Turning Twenty-Five

"What’s My Age Again?" - Blink 182

My twenty-fifth Birthday was a huge deal for me.

When I was growing up, my Mother had always said that I would never make it twenty-one, so to be turning twenty-five felt like a pretty big achievement. A large portion of people with histories like mine, or with clinical depression, never make it as far as I have, so in some respects I was really proud. Society might see me as a bit of a nobody, but to have been "straight" for such a long time, and to have held down a job for almost six years, gives me more dignity than any degree I might have gained by attending university, should I have had the "normal" life that I planned whilst growing up. I’m proud of the accomplishments that I’ve made, even though they may appear to others as no real achievement at all.

But I still hate my Birthday. I have done ever since I’d grown up. Society expects certain things from me, like I should be progressing in my job, or I should be married, or have children, or live on my own. For the majority of the year, I’d say to these people, "I don’t want to be a manager; I don’t want the responsibility. I’m single out of choice (mostly). I’m not a massive fan of kids. And why live on my own, when living at home provides me with an extremely comfortable life-style that I may not otherwise be able to afford". But then, my Birthday rolls around, and I get another year older. Pessimists may say, one year closer to death. And I begin to feel like life has passed me by. Like I should be making something more of my life.

So how does one cope with this confusion of feelings, I hear you ask! Well, I book time off from work, and crawl under a rock to hide out until the terrible event has passed, at which point I usually return to my normal perky self. In the past, many of my well-meaning friends have tried to tempt me into celebrating, but hey, it’s not like I can go out and get drunk! So I completely ignore the day as much as humanly possible.

But this year was a little different. Emma was in charge! She was out of the country on my actual Birthday, so although I got some great Birthday messages all the way from the USA, she did miss my heated emotions, and eventual crying session, that I experienced on the day. But when she came back, I got spoilt rotten. 2011 saw us celebrating our first Birthdays since becoming true pals, together. You may have heard me mention my My Chemical Romance Danger Days necklace (a spider design with MCR written across it), and this has got to be my most worn accessory. I’d sleep in it, if I didn’t risk probable strangulation. It combines two of my most favourite things; My Chemical Romance and my best friend Emzy! I got a few other gifts from her too. We went to the cinema, once her jet-lag had worn off, which we always enjoy. And we had a shopping trip: Emzy has the most amazing fashion sense, and is really awesome at picking clothes for me. She made a real fuss of me, and I had a really memorable time, thanks to her. It made my Birthday feel like it was actually something to celebrate.

So maybe, when that fateful day rolls around next year, instead of running for cover, and hiding from the whole world, I’ll grab my glad-rags, slap a smile on my face, and say "Emzy, let’s go celebrate". Thanks Emzy. Love you lots, like jelly-tots.

Amy VS The Monster

"Give 'Em Hell, Kid" – My Chemical Romance

In return to my guest-post on my best friend, Emma's Blog (Teapot_Diabetic), she wrote a guest post for my Blog:

I first met Amy about 3 years ago when I first started at my current job. I was pretty quiet and apparently didn't like saying bye to her.. a lot of tumble-weed moments!. Amy was a few years older than me, a lot more confident and had an ever so slightly inappropriate/naughty sense of humour :)

Amy and I got to know each other a little more after I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes just a year later, as she was concerned for me and is very medically curious. Feeling alone and coming to terms with a condition that is 24/7 and a pretty big part of my life, I found it almost therapeutic to answer her questions knowing that I wasn't boring her silly.

It was at my twenty-first birthday party that I really got to know this funny, quick-witted and kind person who I'm incredibly proud and lucky to call my best friend.

Definition of Clinical Depression - Clinical Depression is caused when the brain does not produce or release anywhere near a "normal" amount of Serotonin, leading to severe anxiety, stress and mood swings. For example, most people enjoy chocolate. Chocolate has been scientifically proven to increase the production and release of serotonin in the brain, so therefore you feel really happy when you eat it.

Amy has always been very open and honest with me about her condition (slightly inappropriate humour included) and was always brilliant at answering questions whenever I got a little curious too. I didn't have a lot of knowledge on the subject before meeting Amy and had no idea how difficult and sometimes gruelling this condition can be, especially when undiagnosed.

After we became closer as friends, and a number of quite frank conversations I found out more about Amy's depression and what she went through as a teenager with alcohol, drugs and self-harm. I was pretty shocked and upset to think of my Amy feeling that hurt, angry and alone. I wish I could have been there for her as she has been there for me on so many occasions. I might not have been the biggest help but I'd have tried my damnest to comfort her and show her that she wasn't alone.

It was a few weeks later that Amy told me she wanted to start a blog about her experiences so she could help people in a similar situation, and to show that clinical depression isn't a 'made-up' condition, it's very real and affects people every day. I thought it was a great idea and, going by my own experience, would help her as much as the people reading it. I won't lie, when I read it I bawled my eyes out. Not the most useful thing to do and not what she needs but I couldn't help it. If I could take all the pain that Amy has suffered away, then I would do it in a nano second without hesitation.

Amy is the strongest and bravest person I've ever had the privilage to meet and that's why I love her to bits. Although she sometimes doubts herself and has the occasional wobble I'd like to think that she knows she can come to me with anything at anytime, good or bad and I'll be there in a shot.

I have my D's ass to kick and Amy has hers, hopefully we'll be doing it together as a joint effort as BFFs until we're old and grey.
Love you x

Diabetes From A BFF’s Point Of View

"Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down" - Fall Out Boy

A few weeks ago, my best friend (B.F.F.) Emma, asked me to write a guest Blog entry for her Blog, Teapot_Diabetic, and the below post is what i wrote.

Emma (my BFF) was diagnosed with diabetes just after her twentieth Birthday, approximately two years ago. She’s a type one diabetic, who treats with insulin injections. When I found out she had diabetes, I really didn’t know a lot about it. I knew what diabetes was, but that’s about as far as my knowledge went.

For those of you reading this who aren’t diabetes savvy, I’ll do a quick run through. Diabetes is caused when the organ in your body that creates insulin, the pancreas, doesn’t work correctly. Insulin is the chemical the body uses to control blood-sugar levels (the amount of sugar in your blood-flow), and without it, the body will push sugars level to a dangerous high, which can lead to a diabetic-coma. There are two main types of diabetes: Type 1 and Type 2. Type 1 diabetics have usually inherited the diabetes from somewhere in the family gene-pool. They tend to have to treat using insulin injections, but some cases may require a diabetic insulin pump, which is connected to the body around the clock, feeding you a constant stream of insulin.

Type 2 diabetics, usually develop diabetes through-out their life, and are normally diagnosed much later on it life. Some very lucky Type 2’s can treat with diet regulations, or oral medication, but some people will have to inject. The injections for both Type 1 and Type 2 diabetics, must be issued before/just after every meal, and for general corrections to the blood-sugar levels, which are monitored with a meter. The testing of the blood-sugar levels must be done periodically through-out the day, and then treatment provided when necessary.

I knew Emma when she was diagnosed; we had worked in the same department of our place of employment for a while. But we weren’t close at the time. However, Emma took my medical curiosity in her stride. I can be a little bit of a pain when it comes to things I don’t understand, and tend to ask several questions, until I do understand. I didn’t have much idea about diabetes, but Emma patiently, and thoroughly answered every question that I asked, and seemed to perceive that I meant no offence by this, and that I was just a little curious. Within these conversations, and due to some extra-curricular activities (outside of work fun), we began to grow close, to the point that I now joke and call her my BFF (Best Friend Forever).

Emma is amazing with her diabetes, and is a true inspiration. She’d probably say that she doesn’t think that she handles it well at all. But I beg to differ. From my reasoning, a diabetic has to walk a fine line of monitoring your sugar levels, whilst not letting it become an obsession. If it were me, I’d constantly be giving my finger the little pricks that it takes to test. But Emma seems to have got this balance just right. She has the odd little hiccup with the levels, but it (the diabetes) doesn’t stop her from doing anything. She has a very refreshing sense of humour about her diabetes (even sporting t-shirts with the slogan "Ducking Fiabetes"), and seems able to overcome any problem that D has to throw at her. Her strength in the face of Diabetes makes me proud to be her friend.

I know that her "adaption" period after her diagnosis was really hard. I sometimes wish that I had been her close friend before her diagnosis. I’m not sure if I would have been much comfort to her during this life-changing time, but I sure would have tried my hardest. However, she did have some amazing support. I can never thank the Diabetes UK Forum members, and fellow D-Bloggers and members of Circle-D for the support they have provided Emma. It’s a difficult time for newly diagnosed people, but the Forum gave her answers to questions that the NHS (with all it’s well-meaning) couldn’t, and gave her an ear of someone who knows exactly what she was going through. The support the Forum members offer is invaluable, and, as I’ve found out from the couple of diabetes meets that I have had the privilege to attend, they are amazing people, who all seem to have that same drive and strength to not let the diabetes beat them.

It’s not all plain sailing with diabetes (as you can probably imagine), and like most people in her position, sometimes Emma finds herself quite down in regards to her circumstances. Almost anything can affect your sugar levels, and as a non-diabetic, I sometimes take my pancreas for granted, but Emma doesn’t have that choice. Occasionally, after a particularly bad hypo (when her blood-sugar levels have dropped to well below what they should be, which can have some rough after-effects), or due to the finality of her diagnosis, she can seem troubled by her diabetes. It’s at times like this that I would pay the world for a cure; just to see her smile again. I love Emma, with or without diabetes, but for her sake and peace-of-mind, I wish it was something that she could escape from. She would say that she moans a lot, and is forever apologising to me about off-balance level readings, or for being down, and I say, I want to be a good friend to her and that I will always want to offer any support that I can, even if it’s just a little thing.

