Merry Christmas.

It’s nearing Christmas and my heart is beating so fast I’m worried people can see it though my shirt. My palms are sweaty and I’ve struggled to fall asleep most nights whilst trying to fight against this surge of energy. But this isn’t due to the expected excitement Christmas should bring, no, it’s quite the opposite. The prospect of spending my first ever Christmas day alone is incredibly anxiety provoking. I get that even if I was with my family, this Christmas wouldn’t be all that great. I have never had a Christmas which hasn’t involved abuse or a huge argument between my parents. And I understand that the image the adverts portray isn’t what everyone gets and that having a family isn’t all laughter whilst eating those ‘Taste the Difference’ mince pies. But it’s hard to keep this in mind when you’ve got a whole day to waste away whilst you hear about your friends going to their parents and being together. I never knew how awful it would feel to be homeless at Christmas.

As the weeks grew closer to the 25th my mental health team and many other people continued to ask me what I planned to do. They repeated that it’s important to plan. That I’m at high risk of overdose if I don’t put in bulletproof defences. But I guess I never really wanted to give it too much thought. This is why I had to quickly buy Christmas presents and write cards because giving my time to a holiday based around love and family is too much for me. Maybe I should have listened to them because I’m now less than two days away and my plans are virtually nonexistent. I could just go with it and take it hour by hour. Or I could plan it down to the exact minute. I could even travel far away and hide until this dreadful occasion passes. Every option I’ve come up with isn’t what I want because I am desperate to be with my family. It’s two years since I reported and life has got worse not better. They promised me that reporting would be a relief and that I would feel safe. But I can’t help but wonder why it feels so very wrong and cruel. He gets everyone and I’m left alone. I really did pull the shortest straw.

I shouldn’t be surprised because I have always been the black sheep of my family and the fact that I played one in my school nativity was probably an omen. Maybe they have better Christmas’ without me and I genuinely do hope that they do. I don’t resent their choices; I purely resent my own. If I had been not so overly hopeful in keeping my family, I might have given holidays and birthdays more thought. Perhaps then I would have tried to imagine what spending a family occasion alone might feel like. But I do know that I could never have imagined just how lonely and heartbreaking this feels. I try so very hard to be excited for my friends because I don’t want to make things awkward. They are allowed to be excited about Christmas. So I have lied and put on a fake smile for the last few weeks and when Christmas came up in conversation I either made something up or asked more questions about them. I am ashamed of my choices and I feel like I do deserve to feel this pain and loneliness. I just look at my friends and I naturally ask myself, ‘Why can’t I be them?’. 

Growing up I never really gave any of my time to think about the homeless around Christmas time. It was something the news mentioned in the background as I unwrapped several presents from Santa Claus. But now I really do understand on some level how horrible it must feel to be homeless at Christmas time. In this respect I’m lucky because I might be in homeless accommodation but I’m not on the streets. I have food and water. I have heating too. Some people don’t even have these basic needs and not just over the festive period but all year round too. What must that feel like? To be so fragile to whatever may come their way as they try to sleep in the dark and the cold. My heart goes out to them because not having anyone to come and give them a hug and whisper that they are not alone is hard to articulate. I must admit it makes me incredibly angry and frustrated that there is still a huge crisis in terms of poverty and homelessness. That domestic abuse still happens and is on the increase, yet funding cuts mean more refuges are nearing closure. And a small child, like the one I used to be, will wake up on Christmas morning with fear not excitement because abuse is their father’s favourite present. 

For these people it’s not a silent night. It’s not a kiss under the mistletoe. It’s not rushing downstairs too early on Christmas morning because you know Santa has been. It’s not love and family. It’s not about joy and laughter. It’s just not.

It’s lonely.

Bright Sparks.

About 4 years ago I was in a dark place at University and my therapist, Kate, would always refer to the positive parts of my life as being bright sparks. You see, during this difficult period of my life I had very few bright sparks and it usually helped to be reminded of them every week. Sometimes I would get incredibly angry because why couldn’t we focus on the pain and the turmoil I was in? Why did she insist upon these pathetic and weak little lights when I could barely see them? Time moving forward and being confronted with challenges since then has provided answers to my questions. Without the dark you can never see the stars and without the stars no one can see where they are going. You don’t have to suffer from a mental illness to need those little bursts of light. We all have them and we all deserve them too.

My friends and my current therapist have never given me an idea that I could never do what I want to do or be whomever I want to become. No matter how horrific I have felt, they have always been there to shine this flashlight to remind me that I am not alone and also I can make it through the darkness. As they have guided me through these last 4 years I don’t think any of them have realised just how special they are to me. The importance of having people in my life has been proven to me time and time again. There’s nothing quite like someone sitting with you whilst you’re experiencing a traumatic flashback and just telling you that you’re safe. And also do you know that feeling of hugging someone and feeling the warmth of their love for you? Because it’s something I hope you all get to experience repeatedly throughout your lives. Moments with the people you love create bright sparks which never fade. An example is that I smile everytime I think about that challenge of eating a cupcake in Morrisons Cafe with my best friend because nobody has time for Anorexia. Or even blasting out Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 in a car and making complete idiots of ourselves but not giving a damn.

