Having finally let myself Google personal accounts from people who’ve taken it, I’ve realised that everything I’m feeling can be attributed to the medication. I don’t care that it was starting to help a little with the pain; if I have  to choose between relative sanity and painful joints, I’ll take the sanity please.

Of course, my mother will insist that I get yet another appointment with my GP to discuss it. However, I think if I have to walk into that waiting room one more time, I’ll snap entirely. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my shit together recently, and I don’t want to end up undoing all the hard work. Plus… I don’t think I can face yet another medication which probably won’t work, and might end up making me feel worse. Perhaps I can make it until April (when I’m seeing a rheumatology specialist) and just deal with the pain.

Six days is all it’s taken for me to become a quivering, sweating, angry wreck. I want to punch myself in the face; as barmy as I can be, that’s not normal. The only thing stopping me is knowing I’d have to explain the bruising. It’s difficult to make excuses for an injury when you’ve been bedbound for days.

This is never going to get better, is it? Life’s never going to get better.

Tonight, I spoke to my mother about my blog, and how it’s helped me. She’s always known I write this, although I would never in a million years show it to her. She’s always been suspicious of the internet, to the point of obsession over supposed threats social networks could pose to me, regardless of how careful I assure her I am (I’m not; I’m just not interesting enough to be worth stalking, and if someone wants to hack my bank account, go for it; I have a grand total of nothing in it, and it’s been empty for a year now), but she’s recently become quite attached to reading forums. Mostly it’s the same one; a money-saving forum. She tells me about the lives of the various members as though they were close friends, and I actually think it’s nice, and probably good for her. I worry about her total lack of a social life, and I suppose in a way she’s involving herself now, even though she doesn’t ever post.

I sat on the stairs, balancing a mug of light chocolate Ovaltine next to me and hugging my knees while we spoke. We often seem to speak in strange places; we’ve never been that good at expressing our emotions around each other, but we’re starting to, and I like it. Since my diagnosis of Borderline Personality, I’ve become more open with her. She’s done her research on it, and I know there’s no point pretending everything’s fine with me now when I freak out, because she knows exactly why.

I’ve always been a very honest person. I may have lied and twisted facts in the past to make myself sound cool or popular, but when it comes to my emotions, I’ve rarely bothered holding back. I suppose I just don’t see the point in hiding such a huge part of my personality. Sometimes, that honesty has come back to bite me on the arse – not everybody treats the truth with respect – but I’ve always tried to bounce back from the insults and judgements, believing that the best way for me to cope with life is to be honest about who I am and the way I feel.

Tonight, I wanted to be honest in a post, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s the first time I’ve struggled with laying myself bare online in a long time, and I’ve never once held back on this blog. My reasons for holding back were twofold; one, I didn’t want to be seen to be looking for sympathy, and two, I just didn’t think anybody would be interested enough.

I didn’t write the post in the end. It seemed easier to just let it slide, but I’ve been unable to shake it from my mind. It was nothing amazing or groundbreaking – simply explaining how much physical pain I’m in today/tonight – but when I started this blog, I promised myself total honesty, even if I didn’t like what I had to write about myself, and so I now find myself typing away at my laptop, propped up against a V-shaped neck pillow in my little single bed, writing to purge the imagined sins of dishonesty.

I mean, I wasn’t even dishonest. I simply omitted to mention something, which in itself is no biggie and certainly won’t cause any major disasters to happen. In the comments of my last post, people said I should stop being so hard on myself, and they’re right. Guilt consumes so much of my life that sometimes it’s all I can feel.

The truth? I’m in pain. A lot of pain, all through my body. I’ve hardly moved today, although I’ve tried to force myself. My fingers and wrists ache, my ankle is bruised and swollen (it’s been that way for months), my neck feels as though I’m carrying a concrete slab on my head, and my skulls feels like it may explode. Earlier, I had earache, probably caused by a swollen gland on the left side of my neck. My knees hurt. My jaw hurts. Even my eyes seem to hurt.

The Celebrex is doing nothing except scrambling my already jumbled brain. Naproxen helps, but I can’t take both and I need to stay on the Celebrex until I see the rheumatologist. I haven’t had any weed for a couple of weeks now, so that’s not an option. Staying in bed doesn’t help and neither does moving around. Hot baths don’t touch the pain in my neck and head at all. Heat does nothing. Cold does even less. So the only thing I have is fucking codeine. How can I deal with an addiction if I need that substance to even begin to function?

I’ve tried to behave and stick to the correct dosage, but I’ve slipped a few times. Last night I took seven caplets, in an attempt to sleep. I’ve only had two today so far, but the effects wore off hours ago. I feel like I should be apologising to my liver.

I can’t help feeling cheated by life. I suppose being sick is a lot like grief; I’m going through the stages.

The stages, popularly known by the acronym DABDA, include:^[2]

1. Denial — “I feel fine.”; “This can’t be happening, not to me.”
   Denial is usually only a temporary defense for the individual. This feeling is generally replaced with anger
2. Anger — “Why me? It’s not fair!”; “How can this happen to me?”; ‘”Who is to blame?”
   Once in the second stage, the individual recognizes that denial cannot continue. Because of anger, the person is very difficult to care for due to misplaced feelings of rage and envy.
3. Bargaining — “I’ll do anything for a few more years.”; “I will give my life savings if…”
   The third stage involves the hope that the individual can somehow postpone or delay death. Usually, the negotiation for an extended life is made with a higher power in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. Psychologically, the individual is saying, “I understand I will die, but if I could just do something to buy more time…”
4. Depression — “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?”; “I’m going to die soon so what’s the point… What’s the point?”; “I miss my loved one, why go on?”
   During the fourth stage, the dying person begins to understand the certainty of death. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse visitors and spend much of the time crying and grieving. This process allows the dying person to disconnect from things of love and affection. It is not recommended to attempt to cheer up an individual who is in this stage. It is an important time for grieving that must be processed.
5. Acceptance — “It’s going to be okay.”; “I can’t fight it, I may as well prepare for it.”
   In this last stage, individuals begin to come to terms with their mortality, or that of a loved one, or other tragic event.