Although diabetes is a life-long circumstance, Emma has decided that she will be in control on diabetes; diabetes will never control her, and it’s this fighting spirit that makes me love her so much. Plus the fact that she’s the funniest person I’ve ever known. Diabetes making it’s presence known or not, Emma is the person I have the most fun with, and the person I admire more that anyone else. She’s a true friend, and I hope that she knows, as long as she the BFF (which will hopefully be man more years) we’re a team, and despite everything, we’ll kick D’s ass!

Part 24 - The End?

That’s pretty much brings you up to date, so I can actually start the real Blogging now. I’ve really enjoyed getting all this stuff out, and onto paper; I’d forgotten how much I enjoy to write. When I was at school, it was a favourite past-time of mine, me at one point hoping to make a career of it, and now I have returned. I hope that in the future, I’m able to show that although living with depression can be incredibly hard, it’s a lot easier than giving up. If you keep fighting, it never wins. I hope you all enjoy the future blogs.
My last word will be of advice to all depression sufferers out there: Keep smiling! It may be hard but it does get better.
Now to celebrate:
*Sighs
*Turns on I-Pod
Starts rocking out to "Planetary (Go!)" by My Chemical Romance (whom I have now seen live five times; the last of which was with Emma. Awesome!)

Part 23 - The Final Push

"Dressed To Kill" - New Found Glory

About three years ago, a young lady was transferred into our department. I had met her briefly before, but didn’t really know her well. However, she was a very friendly and bubbly person. Really easy to get along with. Her name is Lauryn*. Over the course of a few months whilst getting to know her, she revealed that’d she’d had a life-long struggle with depression. I didn’t really pry too much at first, but we just shared some similar experiences.

Months later, she began to open up (although she’s a very open and to the point girl), and let spill that the major course of her difficulties with depression had been due to extensive abuse (physical, mental, and sexual) at the hands of the man that she had called Dad. He wasn’t her real Dad but had acted as though he was since her early years. Her Mother had split from him, and Lauryn resided with her for many years, but at the age of twelve she returned to live with him. Between that age, and when she was sixteen years old, he frequently (almost daily) abused her in the form of beatings and bullying, followed by sexual abuse.

Had Lauryn not disclosed this information to me, I would never have know. She projected such a level of confidence and brightness, without any fear or bitterness, that I couldn’t comprehend the strength that this young woman had. She had formed a relationship with a gentleman, (all be it, a relationship where she was very slightly dominated), and even gone on to have a child. She’s an amazing Mother, and she has every right to be seriously proud of her daughter, who is now six years old. Looking back now, I can see some of the cracks that were there, but she recently underwent further counselling, and then later hypnotherapy. She is a true inspiration to me, constantly fighting to be the wonderful person, that she doesn’t even realise that she already is.

After a couple of years knowing Lauryn, I had confided in her about my own traumas. Particularly the rape. She was very supportive and comforting, and was one of the only people in my life, that truly understood all the mixed up feelings that I had in regards to this incident. And she surprised me, by saying, that (like I had with her), she would never have known that this had happened to me, had I not confided in her. As a rape victim, you often feel like everyone around you can see the flaws in your sytsem, and that you are wearing your status for the world to see. To me, it all seems so obvious; my behaviour patterns can often link directly back to my rape. I began to realise that I hadn’t fully achieved any sort of closure on this incident. Keeping it quite for so long, I had then continued once people knew with the belief that now people knew, it could be thrown away into the deep dark recesses of my conscious mind, and that it would never hurt me if I just ignored it.

I knew, through, many impromptu counselling sessions during cigarette breaks at work, that I had to resolve this issue in my own mind, and that I would only be able to do that through returning to counselling. So off I went to my GP, who kept trying to put me back onto medication, whilst I insisted that counselling would be all the action that was necessary. The wait for counselling was excruciating, so I did end up falling back onto anti-depressants (in amitriptiline form), and ever increasing my dose. I’ve got to admit, I’m still taking them now, but hell, I sleep so well. Finally my counselling began, and they had all my notes from my previous adolescent counselling. I didn’t even need to tell them what had happened. Which was lucky, because I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word. I think this was for three main reasons. Number 1: I knew that in re-attending counselling, I would have to endure an emotional breakdown. One that I was worried, I wouldn’t be able to control, and would therefore drive me back to my old ways. Number 2: Once you tell someone, it becomes real. I’d spent the majority of ten years running from this, and now I was going to have to face up to it. And Number 3: You can’t ever take it back once you’ve told someone, and with a lot of people, once you have, that’s all they will see. A rape victim.

My new counsellor (lovely lady) had complimented me many a time on my high-functioning abilities to cope with my disorder. She was pleasantly surprised that I had such a good relationship with my parents, and that I’d managed to hold down a relatively "normal" life for so long. But I knew I wasn’t normal, and part of the new counselling process was about me learning to accept that, and to be able to control my illness in a healthy and productive way. But first I had to get over the big hump.

After picking up on the fact that I frequently used code words such as "what happened", she asked why I wouldn’t say the words. I told her about my fear of having an emotional lapse back to what I was, but she stressed that I would be able to bring myself back from the edge, as I had done so many times. Having found the trigger she required, she then proceeded to commence dropping the word "rape" into the conversation wherever possible, and after about twenty minutes, I broke. I roared my heart out that day, and all my emotions concerning what had happened poured forth from me. And it felt so cleansing. I was finally honest about everything, and I wasn’t scared. I was proud. Proud at what I had endured and come through, and I knew I could finally finish my journey.

The next step was to confront my family. We had all tip-toed around the subject for so long, and in order to move past it, I needed to hear certain things from them. Things like my Dad telling me that he didn’t blame me, or that my Mother wished I’d have told her when it happened. And they also needed to hear from me that I would no longer let "him" win. My life had been geared so much by the rape for ten years, that he’d become this huge figure in my life. I realised that, when it came down to it, he just wasn’t that important. I was me, because of me. My parents love me, because I’m me. My friends care for me, because I’m me. And being a rape survivor figures very little into that equation.

I am finally more secure and confident than I ever have been, and through this last push of counselling, which ended approximately one month after my discussion with my parents, I can finally accept my depression for what it is; only a small part of me, and although it will be there every day, it’s who I am that people are going to most notice. And I feel petty okay about what they’re going to find.

Part 22 - Becoming Me

"J.A.R." - Green Day

So that was five and a half years ago, and between then and now I’ve gone from strength to strength. I’m not going to say it’s always been easy, or that I haven’t backtracked a few steps every now and then, but overall, I’m pretty satisfied with the end result. Depression still rears it’s ugly head every now and then, as you will see from future blogs, but I now manager my disorder better than I ever have done. I’ll try and fill you in on some of the details.

My relationship with my parents could not be better. My Mom is the person I spend most time with, and we get along great. It took her a long time to fully trust me again, but we’re there now, and have been for quite some time. She says that most of the time, I’m a pleasure to live with, and I find her friendship and support something I truly enjoy. I don’t have the communication difficulties that I used to have with them, and because of my openness, and mature ways, they value me as the adult I have now become.

My Dad still struggles from time to time, and their marriage still has it’s rocky moments, but I’m used to it now. My Mother often finds my past a comfort during these times, as I’m usually able to translate my Father to her in ways she can understand. I’ll always be the piggy in the middle between them, trying to make excuses for my Father, and they have both come to rely on me doing this. They will never have a perfect marriage, but they do love each other, and if them being happy, means that I occasionally have to assume the role of marriage counsellor, I am all too happy to do so.

Through everything that we have been through, we have become an extremely close family, and I am now mature enough to fill a proper role within this family, hopefully providing my parents with the support they may require at certain times, as well as it working the other way around. I love my family dearly, and would not be here without their love and forgiveness.

My relationship with my Grandparents has stabilised too in this time. My Nana was understandably angry at me for the way I treated my parents during my late teens, but she is now thankful that I have changed my ways, and can provide the companionship to my Mother that she often needs. My Nana was diagnosed with breast cancer about three years ago. Luckily she had an early diagnosis, which led to quick treatment, and her entering remission only a few months later. My Nana will always inspire me, as she is one of the strongest people I know (no way was cancer ever going to beat her), and I am glad my relationship with her has returned to a healthier level.

My Dad’s Mother was the first death I experienced in my life, and it occurred a short while before my Nana’s diagnosis. My Dad’s Mom’s deteriorating health led to my Father re-establishing his relationship with his family, and therefore, me establishing a relationship with them. I saw my Grandmother, for the first time in about 13 years, a mere two days before she died, and with it being my first family death, I took it hard. But, I got through it with only tears as my painful outlet, and it brought us all closer in the long run. My Dad’s Father, whom after 13 years had gone from a predatory male in many people’s minds, to a feeble seventy year old, passed away approximately a year after his wife. I did not attend the funeral, but grieved for my Dad’s loss privately. The man was still his Father no matter what had happened in the past, and I was sad for him.