One huge part of being able to search for these bright sparks is having a safe place to go to each week. Stumbling upon my current therapist was like finding gold. It’s not just her wisdom and her ability to put me at ease the minute I get through the door, but also it’s that she not only tries her hardest to understand me but fights my corner when others don’t. She’s someone who I can literally go off on a huge rant to and spill it all into this room and then she just knows how to guide me to fit it all back in. And this is all within an hour and a half and she makes it look so effortless at times. I don’t think she has realised just yet that through our sessions and the journey we have embarked upon together, my inspiration and also a particularly blinding light is her. She has never once given up on me when I have countlessly given up on myself and the process of therapy. She’s frustratingly stubborn when it comes to my worth and she will not budge on this no matter how often I argue my points or how forceful I can be. Because she knows my past and she knows my present but mostly she knows what future I desire. Whenever I bring doubts to the room she tries her upmost to instil within me that I have the ability to accomplish my dreams. She validates that times are hard but I’m strong and one day I’ll be in her seat providing my wisdom and my understanding to a survivor of abuse. I promise to hold tightly in my mind this woman who has taught me that I am enough just as I am and my past will never define my worth.

The days are growing darker as we gravitate towards Christmas and New Year, we can’t get away from this fact and so every single day I worry about tomorrow. There’s this definite agreement inside my head that it will be dark. I believe I will be isolated and I’ll spend the day frightened of the unknown behind every corner. Many evenings now I do spend a lot of time walking around in the dark. Last night I walked for about two hours listening to music and trying not to cry. I don’t know if you do what I do, but whenever tears start flowing I instantly look up because I was taught that tears are weakness. As a result I now find it incredibly difficult to allow myself to cry alone and especially in front of others. So there I was just walking alone and staring at the sky and I just focused on this one star. It was a bright spark. I thought about how Kate used to talk about bright sparks and I also thought about discussions I’ve had with my current therapist. And I stood there alone and in the cold which was just like my predictions the previous night. But then I thought about the people who care about me and I held these people inside my mind. I tightened my fists in my pockets as way of clinging onto them. One thing I’m still learning to grasp is that you can be physically alone but that doesn’t mean you are actually alone. Because as long as I have these incredible completely bonkers characters in my life and in my mind, I’ve got all I need. I look around and life has dealt me bad cards but it’s also dealt me these curve balls and plot twists. They come in the form of these wonderful, hilarious, inspiring, and beautiful creatures I can call friends. When I get low and I am stuck in this dark place where nothing is getting better it’s easy to not look for the bright sparks and to then deny their care and even their existence. Anyone would end up getting incredibly lost and they would naturally feel unsafe in this situation. But when you get lost in the dark and you’re scared about what’s down this foggy path in front of you, what do you need? You need someone with flashlight. And they might be your parents or siblings or your girlfriend or boyfriend or your best friend or your therapist or even that stranger that held a door for you. They can get you through your darkest night and they don’t need a map or compass, they just need that light. 

If you are sat alone tonight and the rain won’t stop, I want you to reach out to a bright spark. Message someone. Scream. Say something. Don’t sit in the darkness alone because if you have to be physically alone tonight please know someone out there has their hands around a flashlight. They are rooting for you. They know you can make it through tonight because they’ve seen you accomplish things you are so very quick to dismiss. Their purpose is to support you through this horrific time in your life. They will remind you that you can do whatever you put your mind to and you can be whomever you are supposed to be. You’ve got this, so go ahead and grab hold of those bright sparks and walk with that person who, for tonight, has your flashlight. 

Over you.

Dealing with loss is difficult. No, its more than that; it’s heartbreaking and lonely. You are constantly plagued with images of the people you love walking away from you. The child in you running and running to try and get her family back. Screaming and pounding her little bare feet on the stone cold ground. “Mummy don’t go. I’ll be better. I’ll be strong. Please don’t leave me? I need you”.

I need you but maybe you don’t need me anymore. Am I being crazy? Irrational? I could have sworn I’d seen love in your eyes once. Are you over me? Do I need to alter my perception of you over night and forget you are my mother. The woman who made me and the woman who told me I was her baby and I’d always be. I only ask because over the last few years I have tried my hardest to forget you. I’ve tried to deny your existence which has killed me inside even more. I’ve even tried pretending you had died. But you dying would bring me closure and I’m sat here with tears and more questions than answers. 

Let me try and pretend.

