30 Days Of Truth: Day 3 – Bipolar J.

Something you need to forgive yourself for.

Apologies for the length of this one. I suppose a lot needs to be said. I was going to use day 8 to talk about J, but I think it also deserves a place here.

As I’ve written about before, when O and I split up officially, we carried on sleeping together. Suddenly the tables turned and I was the third part of the triangle, instead of a main player. I wasn’t proud of my actions, but I confess I wasn’t entirely disgusted by myself either; she had done the exact same thing to me. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but I had no idea what else to do. I was clinging on by my fingernails to a dead horse.

While working at the bookshop, a new volunteer started. A short, scruffy man with a beanie hat and a Make Trade Fair badge. Quiet and self-absorbed, he seemed pretty affable. We smoked a couple of joints out back together, not really chatting, just standing in the early Spring sunshine. I soon got used to his odd ways – occasionally he’d fall asleep in the middle of the day or suddenly have to leave with no real excuse – because who was I to judge? I was having daily panic attacks behind the till at this point. I’d been utterly shaken by the breakdown of my three and a half year engagement, and I’d been drinking far too much for weeks. I was a wreck, often disappearing into the staff toilet for a cry or a panic. I started getting worryingly drunk on Friday night, often vomiting in the shop and going into incoherant rambles about the state of my life.

So I did what any sensible person would do when faced with an incredibly painful breakup, a confused sexual status, alcohol dependency and permanent fear; I seduced J.

It was predictably easy; depressingly so. All I had to do was flash a bit of side-boob and bend over a few times, and we were soon driving in his car. Within a few weeks of meeting, we were sleeping together. After the first time (which was, again predictably, disappointing) he asked me where we stood with each other; if we were lovers. I said, “I think so”, which seemed to seal the deal. To this day I have no idea if I was the only person he slept with when he met me, but I doubt it; I’ll explain why in a bit.

Suddenly, I had something I hadn’t before; a relationship. A weapon to wield against the heartache thinking of O and her together was causing me. I was having sex too! I had someone. I’m worth something. I tried not to think about J’s age (38 to my 24) and not to worry about him having bipolar. I heard stories about how he’d once walked naked down the main street, how he’d been arrested for violence, about his tendency to flip out. I suppose I just accepted it as being an inevitable part of my life; ending up with a guy who thought he was Jesus for six months of the year.

I want to say here that this is about one experience I have had with bipolar. I in no way believe that all people with bipolar act this way, or are cruel. J may have been mentally ill, but he also had an incredibly cold streak, which no amount of perfect mental health could fix.

I stopped sleeping with O. In my confused state, I thought it was the right thing to do, when in reality I’d already made a huge mistake.

At first, things with J seemed to be going okay. He was somewhat affectionate and certainly talked to me. The sex was awful, but I could put up with that. Certainly wasn’t the first time I’d been totally underwhelmed by somebody’s attempts. We did a lot of cooking and went to a few house parties. I was still missing O, but managed to somehow convince myself that I was in love with J. I was incredibly deluded, even I knew deep down that I was just trying to gain freedom and feel marginally better about losing O.

I think things changed when I moved in. We’d already had a few arguments, but again, I didn’t question it really. I was used to arguments at this point, O and I had been arguing for years.

I moved into his house on my birthday. His father brought my boxes and bags in J’s car, and it soon became clear we had a problem. Another couple lived in the house, and with my stuff the house became incredibly crowded. I was given a tiny, dirty cupboard on the landing to put my clothes in. No rail, no floor covering. I didn’t really have anywhere to store my CDs or books, but I was reasonably content; I had some freedom at last. The house needed decorating and was filled with suspicious games consoles, the constant smell of weed and J’s collection of frankly bizarre belongings, the walls in the hallway and stairs were painted a horrible baby-sick green colour and the kitchen and bathroom had no floor coverings, but it was better than lying in my bed at my mum’s, stewing in my own misery.

The other couple weren’t really my sort of people – he’d been in prison for GBH/burglary, she was an ex cocaine addict with a Hollyoaks obsession – but they worked during the day so we rarely saw them. J and I soon settled into a routine of sleeping during the day and staying up all night, getting stoned and watching Lost.

I quickly discovered a number of his habits, most of which were entirely undesirable. When we watched films or programmes, he would insist on total silence, rewinding DVDs and shouting if he missed a single word. Sometimes I forgot and casually mentioned an observation, which would be treated with derision and scorn. He picked his nose. He would start listening loudly to the radio when somebody was trying to watch TV in the same room. He tried to ban the other couple from using the television to watch anything J didn’t like; eventually, they bought another television and started staying in their room. You can imagine how uncomfortable I felt with this. I didn’t want to be the cause of arguments or unheaveal. I was doing my best to blend into the background.

And the conspiracy theories.

I didn’t mind it at first. I love a good conspiracy but very rarely see any truth or logic in them. J, however, fervently believed in every theory going. He was a great believer in the supposed New World Order, about Obama being evil, about every single person in government being privy to mindblowing information and who spend every moment of their days tracking every living being with spy cameras and microchips. I’ve always believed that a person should be allowed to think whatever they like as long as it doesn’t harm anybody, so I tolerated it and occasionally found myself agreeing with his views, probably because I was frequently stoned and ready to absorb anything fanciful. J listened to the Alex Jones radio show online every day. For the uninitiated, Alex Jones is, according to Wikipedia,

Alexander Emerick “Alex” Jones (born February 11, 1974) is an American talk radio host, actor and filmmaker. His syndicated news/talk show The Alex Jones Show, based in Austin, Texas, airs via the Genesis Communication Network over 60 AM, FM, and shortwave radio stations across the United States and on the Internet.[2] His websites include Infowars.com and PrisonPlanet.com.[3]
Mainstream sources have described Jones as a conservative[4][5][6][7] and as a right-wing conspiracy theorist.[8][9][10][11]
Jones sees himself as a libertarian, and rejects being described as a right-winger.[12] He has also called himself a paleoconservative.[13] In a promotional biography he is described as an “aggressive constitutionalist“.[14][15]
Alex Jones has been the center of many controversies. Jones has accused the US government of being involved in the Oklahoma City bombing[16] and September 11 attacks.[17]

To me, Jones was a loud, obnoxious man, screaming into the microphone about the illuminati and government cover-ups. J thrived on it though, laughing out loud throughout the show at things I didn’t see a reason to laugh over. If we visited his friends, he would take his laptop and insist they listened too, pontificating about his obsession over an evil one-world government and corrupt society. This quickly became embarassing. He interrrupted conversations with comments about the Catholic church being a front for satan worshippers, and seemed oblivious to the stony silences which often followed, finding himself bafflingly hilarious. His views on people changed rapidily; one minute he all but worshipped the ground they walked on, the next he would be denouncing them as a paedophile or satanist. I became incredibly confused over who to trust and what to believe; I was vulnerable anyway, and wanted so dearly to trust somebody.

