speaking to William, I'm retreating into myself offering only "I don't know what to say" as an explanation. I swing from crying and depressed to hyperactive and restless at an alarming rate, and then back again. I know all is not well but I don't know what to do about it.

William too is finding it difficult with me not able to convey my trust through him to other people, who it feels are in control of our situation. It distresses him that he has to make decisions for both of us - but I in turn am distressed when it is highlighted that I am not helping matters at all.

In short, these are turbulent times. But I've been through it all before, right?

Cold, sharp security blanket. (For Kat)

I've told you my story, in dribs and drabs - here and there. A post on a bad Christmas, a few comments about my parents. But I've never done my story with regards to self harm, never taken you through my life as a cutter.

When I was 10 I stuck my finger in an automatic pencil sharpener, you know the ones - teachers have them on their desks. The day before this my Dad had taken me to Girl's Brigade in his huge red Volvo estate... he gave me 20p for sweets and just before I got out of the car he called "Pull that dress down, you look like a slut" Then he gave me one of 'his' winks and drove out of the car park.

I may have only been 10 but I knew what a slut was, and I knew I didn't want to be one. So at school the next day I put my finger in the sharpener. I can't remember what I felt, or what I thought it would acheive... I was just angry at myself.

It was a good few years more before I turned to pain to escape again.

Saturday 11th December 2004. I was fifteen years old. In the morning I had gone to my band practise and on the way home I stopped in on Dad (in the pub), when I got there he was mid-flow in a story about how he had screwed his girlfriend the night before. All his friends urged him to shut up - they were nice to me - they said I shouldn't hear things like this. But he said "Relax, no-one's ever gonna fuck her anyway". I smiled graciously and took a seat in the corner - I never had a bad word to say about Dad, I was his princess. (But that's another story)

I walked home from the pub to help my Mum and my two younger sisters put up our Christmas tree, it was the same one we used every year; a 4ft artifical one - Woolie's finest, plonked on top of a mahogany corner table to make it 6ft. I always put the tinsel on because no-one else could reach far enough up the tree.

In the evening we watched some TV, my Mum and sisters went to bed early so it was just me sitting in the lounge next to a multi-coloured lit Christmas tree. I was hit by these unbelieveable wave of sadness. I didn't want to go to bed because I didn't want to wake up in the morning. I cursed myself for feeling like this, for doubting the healthiness of Dad's and my relationship. I found a safety pin and I started to scratch. Side to side, faster and faster across my left wrist. I liked how it burned, I liked how the blood was coming out - I had done it all by myself, for myself.

This carried on for a fair few months, I would sit in my top bunk listening to Manic Street Preachers with my little safety pin. Always in the same place, always with the same pin. It used to hurt a lot when my wrists rubbed on my grey wool school jumper - but I liked that, a little reminder of the pain when I was away from my pin.

We soon moved into a bigger house and I had my own bedroom... this is when I switched to packs of ten razor blades. I fell in love. The harm was quick and afterwards I could watch the blood seep through the fat and spill onto my skin. Pretty soon I ran out of room on my wrist, so I let loose... I cut anywhere and everywhere on both arms, I took my blades to school in my purse and used the school toilets to get some release. I branched out into buying first aid supplies... menolin patches, micropore tape and steri strips - I rarely went to get stitches but when I did I was in and out of A&E like a rocket. Dealing with the consequences during my weekly trips to a CAMHS psychiatrist.

When I moved to Uni I continued to hurt myself but less often than before. I had William with me so I couldn't always find blades... I used whatever was next readily available to me, from sandwich ties (with the wire in the middle) to tweezers. Anything to ease off the pressure for a while, give me chance to breathe and get some control - punish myself for whatever affliction is assaulting my self confidence.

I don't know how to end this story, because it hasn't reached its end yet. I haven't touched on ODs, scars or therapy, I haven't told you about my life since 2004... this story is simply the beginning (I fear) of my journey with 'Deliberate Self Harm' - I continue to wrap myself in that cold, sharp security blanket... albeit less often than I once did.

Doctor-Patient

Hi you lot. Not doing brilliantly. Be gentle with me.

