Self Mental Health Progression

The night of the 24th June after going up Leigh steps for the first time since running down them and as well after having an argument with Hannah regarding my mother I relapsed.

Before bed I swallowed 18 or 19 tablets of Quetiapine 50mg in the hopes not to wake up. I wouldn’t say it was a suicide attempt, although the idea of not waking up seemed appealing.

Of course, I woke up. Tadah guess who’s writing this post. I went to work but felt light headed but stayed and saw out the end of the shift (only a 4hr one) and then got on the bus to Rayleigh to see my new(ish) care-co (I replaced ‘e’) C. Told her how many I had taken and she got a pharmacist in who advised me to get checked out at the hospital/doctors. C then took my blood pressure and pulse, of which the later was inconsistent and caused her concern. As the centre was closing for the day and my parents were at the hospital she had no choice but to call an ambulance.

The ambulance made me feel on edge and like an extreme reaction to something that clearly hadn’t killed me. It triggered me slightly as the last time I was in one of them was after drinking bleach. My care co told me to stop looking at the door to escape because I wasn’t going anywhere- if anything that made me feel more trapped and frightened.

I had liver pain for the next couple of days and it got to Friday and thought it was time to be checked out by a doctor. I was just agreeing to whatever he said, it was something like ‘in extreme circumstances people take 450mg of Quetiapine’ it wasn’t until later when I realised he may have actually heard ‘8’ rather than 18 because 18 lots of 50mg is definitely more than 450mg. Oh well. Just read up the maximum dose for Quetiapine is 800mg, so I’ve either surpassed that by 100 or 150mg.   

A while after my care-coordinator ‘E’ knew the extent of my self harm, she began to take my mental health more seriously.

When she made a visit with another psych nurse, I told her how I felt and was instructed to go to the closest MHU immediately. It was either I go freely or get sectioned under the mental health act.

Hannah was surprised as to why only now they thought it wise I go into psychiatric care. Why was I not sectioned after drinking bleach or straight after cutting myself internally? She had all these questions and I had no answer for them. I felt beyond broken. Under half hour after leaving, E called back to chase me up. I was still trying to resist going into the unit.

45 minutes later, she called back and told me that there was no beds in Rochford hospital. So I’d basically be on house arrest with my family until a bed became avaliable.

Things with Han were shaky. My trust issues were raging. I felt totally exposed and pathetic. I had to wait 2 days till my favourite nurse from HTT ‘N’ called informing me that there was a bed available at Basildon Mental Health Unit. Again I was told that if I didn’t go in that the mental health team would section me. So although mum bought me to the unit, it was not really as a ‘voluntary’ patient as I didn’t have the choice in being there. But that’s what you’re classed as. Other patients too. Only a few check in on their own accord.      

On arrival into the ward, belongings were inspected and items like make up and sprays were confiscated and you had to ask to use them (under supervision). Meds were taken to a medical office where they also ‘charged’ your phone. I was still having gauzes, antibiotics and pain killers for my internal cut whilst on the unit. A girl, Elizabeth, followed me around whilst nurse ‘T’ was showing me around the unit. It made me feel uneasy, and having to supress myself from shouting at her to leave me alone was draining the little energy left.  

I was placed in to room1 first of all. When one of the nurses ‘T’ came to do a check up, I had my head in a pillow case and had tied my shoelaces around my neck. They had forgotten to confiscate them earlier so I used that to my advantage. What happened? I was locked out of my room and the sheets were stripped. When they came to check on me half an hour later I was hiding in a corner in the kitchen dining area and it took them ages to find me, a male patient told her where I was. Apparently they were flustered and thought that I’d escaped. I didn’t want help and didn’t care if they found me or not.

