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 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 5 - The Early Years

"I Miss You" - Blink 182

I had a pretty easy start to life. My Mother didn’t go back to work until I entered school, and although my Father was often absent due to his R.A.F. career, my Mom did a pretty good job of bringing me up. My Grandparents were around a lot too, as previously mentioned, so I was a warm child, who always felt very loved. My Dad was the disciplinarian of my parents, and during his many work trips away, I would often play this to my own advantage, and was probably a little bit of a handful for my poor old Mom. But we did get along great when push came to shove, and I never felt like I missed out on anything.

The first event that I believe played a part in ‘developing’ my illness, occurred when I was approximately ten years old. My Mother seemed to be going deaf in her old age, despite only being just over thirty years of age. She went to visit her GP to try and rectify the problem, and was sent to a specialist for further tests. She had an acoustic neuroma (tumour). The size of a golf ball. It was interfering with her ear, and that was what was causing the deafness. I have spoken to her about this in more recent years, and it seemed that although her condition was rather serious, she never experienced a single head-ache or migraine. She went to the doctors for a hearing-aid, and walked away with the knowledge that she would have to endure major surgery. Luckily for her, this was to happen over one of the many Summer school holidays where I was staying with my Grandparents. She wouldn’t need to worry about my care whilst she went through this very difficult process. I visited her in hospital only once. It was deemed too upsetting for me at such an early age. She had half of her head shaved and filled with ugly metal staples, and, because the doctors had to touch some of the nerves in her face during the removal of her tumour, the whole right side of her face was completely immobile. She’d lost her hearing in her right ear forever, as they had to remove her ear-drum. She still can’t use cotton-buds to clean her ears now, for fear that without her inner ear, she’ll end up poking her brain. It took her a long time to recover from this procedure, and many years to gain anywhere near normal mobility in her face. We no longer have any photographs from this period in our lives, as she wants no reminders of what she went through. We laugh now, when she can’t whistle or drink through a straw, but at the time it was a massive upheaval for us all.

It hit my Dad amazingly hard. He’d already applied for voluntary redundancy from the Air Force, and due to the circumstances, they allowed him early release. I didn’t see much of him during this time, but have since discovered that this was the first event that really emotionally shook him. He adores my Mother, even though he sometimes finds it incredibly difficult to show it, and the thought of loosing her threw him to the edge.

This was compounded by the fact that during this time, one of his sisters (Aunty Number 2) experienced a mental breakdown and had to be sectioned. During her period of hospitalisation she finally admitted that she had been sexually abused for many years, during her childhood, by her Father. She had never spoke of this before, and only wanted to find some closure on the matter so she could find the strength to leave her first husband, who was extremely abusive. Although my Dad had not been close with this parents, and had very little contact with them, he was devastated. I’m not sure anyone really knows how to come to terms with something like that, especially when already under extreme pressure due to a spousal illness. My Father decided to cut all contact with his family from that moment on, and it lasted for well over ten years.

I say this was an event that influenced my life, but I wasn’t really around to see many of this, and, in the case of my Aunty, was too young to fully understand. But the crushing blow to my Dad was the beginning of his unravelling. An unravelling that I would majorly contribute to over the coming years.

Part 1 - Inspiration

Hi. I’m Amy.

My friend (B.F.F.), Emma has a Blog, and she suggested that I start one.

Let me tell you a bit about her. We met about 3 years ago when she started working in the office where I work. She was quite quiet to begin with, and there was a couple of years age difference between us. We didn’t work too closely together, so I didn’t really get to know her until the middle of last year.
Another of our work colleagues set up a Birthday surprise for Emma, last June. Her other friends weren’t celebrating, so we decided to show her a fun time, and a large party of us surprised her with a big Birthday bash at the local Indian restaurant. I think that was the beginning of our friendship. That night I got to know this really awesome person, with an amazing sense of humour. Being able to laugh with someone is a joy for me, so after that event, I gravitated more towards Emma, and found myself enjoying her company more and more.

Over the next couple of months, due to some impromptu Saturday overtime, and other events, we got to know each other a lot more and discovered we had a lot more in common than we had at first thought.
I hope she would agree, that now we have had some serious bonding incidents, and about a million laughs, we’ve found a good friend in each other, and hopefully a life-long friendship.

Emma was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes a few months after her twentieth Birthday. It’s not as bad as it could be, but I wish to hell that I could get her a working pancreas on the black market! She has a good sense of humour (at appropriate times) about her disorder, and has been an angel when it comes to my over-curiousness about medical issues. She’s taken the time to explain to me the symptoms and issues connected with being a diabetic, and I would like to think that she knows she doesn’t have to carry the responsibility of being diabetic, alone, particularly when she’s in my company.

Although, she deals (from my point of view, at any rate) absolutely amazingly with her D (as we call it), she still finds a certain amount of therapy in Blogging about her disorder. She’s gleamed a lot of help from certain internet forums (thank you, for the support you provide her; you know who you are), and gained advice from people who themselves have to deal with diabetes on a day to day basis. She’s found this support invaluable, and is now putting her own experiences in the ring in an effort to increase awareness, and help provide support to other people in her situation.

And she’s now encouraging me to do the same. I’m not diabetic, and will never claim to begin or understand everything that she has had to go through in the last couple of years, but I hope that I can continue to provide her support in any way possible, whenever she may need me. She is an inspiration to us all, and the reason that I have made the decision to begin a Blog myself.

I was officially diagnosed with clinical depression when I was 16 years old.

However, I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was 13, and began self harming when I was 14.

I’m now 25 years old (some might say a proper grown up) and have a very different perspective of the world than I did when I was first diagnosed. I’m know that I’m high functioning (can still maintain a certain level of "normalcy", where my condition doesn’t affect too much of my life) with my condition, and am extremely self-aware when it comes to how my illness can play a role in my life, but it is still with me every day. I hope that in starting a Blog, I can come to terms with being mentally ill, and hopefully maybe help others going through what I went through, or suffering with depression themselves.