I’m never sure about poems that rhyme. I think my non-rhyming poetry tends to feel more authentic and passionate. But sometimes when I write the rhymes seem somehow predestined, so I let them be.
Can I just state at the outset that I do not consider myself to be an expert on death by suicide. I speak only from my limited experience of my own times of suicidality, of having lost a friend by suicide and of having friends who have lost their partners in this way. It is not my intention to offend in any way. Just to raise a few thoughts on the subject. I pray I can be sensitive to those who have, and continue to be affected by suicide.
I’ve been thinking a lot about suicide recently. Not that I’m suicidal, but as a subject it’s been on my mind. I have been considering the subject since I watched the interview with Prince Harry and Meghan. It wasn’t something I’d particularly planned to watch but as my son was watching, I saw it too. Now at the outset, I will say this, I’m not a massive fan of the royal family. They seem to me to be a huge drain on public funds for little return. But that’s just my opinion.
I do however have some sympathy for Harry. He has struck me as a bit of a little lost boy ever since his mother died. And I felt that still in the interview. Desperate to protect his family from what he’d endured as a child. I’d also seen him talk to James Corden prior to the Oprah interview where he admitted his mental health was suffering. You can make comment on Meghan’s acting ability, but Harry? A young man who undertook tours of duty in Afghanistan with the British Army. Who founded a mental health charity and the Invictus Games for veterans. I don’t see what he’d gain by fabricating fake mental ill health.
I’ve seen so much negativity aimed at the pair of them. From the press, I can understand. That’s what they do. But when my socials were filled with judgement and criticism I felt extremely sad. People I considered friends accusing Meghan of faking depression and suicidality. First, who made any of us the judge? Or indeed the psychiatrist? And actually faking mental illness for attention is a form of mental illness too. So you can say she’s faking. But she’s still mental then. Second, if I ever find myself in a place where I’m feeling suicidal again you can guess who I won’t be reaching out to.
Be kind folks. Please be kind. No one knows what is going on for someone else. How many people did your social media put off asking for help.
Because we’re attention seeking apparently.
My friend was told her whole adult life she was attention seeking. The doctors and mental health experts labelled her so. Yes she struggled to manage her symptoms and her distress. But she was ill. And at 37 she died by suicide after dozens of attempts over many years. “If you talk about it, you won’t go through with it” they said. Well, excuse my language, but bollocks. My sweet friend should still be here.
If you should ever be in the situation where someone tells you they are feeling suicidal, please be kind. Don’t judge. Take them seriously. And please help them access support. It’s not always forthcoming and they might need you to speak up for them.
I’ve been suicidal. I don’t say that lightly. It is a terrifying and lonely place to be. But I’ve always come through those times. Thank God I did.
Some things I’ve noticed; being a mum is hard, not being able to be a mum is hard, losing a mum is hard, being a step mum is hard, being an adoptive or foster mum is hard, having a difficult relationship with your mum is hard, being both mum and dad is hard. I feel like there’s a theme here. There will always be difficult decisions, sleepless nights and times of absolute exhaustion, where you don’t believe for a moment you can carry on. But generally we do. Somehow or other. It’s that point in our experience where I take my hat off to those parenting alone, through whatever circumstances with limited family support.
That was my experience for five years. My son had both parents until he was eight years old, but then his daddy sadly died. Lone parenting, especially while you and your child(ren) are in the hell of raw grief is an unenviable task. And I had next to no respite. A couple of families in the church who would occasionally take the boy overnight if I had an event to go to. My parents-in-law soon became estranged. Inevitably really, given they chose to stand at a distance and criticise my parenting rather than offer any real support. And my own parents were a good bit older and had no real concept of putting their grandson’s needs ahead of their own, even for a short spell.
Being both mum and dad felt relentless. My young man struggled with the loss of his dad big style. His emotions and endless questions wore me down at times. You could never dodge a question; I could occasionally pacify him with, “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.” But that usually meant I would be awakened early the next day with him more curious than ever. Not that I’d have had him any other way, but it could be wearying.