Wikipedia link

Only, I keep flipping back and forth between anger and depression. I seem to be stuck between them. Some days I can almost accept it, but then something happens – I drop a cup or wake up unable to move my neck – and I’m right back to being frustrated and furious, or depressed and convinced I may as well just give up because life can’t ever get any better.

Denial was the best stage. It lasted a long time. I don’t know when things changed.

“what the f*ck!” i screamed.  jamming on my gas pedal, driving in reverse, i returned to the window.

me: “excuse me, but i tasted SUGAR in my beverage.”

barista: “yes, it’s an iced coffee.”

me: “i’m sorry, i don’t understand your response.”

she repeated the original response.

me: “if a person orders a BLACK iced coffee, then what does that mean?”

barista: “it means without cream.”

me: “is sugar black?”

barista: “no, it’s white.”

me: “then how does this drink reflect my order of BLACK?”

barista: “well, it’s just syrup.”

at this point, i’m freaking out in my head.  *i drank syrup?!  it’s not even pure cane sugar?!  i need to vomit.  oh my god.  no, wait, i don’t do that anymore.*

 

It struck a painful chord with me. Both anorexia and bulimia turned me into a horrible person, and in some respects I think that’s the most cruel aspect of an eating disorder. Lack of essential nutrients, anxiety and the pure terror of calories you hadn’t factored into your day can flip a switch which, for want of a better term, let’s call the Crazy Trigger.

Even though I consider myself to be treading the fine line between ED and being okay, I still have that Crazy Trigger, and I despise it. I hate it because it brings a feeling of total loss of control. I hate it because it drives people away, because who would believe that somebody can freak out over a few grains of sugar or a tiny bit of butter? I do. Sometimes I do, even though I’m no longer as bad as I used to be.

When my anorexia was at its height (at the age of thirteen), I turned into a total monster. I went from a quiet, shy, timid girl, to a raging monster with no self-control or shame. I’d scream at innocent bystanders holding sandwiches (why should they get to eat and not get fat?) and threaten violence against the poor food sample lady in Tesco, convinced she was part of some bizarre conspiracy to make me gain weight. Although I no longer abuse innocent people in the street, I still shout at my mother sometimes if she makes a comment like, “have you eaten anything today?” or, “that pie needs eating before it goes out of date”. The Crazy Trigger slips into the front of my mind, unnoticed and sneaky, and starts pushing everybody away with threats and curses. It’s a part of myself I truly despise, and although I’ve beaten it somewhat into submission, sometimes I just seem unable to control myself at all. And that scares me more than anything.

Today, my mother asked if I was going to eat anything. A simple question, an entirely innocent one… yet it set off a chain of events in my head.

If I eat… will she judge me? Will other people judge me? Am I just faking this fear? If I don’t eat, she’ll think I’m crazy and lock me away again. Oh god, what do I do? Do I eat? Maybe just a sandwich? That’ll be okay. Why am I worrying about this? I’m fat anyway.

Sometimes I suspect that no matter how much I feel okay with myself, I’ll always be one step away from crazy.

It’s not that I’m depressed (I’m not) or particularly stressed out (again, I’m not); I’m just tired. Tiredness is a strange thing. We all experience it, so you’d think that carrying on as normal wouldn’t be that difficult. Still, the overwhelming sense of fatigue has flipped a switch somewhere in my brain and triggered an apathy I can’t seem to shake.

Of course, putting off writing makes things even more difficult, because I now feel a sense of responsibility to myself to put everything down on screen; and I have a lot to write about. Sure, I have nothing worthwhile to do today so I have plenty of time… but part of me just wants to curl up in bed with a cup of coffee and read, rather than have to think about things.

I saw my GP this morning. I woke fifteen minutes before my alarm went off, but still managed to be five minutes late even though the surgery is only around the corner. I just couldn’t motivate myself. Luckily, appointments were running behind anyway, so although I had a small panic it didn’t turn into a full-force freak out. As I sat in the waiting room I thought about how often I’d seen those same plastic chairs, the same Comic-Sans printed signs advising on chlamydia testing, and the same slightly scuffed carpet. I thought about how so much of my life has been spent in GP waiting rooms and hospitals, and realised that it was a depressingly large amount of time. As a result, I found myself apologising to my doctor for taking up so much of his time. He said there was no need to be sorry, but I still felt guilty. He must be sick of seeing my face.

I told him how unhappy I was with the neurology appointment. Although the anger has long gone, I’m still upset that I wasn’t taken seriously. Of course that’s nothing new, but I’m growing tired of having everything blamed on my age, or being told that people my age can’t possibly have anything wrong with them. How old do I have to be before I’m listened to?

