Through the story behind the scars

I woke up in tears this morning, I seem to be doing that an awful lot recently. When I start to cry though, I need that sense of closure, so I hold my pillow against my chest and cry, I cry like a child whose just had their favorite toy taken of them. Unable to stop. My eyes end up sore, and my face ends up feeling tacky and I lay on my bed, even hours after I've finished all my tears, I lay there, wishing I would suddenly stop breathing, stop battling, stop being such a failure.

I love the sensation of dragging my blade across my wrists, and down my arms, on my thighs, ankles and across my stomach, but I'm not satisfied till I have a sense of depth in my cuts, a sense of the pain I deserve. I don't stop until I have that perfect cut, that perfect sense of pain, and that wonderful sense of pain. Because it feels better to feel pain, than it does feeling nothing. I'm addicted to things that are self destructive.

When your scars start fading, it's meant to leave you with a wonderful sense of recovery, but I feel lost without mine. They have been inflicted on to me throughout all the battles I have fought with myself and without them I become a nobody. I no longer feel loved nor needed, I'm friendless, a burden to those whom are around me. I can see how people look at me, in disgust almost, like I'm a freak, maybe I am. I can't stand my own reflection, that mirror image that looks back at me, so what makes me think that those around me will just about cope with that disgusting reflection? Those scars, all that fat, that fucked up hair.

Death seems more inviting than life at times, I close my eyes thinking about all the wonders it might be bring me, the great amount of peace, despite it being a selfish act, inconsiderate and cowardly, but I'm tired of fighting, I'm tired of going on, and on, and I'm tired of having to face everyday debating whether or not I actually want to be here, and I don't know why I am.

My self harm story started like many others, I started scratching at myself vigorously, after that, my parents would no longer let me keep long nails and if I didn't cut them down, they would do it for me, then it turned to pins, needles, badges, and again, I scratched, and scratched till I bled, then I turned to the sharpener, the pain started feeling more real, and I fell in love with it the more I did it, then it turned to the razor, I would spend ages trying to get the blades out of my razor, I would love that collection, my collection of self harm tools grew, and grew! And then I bought a blade, one that could cut deep and I sensed a loss of self control. Many people own 'Self harm distraction' kits, then you have me, I own a self harm kit, which consists of over 200 different blades, here's just a 1/5 of them.

 But my blades collection continually grew and grew. I hated myself for destroying my body, but I loved the pain I gave myself, because it's what I deserved. It didn't just stop at cutting however,I turned to burning, overdosing, hair pulling, I managed to loose the majority of my hair under section 2 of the mental health act as I had my blades confiscated of me. I scratched vigorously I found all the ways I could do destroy myself.  But now, I go through bouts of emptiness. I have no-one to turn to, and I know for one, that I'll never be good enough, no matter how hard I try.

Who to turn to when we have no-one

Any social situation would feel awkward when you don't really have any close friends there with you, but without any friends; you cant really isolate yourself from reality. You can try hiding, not socializing, or even sitting in the back of a lecture hall or  away from anyone you know just so nobody talks to you. I live on my own, in a large spacious studio flat, which I was moved into when my flat mates found it almost over bearing to deal with my mental health. To be fair, if I was placed in a position in which I had to deal with myself, I wouldn't be able to cope with it neither.

It's awful being so isolated, spending the whole weekend in your room and then coming Monday realizing you haven't even unlocked it since Friday. But why would I need to? I have everything in one space, my en-suite bathroom, my kitchen. Nobody can go out everyday. It often have that overwhelming feeling of it driving me insane, most people would go out, but when you're suffering from depression, it can be difficult finding the motivation, or that push to actually get yourself out of bed. 

Despite wanting to stay in most weekends, I've broadened myself, and I've started going out more. Or, whenever I can, really. But in my spare time, I'm not socializing, doing work, etc. I'm sat in my room going over how I could end everything, how I could hurt my body more and more without really caring. It's difficult getting out of that thinking pattern though. When death seems to be the only thing on your mind. Were often told surrounding ourselves with friends, and doing sports will make us feel better and improve our mental health, but it all seems pointless. Especially if you're on a run and you get distracted by a river that you could jump into. Or when you hit a really busy road and you could just jump up in front. 

However, how would the driver feel? My previous therapist expressed how selfish of me it would be if I were to jump in front of a car, how the person driving would feel, what if they were to crash to? What if I didn't die and someone else got seriously injured? - I'm a heartless bitch for saying this, but I love the rush of running in busy traffic, crossing busy roads in hope a car would hit me. Or learning to drive, so I could use car fumes to end everything. 

That quotes true 'Nobody really cares until something dramatic happens' - But I've learnt to deal without having anyone, being isolated, and trapping myself between four walls. I'm not sure what difference it would make to actually have that tight group of friends, without feeling like an outsider, but I guess I'll never know. I can't cope with this, and I need a way to escape. But with every suicide attempt, I seem to have been failing, but that won't stop me, I'm going to keep going. 

The Challenges We Face.