Over you, I’m so very over you. The way that you kissed the top of my head and the beat of your heartbeat when I was safe inside your arms. When I reported him you stood by him and it wasn’t a fight of just me against him. It was you not fighting for me. You said you loved me and you walked away. You chose to turn your back on your own child. Who does that? I need this to be over. I need this to be completely over because I can’t take this pain anymore. Maybe if I tell myself enough, I’ll get over you. Because there is simply a me and a you. Us isn’t there anymore. I need to remember that it was over two years ago and it’s still over now. I’m over you.

I don’t think I could ever truly replace you. You had three children so replacing one isn’t difficult. You can direct your attention to your eldest who’s getting married or the twin who has stuck by your side. You have people and you can risk losing one or two if you ever decide to. If you could truly be over losing one daughter then maybe it’s easy. Whereas for me I don’t have anyone left. You were it. All of you. I only get one mother and I don’t have a back-up. I never have and I never will. I don’t think I could love anyone in the same way that I have loved you.

When people mention you I have to go into autopilot. If they know you’ve gone and what I did, then it’s easy. They just don’t mention it. But if they do? I have to lie and say you’re okay and that we are all excited for Christmas. I lie about how supportive you’ve been of my recovery. I don’t know which is worse because the awkwardness of someone accidentally mentioning you or them talking about their own mother and me not being able to contribute is excruciating. But having to lie and create this dream which I am desperate to be real hurts like a knife stabbing my skin. But I’m over you, aren’t I? Even the way that you used to laugh at my sarcasm or the way I was terrified of walking on the ice and you used to protect me. And the way you would stroke my forehead before sleep which always made me feel better. Yes, completely over you.

Maybe if I tell myself enough, I’ll get over you. You’re the one who’s struggling not me and maybe it’s a bigger deal to you and not me. Or have I got the roles reversed? My mistake. You’re fine, right? I don’t think you walking away was all to do with what I did. It wasn’t what happened at all, it was just that maybe I was never meant to be your daughter. But I love you and I want you and I have stayed away for two years and I’ve let you control this. You told me you loved me and you walked away. You told me to wait but I’m not waiting anymore. It’s now or never. My ultimatum to you. Because I can’t keep going the way I am. It hurts. And I have to let go because it hurts too much. It hurts too much.

Do you think about the person I have become? The people I have in my life now? If I’m okay? I keep thinking and worrying about you. I don’t want you to die before I have a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that happened all those years ago. About how much I love you even though you abandoned me. Because you are my mother and I will always have a part of you inside me. I can’t change that and you have no idea how much I wish to. I tried to remove every ounce of you from my life. The clothes I used to wear, the childhood pictures and teddy bears, the perfume, the heart shaped bowls, the cards, and even the image I have in the mirror. But I’ve realised that I can throw out physical memories and I can change the way I look but you will always remain. Because you can’t remove the memories from inside your head. Not without losing every other memory. I’m not ashamed to say that many of my suicide attempts were to remove you and therefore remove myself by default. To be completely over you. I never belonged in your family. I never really did. I want to be the daughter you want to want. And because I was never enough, I need to let go now.

Maybe, just maybe, if I tell myself enough I’ll get over you.

But so far, all I’ve done is stumble and fall trying to get over you but I keep ending up falling around you.

Flashbacks and Fireworks.

You know when you watch fireworks and there’s this huge anticipation before the loud noise echoes around you? It feels like that when you struggle with traumatic memories. You feel a body sensation and your heart picks up speed. You become more alert and on guard. You look around like a rabbit in headlights. But instead of excitement you feel panic and dread. The desperation for the end to peak sooner rather than later, is intense. You close your eyes tightly and you beg for the next noise to not be as loud as the last. You also pray that it will be one of those quick and short lived fireworks. Not the slow whizzing ones that capture your full attention for minutes on end.

Living with trauma can be unpredictable and it’s like the people around you can’t see the fireworks. They don’t know you are experiencing this huge display because they are in the present but mentally you are not with them. Your body might be stood beside them but your mind is so far into history, you start to question if you’ve discovered time travel. You look around and you feel confused because how can they not hear his voice? How can they not see him forcing himself upon your body? You’re screaming for help but no one can save you. Why? It’s because it’s already happened. The problem is just because it happened in your past it doesn’t mean that’s where it will stay. It’s not like every flashback is the same. You can’t prepare for just the one body memory or the one act of abuse. They come in different orders meaning the fireworks are not predictable and therefore they shock you and surprise you every single time.

Just like when a person is preparing for bonfire night it’s important for a sufferer to protect themselves from flashbacks. You need something to wear to provide comfort from the cold shivers that run down your spine. You need something for your hands to hold as barrier from the desperate need to claw your skin to rid his hands from your wrists and neck. You need to protect your whole body from the odd nudge of people passing you by. You also need a little reminder of the people you love and care about. Having a safe place to go or a safe person to talk to is important. Like animals that are scared of the fireworks, you might need a safe place to hide such as warm fluffy blanket or the arms of someone you trust. This person is not your abuser and therefore they remind you that you are safe and you can cope with the flashbacks. They help you to use your grounding techniques and stay with you so that you are not alone.