My GP agreed with me that a re-referral probably wouldn’t achieve anything, and so I’ve been passed on to rheumatology. I’ll be seeing the specialist who diagnosed me with fibromyalgia, which cheered me up considerably because he’s such a lovely guy. The last thing I need is to be stuck with another po-faced consultant. I explained how the steroid treatment also helped a lot with the pain, to the point where it pretty much disappeared. We both agreed that fibromyalgia seems unlikely now; so I suppose it’s a case of finding out what it is yet again. I’ve been given drugs for arthritis to see if they help, and yet more steroid cream to treat the eczema; it’s come back. It came back once the steroid treatment dropped to two tablets a day, and the speed has been pretty distressing. One day I had a small red patch and I felt really smug that it seemed to have finally cleared up, the next I woke up with blisters all over my hands and feet. After a week, it’s pretty much back to the severity it was when I started the treatment, and I confess that I don’t hold out much hope for steroid cream working. They never have before. Still, if it helps the pain and itching at all, it’s a bonus. The past two nights have been pretty hellish, scratching and being kept awake by the burning.

I suppose I’m coping okay, otherwise. A few small panics, but I’m putting that down to frustration over the pain. I’ve developed a strange walk; I caught sight of myself in a mirror in Marks and Spencer yesterday and noticed that I’m not only dragging my right foot slightly (unattractive in itself) but I’m doing a strange thing with my hip – lifting it more on one side – thus making my backside look even bigger and, well, just making it look like I don’t know how to walk properly. It shouldn’t bother me because I can’t help it, but I really dislike showing any physical signs that I’m in pain. I don’t want sympathy or to be treated differently, but it’s becoming inevitable that I will be. I like being able to pretend that everything’s okay, but I can’t really do that anymore. Still haven’t used my walking stick; it almost feels like giving up, even though I know I probably need it. I told S about it, and I don’t know why but I said that it was a silly idea of my mum’s (it wasn’t) and I’m fine without it. Why did I lie? I hate lying, and I know he wouldn’t think any less of me. I just want to be… perfect, I suppose. I know there’s no such thing, but it’s hard to accept that life didn’t quite go the way I planned it to.

Speaking of S, on Tuesday it was a year since we started going out together. We didn’t see each other, but exchanged some lovely texts and he made me feel pretty special. I can’t quite believe that he’s put up with me for a whole year, and that during that time we haven’t had a single argument or even a bicker. I’ve never had a relationship like this, and I constantly have to mentally pinch myself to make sure it’s not a dream. I’m still slightly convinced that I’ll wake up one day in a padded room, having fabricated the whole thing. Love like this… it doesn’t happen to people like me. My relationships have always been about passion and fights and denial and jealousy. They’ve never been so peaceful and comfortable as my relationship with S has been. I’ve truly never known any man like him, and I feel pretty blessed. Sometimes I get scared that he’ll change his mind, but something inside me actually feels hope, for the first time since I can remember.

Next weekend, we’re going to Wales to stay in a cottage for a week with some friends. It’ll be the longest we’ve ever spent together, and I suppose in a way it’s a test of just how much we can take of each other’s company. I’m looking forward to it; usually I hate being around other people, but I feel quite comfortable with his friends and it’ll be nice to get away from these four walls.

We’ll be staying pretty close to the base of Mt Snowdon; a perfect opportunity to actually use my Nikon.

I confess; I slipped again. I didn’t purge like last time, but I’m sitting here with codeine running through my bloodstream. A normal dose, for once… but not a great sign. I just wish I could cope without some form of chemical help. Sometimes I worry I never will.

Edit: I’d like to thank the bloggers who have nominated me for awards recently. It hasn’t gone unnoticed or unappreciated, and when I’m feeling more up to it I’ll respond. Thank you for the nominations, it still amazes me that people even read this.

was never supposed to be a war.

We stood together,

yet always apart.

I think I love you,

but how can I be sure?

I slipped, you see,

I let us both down.

You vs. I;

and how can we win the battle?

When we are one and the same?

I’m sorry.

(c) 2012

The offer is open to the public, One entry Per blog link please, you are encouraged to fine tune your entry and meet the word counting requirement before submitting, by the end of the project, our officials (2 to 3)  will format your work into a book form, we expect about 100-300 entries, we will publish your talent as a book, it is self-publishing, and we won’t charge you but won’t pay you either, since we do it as a non-profit project, the finished book selling link will be provided to you by end of March, 2012, have fun, good luck!

Bluebell Books

Reblogged from marymcgillsblog:

Ladies: it’s time to put down those sparkly shoes and pick up your shields, for the battle of the body types rages on and you’ve simply got to choose a size, sorry, side. No, no – no dithering. You’re either one or the other and before you starting rambling on about ‘healthy body image’ just shut it. ‘Healthy body image’ doesn’t whip up a media frenzy the way ‘skinny versus curvy’ does, so you can park that notion, thank you very much. What’s it going to be, women folk: the skinny tribe of supermodels and …

Found this post whilst reading through blogs this morning, trying to distract myself from eating a mountain of toast. It’s a subject I think about a lot, and the author has managed to put it across far better than I could. I suggest that any woman struggling with body image and/or eating disorders gives it a read.

hind·sight

   [hahynd-sahyt]

I purged.

I purged, for the first time in years.

The red marks on my fingers. The acid-breath. The sheen on top of the water in the toilet. The old running-the-taps trick. The ache. The emptiness and puffy face. I was over it.

But I’m not. Not by a long way.

It was always there. Waiting for me to slip.

I’m an idiot.

- House, M.D

Sometimes, life throws me a curveball. A ball which curves so much that I miss it entirely and let it sail past my head without realising how much I really need to grab onto it, for my own sanity.

