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.