When I find myself trapped in a flashback I feel so lost and confused. My head pounds and the world around me is loud and in soft focus. I don't see people as fully as others do and I can't hear their voices as clearly either. Everything creates this fullness within my head and I am screaming over and over to get this scene to end. I need the fog to lift and I need my mind to be silent even just for a second. The voices from the past are terrifying and they ask me to do things I don't want to do. One asked me to jump off the bridge. I walked there in a dissociative state but a man passing by grabbed my hand and walked me away. Another voice asked me to hit someone really hard and in those moments I lock myself away and I put objects in front of the door to prevent me leaving. I can't leave because I will hurt someone. The voices can be so convincing at times and I cry in desperation. His voice clearly repeats that I deserve this. That I have to take my punishment. He was right and I was wrong. My body like an apple rotten to the very core. 

People are these huge living risks. Will they make the flashbacks more intense? More regular? More terrifying? Will they leave me like the family I once had? Life is tough when you take the risk to report a family member. The gamble is huge and I unfortunately lost. I folded or rather the investigation ended and I sit here trying to pick up all the cards I pushed away from me. Although these events and memories are painful, they are ultimately my history. To walk away from them is to walk away from myself. I was abused for the majority of my childhood and it’s impossible to just ignore this. It’s like having a broken leg and refusing to believe that it needs treatment to repair itself. I know my past and I refuse to ignore the flashbacks that were a consequence. 

Trauma will cause a variety of symptoms and they can be very unpredictable like a firework display. But no firework can last forever. You can make it to the end. The relief after that loud earth-shaking sound is the best feeling for a trauma survivor to experience. You’ve got this and you are not alone. I’m with you.

The Elephant in the Room.

Lets talk about the elephant in the room. No, lets shout about him and invite him into our conversations. He’s a bit shy and used to be ignored, but his voice is invaluable. Surely he deserves to be, at the very least, acknowledged? He’s old and tattered and grey. But don’t forget about the elephant he used to be. That blue and white and strong animal that we used to admire before he was silenced. What does your elephant look like? What secrets is he holding close?

Trauma? Anxiety? Depression? Everyone has an elephant which seems to trail behind them and pulls up a seat at the very back of each room and space they find themselves. Society has conditioned us to hide these huge worries and illnesses. The stigma around mental health is still very much lingering and until we all unite and break the silence, I’m afraid it will remain. Do we really want to watch our friends and family suffer alone because they are too afraid to admit they are struggling? Do we really want children to learn that it’s not okay to not be okay? Prevention is better than cure and if we address mental health early on, we can restrict the amount of young minds being tortured by mental anguish. Wouldn’t it be life altering to sit next to someone and ask them how they are and have an honest response? Let me tell you that anyone can come pull up a chair with their tusked friend and talk to me. I welcome you.

I have numerous elephants and maybe a herd would be more representative of my humongous friends. Yes you read that right, my friends. Long gone is the fear of my emotional baggage and my traumatic past. I can happily sit with them and debate openly my long list of dysfunctional urges. I give them time and space and a warm smile. They can tell me their horrors and their negative self beliefs. And because I’m so comfortable, I will no longer try to hide them from people because it’s not only hard to hide multiple elephants, it’s also empowering to let them out. Isn’t is so uncomfortable sitting in a room with people and having to pretend you’re okay? Having to force a smile or force yourself to eat a piece of cake to fit in. Sitting there with food within your stomach and your elephant stamping his foot in anger at your inability to say that food is still an issue. Your mind jumping to ideas about compensating later. If you just said out loud that this piece of cake was making you feel uncomfortable then it would free you of having to deal with the torment alone. Your friend opposite you then has the information to support you through this. 

From experience I’ve found that even saying the words “I’m anxious” can release me from most of my internal anxiety. Saying out loud that I’m having a flashback can help to ground me because I am then becoming aware of the room around me. I can then identify that this person isn’t my abuser but a friend. The world becomes clearer and safer. And you know what? I feel better for sharing and knowing I’m not alone in this battle. It’s not easy to be honest about emotions especially when we don’t want to feel the things we do. Anger is judged as violent and bad. Anxiety is brushed off as unnecessary. Depressed people just need to cheer up. And happy people need to be quiet because they are irritating. The messages we are given from a young age are that we are not allowed to be anything other than okay. But sometimes we forget the purpose of the emotions. Anxiety protects us from harm. Anger wins us justice. Sadness helps us to identify our needs. And happiness lets us know something is rewarding and enjoyable. They are all important and all need validation from birth until death (and beyond if your belief extends further). We are all human after all. 

I promise you that it’s okay to feel whatever you feel. Don’t be afraid of replying honestly to a question. Invite your elephant to sit beside you and give it a voice. He can still be hidden away when needed but don’t be afraid to let him toot. You might just surprise yourself.

