A relapse

 I am tight fisted in nerves. Clenched and furious. Sorry for my silence.

But I must write what I need to say.

Sometimes a relapse is big. I have heard about them. The chaotic fall and the fear.

Sometimes it is fast. Moving before you. Speeding past you.

This is what I had feared. This is what I had thought would happen.

But it didn’t happen like that at all.

For me it was tiny, small, slow, it built and built. It lied to me, I lied to myself and people around me. I was quick in my lies. Like I have been so many times before.

I have been silent because I have been ashamed. But in reality, I know I am allowed to fuck up and make mistakes. I didn’t let myself sink to the bottom again. I quit before I went far too far.

I am back and I am stronger. I didn’t know if I should post about this. Fear was there with the shame and the pain. But I started with honesty so will continue with it.

It started before it really started. Like I was told it would. It started with me denying my story and ignoring my needs. With my silence. Sometimes I believed with such power that I was okay. I was convinced that I could drink. I disbelieved that the simple sip would let me slip into that safe and warm oblivion I was seeking.

For that, I feel foolish.

After the minuets that lasted for months the truth spiked through my gut. The voice became loud again and was followed so quickly with all that regret.

Someone told me that I didn’t have to wait for the disaster to make a change. So his voice rang all too true. And it’s with relief I start sober again.

It’s been a while and sleeping is hard. Long nights are hard. Difficult, a problem that is too tricky to be solved so I sit with it. And ask it over and over ‘when will you leave?’

But I refuse to fall back into the deep. I refuse to wait till the change is a need. I am fierce and strong once more. I can and will walk into rooms where I know I will find help. Calling for it once more brings me relief and joy. It’s a joy to be fighting and fixing again.

A relapse is not worth it. I do not wish to play with fire by fucking up my world. I wish to be back and I am. 

And I am, once more, so sorry to all who stood with me in the tornado I ever so recklessly brought. 

THIS IS A POLYESTER BLOOD BATH

Sometimes I just can’t get dressed. I keep putting on clothes, but my lovely anxiety rips them off. Determined to keep me in the nude. Each layer I try to cover my skin in gets dissolved almost instantly. (I’m almost positive my anxiety fancies me; always wanting me to stay home with her, not letting me wear clothes… it’s all very dark and possessive). My anxiety whispers in my ear while I pull jeans and tops and shirts and onesies and poker dot dresses from draws, she says ‘you can’t wear that. Not with that belly.’ And ‘is that really you? You’re not that person, not loud enough or bright enough. Not generally enough at all.’ It’s all very chaotic as I scramble half naked in a Gollum like fashion around my room, muttering, and cursing, and tossing clothes around. Then along comes Mr OCD, furiously screaming at the top of his lungs ‘IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! THIS IS A POLYESTER BLOOD BATH!’ He then faints on the bed while my anxiety laughs manically as she swings from my curtains. I crawl into a spoon next to my lifeless OCD, naked, and crying. I’m paralyzed while the room around me sings my horrors (the total opposite of singing someone’s praises) and I wonder how it is even possible for anyone to hate themselves this much.  

In this world I live in now, people are so constantly judging us on the outside or perhaps it’s just we judge ourselves on the outside too much. Either way, there’s too much pressure on the glitter on our faces. Our Instagram pages so full of the fake and the self-hatred. It all feeds the pets in our brains, fuels the eating disorders, the anxieties, the depressions, gives them so much power. So I think I’ll duck out for a while, head far away. Clear my brain, go on my “gap yah”, “find myself”, and all that shit. The fact that I can’t get dressed isn’t the only reason I’m running away. The main reason is that I just want one big fat adventure. And of course I need to bring all my buddies with me. The ones that scratch through my veins and around my brain. But perhaps India is the best place for them, I can’t imagine they’ll do well in the heat, unlike me and my ginger skin that will clearly turn beautifully golden… (I got sunburnt once in the Lake District… In April.) So it looks like it’ll be my greatest challenge yet. So for now, good bye England, hello Indian adventure. 

do what brings you joy.

