MY LIFE AS A BASKET CASE; MENTAL ILLNESS & THE WORST THING I EVER DID

I've been putting this off all week. Well, to be honest, I've been putting this off since I've started writing this blog. I've been treating this blog a little bit like a therapist; I just unload whatever I'm thinking and try and get things clear in my head. I'm not spiritual, I don't believe there's a will to the universe, or genuine karma, balance or justice. That said, we're all the stars of our own little stories, and from our perspective the events we experience are all connected purely because they all happened to us. So whenever life deals me a bad hand, and I crash the company van, or get taken to hospital with swollen, infected legs, or wake up to find ants crawling over me, there's always a voice in my head going "Well, there was that one time you fucked your entire life up. Maybe you deserve this."

Now that I've written this fucking thing, it occurs to me that people I like read this blog, and that friends I make in the future may read this too. I hope that the actions I write about here don't literally repulse you away from me, and that you can appreciate I am a different person now than I was over a decade ago. Maybe don't read this if you don't want to see me at my worst!

Before I get to that, I owe my friend Julie an apology. I didn't proof read my last post before submitting it and did not express myself as well as I am able. The story I last posted was the first one I ever wrote specifically for her, not intended as a comment to her blog. I talk to Julie and about Julie in a manner unique to her; it took a little pushing by her to get me comfortable referring to her using language that is derogatory or misogynist. It's language Julie uses to describe herself; I recall her referring to herself as "Queen Slut" in the comments of a recent post. Obviously language is a tricky thing and intent is everything; if a third party seriously called her that I would be most unhappy. If her husband called her that whilst she was blowing him I'd be most entertained.

Communicating with and about Julie is tricky; I know if I write about her here she'll read it, but this is essentially a public place. Writing on her comments page can be tricky; Julie almost responds to comments as if she is two different characters, with Strict Julie responding to comments on posts where she's mainly a domme, and Sub Julie responding to comments where she's mostly a femsub. Obviously there's a little blurring of the lines, but she'll let readers get away with more on comments to some posts than on others. Plus she can be very coarse and derogatory in the way she describes herself; it's something that Miss Chris picked her up on when visiting for the first time. Of course, she obviously has a role to fulfil herself. Obviously e-mailing Julie directly is when I can be the most honest or the most fake, writing something that will titillate her without worrying about how a third party will react. There are other times when I'll start to write her an e-mail but realise she'll get more of a kick discovering my words here and wondering who else has read them, or in the comments of her blog where her fans will appreciate them and join in the fun. It can be a little complicated!

In my last post I listed a bunch of terms I've used to excite her since she's given me the go ahead to talk dirty. I wasn't trying to offend, but when she quoted my own words back to me it's clear that listing such harsh, derogatory terms without context was an unkind thing to do. Furthermore, I realised my words could be interpreted to mean that I no longer care for her, which I hope is self-evidently untrue. I care for her a great deal. I just know she'd rather be shamed and humiliated a little rather than being treated like she might break. I sincerely apologise.

Who doesn't want a five foot tall cuddly reminder of every fuck up?

So, on to the main show. (THINGS GET VERY BLEAK FROM THIS POINT IN!) I've always had a hard time telling my parents (mainly my mother, Dad's never as invested as she is) that I'm not interested in going after a given opportunity. I guess I was always scared of being seen as ungrateful, or of rocking the boat, or maybe I just knew that I'd end up doing whatever Mum wanted eventually, so why bother with the arguing and the guilt? I knew these were opportunities that other kids didn't have, so I felt bad turning them down. Stuff like joining Mensa, the French exchange program, taking GCSE electronics instead of food technology (I thought cooking would be the more useful skill, but my parents and the school thought electronics would help with my stated career goal of "something using a computer!") and staying with the Scouts long after I started hating it (as I mentioned before, it was a little like being an extra in a Mad Max film once a week!).

I went to University without a real career trajectory in mind; a huge mistake. I signed up for a Combined Studies degree that allowed a huge amount of flexibility. You started off studying three subjects, but you could study more or less of each one and come away with a full degree in one subject, a twin degree, a master/minor... It was great for someone who didn't know what they wanted to do with their life but had always been expected to go to university by their family and teachers. I took Philosophy, which I loved but saw no future in, Management Science, which I found really easy, and Business Studies, figuring that would give me plenty of options. In the second year I dropped Business. I was doing very well in the other two subjects and was enjoying them more too.

The Combined Studies program allowed for a year studying abroad. The university had ties with a bunch of other colleges and universities around the world, including some in Canada. I don't know what had sparked my interest in The Great White North, but I'd mentioned it as somewhere I'd like to visit when I was a teenager, and so my parents thought I should seize the opportunity. I never bothered applying; studying abroad basically meant taking first-year classes, and none of what you did would contribute to your final grade. It seemed like a waste of time.

Well, my mother badgered me, and then the University, who told me there was just enough time to apply. I ended up applying to study Philosophy in Montreal.