Later on that evening, they moved me to the women’s section of the ward, room 17. I  still have photos on my phone of the room. There were wall stickers of a caged bird and some flowers around it, I got bored and drew some red hearts on there too. There was such an artificial feel to the rooms, the windows had stickers on them so you could not see out of them and they would only open ajar so you could not escape. No locks on the doors. Nurses and other patients could just walk in to your room whenever it suited them. No barrier between the mens side of the unit and the women’s…so if the nurses weren’t alert you could be attacked.    

I smiled at the letter my house mate ‘S’ gave me and put it on my  chest of draws, because although there is a blue noticeboard in the bedrooms, things could only be stuck on with Velcro. It felt alien. It was uncomfortable. The beds were blue plastic coated and more suited for punishment rather than rehabilitation.       

Meal times are communal so that’s when most patients met. My first meal felt too overwhelming; I remember looking at it and feeling too anxious because of the noise levels and just cried silently. The patients sitting on my table were nice, one of the men said it’s all inclusive as he went for seconds. That made me cheer up a bit- even in the worst of places some people have a sense of humour. Some patients didn’t eat with the majority- as well as Elizabeth, there was Alison- a frail older lady (say around 60-65) who kept coming and eating scraps of food out of the bin.            

I got to sleep at around 2.30am, and that didn’t last long. It was almost 4am when the fire alarm went off. One of the male patients had set alight to the walls of his bedroom, and flooded the kitchen dining area with the water tank. I honestly thought I was going to die in there. The nurses had locked the toilets earlier in the day because they could smell that someone had been smoking in the toilets- and you need a lighter to smoke- surprise surprise, it was the smoker who tried to set the building up in flames. The noise of the fire alarm triggered Julie’s (a female patient) extreme headache….we are unsure whether it’s psychological otherwise surely she’d be in the physical hospital?       

Everyone was hostile towards the male fire-starting patient saying he should be 147’d. So he was moved into a more secure part…that was until the next day when he freely walked into the lounge hands in his pockets like he’d done nothing wrong. Everyone was shook with disbelief that he’d been let off easy.  Tensions started to rise between a patient called Jenny and other female patients- on the day before my last day she went to court to have her gbh trial.      

During and just after breakfast, the bedrooms are locked and for a little while so is the kitchen diner. I went into the quiet room with a female patient and we exerted our frustrations by tearing down the laminated paper display pieces of paper off of the display board then made a den to try to sleep. Nurse Candy came in and started being condescending asking if we were children. She told me not to copy some of their attitudes. I didn’t care what she thought and took a disliking to her. There was nothing stimulating to do, and the highest emotion you could possibly feel in there is mediocre. There were no board games, just arts and crafts which could get really repetitive.         

The whole Christmas period was triggering- causing several breakdowns and flashbacks in hospital. The sound of Christmas music coming from the dining area and the smell of bleach made me feel like hitting the roof. In the kitchen diner there were Christmas decorations- 2 Santa’s made from  toilet and kitchen roll & cotton wool, I found them creepy so would face the bigger one towards the wall otherwise it felt like it was staring into your soul. I was also convinced someone was watching us through them, so by facing them the other way they’d be looking at the window. There was a Christmas tree in the entrance as visitors come in- you can’t access unless you’re coming in or leaving (secure unit remember!) and inside me was a burning urge to kick it over.

I felt totally responsible for ruining everyone’s Christmas. Christmas tradition was broken- the family would not be altogether as usual for the festive period. I couldn’t handle being around the guy who abused me as a child- I couldn’t tell my nan why though. I still wanted my brother and sister to see everyone, and I blamed myself for ruining their Christmas. But it was my mum really. She could have run the twins over to the rest of the family while I stayed at home with Dad or told the family member to do one and let us all celebrate Christmas together. I desperately needed the situation sorted for when I was released from the ward, so everyone felt comfortable and could enjoy themselves but mum didn’t do it.            

