Uni second year

Second Year at University came to an abrupt end.

First semester was a struggle after my lecturer had opened my eyes to something which explained why I had bladder infections as a young child. We were discussing child safeguarding and how to spot the signs of an abused child. The physical obvious ones like cuts and bruises, although terrible, didn’t phase me. We touched on sexual abuse. My lecturer, we will call her ‘C’ discussed how children facing sexual abuse will normally have bladder problems. That’s when it hit home. I instantly felt sick. But it made me more vigilant when on primary school placement to keep an eye out for the signs, having being subjected to the abuse myself, I felt a duty towards protecting youngsters.

 Of course I knew it was sexual abuse before that. It was in secondary school that I realised what it was. If these encounters hadn’t happened, I wonder how my life would have panned out. It definitely wouldn’t have been the same. On that,I am certain.

It came to late November/ early December when my mental health was in bits because I was dreading going back to the house I was abused in once I had experienced life away from home. I was under Richmond Home Treatment Team based in Teddington but was only visited at home the once. It was by psychiatrist Dr P that I was diagnosed as having BPD. At that label I hit the wall. Dumfounded by the label. Naturally, I told my parents to which they expressed concern about having it on my medical records and my future job prospects as a teacher. This resulted in a further great dip in mood, convincing me that I could no longer do the job I had always wanted to do. Going back home for Christmas was tough. My only solace was with Hannah, she made me feel safe. I was transferred to Southend Home Treatment Team who were not that concerned at the time because although I felt terrible I wasn’t at the point of wanting to commit suicide. Sure, I didn’t want to live the life that I currently was, but I wasn’t ready to end it completely. Lily Allen’s lyrics ‘I was so lost back then:// light at the tunnel at the end resonated with me. So I held on and did what the team asked of me. Most of the team was middle aged but one nurse (call her ‘N’) was in her mid twenties, so was easier to relate to. She was lovely and I feel so thankful for her and the team now.

Things didn’t really subside, however were slightly more consistent (less major mood changes) so I was discharged by the team and went back to university after Christmas break.

After being contacted by a friend’s ex who had once made a pass at me inform me that he wanted to tell my mate what he had done I piqued even lower. He made it sound like the feelings were reciprocated, when in all honesty, they were not  because by then I knew I was gay, and he knew that to. Which is probably why he tried. Of course he failed! The stress of returning back to uni after being told that I probably wouldn’t be accepted as a teacher, in addition to the return of flashbacks and the aggression of the voice made me spiral even lower than thought possible. I was in the lectures but not engaging in them. I sat in the lecture theatre thinking ‘what’s the point in doing this? I’m not going to be a teacher. I’m not going to be here much longer’ it was at that point I felt suicidal. I reached out to my cousin who lived close to my uni, as she volunteers for the Samaritans but was met with ‘Cutting isn’t great but you got to do what you got to do’ and referring to it as ‘a valid form of coping’ with mental health. Getting more and more desperate for some release I took a small overdose of 8 paracetamol, 6 sleeping tablets and 9 ibruprofen and somehow still managed to go to work the next day. I didn’t sit my January exam for English because I was too mentally unstable to revise over the Christmas period and felt too much of a lost cause to sit the exam scheduled for May. Every time I walked 45 minutes to do my job as a Nanny from then on (sometimes walking through cold flooded ditches which ruined my shoes) I stared at the railway track and contemplated just lying on it waiting to be hit. However, I didn’t want him to be late to his school and didn’t want to walk that far on my days off. Lazy suicidal me. Back at the shared flat, I watched tutorials of how to tie nooses. I had already drifted from reality. One day after lectures on the way home with my flatmates, my card got declined on the bus so I walked whilst they got on. I didn’t go home, my phone died. I found myself wondering aimlessly. When I snapped out of it, I was in a field and it was getting dark. I stayed for a little longer and opened up my module reader to catch up on some reading as I was falling behind. When I got home it was dark, it had rained so I was drenched. 