Wearing a robe and cape is the most fun anyone can have on a day off, especially if it’s teamed with a square hat. (I know it’s not a robe or a cape but robe and cape is so much cooler than cap and gown and it makes the graduating thing a little bit Hogwarts and that’s the dream really, isn’t it?)

The dressing up, the hand shaking, the ceremony, the older wizards and witches inspiring us all with magical words. Collecting that beautiful slice of paper telling me I have a first class degree. All those things, everything, made today one of the best days so far in my little life. One of the happiest. One of the days where my brain gave me the most dopamine (if that is in fact the chemical of happiness. I'll google it… Googled it, it’s one of the “happiness” chemicals, damn it, I should have done science, not magic.) Wizardry aside, today has been one of those wonderful, remember forever, big fat brilliant days.

We get a couple of these days in our short lives. Just a few, a handful. Little sugar cube days of joy and pride and stars and moons and worlds and oysters and wands and magic. And there is nothing you can do with them but live them and love them.

For anyone who has lost someone you’ll know that on sunshine days there is a space, a gap, an ache and that missing that is so constant glows just that bit brighter, becomes just that bit tighter. I think possibly, for me, it’s because my lovely man gave me the stars without questions. We had small days in our flat that were the kind of best days that sneak up on you. The ones you only really notice after they've gone. Late in the night when your head hits the pillow and that tickling joy slips you to sleep. It was on our quiet, small days, that we talked of these big days. Planed our world around the big days. So perhaps that’s why the missing grows. It’s just very sad to do those plans without him. So despite my pride and joy today, I really miss my man. I know he would be proud, and I know he would agree with the wise wizard professor who said ‘do what brings you joy.’ So that is just what I shall do.

first

‘There were some complications’ says the imaginary doctor in my brain. She takes off her surgery mask, a results letter clutched between her fingers. (The results were emailed but smart phone doesn’t have the same “ring” to it...) ‘It took around five years.’ She continues ‘but after hospital beds, “crazy” meds, scars, burns, tears, locked doors, unfixable heart, boiling hot anger, sick, fear, suffocated sadness, loss, attempting…’ ‘No, shut up fictitious degree doctor, this isn’t that kind of post.’ I say ripping the letter from her grasp and pulling out (clicking on) the results. First Class Honours in Drama and theatre (no wonder I wanted to script this story…) Boy fucking wow!

Today is bubbles of lovely happiness.

Here are the fireworks.

I will graduate with a first.

I think I now actually understand the term “jumping for joy”.  

I am dancing. Really fucking well. Sparks of pride and joy and wonderfulness whisper from my toes to my ears.  Another battle is won, this time however, by me. I beat my black dog. (Not in an animal abuse sort of way, the dog is a metaphor).

He is sulking. Slumped in the corner of my mind mimicking my pride in sing song sarcastic slur.

How embarrassing for him; returning to this infantile behaviour. In my present state of joy, I can mute the bastard. He becomes a drooling fool, soundlessly gawking like a goldfish.

Yes, dog, fuck you. Look at me and my army laughing the way you’ve sneered at me so many times before, not that I’m sinking to your level, I was just curious to see what it was like below the floor.

All these beautiful people carried me through and made you lose.

The ones who silenced your abusive slurs with wonderful words that twisted your blistering growls into wings to make me fly.

The ones who sat between me and you in inky silence when your sour sent stank the loudest.

The ones who believed every second, never doubting despite your incessant negativity spitting down on me.

Yes. Dog. Fuck you.  

Today I am proud. Today I know I can keep moving; carry on.

And that is something I can hold forever.

This post is speedy and scatty,

I’m sorry for any mistakes, I’m just so terribly happy.

five years.

I’ve not written anything on here for a little while. I wasn’t sure what to say.

My laptop has sat cold, been made redundant. Neglected. I feel I’ve ignored him for too long. (Neglecting inanimate objects makes me feel guilty.)

Just under a month ago I finished university. (Hurrah! And all that…)

I started my degree five years ago. With thoughts of taking over the world. With dreams that stretched from the ends of the hairs on my head, that ran through my blood to the tips of my toes. With the confidence of youth tapping on my shoulder. I strutted into a world I thought I had in my pocket. I know nothing (much like a legendry Game of Thrones Character), but I defiantly knew nothing then. I thought I’d do three years of this “uni thing”, get a wonderful job, get married and so on and so forth.