Went to register with GP today. I really just wanted a new script - but he insisted on a BP check, weighing and an informal 'chat'.

Am pretty cross with myself because I basically told him that I was doing fantastic, I practically told him I was in remission - and he bought it, wrote it in the notes - congratulated me.
I told him I'd had excellent treatment in the UK (not true) and that I had no feelings of hurting myself. He gave me two months Seroquel (168 tablets) - then he checked I had no plans to OD. I told him 'Not for a long time!'... this is true enough, it has been a long time since I've thought of it. But lately it's been creeping into my mind again. I'm trying to push it right back out - there's enough crap going on in there as it is.

I mentioned my abnormal liver function and he suggested a few things it could be - possibly Gilbert's Syndrome - which is fine as that's practically harmless. He's going to do some more blood tests next month as he says it still could be the Seroquel or even still the effects from the OD I took all those years ago. Hope it's not the Seroquel as don't want to stop it.

Anyway. So I lied about how I felt to the Doctor.

Let's see if I can pull myself through this one with no further damage.

A World of Pain

Just wanted to do a quick post on a documentary I watched last night with William. It was about Self Harm and was presented by an actress and writer called Meera Syal.

I thought it was pretty good.

Have put the link at the end of the page - but unfortunately if you're not in the UK I don't think it'll play for you. There is however a link to the programme information, if you're interested in what it was all about.

Trying to raise some more awareness.

If anyone out there is struggling with self harm, please contact me and I would love to try to help you.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00l17tq/A_World_of_Pain_Meera_Syal_on_SelfHarm/

Bear with me

Please.

Not entirely sure that I'm entirely well. Right now. But I can't seem to tell anyone.

Tweezers? I mean, fucking tweezer? THAT's what I picked... Knife wasn't sharp enough. Chemist too far away.

So Nikita, in her infinite wisdom, decides to carve out bits of her ankle with a pair of black Primark tweezers.

This is really living, my friends.

Pourquoi?

Secretly one of the reasons I want to go into Mental Health Nursing is because I want to learn to understand self harm. Not for myself, just because it has always astounded me - it did before I even started to do it myself.

Currently nursing 10 new wounds. It's painful in a way it never was before.

I need to understand.

SH

It wraps you up
In pain you love,
It draws you in
It makes you need
You think you are -
In control.
You use it
Daily
Weekly
Whenever you feel wrong
It makes you feel
Just right.
Pain as a reward
As a punishment
As a life-saver
As a lesson
You thought
That you had learnt.
Years
Or months later
You've moved on
Found other ways
Grown up.
But no,
Sweet fool
There will be a day
When it comes knocking
You do it again
And again
Just like before.

So you think you know me?

Have you ever attempted to write an autobiography? I have, I was 15 years old and it was my GCSE English Language teacher who convinced us all to give it a try. I personally found it ridiculous... how could I summarise 15 years, at the age of 15? Who was going to read these supposed masterpieces?
But, of course, I wrote it all anyway... 12 A4 lined pages, front and back. It received a good review from my teacher so I put it in my coursework folder, lost the coursework folder.. and never thought anymore about it.

I suppose that these blogs that we keep are rather like an ongoing autobiographical piece... we share the goings on of our lives, the poems that we write and the songs that we sing to. If I were to print out every single page of my blog it would make a far better read than that Year 10 assignment could ever have hoped to.

For one reason or another I decided to write this post today, exposing a few things that I like to say about myself... and how truthful they actually are. So here goes.

I reached about Grade 5 in clarinet and keyboard... but faced with either of those instruments I don't honestly believe I'd know which finger to put where.

I can happily jabber away to myself in French and Spanish - and read novels in said languages, and sometimes I can understand a German person - but if you plonked me in front of one of said language speakers... my mouth would dry and my brain would forget every verb I ever learnt.

I referred to myself as bipolar long before I ever got a definitive diagnosis. I was fed up of Doctors telling me it 'might' be bipolar or that bipolar 'could develop' that I just started to research it myself.

However, when I got my diagnosis and had it confirmed... it was one of the scariest days of my life.

When I go to mental health units I always secretly think I'm better than the other patients... more educated... more domesticated... cleaner. Even though I've been known to avoid a bath for over a week when I'm in a bad way.

