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.