Today’s curveball was as simple as getting my period. Something I can’t control other than the usual pack of pills to stop me getting pregnant and give me a false bleed once a month.

I temporarily sunk. Only for a short time, but a short time feels like a lifetime when you’re feeling despair for no good reason. All because of some hormones flinging themselves around my body, just like they do for every other woman.

It’s frustrating to know that even if I kick depression’s arse, hormones will take control once a month. I’ve spent the day alternating between screaming at my mother over nothing and wanting to drink myself into oblivion, is that normal? I spent time staring at my walking stick, wondering if I’ll ever be brave enough to use it, and if I’ll ever need to use it every day. It was difficult getting out of bed today, it was even more difficult to reply to comments and I really, really don’t want to be writing this. I want to sleep and forget. However, I promised myself that I would write my moods down.

I should be happy, and that’s why I’m angry enough to punch a small kitten. Before depression comes anger, and I don’t want to slip into that darkness again. S stayed over at my house at the weekend. My mother was visiting my sister in Yorkshire, and her paranoia about having the house broken in to means I had to look after the place while she was away. From Friday to Sunday night, S and I spent our time wrapped up in each other – physically and emotionally – and it was amazing. We squeezed into my little single bed and slept with our legs and arms tangled together, occasionally waking and smiling at each other.

I should be happy. Instead, I want to hide away.

Stupid hormones. It’s not fair.

There’s peace for me in this wasteland
A place for me to belong.

(c) 2003.

S held me all night. Refused to let me go. We drank wine and ate Chinese takeaway. Watched The Secret Life of Machines and had mind-blowing sex. Fell asleep for an hour with our noses touching.

I woke up at 8am today, and promptly fell out of bed thanks to an entirely numb leg. When I stood, I noticed that the upper back pain has returned and my neck is stiffening again. I’m down to two steroids a day now (from five) so I can only assume that the dose is now too low to kill the pain. Dragged my leg around for most of the day and was very tempted to sit down in the middle of town and fall asleep. It’s amazing how quickly you forget how it feels to be in pain 24 hours a day. You forget just how soul-destroying it is. I’m out of weed too, so that’s more reasons for the pains to return. Part of me is so tempted to turn back to codeine, but I know that would be such a bad move. I know it’d be the worst thing I could do right now. I’ve just broken the habit – literally only just broken it – and I don’t want to go back there. I gave it up by accident; and I need to appreciate that blessing.

All the money I don’t have?

I spent it on jewellery today. Whoops.

I don’t know how long I stayed in the unit the second time. Days turned into weeks, and my brain slowly became mush from the boring daily routines and therapy. Twice a week, we would all be taken into a big hall and be made to do trust exercises – catching each other, that sort of thing – and I hated every moment. I was crazy, not five years old. I didn’t see how running under a big plastic sheet would magically cure my bulimia and general madness. One time, I found myself talking to an empty chair, like the plastic ones we used in school; the patients were encouraged to sit opposite a chair and pretend somebody who’d hurt us was sitting in it. We were supposed to tell them why they’d caused us pain, but all I achieved from the exercise was feeling like an utter twat. I chose to ‘speak’ to a girl who’d been one of my best friends all through primary school and into secondary, who’d done a runner as soon as I started losing my marbles. I told her that she shouldn’t have given up on me, and that I needed friends. The member of staff overseeing it all said I’d done a good job. Again, I didn’t see how it could possibly help. It didn’t. My heart wasn’t in it.

In fact, I had absolutely no desire to get better; I didn’t think there was much wrong with me or my behaviour. The horse had been led to water, but there was no way I was going to drink; I felt a great injustice at being locked away in some sort of crazy place when all I was doing was struggling a bit with teenage angst.

Evenings were the worst times. The staff gave all the patients a rota for making tea, toast and cereal. I felt enormously guilty when it was my turn; Victoria would chew silently on a piece of buttered toast, tears running down her face, threatened with hospital if she didn’t eat it. Sometimes it took her two hours. We were also expected to do our own laundry, which soon became my nemesis. I avoided it, terrified of breaking the machine or somehow doing it wrong. I wasn’t domestic in the least, and had never used the machine at home. The staff assumed I’d know how to work a washing machine. I never asked; I was too shy.

Oe night, after midnight observation, we heard shouting and door slamming. We peeked our heads out of the door to see Rachel being dragged out. The staff told us to go back to bed, and that she had ‘hurt herself’; we knew what they meant, and so when she came back the next day with a massive bandage on her arm, we weren’t surprised. Again, she’d used a hook to gouge at herself.

It was easy to self-harm, binge and vomit in PL. Although there were regular observations and checks, there were plenty of hiding places. I kept a package of broken razors in the cheap MDF drawers next to my cheap, MDF bed. Carla broke a mirror to cut herself with. We took it in turns to throw up, one listening out for staff while the other tried to get it over with as quickly as possible. We’d troop to the Safeway down the road once a week and stock up on binge-foods, Although it was supposed to be a closed unit (apart from short trips in groups once we were considered ‘safe’ enough. It only took me a couple of weeks to be allowed outside) the door was often left unlocked and staff rarely checked the signing in/out board in the cramped hallway.

One night, one of the patients (Richard; ADHD) went missing. He was soon brought back, and spent the night in an isolation room.

I was never isolated; I was nearly always on my best behaviour. I was still in thrall of authority and was afraid to truly freak out in front of the staff, which proves I wasn’t sick enough to be there. To me, at least. Having my freedom removed was killing me; I’d dream of being at home and cry at night when Carla and Victoria were asleep. I hated showing any form of weakness – the other patients called me mum – and I felt I needed to be strong for everybody else. They seem to be suffering far more than I was.