It wasn’t till five years later I finish what I started. During those five years I was swept up from my child mind into the clutches of early adulthood.

Although now, of course, I have never felt so young.

The first two years of university were coffee, pints, parties, pubs, clubs, tingling excitement, friendships. All speeding and fast till the sadness.

It took me two years of fighting to return to studying after I lost my partner in crime, my best friend, my love. To call it fighting however makes it sound much more chivalrous than it was. It was two years of forgetting, or trying to forget, or trying to recreate, or trying to find something, anything. When I returned I was terrified. Little broken pieces of me still stabbing the sides of my soul. My old arrogance laughing at me.

Now I have finished. 

The weight lifting sensation I’ve so often heard of, that I had so expected and hoped for, wasn’t there. When it was over, it was over. That was it, that was all it was. Finished. Where were the banners and balloons, the fireworks and party poppers, where was the star dust fizzing in my tummy? It was empty. I craved the party that my peers wrapped themselves up in. I craved the buzz. Envied the normal. Felt myself dip into the most annoying mind place of all; self-pity. I climbed onto a stuffy Mega bus and that ugly emotion sat down in the front of my brain and down I sank with it. So off I ran to Bristol, back home. Without stopping for breath. Life pick up in Bristol and I was swept into a tornado of busy. Perhaps that sense of achievement will hit when I stand at graduation. Or perhaps it’s slow, like these last few weeks have been. Slow creeping pride. Gradual, so much so I have barely noticed it. As for now, right now, I am okay. I am excited about the future. I can find small pieces of joy. Life is not the instant hit I once knew it as. It’s softer, it’s subtle, calm. And in reality, that might be the best it has ever been, better than the grand finale, because it’s the beginning, the start of the show. The opening credits when your jaw is poised ready to dig your teeth into the world that zooms through your eyes and into your mind.

The lights are only just coming up.   

plan

The library is a mess of strong hot coffee, furious fingers tapping on laptops, scattered students that stare with blurred vision at notes and books and bright screens. The finish line is in sight for most of us in our third year of university. People are planning graduation outfits, piecing together essays, polishing up on revision, and just generally desperately scrambling around trying to get their shit together.

My academic career, if placed on a chart of success, would resemble a heart monitor machine, with vast ups and downs. But finally it has settled. I’m finally a steady student. This potentially has something to do with the fact that my time is spread equally between university and home, there is no in-between. There are no bars or clubs or pubs. I recently discovered my Grandmother has more of a social life than I do. Which was a bit of a kick to the stomach, at first. However, I am about to finally get my degree. My Grandmother is not working on a degree, nor is she working, she is free to live it up in North London. Good on her. Her zest for life is one of the things that makes me proudest to be her granddaughter. She worked, raised children, paid her dues and now she is a beckon of hope that life continues in your 80s. She’s fabulous.

 I have wrapped myself up in a work filled cocoon because I know that is what I must do. Being at university and suffering from depression and dragging around all the rest of my bull shit is rather tricky and time consuming. There isn’t much support in regards to mental health at my university; I asked about mental health support and as soon as I talked about my history of suicide and drugs student services seemed to disolve like a salted slug before my very eyes. But I’ve squeezed myself into a small circle of friends who are compassionate and so understanding. I give myself brakes by watching far too much Modern Family and power myself with hundreds of cups of tea. I am making my way to the end. I’m so nearly there. Just a couple more weeks of madness and it’s done. The stress of it all bites hard. But the stress of my work load is not hardest part. The hardest part is (in technical terms) WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO NEXT!? I’m off to India in July which of course I cannot wait for. But after that, what happens? I will have a lovely piece of paper that tells me I know somethings about Drama and Theatre and a big fat lot of debt. Great.