After a couple of months, J started going out all day without telling me where he was. We lived in a rough area of town, where stabbing and rapes have been known to happen. The house backed onto the club area and the side of the house had a dark alleyway running down it where sometimes I would accidentally kick needles from under old McDonalds wrappers and empty cans of Stella when walking to the shops. The house also backed onto housing for addicts, and the street had very little light to illuminate it. Alone more and more during the day and occasionally at night, I began to become paranoid. The amount of weed I was smoking wasn’t helping, and I frequently went out in the dark to buy co-codamol to calm me down or a bottle of cheap vinegary wine.

J never offered explanation or apology for his disappearing acts. It soon became obvious I had no choice in the matter and if I didn’t like it, I could leave because he refused to “be controlled by anybody”. Most days when he was gone were depressingly similar. I would get out of bed around 4pm, sometimes still wearing my clothes. Drank coffee (if there was any) and sat around smoking, playing online poker if J had left his laptop behind. I’d walk to the local shop to buy Rizlas and biscuits, and spend all night eating. Sometimes (if I could find my key) I would go out in the early morning, just as the sun was rising, and walk around the backstreets of the town centre, shuffling through empty kebab wrappers and smashed glass. I sometimes walked to the promenade and sat on the sea wall, watching the pale winter sun rise and sometimes collecting seashells and seaweed, which I kept in my handbag. I’d long ago stopped calling my mother regularly; things seemed grey and flat. I became agoraphobic and stopped leaving the house for weeks on end, only going out at night for tobacco.

When J would arrive back home, he would chastise me for inevitably being in bed, weighed under my various duvets and wearing my clothes. I tried telling him that I’d be much better if he just told me how long he would be gone for, but his retort was final; “I don’t owe you anything”,

The other couple living there had long since moved out, unable to cope with J’s behaviour any longer. Things came to a head when J left some magic mushrooms drying on a radiator, knowing his housemate’s young children were in the house. When confronted, he expressed his “disgust” that society was “so obsessed with health and safety” and that children knew what not to eat or touch. One of the boys was two years old. After that incident, he often demanded I back him up; how could I? Who the hell would leave psychoactive drugs in a living room when children were around? Still, I was tired, so I agreed with him. I couldn’t stand the shouting any longer.

On the rare occasions he was home, J’s behaviour was going from bad to downright crazy. Crazy by even my standards. At night he would sit in a darkened room, peeking through the curtains and scanning the road below, clutching a very illegal crossbow and a bag of ball bearings in his hand. He started carrying a hunting knife around, once opening the door and showing it to a couple of men outside who were talking; J suspected they were monitoring him. He did the same thing a few weeks later with a lump hammer, but actually threatened a group of people chatting. I would sit inside, waiting for the fight to begin, waiting for something terrible to happen. Somehow, it never did; J was terrifying when he was on one, like Jack Torrence in The Shining. He stopped washing and shaving, never changed his clothes, and soon perfected the wild man of the woods look. He took to wearing huge old glasses and refused to ever take his hat off.

Even in posh restaurants (he never took me, but we went for a couple of awkward meals with his very well-to-do adoptive family), the hat stayed on. First, he had a brown beanie with rasta colours on the brim. Then he changed to a navy woolly hat, even in hot weather. Finally, he stole one of my hats – a bright orange sunhat – and wore it everywhere with a green velvet blazer and stained cords.

Sometimes I would come home and find plates smashed on the floor and food stuck to the walls. He once threw an avocado (of all things) so hard that it left a dent. I’d regularly enter the living room to scenes of utter chaos; all the books dragged from my bookcase and strewn on the floor, J sitting among them muttering about buying infrared cameras for the house and setting up tripwires in the yard. If I moved a book to pass, he would scream “BE CAREFUL!” and complain my shadow was blocking his light. We were beginning to lead seperate lives – him visiting friends and driving around god knows where, me spending the day in a chemical sleep then staying up all night to watch charity shop DVDs and drinking coffee. When I heard him get up, I would pretend to be just going to bed, so I didn’t have to spend too much time with him. It wasn’t that I didn’t care for him – there was some affection – but I’d come to realise that, apart from weed and horror movies – we had nothing in common. We didn’t even have sex in common anymore; anything like that had fallen by the wayside long ago. I suspected he was sleeping around anyway, and the idea of being sloppy seconds didn’t really appeal.

For a while I was quite houseproud, fulfilling my dream of being a little housewife. I’d dust and hoover my way around J’s stoned, twitching form, sometimes even getting him to lift his feet up so I could clean underneath the sofa. It soon became clear that I was fighting a losing battle though; J started experimenting in the kitchen. First it was vitamin C syrup made from rosehips, to cure heroin addiction (“one teaspoon is a cure!”). He disappeared for days, and came home with a bin bag full of rosehips in the back of his car then spent all day boiling them, spending obscene amounts of money on sugar, electricity and gas. When the syrup was finally finished, he decanted it into bottles and set off around town, handing it out to addicts. I was left to clean, and something inside me snapped. For months I’d put up with his mess – I’m a messy person myself – but every day seemed to bring new levels of grease and dirt into the house. The kitchen work tops were covered in melted, hardened sugar. The floor was a mess of wrappers, stalks and (bizarrely) flour and coffee grounds. Every single utensil and pan in the house was sticky or thrown carelessly on the filthy floor. So I left it.