My parents bought me a ticket out there way before classes started, the idea being that I could suss out the city, rent the very best accommodation and apply for the pick of student jobs, should I be inclined to do so. The jobs were a no-go, my Visa would only allow me to work for the university, and although the university was English speaking all the jobs basically expected you to be fluent in French. My visas hadn't been fully cleared by the time my plane ticket was due, and I flew out only to be turned away at the Canadian border. I asked if I could stay as a tourist, have my visas sent to me and then re-enter the country, and was told no. They couldn't understand why I was in the country a month before classes started. They let me phone my parents and then I took the next flight home.

This was the one time I told my parents I really didn't think studying abroad made sense; that I'd rather finish my degree with the classmates I knew and get on with finding a career. My feelings were basically chalked up to feeling tired and shaken up, and were roundly ignored.

When I did fly out again I was in a pretty bad headspace. I spent the first day in my hotel rewatching the first season of NBC's Heroes on my laptop. I took a room in the first apartment I visited, lucking out that it was directly opposite a metro station. My flatmates were two Asian international students and a Canadian lad who had his own social group and, though he was nice enough, never really clicked with me. I couldn't name any of them now for a thousand bucks.I

I felt like a real loner during lectures too, and just didn't know how to connect to anyone. There was no central campus, student bar or blocks of student housing; I was at a total loss. One of my lectures was on a Monday night, something like 18:00 to 22:00. The course was sold as Applied Ethics, the course I was most looking forward to, but it was taught by the Professor of Sexual Ethics and he would view every moral problem through that filter. He'd show us weird videos that made me uncomfortable. It didn't take long for me to start skipping his lectures, and then ditching his class entirely.

My parents and brother came to visit me at Christmas. I showed them what I'd seen of the city, then we went to Niagara Falls for New Year's Eve and spent a few days in Toronto. My grandfather died whilst we were in Montreal. It was devastating. I remember processing it badly; I fainted a couple of days later in a food court in Toronto! It was like my brain was fighting the news.

My parents said they'd pay for me to fly back for the funeral service and then fly back again. Looking back I should obviously have flown home and stayed there, maybe getting a part time job as I was basically broke. But I didn't want to let my parents down, and couldn't really justify them spending all that money on me, so I went back to Montreal when they flew home.

There were no repercussions from ditching Applied Ethics, and I couldn't afford to buy a metro card to attend the first couple of weeks of classes until that semester's student loan came through; although my year was split into two my loan was paid in three instalments as if I were still in the UK. Nobody cared that I missed those classes, so I decided not to bother with any more. Instead I would wander the streets, climb Mont Royal, visit the cinema for cheap on a Tuesday or watch TV and movies on my laptop.

When I came home I had to process Gramps not being there all over again. It was like it was new to me whilst everyone else had gotten used to it. I remember coming back from a day out with my parents somewhere and they casually stopped off at the cemetery to show me his gravestone.

I had to scrape the bottom of the barrel finding accommodation for my fourth and final year; student accommodation was mostly snapped up by first years in January. I ended up in a tiny room on the top floor of a split level house. My housemates were all international students. One of them was a Nigerian who ran up a massive electricity bill keeping his room hot with a space heater, and whose wife and baby moved in with him part way through the year.

When I went to register for classes at the beginning of the year there was some sort of computer error; and it broke me. Rather than doing the sensible thing and phoning the school, or venturing on to campus to see what the problem was, I just kept trying and failing to register. I couldn't stand being rejected again, so rather than finding out whether it was a computer error of whether I was genuinely unwanted I chose inaction. I convinced myself I could make up for the lessons I missed, until one week it became obvious that I'd missed to many classes and I told myself there was nothing I could do at that point anyhow.

Somebody called me on to campus in November and I let on a little of what had been going on. I was told there had been a computer error, and was told I could sit classes in the new year. I was asked if I was seeing a counsellor. I wasn't, and genuinely didn't see that I needed one. I thought I was wasting her time, and that she'd be too busy with date rape victims or domestic violence casualties to deal with me! I started attending weekly counselling sessions and taking citalopram.

When I went home for Christmas I told my parents I was taking medication for anxiety and depression, but not the rest of it. I got the sense they didn't approve of me taking the drugs, but tolerated it nonetheless. Lying in such a horrible fashion was terrible, but not the worst thing I ever did. (THINGS ONLY GET WORSE FROM HERE! DEPICTIONS OF SELF HARM LAY AHEAD!)

I can't remember how I justified not re-joining classes in the new year to myself; it was pure cowardice. I remember truly hating myself. I got it into my head that I should cut off a hand, whether out of penance, or self-loathing, or a dramatic bid for change I don't know! I remember drinking a lot of vodka, something that was very out of character for me at the time, and trying to sever my arm about six inches above my wrist. I figured that would look more like an accident. I went down to the kitchen early in the morning, got out my wok and the ingredients for an omelette, started chopping an onion and then went to work on my arm. Well, it turns out that cutting your hand off with a kitchen knife is harder than it sounds! I spent about forty five minutes cutting into my flesh, nearly all the way around the arm and fairly deep, but as the sun came up it was clear I was never going to make it. I called an ambulance and my parents, telling them I had cut myself cooking but not to worry. The paramedics came and took me to hospital where I got stitched up and was seen by a psychiatrist. The ambulance crew said they were going to leave a note for my housemates, but they didn't, and they told the landlord they thought I'd been abducted! The floor was covered in blood and they had to pay specialists to clean it up. Still not the worst thing I ever did!