My Dad’s reconnection with his sisters, through my Grandmother’s death, was a joy to him, and allowed him to enjoy these last few years that they had together, before (at the beginning of this year) his youngest sister (Aunty Number 3) committed suicide. She’d got the gene too, as both my other Aunties had, and after a marriage breakdown, refused psychiatric help, and hung herself after taking an overdose of the medication she had been prescribed to ease her depression symptoms. It was a huge loss for my Dad, and due to the circumstances, raised a lot of unanswered questions. She will always be missed, but her ghost has been put to rest now, and I for one, will always remember the Aunty that I got along with so well, who always struck me as the strongest of the four siblings, who constantly made me chuckle, but who I would have loved to have more time with.

I’ve risen through the ranks in my workplace too. After about a years’ service as an office-junior, I was promoted, and actually discovered that I was quite good at my job. I’ve formed relationships within, and outside of the department, and have seen many other employees come and go. In 2008, I took a side-step within the department, after a colleague’s change of job roles, and found a job I loved even more. Sometimes it’s stressful, as I have to work to close deadlines, and I get paid probably a hell of a lot less than if I was doing the same job in a company in London, but I think job satisfaction means a massive amount in this day and age, and to say that I don’t actually mind being there too much, is a big say. Plus it has afforded me benefits that were so far out of my reach before; I’ve been driving for four and a half years now, and love the freedom this ability (and my little blue (the first one was purple) car) provides me with.

I occasionally experience working difficulties with my senior manager (the woman that originally hired me), as she sometimes plays on my insecurities with her manipulative and controlling ways, but this has even improved in recent times. I am beginning to stand up for myself when appropriate, due to a new-found level of confidence, and last year, a new line manager was employed within the department, who became my "senior-manager-buffer". My old line manager, who became my manager when I’d side stepped, had a very hands off approach to team management, whereas my new boss (who we shall call Peter*) is completely different. He’s very different. He’s a complete loon. I’m either laughing hysterically at him, or getting so exasperated, that I want to thrown tic-tacs at him (which is something I have done on many occasions). He’s defiantly an "out-side of the box" person, but it’s just what the department needs (a little bit of light-heartedness), and although a lot of my day is now spent giggling at him drawing inappropriate things in a notepad as a way of stress relief, he probably gets more work out of me, now that it’s not so tense in the office.

My back went while I was at work about two and a half years ago. I don’t know what I did, but according to the doctor, it doesn’t take a lot for a back to go, and sitting at a computer is one of the worst professions for back issues. I had eight weeks off work, which sounds fun…..if you can actually walk. I spent the time dosed off my head on tramadol (kick-ass high-strength painkiller), and staring at a wall. It took me a month of part-time work to get my hours back up to their full-time level, and I still walk like an old granny sometimes now. My colleagues are all pretty helpful with this, and I’m often getting told off for trying to carry something which has the potential to cause some serious problems. I’m just a delicate little flower really! It was a partially problematic time for me mental-health wise, as the frustration of having an active brain but an out-of-service body, was intolerable, and so I’m still grateful to this day for not having to look at that same wall every day. It’s proved to me, that I will never return to my old skiving ways, as quite simply, I’d be bored to death.

So I mentioned earlier that I have gained a lot of friends through my new-found life, but I’ve also lost a couple. Not usually through any fault of my own; just a natural progression of circumstances. People I was really close too at the beginning of my employment, don’t figure too significantly in my life any more. I’ve also found that some of my friendships have distanced due to my changing personality. Five years ago, I had extremely low self-esteem, and barely any confidence to speak of, and I would often allow other peoples’ personalities to dominate my own. That doesn’t happen too much now, and although the large portion of my fiends are happy to see this change, others (who perhaps may have used me to bolster their own issues) were not as pleased. The change I have been through has enabled me to find the friends that are truly fond on me, and not for anything else that I can give them.

I did have returning issues with alcohol a while back. Although I never drunk as much (in time or quantity) as I had done before, I was frequently binge-drinking at the weekends, and my temper and moods were being affected. I once had a really awful argument with a friend that boiled down to the fact that I was drunk. Two and a half years ago, on New Year's Day of 2009 I stopped drinking. Completely. Well, I’ve had two drinks in the mean-time (one at Christmas in 2009, almost a year after I stopped, and one at my Aunty Number 3’s funeral). It was very difficult at first, and I found that for a long time, my social life was severely impaired, but after about a year, I discovered that it no longer bothered me to sit in a pub whilst other people are drinking, as long as the company’s of pretty high quality. I no longer crave a drink like I used to, but can get quickly bored in a pub, with dull people. Emma is never one of those people, and I always have a great time (and many chuckles) with her no matter where we are. She isn’t a big drinker herself due to the diabetes, so we both have the same opinion of pubs as an enjoyable activity.

Now that my drinking had ceased, so has my sexual activity. I no longer degrade myself by having endless one-night-stands, and am happy to have it this way. I am still single, and am currently not looking for a partner in any form. I’m happy on my own for a while, to enjoy just being me, before I start enjoying being part of a couple. Emma, again, is also single, so I don’t really ever feel left out. Besides, my romantic life is slightly more complicated.

Last year I took the plunge, and decided to tell my parents about my sexuality. I am still attracted to blokes, however, with my history, it seems unlikely that I will ever be able to truly enjoy a "normal" relationship with a guy, so I did finally talk to my parents about the possibility that in the future, it might not be a boyfriend that I brought home. I think their general consensus was "Surprise Surprise"! But having that out in the open makes me feel a lot more comfortable about any future romantic prospects.

In March of 2009, I became a Mom. Children? I hear you say. No. I don’t like them! However, that was the date that one of the most positive things that’s ever happened to me, happened. I adopted a dog. My Mom had never really liked dogs, but then we adopted an ex-racer greyhound (Dog Number 1) from a local rescue centre when I was sixteen years old, and she became a dog person, big time. She loved that dog; both of my parents did. My Dad had always wanted a dog so he was thrilled. And I love dogs too, so it was really special to have one of our own. Whilst I lived away, they adopted another rescue dog (Dog Number 2), and after many years of being plagued by me after I’d moved back home, they consented to having a third dog, who would primarily be my dog. This dog is my baby. I’ll call him Puppy for the sake of the blog, but he’s actually about five years old now. He too was a rescue dog, and a problem one at that. He’s the only dog that we’ve had to date, that wasn’t only neglected, but also abused. He had scars all over his mouth when he arrived with us, and was initially very insecure, and mostly badly behaved. However, we persevered, because he’s an amazing dog for the large majority of the time. The hard work had paid off though, and he’s now a very secure and happy doggy. One who gets spoilt rotten.

Unfortunately, about a year an a half ago, we lost the greyhound to cancer. It was a devastating blow for my parents, and I supported them in their grief as much as I could. He was a lovely dog whom it was very difficult to let go. But he lives on in the fact that we now are a fully committed dog family, and he’s still around…..in a box. We had him cremated, and although it’s a very discreet box, more than a few family members have been caught talking to it at times. I smile now thinking of what he was like, and what he has afforded me and my parents.

Soon after this loss, my parents decided to fill their grief with Dog Number 4 (also known as William). He’s a little terror; very demanding, and at times, purely odd, but my Mother worships him to the point of ridiculousness. Really, I mean, I thought I was bad because I let my dog sleep on my bed, but my Mother buys this dog it’s own ice-creams, and now drinks decaffeinated tea so that she can share it with her dog! Madness!

All four of the dogs we have had are from the same rescue home. All three of us are now involved with working with this charity (which is what the rescue centre is, although it is based out of a local boarding kennels, where they get discounted rates) in some form or another. My Mom does some of the charity fund-raising, such as collections and stalls. I’ll do a little bit of that, but more recently I have been following in my Father’s path of helping to behaviourally prepare some of the rescue dogs for re-homing. Quite a few of the dogs that come into the centre have been badly treated, and are therefore a little cautious, which may cause behaviour difficulties. After our experiences with Puppy, my family is a big advocate of the, no dog ever needs to be put down due to bad behaviour, and that they just need to be shown a new way of doing things, rule. Having someone nice coming to visit them a couple of times a week is often enough to make them re-assess their beliefs of what an owner can be for them. I always try to let the dogs see that people can actually be really nice, especially when they have hotdogs all the time. It’s really rewarding to see these dogs progress, and a bond develop with them, and then seeing them leave to go into a good home. It was all my Puppy needed, so if I can help do the same with other dogs, it’s worth being bitten a few times. Although, I have to say that, I keep getting given the biting dogs to work with, but I have never yet been bitten. My parents, and the amazing woman that runs the rescue charity seem to think I have some magical power that mean a biting dog won’t bite me. I’ve always been jealous of people who had something in their lives that they are really good at, like music, or drawing, or singing. I appears to be good…..at dogs. Not a bad skill really.

So that’s a lot of the last five years in a nut-shell. I did miss something out. My final push.

Part 21 - Getting Grounded

"Our Lawyer Made Us Change The Name Of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" - Fall Out Boy

After a couple of weeks on the new medication, everything started to feel different. I suddenly felt more positive, and motivated to changing my life. I wanted to turn things around. I was sleeping better, which significantly improved my moods. And this was all largely due to a change of medication. I’d struggled with insomnia, and slept in short bursts of time (usually for no longer than four hours straight) for so long, that it just became normal, and I’d forgotten what sleeping properly felt like.