What I could never have predicted was the consequences of the death of my own mother. For a start I had no idea I had underlying bipolar disorder that was yet to be diagnosed and treated. And despite my mum’s decline into dementia over five years, she actually died quite suddenly.
I can now identify the toxic codependency that existed between my mother and I. At a young age I was conflicted in how to relate to my father because my mother would paint him in a bad light to me. I’m thankful I had the opportunity to get to know him properly as an adult.
My mother didn’t protect me from sexual abuse as an older child. She also was incapable, in general, of doing what was best for her children. I think she maybe tried, but was so mentally unwell herself she just couldn’t cope with us, and also the loss of the baby who died. Back in the late 60s these things were just not talked about. My brother still is bitter. But blaming someone else for his shitshow of a life is definitely the easy option. I did being angry with my mum, dealt with it in therapy and moved on. I’m not blind, I’m very aware she had many imperfections. But it is as it is. I loved her. I still do. And when my mental health isn’t the greatest, often the thought, “I want my mum” drifts around my head. Even though my logic tells me that she wouldn’t be able to help.
So after my mother’s death, I broke down. My son was also experiencing his own mental health challenges at this time. It was five years after losing his dad and things became unmanageable. He was too anxious to attend school. I had had to resign from my job. It felt like everything was falling apart. Despite visits from social workers (at my request) I was repeatedly told we were just fine. We absolutely weren’t. The day the boy was taken into care I over exaggerated the situation and used a few key phrases to our family worker at CAMHS to force their hand. I was at breaking point. I couldn’t look after myself let alone a teen with very poorly mental health. So after he was settled, I ended up hospitalised, and on the road to diagnosis, treatment and recovery.
It still took five years and assorted foster placements to get the boy home. His final foster carers were beyond amazing. I had no doubt they saw me as what I had always tried to be; the best mum I could be, under difficult circumstances, even when that meant acknowledging I was not the person to care for him.
Just as an additional note, I never dreamed of having just one child. That was my husband’s decision and I wasn’t entitled to have a say apparently. And despite what his parents were saying behind my back, my priority after his death was to best look after the broken little boy I had, not find a new husband as quickly as possible because I wanted more children. I would have loved more children, but it wasn’t to be. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad sometimes. I am genuinely thankful for the amazing young man God entrusted to me. And I’m grateful too for the children I had the honour of spending time with in kids’ clubs, Scouts, toddler group, youth groups, school, preschool and nursery. What a privilege to play a part in a child’s formative years.
And guess what? Being a mum is hard. It’s bloody hard. But it’s 100% the best job in the world. Happy Mother’s Day all xx
I mentioned last week that something bad had happened, thanks to the man named Dave. Having come through the other side, at least of the practicalities, I feel ready to blurt.
By way of background, when Dave and I were together, he introduced me to a website for swingers. Social media for the the kinky, adventurous and promiscuous if you like. We initially had a couple profile that Dave set up. However when we split the first time, he decided to change the password and lock me out. There were a selection of photos of me on that profile, which effectively he took sole control over. Because of the nature of the website, I couldn’t complain to admin without a login in, so at that time I created my own profile. I successfully got our couple profile removed. And I thought that was the end of it.
When we split the last time, in October, I deleted my online swinging/fetish presence and have not seen any of my old contacts since. Although some are still friends and we message sometimes. And it was one of these friends who drew attention to the fact that Dave was operating our old couple profile again and displaying my photos.
We had known this friend and his partner from our early club visits and Dave had been checking out their profile. When the friend went online after a while he immediately contacted me, telling me our old profile had been reinstated and he’d seen my pictures on it. I was was horrified. But somehow unsurprised. The time schedule pretty much aligned with Dave blocking me on WhatsApp. As if he knew I’d find out sooner or later and was already hiding in anticipation.