 

It got to May and I was dreading coming home to celebrate my Grandfather’s 5th death anniversary because I’d have to be in the presence of someone who causes me psychological distress. Everything was falling apart, and so I tried to call the Samaritans. Fat lot of good that did me. No one answered. That was my last resort after trying to contacting a friend who completely ignored me. I wrote a letter, but by this time I was so distressed that my writing was unreadable and my body felt like it was collapsing in on itself. Flashbacks started, and in attempt to ground myself and wake up one of my flatmates for help I desperately grabbed what I could and threw it at the walls. I’m not sure how long that went on for but nothing was working. My flatmates were exhausted. I crawled to the loo, not having the strength to walk. I can’t remember at what point the voice started but it was telling me to kill myself. After the flashbacks had finished I was beyond tired and helpless, the voice was still preying on me. My lack of self worth attacked my thoughts – what is the point? Maybe the voice knows best. I can’t live like this forever. I’m done fighting.’ The next thing I knew, I had swallowed quite a lot of bleach, lots of it was all over my hair and unicorn onesie. Vision then started to be a problem. I’d rather have done the job properly and not be here than have failed and be blinded. I crawled in to my friend’s room and woke her up. Honestly can’t imagine how harrowing she found it all. She must have been terrified of the absolute wreck before her. She had lost a friend before, and it wasn’t until later that the realisation of how selfish I had been towards her struck me. She must have been scared of what was going to happen. She called the paramedics, I don’t know how long it took. Could have been 20 minutes, it could have been an hour. The night was a lifetime. When the paramedic arrived, she was so noisy that it woke my other flatmate up. The paramedic checked me over, after my friend and I noticed that the bleach had burnt through my onesie and burnt some of the skin on my chest, boobs and stomach. We went by Ambulance to West Middlesex Hospital who put me on a drip of some kind via a cannula, did ECG’s and took my blood. The psychatric team from Hounslow that were on site were beyond useless. Their whole demena was wrong; rude and cold. The first thing they asked me was ‘are you glad you’re alive?’ in the most monotone cold shouldered voice I’ve heard in the MH organisation. I told them I was unsure. At this point, Hannah was none the wiser. I wasn’t ready to tell her I’d given up on myself. The psych team uttered the words ‘we will not accept her in the area because we are from Hounslow’ around 8 times. So basically their presence was worse than not being there at all, especially after shouting at my friend asking for more help. It’s as if they were passing me off as someone else’s problem. They just said to ‘go home and take care of yourself’ to which my friend said ‘well she obviously can’t that’s why she’s here! She drank bleach!!’ Anyone in their right mind should have sectioned me. Right there and then. What did they do? They walked out of the room when I told them I didn’t want the Home Treatment Team in. My friend called the doctor on shift and explained the absence of a follow-up care plan. The Doctor bought them back in to the room, but from the corridor we could hear the man shout ‘She just told us she doesn’t want the help!’ they came storming back in. ‘You just said you didn’t want help from the HTT we can’t do anything else!’ they declared so abruptly, with no respect as to what I had just been through at all. I still don’t understand how they are in the profession they are in!! I told them I’d give the team in Teddington another try, whilst also thinking about when I’d attempt again once home in the flat. I was discharged from the hospital at 7am in the morning and got an Uber back with my friend who stayed with me the whole time. I love her so much and am ever in debt to the kindness and understanding she showed me. When we got back my other flatmate was just waking up again and I laid on her bed whilst she prepared herself for the day. I was told to go into uni that morning with the flatmate who had woken up to the paramedic in the house. I felt very unstable going to student services and was already teary. A counsellor called me in, she was expecting me. She didn’t say anything until Michael from the student services came in and then they both explained how I was to be put on mandatory temporary suspension. To me, this was like a death sentence. I felt angered by the fact that one of my friends had told university. It felt like my whole world came crashing down and that my future was ruined. I left Uni and went home to put on a brave face to celebrate the anniversary of my Grandad’s death. I hugged my friends I lived with goodbye, and I asked them not to tell Hannah and then went to the train station. On the train home I felt broken and lost and angry that it hadn’t been successful, angry that it’s failure meant that I was forced to go back home.                                       

Hannah picked me up in the car and I told her that I didn’t want to go to the meal in Leigh. I started crying and told her I had something to tell her. She already knew. Her eyes were prickling with tears. So one of the girls I lived with told her, but I felt relieved. Relieved that I didn’t have to explain it all after having just gone through it and having not slept. I was already running late to the meal, Dad was texting me and telling me not to be selfish by not coming to the family meal to support Nan. He understands now, of course. I felt bullied by the texts I was getting from both my parents insisting I should be there, more so by my Dad but he didn’t understand why the way I was. He didn’t know until November 2018. That’s 8 months after my suicide attempt. He had a suspicion that something else had happened to me apart from being raped 2 days after my 15th birthday. He was right, he just didn’t know who.            

Telling my Nan what I had done was an abstract sort of conversation. She heard what I did and said oh dear and that she loves me but I understand she was in shock. She doesn’t understand why I am the way that I am, she doesn’t know what I’ve been subjected to. I never told her. She knew that I had depression though. She worked that one out by herself. Never could I tell her of what another member of our family did to me and how it made me feel every time I saw them. She will die blissfully unaware of why I will no longer be present at family events.