My parents noticed a startling change; I was more considerate towards them, and happier to help them around the house. I was talking more, being less withdrawn, and my moods were becoming infrequent. They encouraged this change and were always the first people to praise me, which went along way towards keeping me going. I had but, by this point, severed contact with a lot of my previous friends. Those I met at college, and my previous housemates. I was breaking a chain of bad behaviour, and those friends would not have encouraged this, and in some cases probably have done the exact opposite. I knew that to rectify my path in life I would have to start from scratch again, and build my way up. It was hard to do; I still miss some of my old friends, but I have re-connected with some of them, whilst expressing that I have now changed my lifestyle. Although those friendships will never figure significantly in my life again, I can still remember people who I had once cared about. But at that time, I needed positive influences in my life. I would never escape who I was if I had constant reminders.

By July of 2005, I had been back home for almost a month, and my Mother came to wake me up that morning (something which I hasten to say, she would never have even contemplated months before lest she feel the wrath of a really pissed off Amy), and full of enthusiasm for my ever progressing change of lifestyle, said "today is a brand new day, and the first day of the rest of you life. It all gets better from here". And she was right. It really was the first day of the rest of my life. My parents were more than willing to write off all the hurt I had caused over the previous years, if I just proved to them that I deserved it. No-one said that this revelation would be easy, and indeed, it wasn’t. But it was a good start.

I began applying for jobs here there and everywhere. As long as I could be seen to be trying to get a job, my parents were happy to financially support me for the time being. I got a few low key cleaning jobs for a couple of hours a day, which tide me over to start. But I really wanted a full-time job, and would only stop job seeking when that happened. The town where I live has very few employment prospects, as it’s a pretty small town, but there are a few companies that have an ace reputation for work. I wanted to work in an office of some kind, that much I knew, but with very little qualifications, I knew I’d be pushing my luck by expecting a dream job to land in my lap. However, you don’t ask, you don’t get. I continually applied for any job going in one of the more reputable companies in the town, for jobs way out of my league, just to get my CV in the door. It paid off.

I got a call one afternoon, early in August, to say that the position I had applied for within the company was a little out of my remit (something I knew all too well), but that there was an office-junior position available that I may interested in. Ker-ching! Exactly what I was looking for. Me and my Mom went to town on preparing for the interview. My ROA (Record Of Achievement) was fully updated, and my Mom bought me new clothes so that I would look really smart. The day of the interview, I have never felt so sick in my life (including after the paracetemol binge!), but I pretty much aced it. I felt I’d gotten along really well with my interviewers, and they didn’t even think to ask about the huge gap of many years in my CV, so that crisis was averted. I got a call later that week, requesting a second interview. Ker-ching! I was beginning to believe that I could actually pull this off. I just needed someone to give me a chance.

Second interview nerves were even worse than the first, but my parents kept telling me that it was a hugely positive thing, being called back. Five days later, the young lady who interviewed me, called me as I was on my way to meet my Mom from work, and offered me the position. My exact words were "Really? That’s awesome. You just made my life-time!". My now senior manger giggled at that one. I now know that qualifications had played a vital role in securing me the job. I had come across as bright and articulate during the interview, and the choice had boiled down to me, and one other young lady about my age. The other candidate (whom I never met), had a university degree, and would obviously not be happy with an office junior role for too long. She’d played the same tact as me, and probably figured that once she was in the company, it would be pretty easy to rise through the ranks. She wouldn’t stay long, and my new boss knew this. They knew that I’d be there for the long haul. It was a slight gamble, but I would hope that I have showed her over the years that she made the right choice by giving me that chance.

So I had a full-time job, in a good company, with sick-pay, holiday-pay, bonus opportunities, and one where I could develop my skills. I was pretty computer savvy so that was put to good use, although I sometimes miss the old way of pen and paper, being the old-school gal that I am. I loved where I worked from the first day, and although I sometime want to pull my hair out, I wouldn’t change it for the world. And it opened up so many opportunities to me. I immediately stared driving lessons, and celebrated my first pay check by buying tickets to see My Chemical Romance live for the first time. Within a matter of months, I had reduced, and then stopped, my medication, and it seemed everything had finally fallen into place for me.

Part 20 - Medication

"Stuck With Me" - Green Day

The following extract is taken from http://www.enotes.com/gale-psychology-encyclopedia/ ; an on-line encyclopaedia of psychological terms and illnesses:

The two most common types of antidepressants are tricyclic antidepressants (TCAs) and selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors (SSRIs). Examples of TCAs include nortriptyline (also known by the brand name Pamelor), imipramine (Tofranil), and desipramine (Norpramin). Examples of SSRIs include fluoxetine (Prozac), sertraline (Zoloft), and paroxetine (Paxil). Clinical studies have shown that some people benefit from these medications.

 Essentially, if I understand correctly, after much research, TCA anti-depressants work by increasing the brain’s production of serotonin, whereas SSRI anti-depressants work by inhibiting the brain’s natural ability to breakdown serotonin.

I can only speak from my own experience, and know that what medication may work for one depression patient, may not work for another. But below is a list of medications that I have been prescribed during my time with depression, and a little bit about each one, and the experiences that I’ve had with it.

1. Prozac (Fluoxetine) - SSRI - The first anti-depressant I was prescribed, when I was first diagnosed. The adaption period for this drug is quite long; it can be anything up to a month before the drug is freely working in you system, and in the meantime the symptoms of the depression can slightly increase, along with extreme restlessness and anxiety. I found this drug pretty useless overall, as it didn’t seem to stabilise my mood at all, but it is however, the main anti-depressant prescribed due to it’s extremely low risk of addiction.

2. Citalopram - SSRI- The effects of this drug usually kicks in within a week, and there is relatively low risk of addiction. However, I found myself feeling slightly numb to depression whilst using this medication. It seems to take away the brain’s ability to register positive emotions as well as bad ones that may be symptoms of depression.

3. Diazepam - Anti-Anxiety drug - Most people will only be taking this drug for a matter of weeks. It’s highly addictive, and when I was taking this, I can’t really remember a lot. I had no lucidity with this drug, and it caused me extreme disorientation, and general "grogginess".

4. The New One - Amitriptiline - TCA - The only anti-depressant drug that I have ever had to take at night. It’s the only TCA anti-depressant that I have used, and helps to diminish insomnia in depression sufferers. It usually takes about a fortnight to kick in, with a small period of increased "happiness" (sometimes a bit annoying levels of it), before settling into stable mood levels. It has a higher risk of addiction than most other drugs of it’s kind, so withdrawal needs to be medically guided. It also has some rather unusual side effects, such as dry-mouth, weight gain (along this may be due to the drug relieving the low appetite symptom of depression), and, my favourite, heat flushes when most active (when the user is most under stress). This little add-on means I run about 5 degrees hotter than most people, and my ears go burning hot and bright red whenever I’m put under pressure. They’re doing it now! On a more serious note, to the person that invented/discovered this medication: Cheers.

Part 19 - Final Attempt

"Hurt" - Johnny Cash

During one weekend whilst my parents were away, and had therefore let me stay at home for the weekend, I had a friend from school come round for company. We’d known each other for many years and had remaining close through-out my turbulent youth. I had drunk quite a lot that night, and, in the early hours of the morning, after many tears had been shed, I asked him to go home, as I "needed some time to myself". I think he knew what was going to happen, and what I planned to do, but left the house anyway.

By the time the paramedics had arrived, I had smashed up some furniture in my parents living room, including a massive mirror they had on the wall (one that has now been replaced at my own cost), cut the majority of my hair off in a rage, and gashed my wrist pretty bad. It didn’t need stitches, and would hold together relatively well with some "celery strips" (very thin, strip like bandages, meant for hold together skin in the same way as stitching), and a decent bandage. This had been my last stand. I was just too tired to keep trying anymore.

My friend cleaned me up somewhat, and then took me home to his house, so I could grab a couple of hours sleep. We came back later on in the day, once I had sobered up, and hidden my brand-new hair cut up a rather stylish baseball cap, to clean up the mess that had been made. I think in my drunken stupor that night, I’d managed to smear blood on almost every available surface at my parents house. I know that I never would have got through that night without my friend’s call for an ambulance. Sadly, we are no longer in touch at this point, which is something I deeply regret.

After the house was tidy to a partially high standard, I waited for the arrival home of my parents. It was crunch time. I had to beg for forgiveness, and ask, again, to come home. I needed stability in my life, and would only get that from them. They had emotionally washed their hands of me many months before, but I needed to be frank and open, and let them help me. But I would have to work incredibly hard to get their trust back. I can never thank my parents enough for everything they had done for me, after all I had put them through, and had it not been for them conceding to give me one last chance, I’m not sure I’d even be here to tell my story.

As with the last time I had returned home, there were stringent rules to stick to:
1. Absolutely no drugs. I had all but given drugs up by this time, but I think they just wanted to stress the point, that this would not be tolerated under any circumstances.
2. Significant decrease in alcohol consumption. I would only be allowed to drink at weekends, at appropriate situations, and was to not even drink, let alone get hammered, during the week.
3. Get a job. Education was just too easy for me to abuse, and to stop attending, so I was to move into the world of full time employment. And should I loose a job through some fault of my own, I’d be out on my ear.
4. Go back on medication. At least until a time that my parents could trust that I no longer needed it.
5. NO CUTTING.

As with before, it was slightly difficult to stick to some of these rules, but I pretty much just kept focusing on the fact that I needed somewhere to live, and that kept me on the right track. The medication, of course helped, probably the most out of all the above.

I’ve mentioned before how my sleep was a major issue for me through-out any time of emotional upheaval, so when I went back to my doctors and asked for medication again, rather than re-prescribing the pills that I had tried before, I was put on something new. I’ve been on four different anti-depressants/anti-anxiety drugs in my life, but there are hundreds more different types available; all with different effects.