It became a regular routine; J making a mess, and me pretending to be blind to it. I wanted to see if he would eventually crack and tidy up himself, but he never did. So the mess got worse, my mood lowered further, and the house would often reverberate to the sounds of pans and plates being shoved aside, lest they interfere with his faux-scientific experiments.

Strange people started appearing in the house. A forty-something shrieking woman in a silver sequinned miniskirt barrelled in, clutching a bottle of Lambrini and a small, scruffy dog (“Señor Frostpots”), who she shouted at frequently. A young schizophrenic Pakistani guy wearing a green parka would sit in the corner and beg for spliffs, apologising profusely and sometimes walking out without saying a word. I found an overweight heroin addict asleep on the sofa. Hot knives were a regularity, and the sound of forced coughing became a soundtrack to my days. I spent a lot of time upstairs in bed, unable to cope with the flow of weird and wonderful coming daily through the door.

The house quickly became nothing short of a crack den. The room J held his nightly paranoid vigils in was a mess of half-empty coffee cups, various illegal weapons, notepads filled with ideas and security plans, clothes strewn about, a hole cut in the curtains so he could peek through without “being detected”. The bedroom (now entirely occupied by me; J slept elsewhere or on the sofa) was covered in a layer of cigarette ash, spilled drinks and books. I tidied it occasionally, but would come home to discover J had lost something, and had torn the room apart looking for it. The hallway was filthy and the hoover set on fire when I tried to clean the carpet. The bathroom still had no floor covering, the shower was going mouldy and frequently blocked up, and the toilet was a terrifying prospect. No amount of bleach would get it clean, and I seemed to be the only person who knew how to use a flush mechanism. The living room was grotesque; plates of rotting food were left lying around, attracting thousands of tiny black flies. J stopped paying for gas and electricity, pumping all his benefits into his increasingly strange and paranoid projects, so the washing up was often done with freezing cold water, and in the end I couldn’t face the prospect of yet another hour standing on a filthy bare stone floor, trying to scrub grease off cups and plates.

When J and I were in the same room, he would rant at me about his money-making schemes. It was always money; it seemed to be the only focus in life apart from the corrupt government. He became convinced that he could make money from machinima and spent all his weekly money on The Sims, Spore and clay to do stop-motion animation. Planned to build a studio with lights and an HD camera. I sometimes joined in, deciding something was better than nothing, but it soon became clear that each project was his baby and any constructive criticism or new ideas would be forbidden. His model-making (both on computer and with clay) was childlike and glitchy, but his insistence that he would be world-famous in a matter of weeks kept his enthusiasm going. J tried to recruit his friends to get involved, going so far as to assign roles to unwilling participants – stage production lighting, music, script – and would scream and throw a fit if told his ideas were unrealistic. This went on for a long time – occasionally switching to new ideas – until all his money was gone and he started borrowing off me. I stopped caring.

Things between us reached a head when we went to an all night rave in a warehouse in Liverpool. As soon as we arrived he disappeared, leaving me and my panic attacks to a large room filled with drugged-up strangers and flashing lights. I bought a couple of pills from a vaguely-familar skinny teenager with greasy orange hair, and sat in the corner, waiting to come up in a desperate attempt to enjoy myself. Any interaction with J appeared to be forbidden that night; I wasn’t allowed to speak to him and if I tried, he would physically turn his back. Walking towards him made him walk in the opposite direction. I danced a little, but felt uncomfortable considering I was high as a kite – being ignored was getting to me – so I went looking for J to ask why he was blanking me. I found him at the top of a flight of stairs, laughing with two younger guys, waving a joint like a composer and telling one of his many tales of being sectioned. He rolled his eyes when he saw me and asked me (loudly) to stop stalking him. So I found the chillout space, sat on a damp old sofa cushion and cried. Cried like a baby. I never cry in pubic. I was aware of people comforting me, trying to ask what was wrong, but I was inconsolable. Over a year of exhaustion and fights poured out of me. I slept in his car that night, refusing to come out.

We only went to one rave after that. Again, he refused to talk to me, and I spent the night sitting with a group of teenage girls, snorting keys of ketamine in the toilets and sharing mushrooms and speed with a hippyish red-haired woman who told me about her recovery from heroin addiction. I stood in the corner and breathed in balloons full of nitrous oxide, downing a wrap of MDMA with a bottle of vodka milkshake.

After that, we argued constantly. At the smallest provocation, J would start hurling chairs and kicking furniture. He never hit me, but his verbal attacks were far worse in a way; he’d call me crazy and repeat everything I said in a high-pitched sneer. If I had a panic attack, he would scream at me to stop crying because it was annoying him. And so I started walking out of the house whenever we argued.

We tended to argue at night, so I often found myself storming the streets at 3am, stoned and high on oral morphine. I’d stomp (sometimes shoeless) through the club area and make my way up by the big houses just out of the town centre. I’d walk past them, muttering angrily, fantasising about being attacked, and wishing I had the guts to walk up the driveway to one of those big houses and find somebody to pour my heart out to.

One day, J announced we were buying a new house – or, rather, his parents were buying him one – because the area we lived in was “too unsafe”. He planned to buy a restoration project and become entirely self-sufficient. The idea seemed incredibly unrealistic, but it wouldn’t be my money and I thought that perhaps with a change of scenery J would calm down and act like my boyfriend again. I fell in love with the first house we viewed.

For ‘restoration project’, read ‘total rebuild needed’. It was a large Georgian house on the outskirts of town, just approaching the rural areas. It had been owned by an old man, who kept everything exactly how it was, right down to the lead water pipes and original electrics. When he died, his brother sold the house on, cracks in the outside walls and all. The whole house sloped backwards. Chimney pots barely stayed upright. A window in the back room had been smashed and was covered with a piece of plywood. The carpets were black with dust and, when uncovered, hadn’t been changed for decades. Every corner was a cobwebbed spider haven. The garden was a wilderness of 6ft nettles, old trees, molehills and wasps nests. A garage filled with asbestos leaned on a right-angle. Still I loved it. I could see potential; the garden could be dug up and filled with vegetable plots and herbs and pretty flowers. The carpets could be rolled up and the original wooden floorboards (in perfect condition) could be scrubbed and sealed. The smaller bedroom upstairs with its little white fire grate and garden view could be my study and chillout space, somewhere for me  to listen to the music I wanted to and not J’s radio talk shows or faux-political comedy songs. His parents bought it, for £130,000. Straight-up cash, bought outright, no mortgage.