Charging mobiles was an absolute nightmare. It was as though they were trying to make you more insane because you’d leave your phone on charge in the medical office (a nurse does it) for say 4 hours, come back for it and it would only have charged 20% because someone had taken it off of charge. Contact to the outside world felt limited. My signal was also terrible so contacting Hannah was hard- I had to go out to the courtyard to get internet. The courtyard was the most realistic thing to the outside world, and even that was abstract. You could see no trees, the space was surrounded by the building- you could be seen at all times, the ground was all concrete (not even a square inch of grass). But there were 3 benches, each with a plant box either side- some just soil and others had mini palms in them. Nothing flowery or particularly pretty.     

I started talking to a tall guy called Mark who resembled the honey monster, he was a lovely person. He caught his ex in bed with another man and from then on had been suicidal- he got bought to the ward after trying to jump off a multi story car park. (He tried again later too, luckily falling the wrong side and then was sectioned). Since his second release from the unit I haven’t heard from him, he last text was ‘I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye, Hannah is lucky take care love you’. He couldn’t understand why that I have Hannah was I feeling suicidal- I didn’t tell him about post traumatic stress although he may have got the hint when I got flashbacks.  He and I made a list on my (old) phone saying whether we would hang, mutilate, shoot or save other in-mates. That’s when you know you’re as fucked up as each other really!     

Sitting in the corridor, I had my coat over my face to hide tears as Hannah and her mum was adamant that I wouldn’t be out in time for the Lily Allen concert…I had never seen my favourite artist live & had been looking forward to it for ages. Nurse Candy, said to take it off of my face because there’s a ‘possibility of suffocation’ I said good because suicide is legal in this country & she then threatened to put me on higher watch to which I responded ‘whatever, I’ve been here 6 days and not even seen a doctor, you lot don’t care’ to which she replied ‘don’t cut your nose off in spite of your face’ which confused tf out of me. Not sure how we got on to the subject about my partner but she said ‘you’re partner isn’t very good if they’re not here supporting you’ to which I responded ‘stop being condescending’ and she walked away (hooray).           

On the last day I pinched my belly fat and told mum I’d put on some more weight and Candy, trying to be the big ‘I am’ said something along the lines of ‘oh that’s nothing, I’ve got more of where that came from’ I was so tempted to agree with her. But instead didn’t say anything to her. I was so happy knowing I didn’t have to see her face on the daily anymore.

A week after I got out, I was still under the care of HTT and went on EPUT and saw that nurse Candy had got an award for being an outstanding nurse. Ha. More like an outstanding actress, pretending that she cares in front of her peers. But when you and another patient are alone with her, bam she is heartless!

 

Writing this, it’s shocking how unwell I was.

The events that led to the act of extreme self harm were as followed; I had confronted the person who abused me as a child, about 3 weeks before. About 2 weeks after this I had discovered that; without my permission, Hannah had told my Dad about the first lot of abuse I faced as a kid. She didn’t tell me she told him, instead when looking through her phone I stumbled upon their messages and was very angry with her, feeling betrayed even. On reflection, I know it had to be done, she was trying to protect me. She’s forgiven now of course. At the time it felt suffocating and embarrassing, everyone suddenly knowing what had happened to my body. It made me feel extremely exposed and uncomfortable in the presence of extended family. When going to see my Nan I would be terrified as to who would show up whilst there. Over the week it had just built up and up.        

My headspace was far from a normal 21 year old’s. Sitting on my bedroom floor, trying to fight the voice by watching something on Netflix. Nothing triggering, just a series. The voice got louder and more aggressive and I found myself giving in to the voice. It was convincing me I had to do it for Hannah as it was what she wanted & that I was being selfish for not doing it for her. Did what exactly? I cut my labia. With scissors. 

Still influenced by the voice, I told Hannah what I had done so proudly. She was astounded and horrified. Like any sane person would be. She told me to tell mum, so I did. After a little while, she came home from work and we went to A&E.  The nurses& doctors told us they could not reattach the part that was cut off. I bled a hell of a lot, and fainted when they took my bloods. When told surgery was necessary it didn’t faze me. 