Part 18 - Backwards Again

"Goin’ Down" - The Pretty Reckless

We (my parents and myself) always spend Christmas with my Grandparents and my Mom’s younger Brother (Uncle Number 2; her older Brother (Uncle Number 1) emigrated to Australia when I was approximately eleven years old). That year the three of them were travelling down to us, and would be staying until after the New Year. On Boxing Day we decided to have a gathering (okay, yes, it was a party) with the family, a few of my parents friends, and a few of mine. The alcohol was flowing, and it wasn’t long before everyone was pretty drunk. And then my Dad snapped.

Something set him off, but in our intoxicated states, no-one can recall what it was. And he just blew up. He went totally mad, and kicked everyone out of the house, including me and my Mother, and my Grandparents. He wouldn’t even let me Mom back into the house. We walked to the house of my parents close friends, who had also been among the number of people my Dad had thrown out, and crashed there. I slept, somewhat fitfully, and probably only mainly due to the drink, and everyone else stayed up all night. My Mother believed her marriage was over. No way would she be able to trust him again, although we all knew that once he had sobered up, he’d feel a complete moron, and would apologise to everyone involved. But after having such a turbulent marriage for so long, this was the last straw for my Mom.

I went back to the house the next day, mainly to collect my Grandparents bags; they were going home early. My Mom was so embarrassed about my Dad’s behaviour, and although my Nana’s support may have been useful at this time, my Mom wanted to sort the mess out with as little intervention as possibly. I returned home, and so did my Mom later that day. The house was a mess, and my Father had punched two holes in the kitchen wall, leaving his hand extremely swollen and a bit bashed up. Better than to have hit me or my Mother, which was what everyone believed was going to happen that night; we had to be defended by my Dad’s best friend, who luckily is about twice the size of my Dad.

I left my parents to discuss their marriage that evening, and it was decided that my Dad would leave the house and live in the caravan (which, when it’s not actually being used for caravanning, resides on our drive, and often ends up being used as an extra bedroom) until my Mother had made some firm plans concerning her marriage. She didn’t know what she really wanted at that time, but she did need time to think on it, without my Father around, forever apologising and trying to influence her decision.

All this turmoil sent me straight back to drugs, and cutting. My parents didn’t notice this sudden regression, as they had enough of their own issues to deal with. The drugs got to a ridiculous level at this point though. I was smoking on the way to college, skipping classes to smoke, and then coming home and self-harming before crashing out in my room again. I was letting the depression get hold again. This time I was just resigned to it. After everything that I had gone through, and all the hurt I had caused, before "The Boxing Day Thing", my life had started becoming more stabile. I was actually starting to feel like things really could get better. But, as people say, the higher you are, the harder you fall. I now knew that things never really would get better.

After many weeks, my Mom took my Dad back, under the conditions that he quit drinking, go to the doctors, get some medication, and go into counselling for his temper issues. He did quit drinking, immediately, and my Mother went with him to the doctors. He was diagnosed with depression, only two years after me. He started taking medication, and entered counselling, and while all this was going on, our relationship became more and more fractured. My parents had finally noticed that I was back on drugs, and did attempt to help me to stop, which I did. But then I just replaced one emotional crutch with another. I started drinking heavily. Very heavily. I would turn up to the first class of the day at college, then make my way over to the nearby pub to see it open at 11 o’clock, and would spend the rest of the day getting drunk, with absolutely no intention of returning to any of my afternoon classes.

It wasn’t long before, this, mixed with the cutting, disintegrated my new-found better relationship with my parents. I felt that they wanted me out of the house again, and to be honest, I think at that time they did; and quite understandably. They needed time to sort their marriage out, and I was just making everything worse for them.

I spent the next two months without a permanent address. My parents were kind enough to let me stay at their house when they would be away for the weekend (usually caravanning), but the rest of the time, I went from friend to friend, staying in spares rooms, or sleeping on peoples’ floors or couches. I dropped out of college at this time. I’d been skipping classes for months, so no way was I going to pass any exams, and even if I did take them, I’d probably only turn up drunk anyway. My education was really low on my list of priorities now that I didn’t really have anywhere to live.

I lashed out a lot during this time, and probably said some awful things to people that were trying to look after me, but everything was boiling over in my life. My life was spinning out of control again. My self-harming was increasing in intensity again, and I was loosing friends left right and centre. I felt like the loneliest person since the Big Bang.

Part 17 - A Step In The Right Direction

"Ryan’s Basement" - Hot Like (A) Robot

I applied for college almost immediately. I’d left school half-way through my A-Levels, and decided to re-do them, in different subjects. My parents were thrilled at my decision, as they had always wanted me to go to university and get a degree. My parents both grew up in working-class families, and, as they would say, neither had the brains, money, or opportunities to go to university. But I did have the brains, so they had been very disappointed when I threw my education away, when I seemed to have no prospects for a future. Qualifications mean a lot to my parents, so I wanted to go and get me some.

I’d stopped using drugs by this time, and was cutting back on my drinking, to only having the odd one at a weekend. I was taking college seriously, and turning up to classes drunk was not part of the plan. I had also stopped cutting. It was really hard to stop, but I was spending more and more time at my parents house, and felt increasingly more settled, so felt the urge a lot less.

I started applying for part-time (after college hours) jobs in the town where I used to live with my parents. It wasn’t long before I was being offered an interview at a local supermarket, which was just around the corner from my Mom and Dad’s house. I was successful and was offered the job. That weekend, eighteen months after leaving home, I left my new house, and house-mates, and returned to live with my parents. I felt like everything was back on track. They were pleased with my progress, and things really seemed to be turning around.

I continued at college, and although a lot of the students were a few years younger than me, I was making friends. Friends that didn’t use drugs or sleep around. This was the time in my life that I rediscovered music. I’d loved music growing up, and although my tastes changed with my growing personality, I still valued my CD collection above most of my other possessions. My music choices drove my parents crazy. Green Day and Nirvana are not bands meant to be played quietly! I had dropped a lot of music whilst living away, as I feel this was a pretty bad time in the world of the music I like; nothing really new jumping out at me. I also often found a lot of music very painful, having endured all the sadness that I had in my life. I was unaware, but waiting for a band that I could relate to, that spoke of the true issues facing most young adults these days, but doing it with a smile on their faces. I heard "I’m Not Okay (I Promise)", when a college friend of mine told me about a concert they were going to. They were seeing Taking Back Sunday (awesome band), in a dingy little club in the middle of Leeds, and a relatively new band, was supporting them.

One song and I was hooked. My Chemical Romance gave me the role model I needed in Gerard Way. If you don’t know who he is, buy a clue, and a decent record. He’s the singer in the band. A singer that leads a small rabble of misfits, who has had long term problems with depression, self-harm, alcohol, drugs, and had considered suicide and had to be "talked down" at least twice. Here was a band that I could definitely relate to, and one that I instantly loved. They sang of self-harm, suicide, and death, while at the same time, voicing their experiences with the darker issues in life, and encouraging the seeking of help in these circumstances. My Chemical Romance, although most people wouldn’t think it, are mortally against suicide and self-harm. They had struggled, but had survived, and if they could do it, so could I. I’m not sure my parents have every really understood my fascination with this band, but with My Chemical Romance, you don’t just hate them or like them; you love them. We is some hard-core fans.

So I might have been annoying my parents by blasting songs about Gerard Way’s dead Grandma, but I was home, and seemingly happy again. They felt like they had their daughter back. But I couldn’t keep the façade up for long, and neither could my Dad.

Part 16 - Finally Coming Clean

"I’m A Fake" - The Used

When we got back to the house, my parents went straight into the reception office with Louise, to tell her what had happened, while I unpacked my things. My housemates were naturally curious as to the situation, but could see that I needed space at that moment. After what seemed like hours, Louise called me down to the office, sat me down in front of my parents, and told me, to tell them.

I had mentioned the rape briefly to Louise, while I was settling into the house, and although I brushed off any concerns she expressed, she was wise enough to understand that this event in my life was having huge ramifications on my behaviour. I only ever mentioned the incident as a passing comment, and had never really achieved closure on the rape, or really worked through my feelings about it. Ignoring it was just not working anymore. And Louise knew that this was probably a major contributing factor to my low sense of self-worth, and therefore, suicidal thoughts. I was vocal about the thoughts, probably too much of the time, but not about the cause.

Four years after the event, I finally told my parents. They were shocked, angry at the fact I had never told them, angry with the lad concerned (although they didn’t know him),and devastated. My Mom, being a woman, coped slightly better with the knowledge, and suddenly I knew that she understood the pain I had felt, and be dealing with, on my own, for years. The best thing I ever did was to tell her, and from there we had something to work on, and somewhere to go. There was an explanation for my behaviour, and that, she could handle. She still doesn’t always understand the depression, or the reasoning behind it, but having some knowledge gave her a foundation for a continuing relationship with me.

However, at the same time, one of the worst things I ever did, was tell my Father. Every irrational emotion I had experienced at the hands of this event, he seemed to feel too. I know now that he was in despair that he hadn’t been able to protect me during this time, and that I had struggled with this very adult situation on my own. He blamed himself, and this came out in the form of anger. It took me a long time to realise that he wasn’t angry with me, but at the time I had no sensible guide to lead me through this process, so I couldn’t come to terms with his anger.