Kill Them With Kindness.

Over the last few weeks I’ve experienced relationships with professionals going fairly pear-shaped. Usually their reactions would fuel this inner rage right inside my chest and my instinct would be to run away and do something majorly destructive to punish them. However I am testing out this interesting approach of kindness and compassion. Of course this doesn't mean I’m accepting their behaviour as right, I am merely being mindful of how I react following a difficult interaction. This is incredibly hard to control and manage especially when I feel hurt and angry. As humans we naturally have a survival instinct and I suppose that can either get incredibly lost or heightened in heated situations involving others. It’s completely acceptable to fly off the handle and lose your cool when you can’t be rational.

I am an open person so I don’t mind sharing a recent interaction where I was in a conflicted mess. I attended an appointment with my care team some weeks ago prior to official discharge from the Stonebow Unit. In this appointment we discussed triggering information and I was met with hostility from my community nurses leaving me terrified. Talking about childhood trauma and how that’s impacted upon my relationships with professionals is very hard for me. I felt backed into a corner because I had two nurses blocking the door and no advocate sat beside me. I was staring at the ground and playing with my twist and lock block due to fears I would dissociate at any moment. In this meeting I was accused of being a child and told to pull myself together. I was told that I needed to stop being attached to professionals and that therapy was no longer a tea and chat set-up. Personally therapy has never been just a cup of tea and a chat. It’s been traumatic and I’ve spent sessions in the past feeling distressed but learning ways to sit with it in a safe environment. It therefore felt like my nurse was being judgemental of the therapy I had received prior to that day. 

I started to cry and it wasn’t a few tears either; it was floods of hysterical crying plummeting to the ground beside my shaking feet. I felt alone, cornered, and threatened. I also felt judged. Therefore I bravely told my nurse that I felt she was angry but she simply laughed to the other nurse saying it was me that was angry not her. I then couldn’t breathe because the situation was escalating and fuel was being added to the fire inside of me with every single minute that trickled by. Eventually my nurse asked me if I wanted a glass of water which I felt was ridiculous, but I nodded so that it would force her to leave the room. My other nurse watched on and told me I just needed to breathe. What I really needed was someone to get down to my level and ask me to mirror their breathing. I felt so out of control in that moment and I couldn’t run out of the room. It felt like the walls were closing in and death was looming due to my inability breathe. My other nurse then rushed in and forced the water into my trembling hands. She told me to shut up because the whole building could hear me. In other words she was embarrassed and just wanted to force an end to my meltdown. Funnily enough the ridiculous glass of water actually helped because I held it to my arm and the temperature grounded me.

Following an appointment like this in the past I would normally have reacted in a very self destructive way. My head was screaming at me to take an overdose because this would punish her and make her aware of what she had done to me. I also had ideas about going missing again and making her annoyed that she’s the last to know where I am. Therefore this angry part was throwing all sorts of ideas and begging me to utilise one or two. But I chose not to. I walked fast towards a local park with streams of tears falling down my cheeks. I then sat down and leaned my exhausted body against a tree. As I watched my fingers dance amongst the grass, I took a breath to reassess the situation. I could take an overdose, I reasoned. I could go missing. I could write a long complaint and contact anyone to punish my nurse. But I could also tell myself that what she did was wrong and unhelpful and my emotional reactions were valid. I was allowed to feel hurt and angry and alone. In reality though would hurting myself change any of that? No, I’d just be punishing myself for her bad practice. As much as the other parts inside my head kept screaming I decided to scream back. I told myself that I am worth better care. I might never receive that care through the NHS but that doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of better. My worth can’t change and sometimes professionals won’t be willing or able to provide what I need. That’s life. 

The purpose of this article is to make you curious about your own reactions to situations that make you angry or upset. How do you automatically react? You might freeze. You might run and avoid. You might even shout and yell or use violence. Do you hurt yourself to punish others for their mistakes? Is it worth it? You might think it is and I won’t judge you for that because I have been there and sometimes I still react like that. However usually the only way to move forward healthily is to recognise the situation and acknowledge the emotions but step back. Assess everything and let yourself have time to be irrational and then access rational thought. The person who’s angered you might be pushing for a reaction. If you react in anger or in hurt you might be playing into this. There is always the option to respond with kindness and compassion. This may mean you are simply kind to yourself. But it might mean continuing to stay within your values and being compassionate to the person who let you down. There is the saying ‘kill them with kindness’ and I believe kindness is a far more powerful reaction than anger.

Divided into Three.

How long will I love you? As long as stars are above. Longer if I may.