So many get trapped in that vicious demoralising cycle, worrying about not having a plan or (if you don’t mind the Friends reference) even a pla. The thing that I’m starting to come to terms with is- plans very often don’t work out. Short term, like, ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea’ are wonderful, fantastic, go for it, make that plan a reality! But long term, ie- ‘in ten years I’m going to be married with a baby on the way and be where I want to be in my career,’ often don’t. If they do, CONGRATULATIONS!! In my mind short term goals are the way forward. They are the plan. Short term achievable goals make you feel fab. So, I am not going to do the plan thing this year. I’m opting out of the plan. I am plan-less. I have ideas of the thing’s I’d like from life, of course. But from the amount that’s happened in the last hectic year of my life it wouldn’t surprise me if I was living on Mars in ten years, surrounded by a friendly bunch of aliens, eating cake from the moon and discussing who the next queen of the newly discovered planet Zargon should be. Who knows what’s going to happen, and most importantly, what if I create a fantastic, mind-blowingly, wonderful plan and it falls apart? I’m going to feel like absolute shit. Me not having a plan is not to say that I’m going to float around hoping good things are going to happen TO me, because that seems just as foolish. I’m going work as hard as I possibly can, jump for every exciting opportunity I possibly can, and hope for the best. The best, normally comes from unexpected situations. The best jumps out you when you take a direction you may not have planned to take. Without sounding disgustingly corny, I’m going to do my best at living, moment to moment, slices of happiness, sadness, laughter, tears and every inch of life in-between. That’s my plan. Perhaps I do have one after all, maybe that kind of pretention won’t go down quite so well at family parties. Ah well. Fuck it.  

black dog

My black dog. The beautiful bastard. I say beautiful because at times my depression has let me see the world in a way that is tragically beautiful. At some points, when my black dog has embedded its teeth into my skull, and I have been able to drag myself away from dark tear stained rooms or comedy central or sad iPod tunes. If I’ve been able to wonder to some place or another that’s away from city noise and busy streets. And found myself trudging through somewhere peaceful, I might sit and wonder if trees have always been so incredibly majestic and beautiful. Or something like that. It seems bazaar that I find it so difficult to find that beauty on the calmer days.

But mostly my depression is a fucking bitch. It’s a real fucking horrible little shit. It sits there and sucks the fun out through a straw that slurps. It’s noisy and it stinks while I sit with friends and try to ignore it. It dissolves joy from memories. Rudely intrudes on family gatherings and holidays. It builds walls between myself and places that are meant to feel like home. It stands between me and jobs and friends and sometimes just getting out of bed. It greets me every morning with a disgustingly cheerful ‘hello’ as it slams its fat ugly ass on my bed. The fucker even makes walking hard, it clings to my legs so I have to drag my feet. It makes a lovely shop worker look like something from a horror film. Depression is shit. At times I’m it’s prisoner. I’m locked up. Checked out. The bastard wants me dead.

But fuck you depression, I want to live.

I’m not entirely sure when I got this lovely pet, but I think I was around thirteen. It was around then when people became scary. It was around then the beast would taunt me till I cried oh so embarrassingly during lessons at school. I didn’t purchase this new addition to my family. I had enough pets, guinea pigs and a cat, I was happy with those. What an earth did this thing want with me? The song that goes ‘dumb dog why are you following me?’ from Annie springs to mind. But unfortunately despite being a feisty red head, I didn’t want that pest. Terribly confused and full of fear I just tried to carry on. I wish I had shouted out. I wish I had talked about it. I wish I’d asked. 

Wishing is rather foolish. I didn’t question it, I let it grow. I feed it with slices on my arms, intoxication and bottled up anger. I gave it a home. It’s only over ten years later that I’m finally learning to live with it. Learning that it’s ok if I need to take a little more time, it’s ok to take medication, it’s ok to watch Singing in the Rain seven times in one week, it’s ok to cry, it’s ok talk about this. Just so long as I do keep talking about it. We should all talk about it. With big fat buckets full of honesty. Let our words shout louder than depressions piecing bark. Let real words march through the minds of those friends and lovers and sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers who are hiding in the dark. Let’s fight these despicable beasts in our brains with a big fat ‘I feeling shit and I can’t leave the house,’ or ‘I’m worried about my mental health.’ Let’s lift open our lap-tops and google Young Minds or Mind. Let’s call our doctors. Ring our parents. Let’s open our mouths and slam down that stinking social stigma. Let’s fight this. Let’s fight this now.