That day, during this frank and open discussion, my parents agreed a few targets for me. If I achieved these aims, I would be able to return home, away from the bad influences that had drawn me further down into my depression. I was to re-start my further education, get a part time job, get clean, and stop self-harming. For the next few months, I did everything in my power to meet those demands. But happiness will still just out of my reach.

Part 15 - Samaritans

"The Pros and Cons Of Breathing" - Fall Out Boy

Contact details for Samaritans:
Telephone: UK: 08457 90 90 90
ROI: 1850 60 90 90
E-Mail: jo@samaritans.org
Website: http://www.samaritans.org/
Postal Address: Chris,
P.O. Box 9090
Stirling,
FK8 2SA

My parents had invited me to go visit my Grandparents with them. It was the first time I had visited my Nan and Grandad since leaving home, and my Mom and Dad were keen for it to go well. I made my promises to leave the drugs at home, and to wear long sleeved jumpers all weekend, even though it was the middle of summer. And we were all set.

My Grandparents live approximately two hours drive away, and they had a busy weekend planned. On the Saturday night, we out for dinner at a local pub. It was a nice meal, and the alcohol was flowing. I got so drunk, I don’t even think I could see straight. And soon an argument arose. I can’t even remember now how it started, I just know that it was a huge one, and me and my Dad came to blows, big style, with the whole of my family looking on. I walked out of the pub, and back to my Grandparents house, a short distance away.

It felt like my world had broken down around me; although it’s obvious now that this was largely due to the effects of the drink. I was devastated, and had no idea how to repair the situation I had got myself into. And the longer I sat in that house alone, the more I felt like my only option was suicide.

I went round the whole house, through every drawer and cabinet, until I had collected all the aspirin, paracetemol, and ibuprofen, that was in the house. I found a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge, and I thought that would do the trick. I took the pills by the handful, and then decided that I really needed to talk to someone; to tell someone why I wanted to die so much.

This is what Samaritans says on their website (address above):
Samaritans provides completely confidential emotional support 24 hours a day by telephone, personal visit, email, and letter, through its branch network – support that includes outreach activity at festivals and outside our centres in prisons, hospitals, schools, the workplace and with homeless people. Our purpose is to: enable persons who are experiencing feelings of distress or despair, including those who may be at risk of suicide, to receive confidential emotional support at any time of the day or night from appropriately trained Samaritans in order to improve their emotional health and to reduce the incidence of suicide; and promote a better understanding in society of suicide, suicidal behaviour and the value of expressing feelings which may otherwise lead to suicide or impaired emotional health. Volunteers offer support by responding to phone calls, emails and letters. Alternatively people can drop in to a branch to have a face to face meeting.
The service is offered by 17,000 trained volunteers and is entirely dependent on voluntary support. There are 201 branches of Samaritans in the UK and Republic of Ireland.

I am a huge advocate of Samaritans to this day, mainly due to how they helped me that night. If you feel like you can’t talk to your parents (or other family members), friends, any "responsible adults" in your life, or even your GP, about emotional difficulties you may be facing, Samaritans is there to fill that gap. The support they provide is so widespread, and I think that almost everyone that has ever suffered with depression has at some point, wanted to, or contacted Samaritans, since it’s birth in 1953. If it wasn’t for them, I believe the national suicide statistics would be massively more scary than they currently are.

I picked up the phone that night, and talked for a long time to a Samaritans volunteer, and with her immense training, she managed to not only stop me from taking more pills, which I had continued to do for the first half of the conversation, but to also, put down the phone to them, and call an ambulance. It was lucky I did; when the paramedics arrived they counted how many blister packs I had on the table in front of me, and worked out that I have taken approximately 100 pills. I was falling in and out of consciousness by the time they got there, and I was rushed to hospital, where I was forced to drink charcoal. This induces vomiting, rather than having to have your stomach pumped (which I’ve heard is excruciatingly painful).

I had to have a lot of blood tests that night, as due to the quantity of pills I had taken, there was a risk that my kidneys would shut down, if enough of the drugs had got into my system. However, after a few hours sleep, I didn’t want to stick around for the results, more humiliated at what I’d done than anything else. I did a bunk, and caught a taxi back to my Grandparents at about three in the morning.

My Mom said nothing as she put me to bed, and I was woken up at about six in the morning. They were taking me back to where I lived. And we needed to talk.

Part 14 - Off The Rails

"Prescription" - Mindless Self Indulgence

I had struggled with my insomnia since I was thirteen years old. It’s always the first thing that’s affected when I’m particularly down, or going through a rough patch, depression wise. The day I split up with my boyfriend, I knew there was zero chance of me getting to sleep that night. So when, as the evening wore on, Phillip was outside smoking a joint, I went out to smoke a cigarette (the house was a strictly no-smoking zone, unless we knew we could get away with it), and, I asked him to share. That’s how I came to smoke cannabis for the first time. I did sleep that night, thanks to a joint or two, and found myself wanting to do it every night thereafter. At first it had been a genuine need to sleep, something that I now know can be induced by legal prescription drugs, but I had stopped taking Prozac, and other forms of medication, a while before. But then, the drugs became a habit. It became more and more regular, and my parents did pick up on it.

I was still drinking heavily, and this, mixed with the drugs, made for a volatile mix. I was more popular round the house, but my cutting had continued and was increasing in severity. Many times, I would be coming home to my parents at the weekends with cuts all down my arms (and even some on my legs and stomach), with a bag of weed in tow. My parents pretty much decided that the easiest option was to turn a blind eye to all the negative behaviour, and just encourage the good.

I started sleeping about at this time as well, starting of course with Phillip. I never stuck to one guy for very long, but had started down the road of sexual experimentation. I’d been vaguely aware that I was bi-sexual since I was around fourteen, but there were other gay women living at the house, and it wasn’t too long before, in a drink and drug induced haze, I started playing the field with girls too. This, my parents were not to know!

My counsellor, decided that, as I was due to turn eighteen really soon, that I should go into adult (rather than adolescent) counselling, and due to my drug issues, referred me to a psychiatrist, to hopefully get me back on some form of medication. That was the point I left counselling. I just stopped going. The NHS had made a big mistake, without actually being aware of it. They’d referred me to a male psychiatrist. Big problem there. Guys in my circle of friends, or who I shared a house with, I could handle, but grown men terrified me. One of the huge side effects of the rape. The rape that was still largely unknown or talked about. So I decided that I could take of my illness all by myself.

The moods in the house could often be very unstable. That many mixed up kids, in a confined space! Louise was naïve to think we’d all just behave ourselves. There’s be shouting matches, fights, suicide attempts (not from me), thrown objects, and a hell of a lot of drama.

When I’d told my parents that I was smoking cannabis to help with my moods, they had laid out a grave warning: that soon it would progress; it always does with drugs. The drugs did accelerate. I was soon trying ecstasy, magic mushrooms, stronger strains of cannabis, and eventually, a little bit of cocaine, although I often couldn’t afford it too much. I tended to just dabble with the other drugs, as my drug of choice was always cannabis, due to the price, availability, and the effect. I didn’t want to dance till the sun came up, or get really mellow; I wanted to have the giggles, and find everything funny for a little while, which is mainly how cannabis affects me. Except of course, for giving me the major munchies.

I went through my eighteenth Birthday whilst all this was going on, and it was not the life milestone that people make it out to be. I was so stuck in this hellish rut, that although I did celebrate with my housemates and friends, and then later with my parents, it seemed to just pass me by. Nothing changed. It didn’t suddenly get better now that I was an adult. Everything still hurt as much as it had before, and I still felt like there was no way out. Except the obvious.

So, now that I was out of education, with no job, or any prospects, that’s how I spent my time. Drinking, getting high, fighting, arguing with my parents and Louise as they tried to keep me on track, sleeping about, and basically pissing off every one around me. I thought I was having the time of my life. I never took anything seriously, never thought about my future and how my current activities would affect it, and never really cared who I was hurting. I became an emotionally hard young lady at this time; probably as a result of some of the people I had to mix with (including hard-core drug dealers, and users) in my new exciting life.

But there was always one person that would know exactly how to hurt me. And that’s when I hit rock bottom.

Part 13 - Out On My Own

"House Of Cards" - Madina Lake

It was, what you’d call, sheltered housing for young people. At seventeen years old, there isn’t a lot of options for someone who has no money, and doesn’t want to live with their parents. So, the citizens advice bureau told my teachers about this house in a town near by my home town, where young people in this position, could share a large house, a bit like a dorm. There were eight rooms, and we came and went as we pleased. But there was a house manager on site, to cook for us, and try to maintain some organisation, and not let the place go to total chaos. You could live there if you were aged between sixteen and twenty-four, and when I got there, those was only three other people living in the place (not counting the house manager, Louise*), and it had been that way for a while, so it was pretty quiet.

There was me, two other girls, and a young lad, who didn’t actually spend much time in the house. We would eat a meal together once a day, at a dinning table (something I had rarely done by this point), and after a while, we all started to bond, and it almost felt like a family of sorts, with Louise being the over-bearing Mother, shouting at us that we weren’t to say the C word at the dinner table.

I continued going to school, and stuck at it this time (surely a good use of my fairly high intelligence), although I now had to go by bus everyday, back to my home town. I occasionally saw my Mom, and once me and my Dad had reconciled, I even went to stay at their house at weekends. They have moved during this time, but only to the other side of town, and to a much smaller house, now there was only to two of them, and our first family dog (Dog Number 1).