When I saw the 'Friends' episode where Monica gets out her Wedding Book - full of plans for her future wedding - I got inspired. I made a book full of ideas and details surrounding my plans for suicide.

I still don't understand why I came to harm myself, and I don't think I ever will.

That's about all I can think of for now, thanks for letting me get those off my chest.

The Crazy One

On a blogging roll at the moment, don't know if that's a good sign or a bad one. Sometimes I just can't speculate, but sometimes I know that something bad is going to happen.

This morning (01:23am) to be precise, I am in a bit of a torment.

I don't know how to write it down, that's frustrating because I can't get out what I want to.

I didn't take my meds yesterday. That's why I'm awake. If I'd taken them I'd be passed out in bed until mid morning, no doubt.

This is one of my points, those ones I'm trying to make. Badly. The meds keep me level. They keep me what could be called 'sane'.

But they keep me down. They make it hard to talk, hard to see, hard to move... hard to be. I suppose it's really being level, but to a person with bipolar being level is difficult.

Without the meds I have plans... I want to tidy. I want to write love notes to William. I want to stand on the balcony and listen to the waves. I've been awake only 14 hours... that's double what I'd normally manage.

And babies. This medicine could affect a baby developing. But I really want babies.

You're going to read this and think it's a bit eratic. If you've read up, you'll warn me that I'm becoming manic.

I'm not. I'm just the crazy one.

I feel like crap

Not entirely sure why.

Could be because of intense sunburn.

Could be lack of nourishment at this late hour.

Could be both.

Time was I'd be thrilled to only have those two things bothering me, but now I'm wondering... how am I? Really?

I sleep in until 11. I don't want to, but I just can't get up before then unless I don't take my meds... does that mean I should sacrifice my meds? Well no - because then sleeping in is the least of my problems! If I stop meds then who knows what'll happen... mania, sleeplessness, depression.

I still cry when people are nasty. When people call me ugly, or a freak. Yes I know they were just teenagers and I know they don't matter to me in the grand scheme of things. But the point is... I'm still vulnerable.

Quetiapine fumarate does not place you in a big fluffy bubble. It dulls things but it doesn't make them go away - show me a pill that does that and I'll show you the end of humanity.

My point? I don't entirely have one, to be honest. It's not all bad. Gorgeous place to live, gorgeous partner, gorgeous biscuits I'm about to eat.

And this pain from sunburn? I do not like pain, unless I did it myself. It feels so very wrong after years of me maintaining that 'I hurt myself, so no-one else can'

I'll get over it.

x

Myself

So here's the thing.

Even though I'd not call myself a 'recovered' self-harmer it has certainly been a month or two since I last partook in such an activity. For little over a year now I have been baring my arms whenever I felt warm enough, except in times of acute distress or in the prescence of yet another new wound.

In the UK I feel fine doing this, I wander around absently not really noticing myself. But every now and then I will get a comment. Perhaps from the well-to-do businessman who sees me as an inconvenience, perhaps from a deeply principled mother who sees me as a warning to her children, perhaps even from an elderly couple... who think it's just a sign of the times.
For the most part I deflect back at them... tell them that I had an accident, or got my arms stuck in a shredder - yes really, people buy that. But normally I just tell them that I went through a 'rough patch' - I neglect to mention the length of said patch.

In Guernsey I will happily wander around the beaches and cliff paths in a similar manner to my one in the UK... and people do not often ask questions. If I'm unlucky then I'll bump into an old teacher or friend of the family, who are duly horrified.
When I am with my mother or sisters - or any member of family - my arms are under wraps. I wear long sleeves morning, noon and night. I dress in the locked bathroom, I do not comment when others are hot and remove their outer clothes. I keep that part of me, secret.

They've seen them of course, on trips to visit me in a hospital or psych office. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let that happen ever again.

But here, in Alderney... I know no-one. The sea and the sand and the sun have no harsh words for me, no backwards glances. The people here are relaxed, and the holidaymakers too enthralled by the island to notice me. The rest of the people are sailors... and as a sailor myself I know that it's perfectly normal to be covered in bumps and bruises and war wounds - my legs are testimony to many a hostile overtaking at Cowes Week.