The missing puzzle piece for all of my parts is love. Anna simply wants a mother and I have tried tirelessly to find someone but the sad answer is that professionals can’t be our mother. She wanted our last therapist so bad and hugged her on numerous occasions. She’s not over that ending and she’s still angry at me for playing a role in screwing that relationship up. She cries about this mostly at night when she wants to be tucked in and kissed on her forehead. And then there’s Alice who is incredibly sexually frustrated and craves a fix. She pretty much would sleep with anyone at this point which is both embarrassing and worrying. I am terrified she’s going to try to have a sexual relationship with a male staff member; there are a couple on men she already daydreams about kissing. Hard. And she wants more stuff from them but I refuse to write the graphic detail on here.

The problem lies in my chronic inability to meet their needs. I am useless at being a mother to both of them. I don’t know how to do it. I can’t exactly parent them the way my parents did me. They are already traumatised enough. Me being useless means they have little faith in my ability to help them. This little faith means that at times of heightened or numbed emotion either Alice or Anna ping into action and attempt to meet our needs. This usually ends in complete disaster leaving my physical and mental health at high risk. But somehow for a brief moment they get what they want and the emotion drops or rises to where I can tolerate and be in control again. And so the cycle continues.

Before I was sectioned in July this was my life. I was sleeping around and in abusive relationships taking drugs and downing alcohol as if it was water. In my bedsit you would find me sitting on the floor with my palms pounding the carpet after swallowing paracetamol like smarties. The mascara was running down my face and dripping slowly onto my tight black vest top. I was reckless and out of control. I was the girl who absconded and walked miles and miles to dodge police officers. I was that girl who stood too close to the train tracks hoping and praying that one day she had the courage to leap into the abyss. I was that girl for half of my days. The other half was very much just as distressing. I was binging and purging all day long for a few months until the child had a strop and ordered me to control the only thing I could. The teenager was making life chaotic and disordered. I needed order. So I restricted my food and I still purged everything that entered my mouth. The three weeks before I was admitted to the general ward I stopped eating. I relied on water and pepsi max and I stopped the alcohol because the calories scared Anna. But I kept up the sexual contact and the abuse because I needed some form of chaos. Then it stopped. I was forced to stand still and I was forced to lie back and then they passed the tube. Again. Liquid food filled my painful stomach and the child cried in defeat. And Alice? Alice became more and more angry because the chaos had stopped and the control was snatched away. 

In that moment I felt a mixture of relief and failure. I felt lost. All I could do was lie there completely still and feel the wrath of my parts screaming inside my head. This was my punishment for opening my mouth to mental health services. They hated me for many months and I think Alice still does hate me and I do think that sometimes she does go out of her way to punish me. She misses the chaos and the adrenaline rush she used to feel. It made her feel real and alive and the line between life and death was exciting. Anna was easier to soothe and her cries have lessened gradually. She is still adamant that we need a mother but she’s far more calmer than she was. Her two wishes are for us to have a mother and for me to be smaller. Both of which I can’t do inside a hospital. And Alice wants a sexual relationship and she wants alcohol and chaos and that rush but I can’t do that either. They want me to discharge myself and leave. They want me to return to the life that they both had more control of. When I was simply a body and my own mind was forgotten and lost. My actions were my definition.

I’m fine. I’m completely fine.

It feels like I’m moving in slow motion but everyone around me is moving so fast and I can’t slow them down. I want to go back to when I was nine and I was normal. I was just a little girl with golden ringlets in her hair. I want to go back to before I became this mess who hides in corners and claws at her skin. Before the abuse happened. But I can’t. I’m not normal. Yet I feel so much pressure because I am no longer alone in my bedsit. I’m here on this unit filled with people of whom my actions affect. I feel like they are all waiting for me to do something. Overdose. Flip out and cry some more. To react. But I am happy to try to be this normal person that the community around me needs and I’ll say the right lines and act the right way. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know who I am anymore. At least in my flat I was the girl who sat on the floor with those pills, the alcohol, and that rusty knife. That was me until those two psychiatrists and a social worker visited me.

I can manage. I can manage it all. This grief consumes me but instead of feeling the pain I run from it. I run off and it’s not healthy or normal. We are supposed to feel love and hate and pain. Feeling is part of being alive; it’s human. It’s the point. But I want to feel nothing. I don’t want to feel at all. It hurts so bad I can’t breathe. I want my mum back and every night I clutch my blanket that still smells like her and I sleep close to it to absorb her. I miss the way she used to brush her fingers across my forehead when I was poorly. I miss her smile and her laugh. Losing someone and them being alive leaves no room for closure. I cry myself to sleep every single night because I want her. I want her to put her arms around me. I absolutely love you. I absolutely love you, okay? And maybe she won’t see this and maybe she is hurting still from my voice when I chose to speak out about my childhood. I chose to live in a refuge and I chose to sit and tell that detective everything. Maybe she hates me. Maybe she wants me to suffer. That’s fine. I’m fine. I can take that. I’m good at suffering.