Whilst settling into the house, I was still in firm touch with my ex-boyfriend who had by this time departed our home town for a career in the Army. Our changing circumstances began to dawn on us, and we looked for comfort and security in each other. After approximately eight months as great friends, but only that, we re-instigated our relationship, and although it was a long distance relationship, it was the main thing that kept me grounded. His major rule during this time, and something he would check on when he was home, was that I was to stop cutting, and should I resume, the relationship would be instantly over. Emotional blackmail, yes, but it did work for a while.

The stability wasn’t to remain, and soon new kids started moving into the house. My new family, was made up largely, of people with little education, and terribly starts in life. Some had been in and out of care institutions most of their lives, and had turned to alcohol and drugs to help them overcome the difficulties they faced in life. I grew close to one of the boys that had arrived about three months after me, at the house, and we took to drinking in the local clubs and pubs for a vast amount of our time.

I decided that this was probably the right time to finally leave school, although I did originally believe that I would continue my schooling after a few months break. I was going through a time of such enormous upheaval, that the last thing it felt right to be doing, was heading into school every day. Especially when my housemates cared nothing for education, and were at home having fun all day.

Louise tried to discourage me. She was an educated girl herself, with a university degree. She had however found her religious calling, and now earned a living by caring for a rabble of dysfunctional young adults. She was deeply religious, and this was the reason she took a certain path in life, but she never forced religion on any of us, and I cared deeply for her. She often said that she liked having someone around the house, with my background (one that was petty secure compared to a lot of the others living in the house), as I mostly served as the go-between between her, and my other housemates. I related the rules in a language, much more understood by them, than Louise ever could.

My drinking was steadily getting worse, and I would often spend my evening either hung-over from the night before, or out drinking with Phillip, the fellow I mentioned earlier. One night, whilst extremely drunk, we kissed, and although I found comfort in his friendship, I was devastated that I had crossed that line. My relationship with my boyfriend was the thing I lived for, but with only a rare and short visit to look forward to, I was lonely, and ready to be single, and live my youth. Play the field if you will. I didn’t take this view when drunk though. I rushed out of the club, went back to the house, and trashed my room. I mean mirrors, glass, light bulbs, and even my beloved guitar. I also cut for the first time in months.

Louise, having keys to all the rooms in the house (for emergencies), let herself into my room, and held me, as I roared my eyes out, until I finally passed out. God bless that woman. She was always there for any of us when we needed help, and I will never be able to thank her enough for everything she did for us all.

The next day, I knew that everything had changed. I would have to confess to my boyfriend. I knew the relationship would be over (the proof was right down my arms), but for me, my wild years were only just beginning.

Part 12 - I’m Off

"Gotta Get Away" - The Offspring

By this time, my relationship with my Father had completely deteriorated. I’d become hostile towards him: much more hostile than towards my Mom. I was so angry about everything that had happened to me, and somehow I’d reconciled this in my mind to take it out on him. He couldn’t do right for doing wrong with me at this time. Had I opened up, and talked to him, he might of understood why my behaviour was becoming more and more aggressive, but as I didn’t, he just started to discipline me to the point where I had no freedom.

The black moods were taking their toll on my family, and as far as they knew there was no reason for all this hatred that I suddenly displayed. I was drinking again, and soon started skipping classes to go down the pub. My teachers didn’t miss a beat, and after returning to the school premises one day, drunk, my parents were called into school. God, was I punished. I think my parents were so embarrassed that they didn’t know how to stop me behaving in this way, and how to cope with my illness, and how much it was destroying my life, and the daughter they knew. Although they had tried to give me every support, that tact obviously wasn’t working. So they employed a new routine. I was grounded, had every mode of teenage "must-have" technology removed from me, and was taken to and from school every day, just to make sure that I actually got there.

After, a while, once they believed I was settling down again, and finally getting past the rebellious attitude, the rules were relaxed. And to prove just how trust worthy I was, I immediately started missing school again. This time my teachers confronted me directly. And I cracked. I didn’t want to go home. They’d (my parents) would make my life hell again. By this point I was genuinely scared of my Father. I was never frightened he would hurt me physically, but he knew how to hurt me emotionally, and after everything I was putting them both through, and all the tears I had made my Mom cry, he would do what ever it took to keep me in line.

And I just sat and poured all this out to my form tutor. I talked about how they didn’t understand my pain, and of course they wouldn’t, if all I ever did was scream at them. But at the time, my small little young adult world couldn’t see that they were just trying their best to make sure my life was a good one. I didn’t go home that night, or the next, and didn’t return until a year and a half later.

My teachers helped all they could. After the awkward discussion with my Mother, about just why I was leaving, I grabbed my stuff, and moved in with a friend of mine, whose Mom was a teacher at my school, until I could find somewhere more permanent. I broke my Mother’s heart when I left; not so much because I did it, but because of how I did it. The action was full of spite, and hatefulness, and it’s probably one of the only times in my life, that I look back upon now, and am truly ashamed. A lot of the other stuff that happened through-out my youth led me to be the person I am today (someone who has a really good relationship with my parents, but I’ll get to that in due course), so I can see why, although it was horrible, I wouldn’t change it. But this, I would. For my Mom, it took along time to heal the hurt that I had caused that day.

I refused to see, or even speak to my Dad. I wanted to strike him out of my life, and in my naivety, I thought it would be that easy. I did finally start speaking to him again after about three months, but that was once I settled into my new surroundings, and started to realise what an awful mistake I had made.

Why I Love Killjoys

"Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na)" - My Chemical Romance

I’ve interrupted the usual schedule (the amazingly long Blog introduction) to have a small celebration. Please forgive my giddiness!

I think I’ve been a killjoy since the moment I was born, but it seems like it’s only been in the last year that I’ve actually found my place in life. Coming through everything that I’ve been through, it’s sometimes hard for me to feel "normal" or like I fit in anywhere. I’m not saying I’m lonely, because I couldn’t be lonely with the amazing family and friends that I have. But I feel different a large portion of the time.

Six years ago, a small part of the puzzle fell into place for me. I was dealing with my illness very badly at the time; still cutting and drinking very heavily. But then I heard "I’m Not Okay (I Promise)" and something inside me smiled. Here was a band, that didn’t pretend to have all the answers, who had problems just like everyone else in the world (some of them incredibly serious), but whom had sheer talent, and told the world to go to hell, everyday, with a smile on their faces.

I saw My Chemical Romance live for the first time on a Friday in November of 2005. That feels a life-time ago now! I’ve changed so much in that time, and part of my personal growth has been helped by the most amazing band ever to grace the stage. At my first concert, Gerard Way made a rather emotional speech about suicide and self-harm. Rather than advocating self-harm, as a large amount of ignorant non-believers presume, they speak of seeking helping, talking, and working through your problems. That night, Gerard told me, and a large crowd of fans, to never give up. I haven’t cut myself since.

Over the years, I’ve become a devoted fan; I’m now currently tallying five My Chem concerts, over six years. I’d love to get this figure higher, and know that over the years, I’m sure to do so. My Chemical Romance is not just a band; it’s a leap of faith. A leap that every fan has taken, and will defend to the death.

As the band have grown, I feel that I too have grown. Danger Days was a big turning point for me. As ever, I was extremely pleased with My Chem’s work, but this time I could dance to my heart’s content (and I frequently do). Becoming a killjoy has given me a massive boost in confidence, and sometimes I sport my gutsy alter-ego like a defence barrier, but at the same time, I feel like I have thousands of people behind me. As a killjoy, you always have people fighting your corner.

The killjoy family, and MCRmy, can be a smile, a hug, a home, or just a chat about some decent music, but it’s always there for you. Any that’s why I love, not only all members of My Chemical Romance (keep up the good work guys), but everyone who has the courage to stand up and say "I am a Killjoy".

Part 11 - My First Attempt

"Basket Case" - Green Day

I came home, after a final blow-out with my boyfriend and best friend, calmly told my Mother I just wanted to be left alone (both of my parents had gotten used to my black moods by this time), went upstairs, locked the bathroom doors, and cut my wrist.

My Mother came to check on me, and finding me nowhere but in a locked bathroom, she practically battered the door down. I laugh now, as we all do, now that I’m out of the woods depression wise, because my Mom was so shocked when she found me, she wrapped the nearest towel she could find around my wrist, to stem the bleeding, sat me on the side of the bath tub, and proceeded to clean up my blood, which was all over the tiled floor! But in all seriousness, the humour is a way for both me, and my parents, to cope with one of the darkest moments of my life.

She collected my Dad from work, on the way to the hospital. By this time, all my anger and pain had literally bled out of me, and I fell into an extremely unresponsive temper. I don’t remember a lot about being at the hospital, except a Doctor trying to get me to talk, and then telling my Mother that the solution was Prozac. A few pills and I’d be fine, but "better make sure she attends counselling so we can nip this in the bud".
I was stitched up, and sent home, with a brand new repeat prescription, and the telephone number for the crisis counselling service.

My Mom kept me off school for a fortnight, whilst I adjusted to my medication, and in that time, I was not alone for five minutes. She was terrified there would be a re-occurrence, but strangely enough, I think the time went someway towards healing me. She took astonishingly good care of me, considering she had absolutely no clue how to handle the situation. I’m not sure any parents would know the appropriate way to act at times such as this, and I’m not really sure there even is an "appropriate" way to act.

I went back to school, minus one boyfriend, on strained terms with my best friend, but with a brand new sweat band to hide the scar that’s still on my wrist to this day. It even goes slightly purple when the weather is really cold. I felt like an empty shell with no where to run, but carried on going through the motions of every day life, if nothing else, but to keep my parents happy.