The psychiatric staff were struggling with my diagnosis. When I was admitted, it was with the belief that I had schizophrenia. I had been hearing voices and had become increasingly paranoid, suspicious of everyone and convinced that they could hear all my thoughts. I’d turn photographs around because I believed they could see me, and dressed under the covers in case there were hidden cameras in my bedroom. At the time, those thoughts seemed perfectly rational, and I’ve never spoken of those delusions before. I’ve been ashamed of them; they’re embarassing.

However, I was believed to be “too rational” to have schizophrenia, and too able to control my temper when I was in company. In fact, by the time I left PL I had been given an entirely clean bill of mental health; I was sane. Nothing wrong with me but the fact that I was fourteen and shy.

Most days were pretty quiet in PL; nothing like mental health units in films. There was the occasional outburst or brief spell of violence, but most of us were too drugged to kick up a fuss. There was only one violent patient – Chris – a tall, wide-shouldered, acne-ridden nose-picking guy with a tendancy to stare at my tits and shout “FUCK!” whenever he thought he could get away with it. He smoked in the courtyard when staff allowed him to, and once I passed him in the hallway. He grabbed my chest and laughed. I never said anything, but refused to sit near him in therapy. Chris would wander into the girl’s rooms, but staff soon shooed him out. I don’t think he’d have done anything; despite his obvious problems he didn’t seem like a rapist. Heck, maybe I should have mentioned it. I just didn’t think anyone would care. One thing I learned in life is that nobody believes crazy teenage girls.

Despite feeling more comfortable being in PL than I did the first time around, I still contested my need to stay there. Needing control has always been my biggest coping mechanism, and you have no control in a mental illness unit. You’re watched; eating, showering, when you’re sitting in front of the TV. You’re forced to play childish games to ‘build trust’ and swallow the pills they give you. If a member of staff says jump, you ask “how high?”, because these people, these so-called professionals, have complete control over your life. We had to sit through a talk on safe sex and, god forbid, how babies were made. Carla managed a sardonic laugh at this. Having been abused by her father since she was six months old, she didn’t feel she needed the biological side of sex explaining to her. I was still a virgin (that would change the next year) but I knew how babies were made, and I didn’t need to be sitting in a cold room, under stark flourescent lights, putting a condom on a banana. I wasn’t a child. If fourteen year olds know anything, they know how babies are made. It’s all they think about, after all.

Then again, Chris sometimes masturbated in the day room, so perhaps it was required listening for some of us.

The Great American NO BULL Challenge is student-led National Video Contest and Teen Video Awards show that brings awareness to the issue of cyberbullying in America. It was brought to my attention through The Unwritten Letters Project:

“It is my personal goal to make an impact on the bullied and the bullies to make them know that every person is worthy of their own life, their own voice, and the action to take is to share your voice in any creative way imaginable. Write! Act! Draw! Paint! Speak up for yourself and take ownership of your circumstances. Use this website and our resources to overcome any obstacles and become the stronger person you and I both know you are.”

Click here to read about The Unwritten Letters project and their Anti-Bullying campaign.

Bullying has been a part of my life for a long time, and it’s difficult to express just how much of an impact bullying can have on a teenager. In truth, it broke me; I struggled for a long time to deal with the consequences of being isolated and shunned by my peers, and it affected my life for a long time. It’s easy to assume that a throwaway comment will be forgotten, but cruel words can hang around in the brain for years. Cyber-bulling is something I have also experienced, and it was difficult enough to deal with as an adult, let alone as a teenager.

My advice to anybody being bullied is to remember that, one day, life will change. Times move, and one day these people won’t even remember what they did to you; so you shouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking your heart. Bullying isn’t your fault; you didn’t ask to be treated this way.

I know it’s so difficult to speak to somebody about being bullied. However, admission is not a sign of weakness, and being able to offload all the stress and pain on to somebody else can be a huge relief. It might not stop it happening, but having somebody who knows what you’re going through can get you through it. If you don’t feel like you can speak to somebody in ‘real life’, this is where The Great American NO BULL Challenge comes in.

“The goal of the NO BULL Challenge is to join America’s students, educators, counselors, organizations, communities, and corporate America together in an effort to enable real change at the student level.

Beginning January 15th, students in 6th-12th grade will have two months to create a 2-5 minute video with an anti-bullying theme. Students will submit their video to the NO BULL Challenge no later than March 14th at 11:59 PM PST. Check out the Cyberbullying 411 toolkits to learn everything you need to know in order to create your video. Beginning March 15th, each student will rally their friends, family, educators and community to vote for their video.

As a result of the viral voting period, fifteen finalists will be selected from the top 100 favorite videos by a panel of expert judges. The formal announcement of the NO BULL Finalists will occur on May 17th, National Cyber Safety Awareness day. All fifteen finalists are invited to attend the star-studded NO BULL Teen Video Awards in San Francisco. At the NO BULL Teen Video Awards show, you’ll get to see amazing artists perform live and meet & greet with your favorite athletes and celebrities on the red carpet. The NO BULL winning videos will be announced “live” at the Teen Video Awards, where your video will be introduced to the world. Inspiring America’s teens to stand up and bring an end to cyberbullying is what The Great American NO BULL Challenge is all about, and we need you to make it happen!”