Once the house was J’s, I gave up cleaning, washing and even cooking entirely. I hated living there by now; I was almost always on my own or surrounded by people I barely knew. We had an attempted break-in. Someone was killed just down the road. There was an attempted stabbing less than a minute away. I had no money for food, and no way of washing my clothes. The washing machine broke, then the fridge stopped working. J didn’t clear it out, so I didn’t bother. He was spending most of his time at the new house anyway, sleeping on the floor. Every time he came home, we rowed and things got thrown, so eventually he packed a sports bag and moved into the new house – despite lack of electrics, heat, water or furniture – leaving me living on my own.

I stuck it out for a couple of weeks, existing on egg mayonnaise sandwiches from the supermarket across the road and redbush tea from one mug. I slept with the lights on, paranoid from the break-in attempt and all the weed and morphine mixing together. J came back one time and found me in bed, asleep in my clothes and surrounded by scrunched cigarette papers, empty co-codamol packs and a bottle of morphine sitting on a box near me. I’d spaced out for days, unaware of time passing or even where I was. He woke me with a heavy shake and asked me what “the fucking christ” I was doing with bottles of morphine. He threw all the bottles away. I lost my last crutch. At this point I realised I really needed to get out of that house; buying something stronger would be easier. I wasn’t afraid of needles. I told him I was going back to the new house with him, and he’d better get at least some water running.

We moved some furniture in, just a few folding chairs and a bright orange 70’s swivel chair with stuffing hanging from the sides. Bought a sofa from a charity shop and some huge oak bookshelves from the Salvation Army. We made coffee in a large pasta pan above a camping stove and ate cheese sandwiches. For a couple of weeks I slept on the floor, on an old sleeping bag, and eventually we got the old mattress from the house and we slept on that, usually at different times of the day. For a while J seemed significantly nicer – promising me my own working fireplace and some chickens in the garden – so I relaxed into the house, letting myself join in a few parties and conversations.

I’d always kept in touch with O, so sometimes we’d go for a drive to talk about our lives. I told him everything was perfect; I didn’t want to let on that I had been so unhappy.

Within a couple of weeks, one of J’s friends moved in; a young guy with a few boxes of CDs and death metal posters. He stayed in the (still windowless) back room and slept on a fold-out chair. Soon after, one of his friends also moved in, so they both took the second large bedroom upstairs. Around a month later, J’s parents paid for somebody to do the electrics so we could have lights (we’d been using tealights) and so J could use his laptop. The electricity shorted regularly, and huge chunks of the walls were torn out and never repaired. J told the fitter to rip off all the kitchen wall coverings and floorboards (all original, in beautiful condition) because he was making new ones with plywood. They never happened. I started putting pressure on about getting the plumbing done; we had running water, but no hot water or heating, and the old, broken lead pipes weren’t safe to drink from. J kept putting it off, saying he wanted to fit his own plumbing from eco-friendly pipes and use rainwater to wash in.

In time we bought a microwave and moved more furniture in. I started painting the walls of my study purple and pink, painted the bedroom a sky blue. My fibromyalgia was getting worse around this time, so I was permanently exhausted and in pain, but I concentrated on turning the all-but derelict shell into a home.

I bought my own chair, a beautifully upholstered straight back thing with chunky arms, and a large wicker basket to keep my knitting in. The housemates referred to it as my “throne” and started calling me the Queen of the house. Things weren’t too bad, considering.

J, a couple of friends, and I went to Infest festival. I had woollen dreadlocks fitted and a friend made a miniskirt for me to wear. Pretty much as we started driving to Bradford in J’s car, he kicked off. Traffic was moving too slowly. Somebody hadn’t indicated. He tailgated, swore, smoked and talked about his latest obsession; extreme right-wing groups such as the EDL. He was convinced they were taking over the world and his desire to attend the race riots going on in Bradford at that time was clear. We somehow got there alive and found our rooms in the student accommodation blocks. Drank and smoked a little, talked about getting hold of some pills or acid, got dressed and went down to see the first band.

Straight away, J started causing trouble. He pushed his way through crowds and started at people until they walked away. Joined in every conversation, bragging about his ‘film career’ and trying to start arguments about racism. He’d refused to make any sort of effort for the festival – everyone wore elaborate makeup and costumes – and hadn’t washed for weeks. Smoked a spliff indoors and got shouted at, but refused to go outside, shouting about human rights being taken away. I danced for a while, high on mushrooms and warm alcohol, but it soon became obvious that J had different ideas to me. He went missing.

Eventually, we found him in a stranger’s room, and we missed the band. He was snorting a white powder and shouting about nothing in particular. A man was trying to DJ, having set up his decks in the corner, and it was obvious it was a private party. J jumped around, asking everybody about the EDL and singing a song about the pope being a kiddy-fiddler over the music. I took a snort of whatever he’d had, braced myself and somehow got him out of there before the DJ punched him. Straight away he was into another party, sitting down and rolling a spliff as though he lived there. I stood outside with our friends, wondering what to do. We decided to go in, and managed to have a small party in their room with glowsticks and a tabletop of weed. After a while J disappeared again, and we let him. I was tired.

The next night (J hadn’t slept apparently) J and I explored Bradford a little. He took me to TJ Hughes’ and I bought a pair of black army boots, putting them on in the shop and feeling a little better. Then J dragged me into the town centre, to the line of riot police. There was a small group of EDL members behind a barricade, and it was all pretty underwhelming until riot vans and fire engines came screeching around the corner. J perked up and told me to film it for “the news, the real news, not the news the media wants us to see”.

That night we went into the main festival area again to hear De/Vision, who I really wanted to see. It was the real reason I was going to Infest in the first place. J wandered into the crowd and I took more mushrooms, rolling  them into a little ball and swallowing them with a plastic cup of vodka and Coke. Just when I started coming up and the lights were starting to flow nicely in front of my eyes, J reappeared and started dragging me away. Told me we were going to another party.