Brighton streets.

Clubs will continue to churn out turned up tunes into the blackness of night.
Milk madness that pours thick.
Crowds will continue to chew their gums
and hum, and swallow sickly, sweet, bitter, regret.
At first, among the groups of gurning gangs I stand with awkward feet
that don't seem to want to move with the beat.
But flicker with my sober anxiety.
People push and pierce ear drums with screams and repetitive monotony.
They have forgotten their ability to be.
Smoking I meet new faces who offer me drinks.
With twists of shame and smile I shake my head.
I laugh with the people who remind me of a life I once lead.
Bitter sweet.
The ones less wasted become new friends.
Inside I waste apologies with excuse me.
All elbows and bones shoving the soul.
But in my sobriety I dance and laugh with friends who surround me. Normality.
My ears still ring as I begin the journey home.
But we sing.
My room does not spin as I hit soft sheets.
Waking next morning with memories of a night to store in my head,
flick back to when the thoughts of drinks and drugs take up space in my brain. It's getting easier.
My eyes are wide and I am tipping on pride as I play the previous day in my mind,
with a smile.
And I do not ache or feel shame.
I do not cringe with pain as I check my funds of my phone.
I don't mean this to sound like puffed up pride. Stuffy superiority.
I'm just finding how this space of 23 fits with me. Where I can feel at peace.
Sober nights aren't always easy. They are often edging to impossible.
Making early tearful nights probable. Empty sleep eyes.
But I'm finding the line.
Knowing when it's time to say not tonight.
But on Brighton streets I get it right.

fix

I had let my sadness from losing someone I loved define me. Then I let my mistakes pile up. My mistakes held hands with my using. My brain melting in to a smoke filled mess. A damp mold behind my skull. It stank. Toxic. Feeling rotten to my core. So damaged, so destroyed that the chaos was my comfort. The sadness was my blanket and I was wrapped up in all of it. Forgetting everything else around me. There is a sense of loss when I think back. A sadness that I am no longer in that. I know how strange that might sound. There was just a certain freedom in not caring at all for my life. Not caring because I felt I was totally beyond repair. The person who I was, no matter how dark and twisted, that was me. I was the girl who fucked up. The one who caused chaos with white dust and angry intoxication. The one who didn’t care. Not one little bit. Inside, of course, I cared deeply about the people around me. Loved with all my internal organs, but what is the point of love if it is only felt on the inside and never shared, not even with myself. I stuffed that love so far down to the ground it barely touched my toes.

Being in recovery has forced me to recreate myself. At first putting the blocks of my life back together was exciting, interesting. Searching and discovering the things that I like. Listening to music again. Reading books. Finding things. Reconnecting. But all of a sudden I feel like I’m searching in the dark. Like I’m totally lost. I can’t tell you who I am now. I feel like I’m blindly grasping at the air. Trying to feed my soul but only clutching my own empty hands. I’m trying on outfits and none of them seem to fit. Everything I try feels like that itchy jumper you get for Christmas; spiky, sharp. My skin doesn’t fit. I would like to fit again in my own skin.  Everything frightens me and leaves me lonely. And loneliness is so ugly. It’s bare and cold and no matter who stands ready to fight it, it doesn’t seem to leave till IT wants to. Each morning it clings to my shoulders, stuck to me. I must drag this gut retching maggot around with me. The maggot and my beast and all my sickening memories seem to thrive together. Like a virus. And my regrets are piled high. So much fuel. From the drunken stories that past my lips without a stop and think to friends who only deserved kindness. To walking away when I should have stayed. The people I’ve hurt.

Somewhere in this piece there is a realization. That to recreate myself, to be in comfort once again I must repair. So now recovery welcomes a new mission, a new fight. I must fix what I have broken outside of me to mend my insides. A battle I guess I knew I would always have to face.

six.