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Thirty percent (30%) of U.S.students in grades six through ten are involved in moderate or frequent bullying and  at least 16 children kill themselves each year in the United Kingdom because they are being bullied at school.

• 69% of children in the UK report being bullied
• 87% of parents report that their child had been bullied in the past 12 months

There are a number of resources on the NO BULL Challenge website. You can take the pledge and take a NO BULL survey on cyber-bullying. If you want to share your story, you can do so here.
Personally, I found that writing has been an amazing help with my own bullying experiences. I kept a diary throughout the years I was bullied and, looking back, I can reflect on those experiences. It’s turned me into a stronger person, and taught me to be more caring to others. Writing is a fantastic way to express feelings, and you don’t ever have to show anybody. You can rip the writing up when you’re finished.

However, you can also have the opportunity to share your story and experiences via the NO BULL Challenge, and in an anonymous letter to The Unwritten Letters project. You can make a difference, and hopefully bullying will one day become a thing of the past.

My eyes. I get a lot of compliments about my eyes.

And my piercings. It’s strange, but most people seem to really like them. I get the occasional dirty look, but on the whole the comments I get are positive. Perhaps it’s because I don’t really fit in to the ‘piercing stereotype’.

and I see

possibility.

(c) 2012

Posted for Sunday Scribblings. I’m having trouble posting comments on blogspot sites, so apologies that I haven’t been able to link my post.

Drowning out the sound,
the voice of my heart breaking.

The aching,
I can’t explain
where life has led me,
why everything
is so far away.

My mouth can only speak to myself.

I scream
in silence.

(c) 2008.

See, I went to bed around 9pm. Actually slept too; didn’t lie awake for hours getting distracted and smoking. Progress! Okay, it’s only one day, but I can hope.

It’s funny how sleeping habits can became just that – a habit – and you don’t realise for astonishing lengths of time just how stupid those habits are. Laying aroud in bed all day and night, getting to sleep around 6am and waking up in the evening… that’s not normal, or healthy. I can see that now.

I suppose I’d forgotten that I like life. It’s easy to forget.

So when I find myself stumbling into a shop display, as I did today, I feel disappointed.

I miss having control over my own body. Although the steroids have done an amazing job at helping with the fibro pain and muscle twitches, I’m still losing my balance. I put it down to all the pot I’ve been smoking at first, but then remembered that balance isn’t something which affects me when it comes to weed. If anything, it helps me concentrate on walking. Walking through town today with my mother, I felt like a newborn giraffe, my legs flying in all directions while my brain struggled to keep up.

.

I had strict words with myself regarding the binge-eating last night. It can’t carry on, and I have to set a deadline to stop. That deadline is today. I’ve decided that the best way to try and curb the habit is to stock up on healthier snack foods – dried bananas and apricots – and force myself away from the late-night cheese and butter frenzies. I also need to stop living in my ‘fat jeans’; they’re making it too easy to accept piling the weight on.

I have no idea how much I weigh, and I’m not sure I want to know. I’m a UK size 16. When I met S in February, I was a size 10 and happy. A bit curvy still, but slim and confident.

So today, it all stops. Stuffing my mouth with fat and salt stops now. I promise.

My first impression of PL (the unit) is that it looked nothing like a crazy home. I was disappointed; I’d been imagining something out of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, with long rooms filled with bed and nurses in starched gowns. In reality, it wasn’t unlike a large house, with a dark wooden staircase in the hallway and a lawn outside with a tree plonked in the middle. When I stepped out of my brother’s car with my suitcase, I noticed that there were forget-me-nots growing underneath the tree.

I remember a meeting; a sort of induction, then being shown to my room. I was to share with two other girls, which I felt uncomfortable with. What if they took my stuff? What if they were bitches? I was given the bed furthest to the right and told to put my clothes in a small wardrobe. I didn’t like to tell them that I’d need more space; I’d packed everything I owned, just in case I needed it when I was away. Separation anxiety was a problem back then.

I don’t remember saying goodbye to my mother and brother, although I must have done. I do remember sitting down to eat though; one charred chicken burger (without the bun, or salad or… anything) and a cheap ice cream pot. I sat at the big rectangular table, weighing up the other patients.

There was a thin blonde-haired girl with a Sylvia Plath poem blu-tacked to the wall next to her bed. She was bulimic. Another thin girl with dark, greasy hair in plaits and a scowl sat opposite me. Bulimic too. A bigger girl with a brown bob and a relaxed look was next to me, She told me her name was Carla, and later she told me that, like the other girls, she was bulimic, and had been abused by her father since birth. Her arms were covered in cuts and scars, but she had a naturally happy face. I warmed to her.

The boys were less memorable, bar one. I can’t even remember his name now, but there was one seventeen year-old guy with dark hair and darker eyes, who I fell a little bit in love with. I was going out with my first boyfriend at the time, and I was ashamed of myself for mooning over a boy with a guitar. We’d sit together in the day room (a ratty old sofa and a couple of chairs, along with a television and CD player) and listen to The Holy Bible, or go for walks on the local recreation ground (in a group, of course, with a couple of staff to keep an eye on us) and talk about music and how bloody horrible it was being a teenager.

It’s hard to explain all this, because memories run together, and I was locked in PL twice – for two weeks at first, then six – so some things might get mixed up. The general idea is there though.