I was moved to Eastwood ward & had to wait ages for availabilty for surgery. Having to wee in a pot after not eating or drinking for 8 hours seemed impossible, but apparently they couldn’t do the operation without it. Being wheeled in on a bed into an operating room felt alien-like. I couldn’t wait for the anesthetic to kick in so I didn’t have to think or deal with my current state of mind.  

When I woke up it was in a recovery suite,  my mum was there and left soon after I told her to go to bed and get some rest. I had Phillipino nurses, straight away started talking to them about my flatmate who has routes in that country. They were very surprised that the morphine dosage hadn’t sent me to sleep. Instead, I kept asking for more water.  It was around 5.30am when I was wheeled back on to the ward. A nurse told me I had between 4-6 dissolvable stitches. Some external and some internal. When discharged, I was told to come back every 5 or so days for a check over.           

The healing process was laborious. It was painful to walk, and when I did it was wonky. It was extremely swollen down there and was still bleeding through the stitches even 2/3 weeks after the surgery. Not much, but still unpleasant. I had to put a dressing on it, even during the time I was in hospital.      

 

I have struggled with my mental health for 5 years now, my diagnosis being PTSD and BPD. The catalyst fuelling the fire was going to a new sixth form- listening to cases in law class, similar to my own trauma and some making rape-related jokes. Not only that, but a so called ‘best friend’ had invited the perpetrator into the school for help with her music piece. At the time, I guess I felt kind of lucky and appreciative that she alerted me of his presence in the school. On reflection, it makes me angry. How could she bring a rapist into a school- predominantly full of under 16s?! Perhaps you can call me selfish for not telling the teachers of what he was. But I was terrified and spent both break and lunch time on the floor in the sixth form girls toilets. It may have happened a year and a bit before but the funny thing about brains is they react in ways we cannot control.

My PTSD after this incident worsened, and I was in a group therapy at SOSRC (sos rape crisis). To an extent it was helpful. However, listening to other people’s stories and having to tell my own and hold my nerve like the other girls did really took it out of me and thus became more and more withdrawn from my family and friends. At school, one of my only classmates (took sociology with me) let’s just name her ‘Z’ was also facing major psychological stress, was deeply self-harming and suicidal. After seeing her cuts, and feeling desperate it triggered me into cutting my left wrist while in the bath.  I wore bands on my arms to cover it up. She was put in a MH ward close to the school and I missed her company. From then on I sat by myself in a classroom of people that all seemed too dominating. By the time June came around, I was at breaking point. Group therapy seemed all the more hard, my grades were the worst they had ever been and could count all my friends on one hand. I hated life and was convinced there was no future ahead of me. I was sick and tired of fighting flashbacks and as a result of all this distress began to hear voices. So at 16 years old I sat in the upstairs bathroom at home playing ‘breakaway’ by Kelly Clarkson whilst cutting and consuming a mouth-full of bleach. At the time I thought it was enough to kill me, but from a further attempt it definitely wasn’t. Obviously. I am still here. I had a massive breakdown around the 16th July in front of my teacher Miss ‘C’ trying to get the words out to explain why I didn’t want to do a discussion about rape, but not a single word was coherent. She then bought Mrs ‘T’ in who took me straight to the school counsellor Mr Frost. It didn’t really help talking to a man about something that was a man’s doing and quite honestly, I felt uneasy being confided to a small cut-off room with an elder male.

Gym at the time was my sole source of pleasure, getting out of the house and away from school. On more than two occasions I bunked sixth form- sometimes just the morning, telling the class as I came through the door in an apparent ‘rush’ that I had slept through my alarm. I had joined the gym not long after my granddad died in 2013 and it took me roughly a year to tell my PT friend Bex what had happened to me (the second attack anyway). To me, she was like an older sister. Older, stronger, fiercer and fitter. And a good listener. I recall her saying to me whilst holding the slam-ball (weighted gym ball) to imagine the ground is ‘perpetrator’s face’. This was the most healthy outlet of anger. The rest was still being undertaken through self-harming. My legs, hips and arms. When the sweat got into the cuts on my legs, Bex was always mindful and patient with me. She took time to talk and would text me to check on my wellbeing. I honestly believe that once you feel heard you begin to heal.

