Part 18 - Backwards Again

"Goin’ Down" - The Pretty Reckless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 17 - A Step In The Right Direction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 16 - Finally Coming Clean

"I’m A Fake" - The Used

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

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

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

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

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

Part 15 - Samaritans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 14 - Off The Rails

"Prescription" - Mindless Self Indulgence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 13 - Out On My Own

"House Of Cards" - Madina Lake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part 12 - I’m Off

"Gotta Get Away" - The Offspring

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

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

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

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

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

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