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.