For the first two weeks before I managed to get out, I cried constantly. Over everything. I cried if someone else did, or if a member of staff looked at me funny. I missed my house and my room, and being able to touch my things and feel secure. A few days after I was brought in, another girl joined us. She didn’t come downstairs for a long time though because she was on suicide watch. Occasionally I’d try to peek around the door, attempting to get a glimpse of her, but a member of staff would always shoo me away. Theories soon started; that she had been found trying to hang herself, that she was brought in covered in blood. We never did find out what happened, but after being on her own for two days she started sitting in the day room with the rest of us. A few days later, she left.

I spent all my money calling my mother and boyfriend from the payphone at the top of the stairs, begging them to bring me home. I’d promised I’d be good and behave, if they just got me away from PL. I hated it; I can’t explain how much I hated being watched constantly, having my every move checked. I hated being told when to go to bed, and I despised having to explain, over and over, why I wasn’t in school anymore. They held daily lessons in a big room covered in paintings. I think they thought it looked nice, but walls papered in the drawings of disturbed teenagers aren’t really the sort of thing you show prospective buyers, you know?

Try as I may, the ‘teacher’ (an older woman with grey hair and a twinset) couldn’t accept that at the age of thirteen I’d walked out of school and removed myself from mainstream education. Nor could she accept that I wasn’t being home-educated. Every day I had to tell her that the reason I had no work to do was because I wasn’t going to school. Every day she’d insist that was impossible.

After two weeks, my mother relented to my endless nagging and took me away from PL. Because I’d gone in voluntarily, they couldn’t stop her. I think I cried all the way home.

I don’t remember how I ended up in PL a second time, or how much time elapsed between stays. I know that during that time, my boyfriend and I broke up and I ran away, losing it entirely for a little while. I can only assume that having to get the police helicopter out to find me at 3am was the last straw for my mother, and so when my psychiatrist suggested that, unless I agreed to go back to PL, I would be sectioned. I must have had some sense, because I agreed again. In some part of my mind, I was aware that I didn’t ever want a sectioning on any sort of record. Life was turning out to be difficult enough already, without adding more fuel to the fire that was my ever-diminishing chance of a glowing future.

I packed more carefully the second time. Although my boyfriend and I had broken up, I still took the little pink stuffed rabbit he’d won me at the fair (Little-G, we called him). Admittedly, the rabbit had no head because I’d cut it off in a fit of rage, but it was a small comfort. I brought some make-up and books with me, preparing for the long days of nothing which stretched ahead and the inevitable jealousy of how beautiful the anorexic girls seemed. My father travelled with me on the train and we mostly sat in silence, looking out of the windows at the fields rushing by, at my home leaving me far behind. At one point, he turned to me and said, “I think you’re being very brave with all this”.

I realised then that I’d never given a single thought to how everything was affecting my dad. I knew my mother told him about my psychiatrist appointments and medications, but I’d never really factored him in to the whole situation. I was angry with my mother for agreeing to send me back, but my father didn’t play any part in it.I sat back and thought about my family, and how I could always rely on my dad, regardless of what my mother thought of him.

I settled in. Carla was still there, but everyone else had left to go home or to other units. The blonde bulimic had a flat. She wrote Carla a letter one day, telling her that while she’d been in PL, one of the staff members had been abusing her. We knew who she meant straight away; yet we never said anything. We were too beaten-down and in awe of supposed authority. Plus, we were crazy; who would believe us? We played rounders on the rec ground with the member of staff, and I seriously weighed up the possibility of me getting away with smacking him on the head with the bat. Repeatedly.

The day after I arrived back at PL, Rachel was brought in. She was in a state – ripped, bloodied jeans, a huge gash down her arm, and screaming like a banshee. She’d been brought straight from hospital after ripping a massive hole in her forearm with a hook. I was impressed; I’d been self-harming for years, and never had the guts to do that much damage to myself. Her freckles stood out on her pale face as she said, “hiya” and trooped upstairs. I got the feeling she’d been here before.

Next to arrive was Victoria. A tiny, elfin girl with oversized eyes and a nervous twitch. The first thing I learned about her was that she weighed exactly five stones. The second thing was that she had been raped years ago. Like many anorexics I had met, she had a tiny, mouse-like voice and apologised constantly. PL was her last stop before hospital, she said, and she had to put on weight or they’d put a feeding tube down her.

Carla and Victoria became my best friends in PL. We shared CDs and, when we went our separate ways, wrote to each other for a while before losing touch. Carla taught me bulimia tricks and how to fool scales, and Victoria squealed with delight when I did her make-up for her. We’d walk into the city centre when we were all allowed outside for a short while, and steal lipsticks from Boots and drink diet coke. Carla would smoke and I’d occasionally take cigarettes off her. At night, we’d lie in the dark and wait until after obs, so we could talk about why we were in PL. Carla said that her father kept sending her presents and begging letters, but she was ignoring them. One night, she turned to me and said, “I lost my virginity at six months old, who’s going to want me?”. Victoria would lie quietly, listening, occasionally chipping in with advice and input. She told us about her fear of men, and after that, Carla and I would form a barricade around her every time a man came nearby, daring anybody to touch our tiny, fragile friend.

I still went home at the weekends, and one day my mother brought me (in my brother’s car, I presume) back to attend a meeting. It must have been early on, because the staff were asking about my mental health history and medications. They also asked about my family, and whether there was any history of mental illness. What my mother said changed me forever.

“Her father is an alcoholic, he was violent. It’s why we separated”.

I sat in the office, chewing over what I’d just heard. I had no idea; not the slightest clue. Not that my father had been drinking (looking back, there were hundreds of signs, I’d just been too young to understand them) and certainly not that he’d ever hit my mother. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. Why my sister, W, refused to speak to him. Why my mother was such an alcohol-nazi. Why she abhored violence so much, even in films. Why my father left us before I was born.