It just went so, so downhill from there. I went into so many rooms and saw so many strange – mostly angry – faces. J would pontificate and I would smoke quietly or pretend to be enjoying myself. If something was offered with a rolled up five-pound-note and a mirror, I took it; regardless of what it was. J kept going missing, but everyone we asked seemed to know who he was; they’d all had him shout about Islam in their faces, it seemed. I talked to a few people, but I was beginning to loathe every moment. It was getting harder to hold back panic attacks, and they were coming in waves. I hate crowds; why was I surrounded by thousands of total strangers in a University?

Eventually I let rip in a corridor. I’d lost J for the hundredth time and everywhere I went he seemed to be causing trouble. As he walked out of each room, you could hear a sigh of relief. People were getting angry. He was turning off people’s music and plugging his laptop in, making them listen to terrorist propoganda and religious debates. I was high, drunk, hungry and bewildered, so I did all I could – I burst into tears and sat on the floor – and eventually our friends found me and took me back to their room. I cried and drank warm beer, finally opening up about how much J was hurting me. About the house and all the times he’d ignored me or said something cruel. Jon told me about how J often offended him or spooked him out, and I cried some more. I just wanted to go home. One more search for J resulted in me finding him kissing a man, who was wearing stockings and a blonde wig. I went back to my room.

When J came back to the room the next morning (he still hadn’t slept; in fact he hadn’t slept for days) he appeared totally nonchalant, getting straight into the single bed and telling me to sleep on the floor so he could “get some sleep”. I refused; why the hell should I sleep on the floor? I was the one with fibromyalgia, I was the one who’d been abandoned in a strange place for two days. I swore at him, told him he was a selfish bastard. He said I was a drama-queen and attention seeker. At some point, he put his fist through the wall – he was aiming for my head but I ducked – and walked out, taking my key.

The drive home was a nightmare. Before we even set off, J decided he wanted something to eat. He actually got a Polish restaurant to open, just to cook a meal for him. We all refused to go in, saying it was ludicrous and we just wanted a sandwich or something from McDonalds. In the car, we sat in silence while he went off for over two hours. Jon started speaking about when he was ill, years ago. He had a form of split personality, and lost it for a while (Jon that is, not J) and all the way to the café in the car J had been tormenting him about his ‘other’ personality, laughing at him. Jon stewed in silence, then when J left, flew into a rage. Kept muttering “what a dick, what a fucking dick”.

J eventually came back with a box of disgusting-looking food, which he threw on the car floor in front of me. He said he’d been to see an “old rasta” to buy £100 of dope. What he produced was full of seeds and stalks, and had obviously been sitting in a drawer for a few years, but J started bragging about how he’d been let into the “rasta secret” and accepted into the community. Never mind that he was a short, skinny, white man with filthy long hair and comedy glasses; they apparently loved him. Driving back, J was incredibly erratic, swerving suddenly and overtaking without looking at the road. He was clearly still pumped up on amphetamines and mushrooms, and was babbling incoherently about terrorism and Jesus.He punched the horn and sang songs about Obama and the New World order.

The next day, J was sectioned, for the umpteenth time.

I was woken by the housemates knocking on my door. One came in and told me J was in hospital and had shaved all his hair off.

In A&E, he lay on a bed, wearing a black panama hat I’d never seen before. When he saw me, he started shouting how the nurses were stopping him seeing the mental health team. I tried to calm him down, but he got up and started stalking up and down the ward, banging on doors and spitting on the floor. I went to get a Lucozade, rolled a spliff and went outside to tell the lads to go home. It was going to be a long night.

I’ve managed to piece some of the story together. J drove to a nearby village with a bible in his hand and got into a fight in a pub over a remark about right-wing groups. He walked out, got his hair cut off, and paid a visit to our old manager. J spent all his money, got into another fight, and that somehow led him to hospital. He was physically unhurt but his mind had snapped. The A&E staff had called the mental health team but it would take them a few hours to get to the hospital and in the meantime I had to keep J calm and stop him upsetting the other patients.

By 6am, he was being transferred in an ambulance to the nearest mental health unit with beds available. I followed on in a car with the mental health team, as I was the only person they had to ask what was going on. He was taken to an all-male ward and I was allowed to say hello. Then they drove me home with a phone number to call to arrange a visit. At first J called regularly, often shouting about his parents being satan-worshipping child molesters but sometimes becoming lucid when the medication they had him on kicked in. He told me he’d get his parents to sort out the bills and sort the house out while he was detained. The first time I visited him, he spoke to me for maybe two minutes. The other 58 were spent pacing around the communal area, shouting at staff and insulting the other patients. I went back home and cried. Nothing was working, nothing at all. Everything had fallen apart.

I visited a few more times, but soon stopped. I felt awful for it, but the cost of the train, the anxiety of having to navigate two stations and a hospital, the exhaustion and the sitting on my own at visiting time while J went and stayed in his room got to me, so I began making excuses. He was allowed to call after a while, and he sometimes called just to swear at me.

I was put on sleeping pills and diazepam by my GP. I didn’t sleep at all. Stopped eating. Stopped calling or visiting my mother. All my money went on instant mashed potato, tobacco, amaretto and dope. After a month, the hospital decided that J needed to be kept on a section without appeal. Nothing had happened at the house – we still had no hot water or new pipes, we still didn’t have electricity in all the rooms. The floor was still missing in the kitchen. Small jobs got done occasionally; plumbers did manage to get a small amount of tepid water working after pulling most of the house apart for two weeks and constantly cancelling appointments.

My housemates went out drinking in town regularly, and would come in at 4am, shouting and turning deafeningly loud music on, bringing girls to stay the night, inviting friends around at midnight. I still didn’t sleep. In the daytime, they would both sit in the living room on their laptops, usually with a friend or two. I stayed in my bedroom, unable to face any of it. One night, I was disturbed by one of them trying to break in after forgetting his key, and he brought a couple of mates back with him. The music went straight on and they stayed up all night, right into the morning, shouting and laughing. I cracked and called J, told him I wanted them out of the house by tomorrow. He replied that “they were there to look after” me and they weren’t allowed to leave.

Again, I was stuck in a house full of strangers.