I went home for Easter break with my arm bandaged. I had stitches taken out at my local doctor's, and eventually my dad saw the scar. It nearly wraps around my arm and is slightly forked at the end, there's no real way it could have been done by accident. Dad asked me point blank if I'd cut myself on purpose and I lied to his face. It felt bad, but I hated myself and my actions all day every day as it was, what was another drop in the bucket?

I went back to my tiny room for a few more weeks and eventually ended up attacking myself all over with a kitchen knife. I cut my arms, legs, torso and face, just about anywhere I could leave a mark. I still have a bunch of scars, mainly on my left arm and my legs. I didn't do any permanent damage to my face. I wasn't trying to kill myself, I don't think I had a specific goal in mind, it just felt good to hurt myself and to have evidence I couldn't hide that my insides were as broken as my flesh. Still not the worst thing I ever did!

I left the house early, got breakfast at Burger King and then went to the student medical centre. Everyone I encountered either made a point not to look at me or stared at me like the monster I was. There was a weird power to it.

My wounds were treated and my parents were called. They sorted things with my landlord and asked me when my end of year exams were; I finally came clean and they took me back home. I basically his inside until my wounds healed. I came off my head meds cold turkey after building up from 10mg to 20, 30 and finally 40mg in the space of a few months. Mum was worried that if I took them people would talk. My brother had been planning on studying Media Studies at the university closest to our house so he could hang on to his weekend job and his girlfriend. I wonder if I had had a better time away from home he'd have spread his wings a little. I doubt it, he never really cares what I did and was always keen to distance himself from me. If I'd stayed at home he'd probably have applied to study in Azerbaijan.

The worst thing I ever did was to do the exact same thing the following academic year. My parents had convinced the university to find me a place to live on campus and visited me every couple of months or so. I was so scared of failing or not fitting in or whatever that I had again failed to sign up for classes and lived out the rest of the year on campus as if I were a regular student, but all the time I was empty inside. Being around other students led me to start drinking again with a new found zest for the liquor; whilst other students used the stuff as a social lubricant and occasionally overdid it, I found that vodka was excellent at making my inner pain go away.

I was home for a few weeks at the end of the year before telling my parents I wouldn't be graduating. I told them I'd failed a Philosophy module and would have to take another to graduate. They didn't believe I could flunk a class and said they'd call the university the next day to find out what was happening. Then Dad asked me flat out of I'd done the same thing again and I admitted I had. They took the opportunity to ask me directly if may brother's girlfriend was pregnant, and I told them the truth about that as well. My brother despised me for years because of this.

It was only this year that I realised I probably hold some kind of slacker record, I'd dossed off for two and a half straight years, studying for a degree that could be finished in three! My friend Julie asked me early on if I'd gone down in disgrace or crashed and burned, I think a fiery car wreck would have been easier for everybody than my slow but determined crawl over the edge of a crevasse.

I had to phone a bunch of relatives and tell them I wouldn't be graduating. Both parents were angry and disappointed, though Dad immediately accepted it as something he'd never understand whilst Mum took it as a personal insult, like she'd failed to raise a normal, undamaged son. Neither parent really trusted me again. I think it took me becoming bedbound to put everything in perspective; nothing else I did was ever enough to make up for that betrayal. It took months before my mum would really talk to me again. Things got better when I found a job, and then after Christmas. When I upgraded to a better job I saved enough money to take a holiday, it was the happiest time of my life! After booking the holiday Mum started charging me rent, something they never asked my brother to do, saying he needed the money for his car and his girlfriend. If I hadn't been paying rent I might have been able to afford a car rather than taking four buses a day to get to my job and back! My parents ended up going on a cruise twice a year, a practice that stopped when I finally moved out and rented my own flat instead.

When I wasn't able to pay rent on the flat my mental health fell in a big way and I tried to kill myself. It got better as my situation improved, but is still not great!

My mental health was very, very good when I started this blog; I'd started reaching out to people and being creative. I had the double fortune of duloxetine kicking in and receiving two pieces of good news that allowed me to view my past through a new lens. It's been getting worse since I was denied help from the local mental health team and especially bad since last week, when I had the dual horrors of my grandfather going to hospital and my bed, desk and laptop being invaded by ants. All I did yesterday was sleep and watch one episode of The Handmaid's Tale, broken into three parts, watched during meal times. I saw my GP on Wednesday and she's going to increase my duloxetine and re-refer me to the mental health team.

I don't know what I hope to achieve by telling you all of this, but now you truly know me better than just about anyone. There's nobody in my real life who has seen every side of me, the way you have if you've read every blog post. I think there's value in that. This hasn't been an easy or enjoyable write, and I can't imagine it was much fun to read! So thank you for making it this far.

If you find yourself in similar circumstances, reach for help and be honest with the ones you love. I wish I had. If you have questions for me then leave a comment or e-mail me, I promise to give an honest answer.

Peace!

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