I asked all the contacts I knew were still using the website to report the profile, for him posing as a couple falsely (big no-no) and for using my photos. They acted, but only to make the profile a single male one. My pictures remained.
In desperation I created an incognito profile so I could report him myself. That website was the last place on earth I actually wanted to be and after reporting his profile every few hours I was getting nowhere. I was starting to lose the plot but a few sensible friends helped keep me grounded. I decided to scrutinise the site’s rules and terms and conditions and it was there I found it. No photos of others should be used without their agreement, if the person is identifiable.
I stated my case, making it known that it was because I was identifiable that my friend had contacted me, that I had not consented to the use of the photos, that I had been forced to create a new account to get it sorted. Also I advised I would be taking legal advice if the pictures were not removed forthwith.
They disappeared late that night. I was jubilant.
However whilst the practicalities are dealt with, I feel like I’ve been through the mill. Choosing to use photographs of mine, although probably primarily to boost his appeal to couples and women on the site, was also a very deliberate action against me. He knew I’d find out and he knew I’d be upset.
When we were a couple, and used to engage in some light BDSM play, Dave gave me an ankle chain with the word ‘owned’ on it. It was no coincidence it was a close up of that item of jewellery on my leg that was one of the four images of me he chose. At least in his mind he still believes I can be controlled. I don’t think so.
So why am I so rattled? I admit I loved him deeply. I admit he had a hold over me (hence it took me three attempts to leave him). And I admit I’m still trying to get over him. And that’s probably the key. I thought I was doing well getting beyond him. But now all the feels are back. I also discovered in the course of my incognito snooping that he’s been back local to me. Sixteen minutes away. And I’m not sure if I want to kill him or sleep with him. Sigh.
I am not doing well again. Not at all. I am missing the social freedoms that have so long been woven into my self care package. I need human interaction. Friends. Coffee shops. Conversation. Hugs. My lovely Ian Penguin does his absolute best for me, but he’s not especially chatty and when it comes to giving cuddles his little flippers fall sadly short. But he’s faithful and is there for me unconditionally.
I recently found some thought diaries from 2015. To put that in context, I spectacularly broke down and was hospitalised in 2014, so a year on, and I believe it was the year I was first diagnosed with bipolar and first prescribed a mood stabiliser. That was rather trial and error and I was still very mentally unwell. I was, at that time, still self harming and was actively suicidal. I was very preoccupied with the abuse I had experienced in childhood. And also weirdly obsessed with the film Frozen, which I would watch over and over to try to work out the messages it had for me. All these things were common themes in the diaries. Also apparent was the utter heartbreak I was experiencing being separated from my son. I berated myself so harshly for being too unwell to have him living with me at home.
Reading my distressed scribbles in these notebooks was devastating. The words screamed out my pain. Although I’m not doing well currently, I do have enough of a grasp on reality to realise that neither Disney nor condemning social workers held the truth for me. And I realise how much I have worked through with various therapies to get me as far as I am now. I have my last session with my current counsellor on Monday. That has turned out to be a lifeline in the past difficult year. And maybe I haven’t taken massive strides forward, but I did find the strength to walk away from the man named Dave (despite the hold he seems to have over me).
And I want to move forward. I want to be able to live and love again. But despite my obvious progress I just seem to hurt. Even now. Life hurts. I miss my friends. Hopefully that will get easier before too long. I miss my dad still more than words can say and there’s little I can do to ease that. I miss my mobility. I miss being able to work. I miss working with children, who were both endearing and frustrating but who kept me feeling young. I miss being able to get my hair and nails done. Looking in the mirror is depressing. I wonder when I started to look so old, so weary, so broken. My life has been defined by so much trauma, abuse and loss. It’s little wonder I struggle sometimes.