I’ve become a mess. A mess of the trauma from my past and a mess of the trauma of my present. But I’m fine and I just wish everyone would stop asking. Stop talking. I managed. It was managed. A year ago I put a knife to my wrist and I swallowed over sixty tablets with a bottle of red wine and I died inside. I lost. I lost the very moment my family chose him and it doesn’t matter what a court of law says or what happens next. Because I lost him and them. Guilty or not guilty I was the person who lost everything. Life carries on, endlessly. Even after loss. It has to. It has to because the people left are still breathing and living even if they don’t want to. Their minds are still producing thoughts and emotions felt deep within their body. My family broke my heart the moment they decided to abandon me. I want to feel nothing. They decided to stand beside the man who abused my body and treated me like a doll from my toy box for 13 years. The moment I told the truth was the moment they vanished and all the memories faded into black and white photographs ripped at the edges. I lost. And so the chain of events started and from the outside you may think I handled it badly. I fell onto the train tracks. But I did the best I could with what I had. I did my best without them.

As far as they are concerned I was and am absolutely fine. Promise.

The Aftermath of Sexual Assault.

For the last few months I have spent ages staring at my reflection and I just can’t seem to understand that this person is me. It’s like staring at a stranger and this upsets me and makes me very confused. It’s like a part of me expects me to look like a child and another part expects something completely different. I have spoken to staff members on the unit here about this but no one has really concluded the reason for this or how to connect and accept this is me. This makes no sense I know, but it’s really starting to get to me to the point that urges to self harm are increasing so that I can see that I am hurting the person in the mirror. I remember mentioning a lot about my dissociation prior to my admission here but I feel like not much empathises has been placed on this and it’s starting to spiral. Until a week or so ago I found myself waking underneath my desk huddled in a ball clutching my teddy that’s shaped like a moon - that significant teddy the police wanted. Then I finally handed it in with huge reluctance.

Since a recent assault during an episode of absconding, I have been looking at my face a lot more. I can tell with one glance. It’s in my eyes which happen to be permanently dark-rimmed, haunted, and very sad. The trauma from the past and the present and the possible future stares back at me. It’s so incredible that it takes my breath away in short painful gasps. I feel like for the last few weeks I have been going through the motions of everyday life in this zombified state. Then suddenly I have outbursts of rage at the smallest of things. Panic drowns me and that fight or flight instinct kicks into overdrive and I need to run. When the calm follows after a dosage of diazepam or a use of a behaviour, the sadness begins to consume me. Tears silently trickle down my cheeks until I feel numb. Numbness comes last and sticks for much longer. That staring into space and apathy just weighs heavily on my chest. That’s the worst.

I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it is to make it go away. But deep down I know it won’t. I wish so badly to erase every forced act upon my body by men who have taught me that abuse equates to love and love is something humans need to survive. I am still struck by the fact that I didn’t know I was sexually abused until I was old enough to find out what it was. By that time it was far too late because the little girl I was had already become accustomed to this kind of love. And even if for some reason I had been aware I really had no one to tell or anywhere to hide.

I feel like I should be over it by now especially the recent assault. I should be used to this and there shouldn’t be an aftermath like there is now. It’s the norm and the way my life is. At the SARC it was all photographs and measuring tapes to document every single infliction of pain and terror left on my body. The scars on my legs from the knife he used. The bruise on my neck where he kissed me a little too hard. Then the violating examination where I had to wear a transparent gown to magnify every area of my body of which I am ashamed and disgusted by. Then the reliving of the attack through gritted teeth because the examination is not only emotionally painful but physically excruciating too.

“If you tell anyone you will die”.

That’s what he told me as he used that knife. The problem is that the reason I told someone about what happened was because I wanted that to come true. He said it so calmly and so clear as if he was talking about a fond memory or the weather for the next day. The scars on my legs were bleeding and all I could think was of the man who taught me to how to cut and how that was on my legs too. And now I scratch a little at the cuts because it reminds me of him.

Every morning I wake up and sometimes for a brief few minutes I forget about the loss and the trauma and the regret. It’s my favourite part of the day, you know? For a little while I am not that scared little girl who was abused over and over. I feel safe. But then. Suddenly. It hits me with that hard cold evidence like a slap from his hand stinging against my cheek. I feel him on my arms and his cold fingers strangling my neck. Then they go to dance along my ribs while I feel the heat of his tongue against my cheek gliding to my left ear. His voice tickles me as he whispers words I still can’t get out of my head. 

My body has never felt like my own. It has always felt like a belonging to someone like a rag doll to be played with. I’ve been picked up, undressed, exposed, and used for their enjoyment until they got bored and then I was thrown back down again. Broken. Which in that moment feels much worse so I try my best to wear the prettiest clothes and make up and be the shiny Barbie doll in the box. My smile never faltering in their presence and my body frozen until one of them wants me again. Please pick me and love me? Abuse me.