The last week at Sixth Form, my head of year/ law teacher spoke to me and I told her what had happened and who that ‘friend’ had bought into the school. It felt surreal, like I was talking about someone else’s life. I realise now that it’s ‘detachment’ and is a fairly common symptom of PTSD. Anyhow, my teacher told me ‘it’s not just young girls that get raped, it can happen to grandmas too’ this baffled me, because obviously I knew it could happen to anyone and I was unsure whether she was insinuating that she was also a victim. But she never clarified, and that’s her decision. 

Results day after that abominable year was strange. Attainment wise it really wasn’t great, yet I hadn’t completely failed any subject during the worst year of my life!  I couldn’t wait to get back to STB (where I had gone from yr7-11) to join their sixth form, even if it meant starting yr12 from the beginning.

Of course there were alright times too, very rare in a time of living hell, I made a friend in my English class through someone who was in my form and remade contact in year13 at stbs, to this day he remains one of my closest and dearest friends.

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.          

During the summer I had spent time talking to people who would be moving in to the same halls of residence as me, in attempt to be more comfortable and confident by move in day. By the time Uni began, I had been with Hannah for 11 months and truly loved her with my whole heart!  She stayed the first night in my uni room, holding my anxiety ridden body whilst the noise of drunk fresher’s boomed in the corridor. As I had told some of the girls which room number I was they knocked and called my name but Hannah and I didn’t budge. The next day came and she had to go and so I socialised with few people telling them that I missed the first night freshers bash because I had to go and see a family member.  

Returning to STB was a clean break. By this time group therapy had finished and I was receiving a one-to-one counselling in the same establishment. We had addressed our concerns about fitting in with the intake under my original year group. My friend Meg who was in my form from yr7-11 was now in the year above me. I was forced out of my comfort zone but it wasn’t as daunting as having to go back to my old sixth form. I felt liberated from the fact I’d never have to take another step inside of that place! It didn’t take me ages to make friends, but I stuck with Meg for the first month or so for lunch and break times until I was comfortable enough to spend time with my new peers. There was also the consistency of the gym to help with a set routine for the day.    

N’ and I became good friends through our time in media and sociology class. I set her up with a boy from the gym. Over time my symptoms were still developing, some days they were more pronounced than others. My sociology&media teacher Mrs B-P picked up on my MH pretty quickly. It was around this time I was officially diagnosed with PTSD , formerly it was just ‘anxiety and depression’ but after seeing a brilliant psychiatric Dr and finally being able to talk a bit more about what I was experiencing, we got a more accurate diagnosis. It wasn’t until years later that I was diagnosed with BPD as well. Due to my diagnosis, I was granted a little extra time in exams, and for that I was extremely greatful as it allowed my nerves to settle.       

In year 13, the assistant Head Teacher called me into her office one day, because without realising, I was still on the school’s network from home when searching into quick suicide attempts. Hannah was now in my life but it was very early days. The assistant head didn’t say much but asked what meds I was on and whether or not I was having counselling. She’d check up on me every week or so.       

22nd March my hair was shaved off to raise money for Macmillan. The hair was donated to the little princesses trust and I sported a hair cut identical to my brother’s. My Head of Year told me I couldn’t wear a hat because it was against school policy (a breach of ‘uniform’) and before the shave took place she said she was worried if others opinions of me looking like a boy would bother me. Of course they didn’t, I was doing this for a great cause. Not one single girl in the school said anything bitchy towards me, and kindly a lot of pupils donated some money. Mrs B-P even donated £20.