After nine days of no sleep, something snapped inside me. My bones melted and my body lost all energy. My tongue felt dead in my mouth, and my eyes refused to open. I broke, somewhere in my mind. A few days later, I was on the telephone to NHS direct, telling them I was afraid I was going to kill myself. I couldn’t breathe. My heart hardly seemed to beat. I took sleeping pills with codeine and amaretto, trying to keep afloat. I was called into the hospital and was made to fill in a form to determine if I was depressed.

After that, I slept for two weeks. Occasionally waking, but soon falling into a near-coma again. My clothes started falling off me. I drank heavily, smoked constantly. Pierced my ears with sterile needles from eBay, watching the blood splash on the bedroom floor. I dyed my naturally golden-blonde hair purple. O and I went for regular drives, and during one of them we found ourselves having sex up against a tree in some wasteland. I’m not sure how it happened. It just did. After that, we slept together regularly, usually in his car or in a derelict building. By day, we flirted via text messages. The attention was infectious.

J’s father often came round to deliver post and bring more of our belongings. He shouted at me over the state of the old house, demanding to know why I hadn’t looked after it, and getting red in the face over the ever-decreasing tidiness of the new house. Again, I’d started out cleaning and tidying, but I now had two other people’s mess to contend with, along with the empty cans and McDonalds wrappers their friends left. I explained to him that there was simply no room to put the furniture anywhere, and that having so much stuff just shoved in was stopping work getting done. I also mentioned the lack of heating and hot water, and bills which hadn’t been paid. J’s dad blew up at me, calling me “a silly little girl”, blaming me for J being sectioned, and said that all I wanted was money, and so they wouldn’t help out with anything anymore. Apparently, it was my duty to look after J and ensure nothing went wrong, so I’d somehow broken some sort of contract by allowing him to go crazy. He called me a stupid junkie and benefit scum.

I shouted him out of the house and told him to never come back. He replied that it “would be better for everyone” if I got out of J’s life, and out of the house because I’d “ruined everything”.

J was moved to the mental health centre in town, then finally released after three months.

Back home, he was calmer. Slept a lot. Took his medication. Truth be told, he was a zombie, but he was home.

Still, nothing got done with the house. The walls crawled with damp and the rooms I’d painted were covered in patches of black mould. Somebody else moved in. My CDs were stolen, my weed went missing. The house had become a free-for-all. J wanted to build a professional kitchen out of stainless steel so we could sell jam. He harrased local farmers, asking them about agriculture. The rest of the time, he slept on the sofa and spilled coffee grounds on the living room carpet. We had a Halloween party, but J had said something sniping to me earlier and I ended up staying in the bedroom. None of my friends turned up anyway. Nearly all had stopped visiting because of the atmosphere. Only Z seemed oblivious. That night, I told him I didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. He said, “okay, you can still live in the house”. No emotion. Nothing. Not even anger.

It seemed like a good idea at first, I would retain my freedom and move into my own room. So far, so good. It simply didn’t work though; I was being pushed out of the living room by J and his friends and was relegated to coffee duty. I carried on sleeping with O, and he began to make promises to marry me when he “escaped” his relationship and the baby was older. My mood continued to slide though, and I was panicking constantly.

One day, I came downstairs to find J asleep on the sofa. I had nowhere to sit – somebody had broken my chair – and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sit in my front room and read with a cup of tea, but J told me to fuck off when I asked him if he wanted to sleep upstairs now I was awake. I touched his shoulder lightly, and he roared at me to “get the fuck out”.

I did. I packed a small bag with a few items of clothing, my medication, some weed and a book, and called my mother. She paid for taxi for me to come home.

I’d had a breakdown. Not long after, I tried to walk into the sea but couldn’t even do that without wimping out. I was stuffed with pills and allowed to sleep all day. It was months before I could even leave the house.

I need to forgive myself for ever getting into that situation, and letting it carry on.


  1. What a terrible, terrible experience. It’s astounding, sometimes, the situations we get ourselves into, but sometimes they become really hard to get out of. *hugs* I hope you are in a much, much better place now.

    This must have been really hard for you to write, but damn was it well written! Thanks for sharing this.


  2. Holy crap! You have been through a hell of a lot and even so, you managed to go into such incredible detail in this post. I think it was amazing to share all of that and even more amazing that you’ve managed to move forward with your life. I’m hoping this experience stays in your past and you are able to forgive yourself for it. In my opinion, you weren’t the one who needed forgiveness but the other people who took advantage of you, namely J. How long ago did all of this happen?


  3. I don’t always read really long posts…but I read yours. What a journey you have had. And you’ve come out of it alive. You’ve had many experiences, and others can learn from them….we have all gotten ourselves into situations we shouldn’t have, done things we wished we wouldnt have….doesn’t make us defective or stupid…just human. Great writing!


  4. i salute you.
    you are a strong strong strong girl.
    your O? my sir henry. “I wasn’t proud of my actions, but I confess I wasn’t entirely disgusted by myself either; she had done the exact same thing to me.”
    that’s exactly why i slept with sir henry last month. i need that quarterly “get back at his effing bitch of an ugly girlfriend for what she did to me in september of 2008.”
    and i’ve hit all of my quarterly goals.
    here’s the recap of that last event: http://nicoleandgwendolyn.com/2011/10/23/after-sex-for-the-ex-bulimic/. i was sick afterward just because i don’t like having sex with him anymore. i don’t think that i will ever again. x


  5. The fact that you’re able to write about such harrowing events, to me, means you’re an incredibly strong person. I think we all have some shitty times in our lives, but not everyone has the balls to write about them and face them head on.

    Mental illnesses are hard work for anyone who has to deal with them in any form (my mother has depression and was diagnosed when I was about 12 or so, which made life quite “interesting”).


    • Thanks; I’d never really experienced knowing someone with bioplar before, and I think I thought I could cope with it because I have mental illnesses myself. BPD/depression and bipolar seem to clash horribly though. I have a close friend now who is also bipolar, and I’ve learned to take a breather now and again when she’s on a ‘high’ – otherwise I get sucked into it, and she probably gets sucked into my depressions. Still, I love her to bits.

      My mother also has depression, so I know how it feels growing up around it. Not easy is it?


