I've just noticed that I seem to be acquiring followers... so this is a big welcome to all of you. I hope you find something interesting to read here, and decide to come back some day.

'Things' are still undecided. We may be moving into a winter let with a friend *fingers crossed* and then into a bigger place when money allows. This is the ideal plan of course; I fully intend for life to intervene and mess things up at least a little bit before it all comes through for us.

Not a lot to say, just felt the need/urge to get something out there.

That was it.

Composed sitting outside the Guernsey Information Centre

So yesterday was a bit of a nightmare; lots of panic and things to sort out and worrying to be done.

Today is slightly better... all I have to contend with is the treacle-like substance which feels like it's working it's way down from my brain into the rest of my body. I have the speed of a 90-yr old woman. Is this better than racing thoughts and panic? I just don't know. I appreciate that I can't have everything, I can't ultimately function (brain-wise) as well as a 'normal' person - here I use the word normal in reference to people without a mental illness; but at the same time there's nothing special about me in particular. The meds will help, talking will help, the psych will help... but it's down to me to tie that all together into one mentally-healthy little bundle.

I do sometimes wonder whether I will be classified someday as mentally healthy. Without mental illness. Can that happen? I've been told that meds will be necessary for the rest of my life, I've been told that unless I take them I will end up in and out of institutions. I certainly won't be a nurse. So if I do feel good - on the meds - does that mean I'm no longer suffering with a mental illness? As far as I can see it, the answer is no - because to acheive that level of functionality I have to swallow the pills.

It bothers me often that when I'm down or panicked I seem to say 'you don't understand' to William often. I seem to shut myself into my little bubble where I am completely alone and no-one has ever felt as bad as I. This is ridiculous of course - perhaps each bipolar experience is different, but ultimately we're all going through the same here.

Then there's the question of when you turn from a 'normal' person into one with a mental problem... is it when you attempt suicide? When you're put onto meds? What's to say the doctors can't get it wrong and actually we're all as fucked up as one another, but to varying degrees. I've often asked a doctor if it's possible that I imagined all of this bipolar lark, and made myself suffer from it... he seems to think this highly unlikely. He seemed awfully quick to tell me that I am indeed suffering from a 'severe mental disorder'...

I guess I've just got a lot on my mind at the moment, and I like to capture these rare moments of lucidity so that I might look back one day and think that perhaps it wasn't all that bad - or is it?

Tweaking

So I went to my appointment, all by myself - like the good girl we all know I am.

My meds were indeed adjusted; higher dosages mean bigger smiles - that's what I always say anyway ;)

Things are still pretty good. William is working this evening as there's a concert at the leisure centre. And that's where I am right now, typing away to you all as I can hear the throbbing of the music in the hall beneath me. I would go home only that would mean being by myself - and even I'm not that good.

We are settling well in Guernsey so if there's any more Guerns out there then keep an eye out for me - hell stop me in the street if you like and we debate life or something... I'm the chubby one with long curly brown hair. Usually some sort of pink shoes - be it Converse or Vans!

Hello there

Sorry that it's been a while. We did indeed go to Yorkshire, for all of a week. Before we decided to be defiant and daring and moved back to Guernsey. So far it's paying off - we have a 'room' to call our own, William has a job in security and I'm not feeling to bad either.

I'm still off work, but looking all the same. Still taking the meds - and feeling SO much better for it. I feel like the past - what? - 5 years, have all been a practise for this. I know that I can never predict my moods; nobody can. But I also know that I feel good. William and I have taken up a membership at the leisure centre and this week we have been to the gym, swam, jacuzzied and even played badminton (badly).

My next psych appointment is the 17th September. I guess he will tweak my meds because I am still having a big problem with panic/paranoia and finding it difficult to block out the voices in my head. I can see people talking to me but not really hear what they are saying. However I feel as though I'm in a better position because my thinking is a lot clearer and my moods more stable - hence I can see where I need to improve.

It's a journey my friends, one they call 'life'.

xxx

Through the Wringer

It's been a rough few weeks huh?

I've made up with my Mum, and then rowed again.
I've got my William back, broken up, then got back together again.
I've worked, then been signed off - and now waiting to be fired when my sick leave ends.
I've started and then changed meds.
I've camped under the stars at Abandoned 09
I've been paid, and am now broke.
I've been accepted, and then rejected for my MH Nursing degree.
I've attempted suicide, and then started laughing again.

Right now we are thinking we'll have to go back to Yorkshire. Possibly tomorrow.

*For those interested my current meds are:

Zyprexa (Olanzapine) 5mg - Atypical AntiPsychotic
Lamictal (Lamotrigine) 25mg - Mood Stabiliser - rising to 50mg on Friday
Diazepam occasionally when needed - Tranquilizer

Sorry

Everyone... I have deserted you. As sanity has deserted me.

I never understood people saying their lives got in the way of their blogs... I've always written.

But now I can't.

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