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.

Part 6 - Pre-Diagnosis

"For A Pessimist, I’m Pretty Optimistic" - Paramore

My parents marriage has always been rocky to say the least. What with my Dad’s emotional stiltedness, and my Mother’s concise little ways, I’m sure they’re not the best pairing Cupid ever made. On leaving the Royal Air Force, my parents were forced to spend more time together than they had since they were teenagers. This did not create good prospects for a happy household. They had always tried to leave me out of their marital debates, but by the time I turned 13 my Mom was confiding in me as though I were her friend, not her daughter. I didn’t need to know a lot of the intricate details of their personal lives, and, although I was glad to offer my Mother the support she needed (and to often vocalise my Father’s side of the arguments when he wasn’t around to do so himself), it wasn’t long before my teachers began to notice the change. A once bubbly and out-going child, turned into a sullen and exhausted one.

I entered therapy for the first time. My parents were shocked, and slightly bemused, but this is what I suppose the teachers felt best for me once I was asked and had explained the circumstances of my home-life. It wasn’t really steady therapy, and I don’t think it helped much at the time, as I always tended to focus on the little things and not look at the "big picture". I did, however, learn about C.B.T. for the first time, and my fascination of psychology was born.
I don’t think I’ve ever met another depression sufferer other than myself, who has a genuine medical curiosity about her disorder, and others of it’s kind.