      • I remember my mother throwing a butter knife at me across the kitchen when I was 11 or 12 – I think it was just before she was diagnosed. The knife didn’t hit me directly, but it did rebound off a cupboard door and catch me on the leg. I was fine; the handle on the knife broke, and we continued to use the knife for years afterwards (my parents may still have it but I’m not sure). We can laugh about it now, but back then it was scary. My mother’s youngest brother also has depression and my sister & I spoke the other week and discovered that we’ve both got the same attitude to food when we’re stressed (we stop eating; probably partly in response to our mother pigging all our Easter or Christmas chocolate when we were in our teens).

        It sounds like it’s a far more healthy relationship with your friend – you’re both aware of the situation and your own needs as well as each other’s needs. Mental illness isn’t “catching” like a cold or the flu, but it does seem to rub off – a girl I used to work with, her other half is germ phobic (I forget the correct term) and it made her really weird about people making her a mug of tea, or door handles, or even using someone else’s keyboard.

        I sometimes wonder if it’s some sort of defense mechanism; a “if you can’t beat them, join them” sort of thing that we’re pre-programmed with for survival in these sorts of situations?


        • Thanks for being honest, I’m flattered that you can post this here. I do think there’s a defense mechanism of sorts, a way of purposely creating a level of crazy to combat the stress from others. I try to spend less time around those with mental health difficulties (in real life, not online), not because I’m cruel or unable to relate, but because I find myself picking up their traits and almost feeding off their paranoias and lows. I’m a great mimic, if nothing else.

          I also see a connection between food and my mother, my siblings and I have all faced levels of eating disorder apart from my brother, and even he developed a habit of binging then forgetting about it. It’s strange how these things influence us.

          My sister is also germ-phobic (can’t remember the term, either!) and I can see how difficult it must be to deal with. She spends money on cleaning products then can’t afford to eat. I wish I could help, but we’re not that close.


          • I’ve been to counselling and am a lot more open about the fact that my head’s a mess at times, so I find it reasonably easy to talk about some of the random incidences of depression which have occurred in my life, probably because they’re incidents that are now amusing and no longer horrible. One of the things I’ve had to do in applying to join the religious order I’m going to join (in hopefully a few months) is get a medical, and my GP asked if it was ok to put about my brushes with depression, and I said that it would be daft to not include it. In modern parlance, I have emo leanings but without the goth wardrobe and self-harm tendencies!

            Food is a funny thing; it’s so necessary for life, but our relationship with it (and any substance that can be abused) can be affected so much by the people around us and our experiences. And there is definitely evidence that depression and addictions are caused by nature as well as nurture.


  6. Interesting. Bleak. Apparently we all felt some of what you went through by reading the story, which says a lot of good things about your writing.
    I’m not sure why those of us that live through these nightmare situations feel a need to forgive ourselves. I mean, it was obviously a mistake and poor decision making on your part that put you in that situation in the first place, BUT, a mistake is just a mistake. Something to learn from. At the very least learn enough not to repeat the mistake:) Then move on. Nothing was actually caused by you and I’m sure you have the wherewithal to realize that much. His mental illness is not caused by any outside forces, especially not you. Your descent into abusing and neglecting your own well-being happens to most young people trying to come to terms with rejection and define their own self-worth. You changed the circumstances of your life, you moved on and have grown as a person.
    No forgiveness for anything needed. You’re not perfect, you are human. Interesting and vital in your own right. And that is a good thing.


    • Thank you very much, especially for commenting on my writing; I really appreciate it when someone mentions how I write. Sometimes it feels like all I have.

      I don’t know why we need forgiveness. I suppose I know that I had many, many chances to walk away and didn’t. I feel I need to forgive myself for that. I also knew exactly what I was doing in rebounding after splitting up with O, and I’m not usually the sort of person who acts like that.

      Yes, it’s something to learn from; I certainly won’t be doing that again! Or at least, I know with all my heart that I will never allow anybody to speak down to me in a relationship again, which is a huge shift for me.

      Thank you for putting so much into rational words, you’ve given me a lot to think about.


  7. Your ability tto write well and to take the time to do so is very admirable. More often than not, I find myself just mentioning the skinny of it all and being rather vague. I don’t know if it’s hiding from myself and the situation, or if it’s to spare uninterested listeners from all the details. Either way, I like what you have here: a damn good story. And as far as length: it was necessary to tell that story. I may have to take note for my future janglings.


    • Thank you very much, and thanks (as I’ve said to everyone) for reading all this. I’ve had to teach myself not to be vague, and it was difficult; it’s far easier to hide behind bullet points and short stories. I don’t know if I’ll ever write another essay like this post, but it did help. I figure that if someone doesn’t want to read it, they don’t have to, so I’ll waffle on all I like *wink*


  8. I spun through these comments, and a recurring theme is how “long” the post is. For myself, I was hooked. I’m sitting here at work and only intended to scan the first paragraph, but I couldn’t stop reading.

    Your style is powerful, honest and brutally effective. I know this is repeating some other’s comments, but you have a real skill in this writing thing you’re doing.

    As far as the topic and content go. I can empathize with how hard it might have been to write it, but there is truth in your reply, -once you get started, the rest needs to come out and it just flows.-

    Coming out the other end of such a period of life may feel like you’ve survived the great Grinder of Fate or something: but the key point is you survived, and strengthened, and learned.

    Awesome work, and please, keep up the great writing (no pressure tho’, just encouragement).

    God Bless.


    • Oh I sure hope no one thought I was criticizing this blog for being long….that wasn’t my intent at all. I have bad eyes, so I don’t read alot on the computer…it was really meant more of a compliment that the story grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go…even if I had to keep moving the screen around, taking my glasses off then back on, wiping them…lol, I was really a sight just trying to get thru it all I suspect. But you’re writing is amazing just as others have said, and I am so glad me and my blurry eyes took the extra effort to read this astounding story of such a strong and interesting woman! So, I just wanted to make sure that my comment hadn’t come off as snide in anyway…if it did I apologize for sure! I love your writing and will be an avid reader!


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  17. The other commentators are correct, your writing is compelling and honest. Not only did you have to be honest about the situation you were in, but your reactions and inaction. That self-awareness is a great place to be in your healing process. Even though is is incredibly painful to look back with clear eyes, you learn so much.