I should try to sleep, it’s late. I’ve cried enough tears for today. Trusty Ian Penguin is here, poised for cuddles, as is Small Bear. Small Bear was a Valentine’s gift from the new gentleman I am seeing. As much as you can in a lockdown anyway. I so want to discover if that gentleman and I can find our smiles in one another. Got to hold the hope for a happy ending.
Something bad happened this week. Something I’m not ready to divulge but it was intrusive, upsetting and down to the man named Dave. Or Arsehole as I’ve been calling him. Or Utter Bastard. I was fuming. And I never get angry, so I’m taking this as progress. It was an appropriate response to his selfish behaviour. The fact that he’d blocked me on WhatsApp recently made sense now. He knew at some point I’d find out what he’d done and I’d seek him out. Cowardly excuse for a man won’t even face up to it. I’m still in a quandary as to the best course of action.
I feel shaken up and my confidence has been rocked. I’ve been working so hard on putting him behind me and this has me feeling the feels all over again. It’s low. I’m lower.
And suddenly I’m questioning everything again. My ability to trust the new gentleman has all but been obliterated. Is he married? Is he chatting with other women? Is he using the L word to convince me he’s serious, but really he’s just stringing me along? How do I still know so little about him? I have a sense of déjà-vous.
As desperately lonely as I am, as much as I am missing cuddles and company and conversation and as intensely as I desire intimacy, I just don’t know if I should be with someone at the moment. I want it but is it really good for me and is it fair on them? I’m not sure.
I know the pandemic hasn’t helped. Not being able to mix socially makes dating and building relationship and trust near impossible. No amount of messages seem to really reassure me. And people keep telling me there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but it’s not within my field of vision yet. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Hopefully this is just another blip. A lockdown depression related blip and better days are coming.
There’s something on my mind today. One thing I say to new people, especially guys I connect with on crap dating sites, is this, “I need robust communication and loads of reassurance”. I don’t say it for fun. And I don’t just say it to benefit myself. I’ll explain; the minute there are gaps in communication long enough for me to start overthinking, there’s a good chance I’m going to pull the plug, regardless of how well things seem to have been going. I’m not going to spend another relationship second guessing and filling in the blanks because someone can not take the time to have conversations with me (be that online, on the phone or in person). I deserve more.
I’m very aware that my past experiences have left me feeling this way. Two years of mind games with the man named Dave are primarily to blame. He would drip feed me just enough information to keep me interested but not enough that I ever had an equal footing in the friendship. He loved to starve me of communication, watch me flounder to try to make sense of things then accuse me of wildly overthinking. And ridicule me. Accuse me of demonising him and subsequently he got to play the victim. Again.
And he wasn’t the only one who let me down in their communication. Whether the lies be blatant, subtle deception or by omission, the end result is the same. Or if it is just a case of poor or lacking interaction. The same rule applies; if I’m not in the loop I will fabricate fabulous, far-fetched fables to satisfy my need for information. Do not underestimate me; I not only have EUBPD and can overthink like a boss, I also have the imagination of a creative writer. It’s a lethal combination, trust me. I still at least partially believe the man named Dave is a polygamous spy. And what’s more, my counsellor wasn’t unconvinced either.
I generally say to new gentleman contacts that I need a “good morning” and a “goodnight” from them as a minimum. And anything else in between is a bonus. I take the time to explain my mental ill health and my insecurities. Yet time and again within a very short space of time I’m being left in the dark. I believe if someone genuinely wants to be with me they should be prepared to make a degree of effort and set aside at least a small portion of their day to prioritise just me. Their silence speaks volumes. A blanket text telling me they won’t be in contact they’re busy just doesn’t cut it. For all I know that could mean they’re with another woman. It totally underestimates my insecurities and trust issues.
I don’t understand how so many people get it wrong when it comes to communication. I even less understand why guys think I tell them how essential it is to me, and yet still leave me in the dark, or refuse to be upfront. I need honesty. I need detailed explanations. I need conversation. I need a little time invested to reassure me I’m important. Don’t forget about me then expect to take up where we left off. That’s all.