The worst part about being sexually assaulted is that I can’t seem to hate any of them. I hate myself for letting it happen and for giving into their threats. For allowing all of them to manipulate me and rip my mind and body apart so that I can’t put all the pieces back exactly where they were. I was too scared to leave because they all reinforced that I deserved it. They made me far too terrified to leave because what if they could find another Barbie who was better and kinder and didn’t deserve it when I clearly did and still do? I’d feel far more guilty if they moved to someone who didn’t deserve it.

There’s this saying, “The axe forgets but the tree remembers”. I feel this reflects the aftermath of rape. Because in reality the victim is destroyed almost to the root. Their ability for growth is paused. I feel I’ve regressed almost to childhood and I need time to grow again. Time to adjust and heal from the trauma of the axe. Yet the axe, although initially exhausted with small visible marks from the tree, is still whole. It can move on and it can destroy more trees almost instantly. Once a tree is cut the damage from more axes is felt so raw because the more times it is cut the closer the blade gets to the root. Once the root is damaged usually the tree dies. 

I feel close to this right now.

It’s not fair. But I know I can’t alter the past or change their actions. No amount of words or behaviours can or will destroy what they did. Maybe for now I need to feel detached and dissociated. Maybe I need to block this out. It’s easier. I feel that if I break down this wall I might reach the roots and find it’s too late and I can no longer grow. I can only take so many hits until I’m too far under the ground for anyone to see me. But then again I could just let the waves swirl around me and sink me into this unbearable depression. Under the ground where my shame and guilt can’t be seen by anyone else. Where it’s dirty and dark and the anxiety is choking me with soil filling my lungs. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Not even the people who did this to me. No one should have to experience a day like mine.

Suicide: The Reality.

No one ever really talks about the nitty gritty parts of a mental health illness. You see the glamourised photoshopped version all over the media. The touched up and glossed over stories which always have a miraculous ending. Their purpose is to provide hope to those suffering and maybe they do in a way help people to become motivated. But they don’t tell the whole truth and I suppose this article is my truth. Should I be nervous? Should I create an incredible story of strength through pain? No. Because when the pain is so extreme you can’t always be strong. Pain in theory makes you weaker, particularly in a physical sense.

I have spent many days sat on the floor with my back resting against my bed. Head in my hands. Listening to sad music and deciding whether to fight the tears or admit defeat and let them fall down my puffy cheeks. Dripping onto the floor. Slowly. The urge to chase down paracetamol and codeine with a bottle of red wine. The urge to cut into my disgusting skin. The need to punish myself. The need to just let it all go. To not be the strong one. To be weak and pitiful. But then after all this I still have to rise the next morning. I either find myself on the floor dribbling. Or I am hunched over the toilet bowl vomiting. The sting from the cuts is so painful it almost numbs the emotions that can increase rapidly. As the codeine and alcohol dissipate the feelings of guilt, shame, and loss strangle my stomach and force more emotions to escape. The reality is that in the moment all these behaviours worked a treat but that was in the moment. How long is a moment? As long as you continue the behaviours for. It can go on and on.

When I did this in the past it was nearly every night. I would walk my days away in this dissociated state to try and block the crushing feelings of abandonment and then by nighttime I couldn’t wear the mask. I couldn’t fool the person in the mirror because in my bedsit it was just me and my thoughts and feelings. All of which crowded the whole space making me feel smothered by everything. People can judge me for my behaviours and I hold my hands up that I have never coped well. But how could I? I was abused and then I did this stupid thing of reporting. Everyone said I was brave and strong. It ruined my life. I lost my whole family the day he was arrested. Like the click of a light switch. Like a candle catching the wind. Gone. And then I turned to medication which I didn’t need but I craved. And maybe choosing a cocktail of codeine and paracetamol mixed with alcohol wasn’t a great choice. But it made me feel a hell of a lot better than I did fully conscious. 

Some days I was particularly suicidal and it wasn’t glamorous or tragically beautiful. It was make up running down my face whilst frantically calling helplines as tablets lay in front of my feet. It was yelling at friends and storming out of therapy sessions because my psychologist didn’t ‘get’ it. It was swallowing copious amounts of tablets. Drinking bottles and bottles of wine. Slicing my body to shreds and pulling my hair out. It was screaming into pillows. Eventually it faded into numbness. I would walk in front of cars. I would accept requests for sex and then fight against them as they bruised my body. I would constantly change my mind. Then all at once I stopped eating. I gave up. I purged every drink I forced down except for the alcohol. I didn’t eat for 3 weeks. And this romantically beautiful suicide attempt didn’t end the way my mind wanted it to. It ended in a Mental Health Act assessment, handcuffs, forced NGs, tears, and loneliness. Psychiatric wards with abusive patients. It wasn’t how they tell it in those stories. There wasn’t a miracle moment. There wasn’t a day I wanted to live and most days I am tempted to go back to the drugs and the alcohol and the sex. The abuse. I don’t know what stops me but maybe I am waiting on that miracle moment. If it exists.