You know a therapist/psychologist has been doing there job for quite some time when they start challenging your thoughts. Despite how much it hurts to hear such bluntness. For example 'Why haven't you killed yourself yet?' It's something worth thinking about, but even I don't know the answer to that. I leave my attempts to chance, and sometimes I pre-plan them, so I can do everything I need to do, for example, tidy my room, write up a note, you know; the usual things before any suicide attempt.

I've tried on several occasions, many times I've remained in hospital stuck to a drip for two days, others, I haven't told anyone about. I could go on telling you guys all about my attempts, but what would that point in that be? It would leave me to over thinking, wondering what it is with every attempt that is keeping me from failing. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough? Taking enough pills? Or maybe 'gods' just decided it's not my time just yet.

My last attempt (in which I told someone about), left me under Section 2 of the mental health act 1983. This wasn't the first time I'd been on section however, I had previously also been placed under a 136, which is where they had taken me to a safe environment as they thought I was at risk to myself. I can't remember much of that night however, it was during a friends birthday, I probably ruined the whole night for her, gosh knows why she came to see me in hospital that night. I didn't deserve any form of kindness. I was on constant watch by two police officers at all times, while they waited to find me a bed in a 136 suite. The police can use section 136 of the Mental Health Act to take you to a place of safety when you are in a public place. They can do this if they think you have a mental illness and are in need of care.

It didn't feel like 'care' however, I was left on a hospital bed with hand cuffs and at times restrained. It felt like abuse. A place of safety while under section 136 can be a hospital, or a police station, I guess I was lucky that I was taken to a hospital until they found be a spare room in a 136 suite, rather than the police station. As they assumed I had something wrong with me, I don't know what gave them that idea. They found I had high lactate levels, and acid in my blood, acid you'd only find in an unconscious person.

An individual can be kept under this section for 72 hours (Three days) During this time, mental health professionals can arrange a Mental Health Act assessment for you. This will look at if you
need to be in hospital because of your mental health or not. After being assessed, you might be sectioned using the Mental Health Act, or nothing further might happen and you could be free
to leave. I guess you could say I was lucky, I was free to leave. With the thought of getting support put in place. It didn't happen soon enough though.

I planned on attempting late January, however, I ended up going into hospital on the 4th after a serious over dose on a variety of pain killers, including paracetamol, which left untreated could have killed me. My response to that was obviously that's what I wanted, that was the initial plan when attempting. It left me in agony to the point I was puking blood. But the pain felt wonderful. I was left in hospital for two days, and always had two people with me. (Just encase I decided to do something else, or make a runner). After being in hospital, I was later taken to a private psych hospital in Darlington, which was two hours from York (Where I'm currently living whilst studying) but four hours away from my home, home.

Despite it being 4 hours away from home, as it was private, and not linked with the NHS, we had TV's in our rooms, double beds, that were actually comfy, and the TV didn't need to be hidden behind a box, and the remote control was always at hand, and we didn't have a curfew it had that homely environment. That's not me saying Psych hospitals are lovely to be in, I was on constant supervision, as I was seen at being a risk to myself, I couldn't even go to the shower alone, or go for a pee alone.

Which made things rather difficult, and embarrassing, I could never shower properly, and avoided going to the washroom unless I was desperate, but I became close to the people around me, even though I got along with the males more than I did with the females, I guess it was an advantage to being the youngest on the ward. However, on several occasions I was restrained. They often locked my room so I couldn't get into it, as I was seen as being a risk to myself, so I had to stay downstairs, the didn't stop me from being reckless. Harming myself, putting others in danger, etc.

I was told I had emotionally unstable personality disorder (Borderline personality disorder).

I was later removed to a hospital closer to home, a lot closer!! My parents visited me almost everyday, and the thought of then visiting me overwhelmed me, and stressed me out. I once hid a fork just so I didn't have to see them. They didn't really help much, they often left me feeling guilty, and shed me with negative light.

As I was the only female on the ward, so I was left on 1-2-1 watch, I was used to it by now. As this hospital was run by the NHS, We had no control over heating, we didn't have much in our rooms, it was a lot worst than a general NHS hospital, and you know when you watch those horror movies left in a Psych hospital, it felt like that. The remote control was left in the office, and the TV was behind a wooden screen so nobody could break it. And the there was hardly any color, anywhere, we were trapped inside a building. We couldn't even go out for a fag, let alone do anything else. It was the Picu ward, (Psychiatric intensive care unit) - This is where the more dangerous people would go, I was placed on this unit, as they thought I had a blade on me. (Which I did).

They only found the blade after tearing my room apart, and strip searching me, they threatened to keep me in my PJ's unless I handed the blade over, and despite being strip searched, they still never managed to get it, I chose to hand it in, in the end, as I didn't want to walk around in my PJ's all day now, did I??! It was absolutely freezing. I was removed to a room with no en-suite bathroom, and was pretty much 4 walls in a almost perfectly square room, I wasn't aloud to keep anything in that room, not even my own cloths, like other patients were. All there was, was a mattress. with a few sheets on.

Throughout this blog, I am going to write up entries in my journal that I had written while in hospital, so keep reading #LifeUnderSectionTwo  as well as other things, and also aspects of University too.