When I was six I danced in a white tutu. The vest part stained from my clumsy joy of food. My little round belly stretched out around my middle like a balloon. I wasn’t the most agile dancer but nothing would deter me from spreading my arms wide, stretching my chubby little legs, pointing my toes and bounding around the house haphazardly. To a classical CD that I’d plucked from my dad’s collection. I would dance just because it was exactly what I wanted to do and it made bubbles of joy tickle up my spine.

When I was six I would sneak outside and fight through jungles, ride horses through the Highlands of Scotland, make camp fires. Discover places where the creatures of dreams would tell me tales of worlds beyond my own. Digg with sticks to try and find the heat of Australia in rainy Bristol. Turn clouds into wales and dragons. Ride my bike across American highways.

 When I was six I wanted to unravel all the mystery’s in the world. Play every part. Fierce red head full of question and sharp determination. 

When I was six I would spin around in circles with my best friend. Laughter would pour from our lungs. The world would roll in circles so much faster than it had ever done before. With dizzy happiness. Adventures. That zest for life. That something you have when you're so brand new in the world.  

When I was six I’d climbed upstairs with sleep in my eyes but of course I did not want to sleep. My sisters and I caused chaos with cold feet and peppermint breath. Letting our world be our game, as all children do. When I was six I didn’t want to sleep for fear of wasting time. For fear of missing the grown up hours. For fear of not seeing what the world looked like when it turned black. I peeked through the banisters and drank in the sound of my parent’s whispers. Breathed in the almost silent ache of the house that had been so alive in the light. Crawled to the warmth of my bed with disappointed surrender at the end of it all. Tired and full.

Six months ago today a suitcase was put in my sister’s cars. We drove. To the place where I would spend a month healing. Where I would learn how pull apart the rattling poison behind my skull. Suck it out like a snake bite and spit it into the gutter. Where I would find my calm. Where I would meet some of the most wonderful people.  

I wanted to travel back to a different six to celebrate this one. A six that reminds me that I wasn't always an addict. I wasn't always troubled. By that reminding I have hope. I'm not sure how much sense that makes to you, but it helps me to see that there are a million different parts that make me who I am and being an addict is just a slice of that.  

Before rehab I never wanted to be clean and sober. I'd found a pattern in my life that almost felt comfortable. But it wasn't. I was slowly killing myself. I was forgetting the people around me. I was forgetting who I was. I was forgetting me at six.

three.

A story.

Some years ago she walked with the swagger of youth towards her local pub. She sat and drank pints of lager, then rum and ginger. She did this when the mood hit her. She sat with people who talked about things that didn’t really matter. That was okay. Some years ago, on a night like this she met him. He leant on the bar, foot tucked behind ankle. He sat with her and everyone else disappeared. Because something like joy or peace or understanding sat between them. They talked and listened. Little smoke stories that could have only been caught by each other. Sucked in. Breathed in. Turning into one of those memories that you know you must remember. Around them the chaos of the world turned into black ink. Time moved on. Like time does. She sped through country lanes to wrap herself around him. He passed her his story and she held it close. He played her music that turned her skin into velvet. They breathed in the sun. They danced in the rain. She drove him and her sister to Devon. They sang as they poured through shallow sun roads. She handed him a slice of her. And on. They picked up the keys to their flat. He told her ‘forever and a day’. She told it back. They ate Chinese food on the floor. He kissed her on the forehead. They rushed home after their days. They held each other. They kept their demons in a little black box. They drove to the Lake District and danced on water. They came home to their flat. And on. Their demons escaped and the chaos that had turned black melted into mud. Their feet got stuck. Together they tried to drag themselves out of fear. He couldn’t get out. They had swallowed him whole. Out of her lungs poured screams of ‘no.’ Her heart broke. She sat alone on a bench in that park by that flat. Alone she asked him to hold her hand. Alone she told him to take her home. In the cold she missed him. She asked him where he was. She wanted to burn the world.

Three years on. She wants to throw chairs through windows. She lets red hot breaths beat under her skin. It hurts her. Because everyday she misses him. Today she misses him. She wishes for a different ending to her story. 

Time does not take away the pain. It just teaches you how to live with it. The same angry. The same missing. The same questions. The same doubt. It's just locked away. In that girl, that was me. 

And I miss you.

And I love you. 

being

I am on medication for depression.