I’m not well. In fact I’m struggling. As per the previous two, I have reached the point in house arrest where I am actually going quietly insane. My head is a very ugly place to live right now. It properly scares me. The random thoughts from Tuesday haven’t calmed. They’ve both amplified and multiplied. I don’t feel at imminent risk, on the whole, but I feel volatile and erratic. It’s a feeling I associate with being sectioned back in 2014. Like I’m not sure what I might do next. The urge to bolt, the urge to disappear is overwhelming.
I was criticised earlier for not making an effort to help myself. I could be going for walks. I could go to the Costa drive thru to get a cuppa. I could go to the local beauty spot. The same beauty spot that when I suggested going there previously, the same person told me was stupidly busy and I wouldn’t be able park. I tried to explain the crippling apathy that has stopped me doing these things, but I was told I had no right complaining if I wasn’t making an effort. What my stupid dull brain failed to respond with at the time was this; those are not my self care things. That’s probably why my depressed body hasn’t even attempted them. Walking (all 10 minutes or so) just hurts my back. Going to the drive thru doesn’t really excite me anymore than making a cuppa at home. Unless I was meeting a friend to have the drink with. And while I do occasionally go to the beauty spot, usually it’s to go and have a think. Probably the most dangerous thing I could do currently. Especially alone, in the middle of nowhere with errant and now and then suicidal thoughts. But I couldn’t articulate. And as much as I thought this person understood depression, and more specifically, my depression, I guess I was wrong. I am trying I swear. Every day that I get up, have a bath, put clothes on, I for one know how hard I’ve worked.
But it’s not enough. All the things I’ve achieved indoors, albeit small things, none of it is enough. Inside my head I’m a failure. I’m pathetic. Useless. A waste of space. Ugly. Fat. Lazy. Stupid. Abhorrent. Undeserving of love or care. In fact the world would possibly be a better place without me in it.
I’m not trying to be alarmist. But this is what I’m battling every waking hour right now. It’s relentless. So will I be flouting government guidelines and meeting a friend in the near future? It’s possible, yes. Am I happy about it? No I’m absolutely not, I no more wish to put anyone at risk than the next sane person. But sanity is precious, and I feel mine is draining away like the sand in an egg timer. The mental health team won’t help. The GP is lovely but can’t help. My counselling is due to end in two weeks. The only person who can stand up for my mental well-being now is me. And even I’m hanging on by a thread. Something has to give and I pray it won’t be my sanity.
I apologise in advance that this is unlikely to be eloquent in any way. I just seem to have an overly busy brain tonight and the best cure I know is to write. So excuse my blurting. Thanks.
I’m already tired of making grown up decisions alone
I really miss my dad (see above)
I need a cry, but tears won’t come
I’m exhausted and overwhelmed
If a don’t get a cuddle soon, I can’t be held responsible for my actions
My trust issues are seriously getting the better of me re new relationship
Maybe I’m too broken to be with someone
The man called Dave has blocked me
I’m not sure why the above bothers me, but I preferred an amicable distance between us to a hostile one
Did I mention I need a cry?
Or a cuddle? Yeah it’s more urgent than that
Have been ticking stuff off my to-do list like a boss
Yet still feel like an utter failure at life
Now my head hurts
I’m having massive second thoughts about the breast op
Or perhaps I’m having second thoughts about the massive breast op (see what I did there?)
I am feeling incredibly alone right now. And lonely.
My current overthinking is almost certainly a consequence of being stuck in the four walls
I’m wondering if I’m at risk of completely losing the plot
A lot of things scare me
A lot of things irritate me
My confidence is lower than low
I still need a cuddle
Forgive my rambling stream of consciousness. I doubt it makes a lot of sense to anyone else. Doesn’t really make sense to me. But it is as it is.
pinkpalaceangel 