Eventually, my best friend dropped out of sixth form schooling (A-Level studies), and my ex-boyfriend signed up to the Army. Over the months, we had become friends again, and grew used to being only that. Whereas my five year strong friendship with my "bessie" was officially dead. But deep down inside, that’s exactly what I wanted to be, and it took along time for that feeling to go away.

Part 10 - Everything Falls Apart

"Skylines and Turnstiles" - My Chemical Romance

I had already started drinking by this point, and now it got worse. A lot worse. I wasn’t drunk all the time or anything, but I’d binge-drink most weekends. This didn’t help my depression, and only exacerbated the symptoms. My self-harming got worse too, and it was becoming harder and harder to hide it.

I was around 15 years old by this time, and that’s when September 11 occurred. It wasn’t a major factor in my worsening mental health, but I should mention it, as it was a huge moment in the history of the world. One that I’m still quite sensitive about now. I was just on the cusp of becoming an adult, and the whole world stopped for one afternoon (or for one morning, in America). The pictures I saw terrified me, and just reinforced my belief, that the world was a horrible place to be.

Just when everything seemed to be failing, I met a boy. I’d been at school with him since I was eleven, but we didn’t really know each other. But once we started spending more time together, through mutual friends, we formed a relationship. This was my first major boyfriend, and we were together for approximately a year and a half, on and off. We were careful to begin with. He knew what had happened, as he was one of the first few people I told. I thought my life was finally looking up, and have that relationship gave me hope for my future. I’d taken my GCSE’s by this point , and got pretty good grades, so I was on the path to university, with a new boy friend, a relatively health social life, and no one knew my secret. I could finally leave cutting behind, and escape the pull of depression.

We took our relationship to "the next level" after a couple of months, and through his help and understanding, and a few girly chats with my best friend (not Emma), I had my first sexual relationship. He’s the only person I’ve had sex with, whilst sober, to this day.

I mentioned my best friend. We’d met just before the start of "big school". When my Dad left the forces, we moved, and therefore I had to change primary schools. Half-way through my last term of year six (the finally primary school year). So I met her there, and we were pretty much inseparable from the off. Little did I know that she had her own problems to contend with, and despite all the weekends that I practically lived at her house, I never once suspected something was amiss. We were really close, but she was always a lot less extroverted than I was. For all my problems, I managed to keep the majority of the people in my life on the periphery of my illness. I was often seen as the bubbly girl with the extraordinarily quite friend. She was also rather manipulative, and due to all the insecurities I carried, I never once stood up to her, so often ended up on the rough end of the mood swings.

I think I put all the insecurities, and anguish, I had into my relationship with my boyfriend. Our partnership was volatile at best, and violent at worst, with me playing the role of the aggressor. Alcohol was making my dark moments even worse, so I stopped for a short while, and became a teetotaller, but in the end, I couldn’t calm the monster inside, and my relationships, with both my boyfriend, and my best friend (at near enough the same time), broke down. And that’s when everything really started to go to hell.

Part 9 - IT

"Hold On" - Good Charlotte

When I was fourteen years old, I was raped.

This is the major incident in my life that I was referring to in my Blog rules. The incident that was so incredibly painful to me. I’ll fill in a few of the details, but cannot write in too much depth. It’s just too hard, but I’ll try and be as open as I can.

My parents had left me home alone for the weekend, for the first time. I invited a casual acquaintance into the house, with a few other friends. I drank, for the first proper time in my life, and soon there was only a few people left at my house. I felt like I’d had a really good night, and was mostly just pleased that nothing had gone wrong, so my parents would never find out, and I wouldn’t get in trouble. I went upstairs to change, and was followed. I knew the person that raped me, and the whole thing was violent and horrific.

Afterwards, he left, as did the two remaining friends that had been down stairs during the whole episode.
I didn’t sleep that night, and wouldn’t again until my parents got home a few days later. I had no idea how to deal with what had happened, and had such a confusing mixture of thoughts and feelings, that I decided the best thing to do was to just ignore it. Pretend it never happened. It took me three years to tell my parents, and during this time, they never even suspected that something awful had happened to me that weekend.
I gradually became more distant and detached from everyone that knew me. I changed, and the depression began to take hold. For the first few months after the rape, all I could think about was what had happened.

Many people are surprised at some of the emotions I felt at this time, and although I know that some of these feelings were terribly irrational, it seems prudent to explain them as best I can:

Shame - It was my fault!
Fear - Is this what the world is like? Do people really treat other people this way? My parents are going to kill me if they find out. No one will ever believe me. I’ll be called a liar. Or they’ll make me go to the police, and I’ll have to tell them everything. What if he comes again?
Guilt - It was my fault!
Disgust - How could I let this happen.? No one will ever love me now.
Alone - It was my fault! And now I’ll have to live with this forever.
Grief - For my innocence, and for the shame and fear I felt.
Suicidal - It won’t hurt anymore.

When it happened, I lost every good part of me to a monster (made up of the perpetrator, and mostly my illness), and the only thing I really missed was my virginity.

Part 8 - Cutting

"Thank You For The Venom" - My Chemical Romance

I started self-harming when I was fourteen. One day, I just picked up a razor, and that was it.
At first it began, because I was so angry. I was angry because I was unhappy, and I didn’t know why. Therefore I would cut, which would make me feel more unhappy, and I would then be angry, and because I was angry, I would cut.

It would make me feel better for a short while, but then I would feel horrible again, usually due to something relatively insignificant, and I’d then want to do it again. I spoke to my Mother about it, and told her this was the reason I wanted to continue therapy. However, I was very good at hiding the evidence of my activities, so eventually she believed that I no longer self-harmed, and I let her believe this, and just got more devious with my habit. Because after a while, that’s what it became. It was all interwoven with my thought patterns, and because I found a little release, I continued. I was a child having to deal with very adult emotions, and because I was yet to learn the "tools" of how to handle these emotions, I turned to something incredibly self-destructive, because it made me feel ever so slightly better. At least with self-harm I had some level of control. Depression often takes away a lot of control of every day life. Part of learning to accept and manage the disease, is gaining some of that control back. Like an inner war.

Self-harming is never the way to gain control of depression. I know that, now that I do have the necessary emotional devices required to manage the symptoms and effects of my illness. But at the time, it felt like it was my only option. And, after a while, the brief period of relief that cutting can provide, can become almost addictive. I will however, carry the scars (literal scars) of this addiction for the rest of my life; something I don’t try to hide, but can often lead to awkwardness when they are initially noticed.

It took my an amazing amount of determination and perseverance to cease cutting, which I finally did at the age of nineteen. It was incredibly hard to stop, as during my illness, this had become the instinctive way to cope with the draining emotions that made me feel so horrible all the time. With age, I have learnt better, less destructive ways to handle my emotions, but that little thought is still there, at the back of my mind, and can raise it’s head at the most surprising of times. Luckily, these days it is only a passing thought that I can see for the depression related thought it is. But all this was way in the future at the time, and I never truly believed that I would stop feeling so awful all the time.

I didn’t just cut. It was around this time that I started binging and purging. I didn’t see this as a symptom of bulimia, as it was not in any way related to my image of my weight. I was very slim when I was younger. It was, as I saw it, a further way to hurt myself, and became part of my reaction to, and behaviours, of my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (O.C.D.), which had been born from the "umbrella" mental illness of depression.

Depression often leads to O.C.D. as, due to instability of the chemicals in the brain, you loose a certain element of control in your life, that then manifests itself in other irrational O.C.D. mannerisms. These issues were further escalated when "IT" happened.

Part 7 - C.B.T.

"Again and Again" - Taproot

The following definition is taken from http://www.enotes.com/gale-psychology-encyclopedia/ ; an on-line encyclopaedia of psychological terms and illnesses:

Cognitive Behaviour Therapy - A therapeutic approach based on the principle that maladaptive moods and behaviour can be changed by replacing distorted or inappropriate ways of thinking with thought patterns that are healthier and more realistic.

C.B.T. is always the first port of call for all depression therapy. It’s been a tried and tested method of, not so much curing the disorder, but of how to manage and control it. Most people that are diagnosed with depression will at some point, come to the realisation that this is a life long illness, but C.B.T. helps sufferers to recognise when depression is "active", and teaches skills to combat the vicious cycle that depression and the thoughts associated with it, can become.

When suffering depression, a small incident can become the end of the world. Speaking from experience, I have had times when a run of the mill disagreement with a friend can lead to me having suicidal thoughts. This is pretty normal behaviour for sufferers of depression. And very often, one "bad" (or depression controlled) thought, can lead to further, more intense "bad" thoughts, until there is either intervention, or a self-destructive climax to the event. C.B.T is about learning to recognise when these thoughts patterns are beginning, and due to this awareness, stopping the build up and escalation of these thoughts from continuing.

The first way that I was taught how to stop these thoughts was "elastic band therapy". This part of C.B.T. therapy involves negative reinforcement. I had to wear an elastic band on my wrist, and every time I had a "bad" thought I had to flick it. Really hard. And it hurt. Like hell. This would then, due to the negative reinforcement, subconsciously discourage me from pursuing these thought patterns. This is a very basic psychological principle, but with persistence, it can work for younger depression sufferers, whose depressive behaviour isn’t as habitual. And it did work for me for a short time. However, there was a lot more to come yet, that would mean than I would require more help than an elastic band could provide.