My point is, I feel free. I feel I can be myself. I always wear a bracelet on my left wrist - because that scar is too obvious an indicator of my intentions one night. Here though, I consider taking it off.

I don't want a big tan line, after all.

Beauty

Will is the only manager on shift for a little while so we are still staying in the hotel... today he woke me up to move to a new room. Wow. Room 28 is spectacular.

As I type I am sitting with a drink and a laptop, on a balcony over looking a white-sand beach and an azul sea, under a bronzing sun.

I can hear the waves... sometimes powerful and sometimes lapping. I can hear visitors eating in the restaurant below and tiny little Daihatsu vans driving around - I'm sure they're the national car of Alderney or something.

Later we will go to The Divers for a drink and then make the long*ish* walk up into town. We'll eat at Nellie Gray's and spend the evening learning more about each other. When we finish we'll walk back in the dark and clamber into a huge white bed.

Alderney is medicine for my soul, and for bipolar. Here I take my tablets in an instant and spend my time thinking about the beauty that I can see. Not the pain.

A week ago? This Nikita would've made me vomit, or very sad... today I don't care.

Half Way There

Hey folks

It's been a bloody long day... got the flat all secured and left little notes everywhere for aunt-in-law when she comes for the animals. Hope she didn't leave it too long as Mittens was making murderous glances at Stan when I left.

Got a lift to Liverpool John Lennon from Will's nan and passed pretty quickly through there... save for a little fainting episode, but we won't go into that.

Got to Jersey on time and proceeded to spend 5 hours in Starbucks reading and subsequently listening to MP3... someone told me they didn't have Wi-Fi and I nearly imploded right there and then.

Now I'm airside and - whadda you know - on the Internet. Lying bastards, the lot of them. Have about an hour wait before I get tentatively onto a tiny yellow pencil plane to Guernsey. Can proceed right through security there and into the lounge to wait for another fated yellow pencil flight to Alderney.

Long way to get 500 or so miles innit?

x

Alderney/Aurigny/Auregnais/Aoeur'gny

First thing Monday morning I set off on my summer of working on another little Channel Island... an island with an area of 3sq miles and 2400 people. Well. 2402 with Will and I, anyway.

I'm excited, been hearing of great weather and beautiful views - I think it'll be the perfect preparation for September, a relaxed way of life and *fingers crossed* a relaxed job... making some much needed money for our Guernsey flat fund. It'll be a lot easier being that much closer to Guernsey - in terms of property hunting and stuff.

Animals are going to have to go to my aunt-in-law. We have not got on with her for some time but she will look after them all and I am *sure* that we can put our differences aside... for the sake of Baby, Mittens and Stan.

Much love. *bisous*

A little rant

Just surfing Facebook, and feeling rather resentful.

All of these girls with their parent-approved boyfriends, with their perfect academic records, with their fun University experiences.

Why couldn't I be one of them? How do I compete with that?

I'm going where?

I'm not sure what I'm doing... moving back to the one place I swore I'd never venture again?

Sure, I thought it was beautiful and the course is perfect and it's all going to be lovely... but how did it happen? What happened in my head to make me turn on my heel and head straight back to the place which nearly suffocated me to death?

I'm a bit upset at the moment as Will has moved to Alderney so I'm all alone... we fear that the RSPCA may have to have the animals as I can't take them with me and can't leave them here. I am awaiting an answer as to whether they can help. I feel mega guilty though.

Also upsetting at the moment are the nasty messages my sisters friends have been sending to us. She has decided that I abandoned everyone two years ago... even though for up to a year after I left she maintained that all was fine and we saw each other etc etc. It bothers me that she wants to be taken seriously/seen as mature... and then pulls a stunt like this.

I can't contact her as her e-mail has changed, she won't talk on the phone and has blocked me from Facebook. My letters go unanswered. I'm not going to 'tell' Mum but I'm not going to stand for this either.

This post is personal so I'd appreciate a lull in the nasty comments I've been getting. Not from any of the friends I have out there... just a few anonymous individuals. This blog is not shutting down, I'm not leaving... so I suggest you do instead.