I have been on and off. 

Tried so many types.

Different variations. 

Cocktails. 

A pick-a-mix of anti depressants, sleeping pills, anti anxiety, and so on. 

Meds that dull the senses. That stop tears in their tracks. That hold me. That let me sleep. My medication lets me 'be'. It takes the racing heart and sweaty palms out of ordering coffee. It lets my head creep up from staring at the floor. It takes some of my pain away. On the darkest of days it gives me a slice of light. It gives me the ability to be. This medication helps me and many others turn days of despair into days where getting out of bed is a possibility. 

However there is a foggy stigma when it comes my little tablets. It rears it's ugly head whenever this subject is mentioned. And I am angry. I am angry that mental illness can sometimes hold hands with shame. I have felt that shame. I have clasped my mouth closed with quivering hands when I should have shouted the loudest. I have whispered when I should have screamed. I have said those words 'no, I doing fine' hoping someone would hear the hidden meaning, that had sunk so deep I didn't even know how to breathe. This stigma scares me. This stigma must leave. 

No one smuggles in a secret Lemsip when they have a cold. No one asks a patient in a coma if they've tried 'getting up.' No one tells someone with a broken leg 'to go running.' So why do we do this with mental illness? Why do people tell me to 'cheer up' when there is something damaged in my brain? Just because it's not visible does not mean it's not there. And the stark reality is that people die. These illnesses are vicious. They kill. If a little pill can stop that, if medication can save a life, or even just make a life livable. Then it must be okay. It has to be. 

It might not be the only answer. Medication is not the one and only. There are therapies. There are other answers. It just so happens that it helps me. And that is okay. 

we will not forget who we are. 

five.

As the days turn into weeks and tumble into months. The person I once was moves further and further away. The person that had only one thing on their mind. I have waved good bye. And the person I’m becoming is turning scars into thicker skin. I want to say that it gets easier. That it stops being so hard. Maybe in some ways it does. In some ways I learn a little more each day about how to live in recovery. 

It would be a lie to say 'I don't miss it'. Because I do. I write excuses in my brain. Wait for a bad day to push the 'fuck it' button. It's a little like there's a conflict in my mind. Between the old me and the new. But for the last five months the new me has been winning and I hope it will continue to. I don't ever what to let her lose. 

But the waves of aches and pains that once drove me to put chemicals in my brain still arrive in tidal storm. The crave is sketched so deep into my bones that I don’t think it will ever leave. It pulls me out when I’m in peace. When the cravings click their ugly battle cries I shut my eyes. I remember that I almost died. I silence the lies that whisper in my mind 'you need this.' Because the life I have now I am living, and I am loving.

Five months and I am okay. And I’d like to thank you all for every inch of your love and support.

and it's over.

One more sober mile stone. It can be done. 

The festive season was something I was dreading with all of my being. I was terrified I wouldn't make it through clean and sober. In reality I feel like it's made me stronger. Made me heal that little bit more. Helped me put together a few more of the pieces of myself that I lost. With the help of my small army of loved ones, I made it through. 

Over Christmas I locked the doors of my family home and only snuck out to see some fierce and loyal friends when things weren’t too dark. My family once again stood guard around me when I dipped further into that bone aching fog of depression. They dragged me out of it by never leaving my side. Christmas day; calm arrived just in time. We ate too much food and watched shit TV, in perfect tradition. And when that beast addiction tapping at the back of my skull became too fucking loud I reached out to the people around me and of course they were, as always, ready to fight. I am forever thankful. 

For once, on New Years Eve I wasn't a teeth grinding, staggering, mess. I didn't wake up on the very first day of the year with black ink in my brain rather than memories, a nose full of chalky cocaine, or a sadness clutching my shoulders, digging it's claws into my neck. Instead, I waved good bye to 2015 with the biggest smile. With tummy turning happiness, surrounded by friends who never left my side. I held up my middle finger to last year. And oh so gladly waved it the fuck good bye. I had a well and truly wonderful night and woke up with memories to remember. So I enter this year feeling hopeful. Feeling ready to move on. Ready for an adventure. And I can’t bloody wait.