Up until that point, I’d been a daddy’s girl. I worshipped him. Afterwards, I went cold. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him, or even look him in the eye. I still struggle.

I was given medication in PL this time, although I can’t remember what, or if they even told me. I think I may still have been on meloril. Before breakfast and bedtime, the patients would line up in the upstairs hallway and wait for their names to be called. Then they were given a tiny, white plastic cup of pills and a flimsy cup of warm water. It wasn’t like in the films; nobody sold their tablets or shared them out, we just took them and basked in the warm glow of whatever brand of drug we’d been prescribed for our teenage angsts.

Part One

The history of Liverpool can be traced back to 1190 when the place was known as ‘Liuerpul’, possibly meaning a pool or creek with muddy water. Other origins of the name have been suggested, including ‘elverpool’, a reference to the large number of eels in the Mersey, but the definitive origin is open to debate and is probably lost to history. A likely derivation is connected with the Welsh word “Llif” meaning a flood, often used as the proper name for the Atlantic Ocean, whilst “pool” is in general in place names in England derived from the late British or Welsh “Pwll” meaning variously, a pool, an inlet or a pit.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Liverpool

I love Liverpool. Say the name of the city, and most people outside of the area will instantly think of The Beatles. This frustrates me, because it’s about so much more than that – I’ve always thought The Beatles were a bit overrated anyway – and the history is rich and fascinating; covering the slave trade, ship building, and so much more. Liverpool gets a lot of stick in the town I live in, for being a violent place full of chavvy (does anyone still say ‘chav’ anymore?) kids and druggies, but it really doesn’t deserve that reputation. Really, I think my small town by the sea is jealous of the big city by the Mersey, and I don’t blame it.

My love for Liverpool is the second reason why I agreed to a day out with Z on Thursday. The first reason was simply because I craved friendship and socialising; a good sign, I think. I’m now not only seeking out company, but wanting it.

Didn’t sleep well the night before, but still managed to stumble out of bed at 8am, wash my hair and drink half a coffee. I confess; I wore the same jeans I’ve been wearing for bloody ages. Like, two weeks. I never do that, but in my defense they’re the only pair which fit and I don’t want to wash them and have to wear a small pair which make me feel like an elephant.

It was a good day. I got a taxi to the station and had a minor coffee disaster (the machine ran out of milk; it had to be my coffee, didn’t it?) but apart from crap coffee, I think it went well. Z was behaving herself (that sounds awful; it’s just the easiest way to describe it) and there were no freak-outs or sudden changes of plan. I went to the city and survived; not only that, but I was disappointed to be going home. Talking of going home, when Z and I went to find a chip shop, we discovered that Central Station and the surrounding roads were closed off with police tape. Our first thoughts were of 7/7 – Liverpool could easily be a target – so we asked a policewoman what was going on. She replied that there was a gas leak and they’d had to shut the station down.

Walking around the shops, Z and I speculated whether it was actually a gas leak, or something more sinister. I decided it was a bomb threat, an abandoned bag. Everyone else probably just accepted the gas story, but two crazy, paranoid people together… it was a huge terrorist threat by the time we’d finished, and although the station was still closed when we finally managed to get a series of trains back home, we still had to pass through the empty station. Z refused to look, convinced something would blow up. I just stared out of the window into the flourescent-lit, brown and cream space, feeling like we’d never come out the other side.

Even Z’s little problem with spending money didn’t frustrate me today. I don’t know why my BPD and her Bipolar seem to clash so much; I always thought they were quite similar in certain ways (although I don’t get highs) but my need for control and her recklessness does create friction, even if she doesn’t realise it. Shopping and eating together, I realised that I need to lay off her a bit, because she can’t help it. If she could, it wouldn’t be such an issue between her and her fiance.

I’m not seeing S this weekend. I started typing this on Thursday night, and only just got ’round to finishing it now because I’m feeling a bit low; I always see S on a Friday, unless I’m much too ill. I miss him. We spoke earlier on the phone, and we’ve arranged to meet in the pub on Wednesday when he gets paid. Money’s the problem; we’re both utterly skint. Considering I’ve been getting so narked with Z, I’ve been having my own issues with spending too much recently. I think the culmination of doctor’s appointments, weight gain and general worry have made me crave some sort of comfort, and what better way to feel better than to buy jewellery and make-up? Oh, and clothes. Books, too. Tobacco. Salon shampoo. Haircuts. It all adds up, and this month I’ve totally run away with myself. I try to never borrow money, but I’ve had to ask my mother to bail me out a few times. I feel guilty; she’s been complaining how little money we have right now.

Today, I did very little except a bit of knitting and waste time online. I cut my mother’s hair; I completely ballsed it up last time, and she’s been dropping hints about me fixing it. Quite why she trusts me after I gave her an accidental asymmetric bob, I don’t know. She says she’s noticed I’m seeming more positive in myself, and expressed surprise at the hours I’m somehow managing to keep, and I’m glad she’s noticed. I feel as though I’m balancing on a very thin ledge right now, caught between being relatively okay and sliding back in to not giving a shit about anything, and I need her approval.

I know I rely on it too much.

It doesn’t feel right without S beside me tonight. He said he misses my face… I reckon it’s not half as much as I miss his.

A busker played ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ as Z and I walked down the main street from Liverpool station. I smiled; I don’t think S will ever know how much I love him.