    This was hard for me to read. Obviously I am bipolar. I thank goodness daily that I have never been this severe. But I know that my mood swings have hurt the people around me. That my indifference made them feel ignored. When I am in a bad place, it is very hard for me to see the effect on the people around me. So I have very few people around me and only 3 friends I truly trust. But on a daily basis recently, I have to work hard to convince myself to go to work, to simply function..

    I am on meds, but they aren’t working and my doctor knows this and is working on correcting that. But it takes time. My constant fear is turning into the shadow of J. I would never be that bad as I have a different type of bipolar, but. How much more would it take for me to be out of control? I was hospitalized in October and am still in a very bad place, even though I am trying my best.

    I am very glad you got yourself out of such a bleak place. I cannot imagine how you felt about yourself to stay there. I do not judge because I have put myself in unhealthy situations due to my own feelings of worthlessness, invisibility, and inability to be loved or love another. So even though it wasn’t love, I understand why, at times, it was easier to stay. There is also a certain inertia to relationships. Once you are in one, it is too much work to get out. Why do you think people stay married for 20 years and then divorce?

    So take pride that you walked away, no matter that it took time. Realize that, in your recovery, you have become a stronger person who can recognize a situation like this before it goes anywhere near this far in the future. Be glad in your awareness and understanding of the situation and yourself. And have hope for the future that you are moving (whether stepping, crawling, dragging yourself, running, skipping, whatever it takes) toward.


    • I think the difference with J and other people I’ve known with bipolar is that J was a disagreeable person to begin with, and I don’t think all his behaviour was down to mental illness. His adoptive parents were quite cold emotionally, and had a very definate way of living which I think had an impact on his personality. I also question his diagnosis; I think narssistic personality would be more fitting.

      So chances are, you’ll never end up like him. Not if you’re a good person, which I think you are. Good luck.


  18. Amazing writing. Completely visual. Like a scary ride through a funhouse that was very short on the fun side of it. I’ve told some of my nieces and nephews that they can control their own lives but it’s when they place their lives into someone else’s hands that things can, and often do, get terribly out of hand. I did that a lot back in the seventies and early eighties, not so much now. It’s kind of amazing to me that you actually made it out of that “ride.” It says a lot about your willpower and inner ability to somehow survive the worst. Please keep surviving.


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  20. OK, I am not sure whether you have chosen to link to my blog, or whether it’s an automatically generated thing. However, I have to say on following the pingback to your blog, I was horrified. You seem to have laid all the awful behaviours this man displays at the door of his bipolar. Let me tell you that his behaviour bears no resemblance to that of the many bipolars I know. Looking at this from the outside, I see multiple probems, of which bipolar is just one tiny piece. I see two damaged people, both with mental health disorders, probably attracted to the most broken parts of each other (and I am not criticising, I have very much been there myself), and I see a chaotic lifestyle of near constant change and misuse of illict substances. Any or all of that could be to blame, but the real thing that leaps out from the way this reads, is that your ex is an arsehole. Plain and simple. He chose to behave that way to you, hard as that may be to hear. Don’t use bipolar as an explanation/excuse, because that tarnishes the bipolars who work hard on their recovery, AND lets him off the hook. He is responsible for how he treated you, not his disease.


  21. Hey, it’s an automatic thing but I did choose your blog specifically, because it gave a different view of bipolar to my own experiences. I did make this comment a while back:

    “I think the difference with J and other people I’ve known with bipolar is that J was a disagreeable person to begin with, and I don’t think all his behaviour was down to mental illness. His adoptive parents were quite cold emotionally, and had a very definate way of living which I think had an impact on his personality. I also question his diagnosis; I think narssistic personality would be more fitting. ”

    … because I was worried that my experience would look like something everyone in a relationship with someone with bipolar would go through; which, of course, it isn’t.

    I suppose it’s hard to strike a balance, especially when I don’t have bipolar myself. I wanted to get across just how bipolar (or whatever he had) can damage people if left untreated. In the same vein, I tried to explain that, perhaps, yes J was an arsehole anyway. I’m wary of saying what is and what isn’t down to his illness because I’ve only ever seen it from the outside. BPD and some aspects of anxiety can be very similar at times, but not quite the same, y’know? I know I’ve manipulated people in the past, but truly didn’t realise I was doing it until years later; can bipolar sometimes work in the same way?

    As I say, I’m no expert, and I’m truly sorry if I caused any offence. It was in no way my intention.


    • I think that’s the thing – he sounds like a nightmare! But a nightmare in which bipolarity is just a small part. I don’t think untreated bipolar is even half of what you’ve gone through with him. I think he has made choices to behave in horrible ways, and you are giving him a opt-out by placing the blame at bipolar’s door, not his. I could live in destructive ways – god knows I want to sometimes, but I just choose not to. I worry that people who know nothing about bipolar will read the above and think that’s what we’re all like! I also think you may be right on the money when you say narcissistic PD issues may be a better explanation fro his behaviour (funnily enough, I came to the exact same realisation about my “troubled” ex). Thanks for the apology, and sorry if I jumped off the deep end! It just makes me so angry to see anyone blaming a diagnosis for arseholery ;)


      • No worries! When I started this post, I did worry that someone would feel unhappy about the whole bipolar/bad boyfriend combination, but it was hard to word it otherwise. Not making excuses; I just feel I have to clarify that linking the two wasn’t my intention ;) I can see how it reads like that though.

        You’re right, he did make choices. I didn’t think he could, at first, but after we split he started taking class A drugs again even though they got him sectioned. He was pretty ‘well’ at that point, so I could see he was capable of making bad choices. As far as I know through Facebook, he’s still making them.


  22. I’m so happy to send you love. I wanted you to know that I meant to take a brief peek at this page and move on–I have a hundred pressing matters. Let’s see, that may have been 45 minutes ago.

    I sat motionless and read every word of this, and I would have read more. Let’s face it, everybody, how often do we sit and read a long document on the internet anymore? Not often….unless it is such great writing.

    I hope an editor sees this work soon. You should be getting a book contract out of this.

    Are you on shewrites.com or redroom.com? Check out those websites. I’m a big fan.



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