1st Class Honours In Plotting Your Own Demise.

THIS MAY BE TRIGGERING.

We just received our results for the 2nd essay of Branch, Bio-psychosocial Interventions, Unit 2. I got 68%, which should be making me happy. I have more than proved myself capable of completing the degree, in an academic sense at least.

However, the current placement isn't going well. To be frank, it isn't going anywhere. I'm low. I havn't been to placement since the first week, when I managed just 2 days. I can't think, make decisions, concentrate. I'm sleeping 14 hours out of 24, and despite trying to force myself out of bed every morning this week I'm sleeping though the alam, or simply to tired to be of any use.

I'm reconsidering my career, and looking at working part-time if or when I qualify. Maybe I can work for Mind, Rethink, or a similar organisation. I don't think I am going to maintain my health well enough to work on a ward or in a community setting.

That's bullshit. I was reconsidering my career. Right now I'm considering dying. I am still being plagued by suicidal thoughts, and they are becoming increasingly worse. My mind is plotting to kill me, even though I try to smother the thoughts, divert my attention. I find myself thinking of suicide every time my boyfriend leaves the house, wondering if I have enough time. Enough time to make a proper job of it, not get found vomiting or swallowing handfuls of pills. I wonder which to take first, whether I should throw in a bottle of vodka or a few packets of paracetemol to help things along. Maybe I could try and get my hands on some anti-vomiting stuff, to stop me chucking the lot back up.

Maybe I would get half-way through taking them, and have to phone for help, mortified and disgusted at myself. Would I be disgusted at myself for taking them or for not finishing the job? To be honest I am not quite sure.

Stop Telling Me I "Look Well"

I don't feel well.

*** WARNING - TRIGGERS ***
I feel numb and overwhelmed, all at once, and I want to stop thinking about my medication. I want to stop adding it up.

A 40 year old man, with non-insulin dependant diabetes, and no other health conditions took 19g of Venlafaxine. He did not ingest any other medications or alcohol, and within 9hours it proved fatal.
He weighed 106kg.
I weigh around 55kg... so I should, technically, need only half that dose.

I have purposely not collected the 24 x 75mg tablets that the pharmacy had to order. However, I reckon I still have in the region of 8g.
And some fluoxetine.
And 20-something Citalopram.
And about 30 ibuprofen, just for luck.

This is spinning round and round in my head until I want to bang it repeatedly against a wall. I self-harmed, superficially, last week. The first time in a very long time. I used the vegetable knife, it wouldn't go through the skin initially so I used the tip to open up a small wound and then sawed at it until I could think again. Six small cuts, on my calf.

I keep thinking about my boyfriend's Stanley knife. I only found out he had it the other day - he was talking to a friend about using it for cutting the griptape on a skateboard, and now I know it is in the flat, and I have a pretty good idea where it is. I want it.

I don't know if I want to die. I just want all the shit to stop. I want to feel normal, not like I'm trying to speak to people through several feet of ... something... like a thick, jelly-like substance, a barrier between me and the world.

It could be so much worse... and that just makes me want to face the world even less.

Neurotic And Agitated.

I have a diagnosis of Severe Depressive Illness [apparently!].
Unfortunately, a diagnosis doesn't come about in one session or meeting. Originally it was an "Adjustment Disorder", but sometimes it takes time to assess an illness. My psychiatrist and various GP's have written a whole variety of different things on assessments and sick notes.

Personally, I'm pretty neurotic about BPAD. I have a strong family history of BPAD on my maternal Grandfather's side, and depression on my Father's. I didn't know any of this until after my 4th depressive episode [except about my Grandad, that was after my 2nd], so I do not count myself as "self fulfilling prophecy" in terms of Depression at least.

I do worry about BPAD, purposely inform my Doctor of the family history as I know some medications have a greater likelihood of triggering a manic episode, and I do worry more now because most of my BPAD family members had their first manic episode in their late teens/early twenties [I'm 19].

Sometimes, I hate being more like my Grandad. His siblings had a diagnosis of BPAD and in terms of medications etc were managed relatively "consistently".

My Grandad was the least understood, I still don't know his official diagnosis as they just weren't sure. I suppose the closest they came to it was again, Severe Depressive Illness. Cue a long stream of anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, good old Lithium and countless other treatments. Chuck in a load of inpatient admissions and you'd think they'd have an answer by now.

I know that if I became full blown manic, I would probably be unable to see anything wrong. I'd be in complete denial. It's a mixed state that I'm more concerned about.
My Grandad' siblings have an alarming habit of what I presume to be mixed states. Either that, or they like blood when they are high as a kite. There's a lot of slashy-slashy going on just when they seem to be out of the Depression. The mood lifts, you think they're fine, then you find out Aunty-So-and-So is back on life support or has giving herself some interesting arm decorations.

Grandad himself... A mystery and yet the person who understood me best? I don't know. He would be so low for so long, then be irritable, argumentative, then decide we had to go to the Millennium Dome. Again. Suddenly this need to go to a museum, where he'd refuse the wheelchair until he couldn't walk any further, which usually meant he would use it like a Zimmer frame whilst pushing me around in it. Art galleries, where he would get so excited.

Yet, somehow, he was never as manic as, well, manic. He seemed to gain this "zest for life", but I don't know if that was part of his personality or his illness, because by the time I arrived he had been ill for many years.

Then, one day, he took to his bed and stayed there for 8 months. I couldn't bear to see him like that, partly because of my family's reaction to it, and partly because I would do the same thing when depressed. My Nan went out for an hour to get some shopping, and he took every prescription medication in the house.

They wouldn't let me see him. My Nan said he wouldn't have known I was there, "better to remember him how he was". I regret that so much. Two long weeks of tremors, fits, coma... Then he died.

I'm 19, I'm on my 3rd antidepressant, I'm messing up my life and all I want to do is stand at the weekend of Walton Pier where the lifeguards scattered Grandad's ashes, and cry and cry and scream and cry. I want all the pain and anger to wash away with the tide, and if it doesn't then I might as well throw myself of the f*cking pier rather than struggle for another 55 years before topping myself in a similar fashion.

That Brick Wall.

I feel like I've run head first into a solid wall. Like I've pushed and pushed and then BAM!

This is going to be poorly written, but I'm not very "with it" right now.
I went to work yesterday, first time I've gone since Tuesday. And today? I'm back in bed.

I haven't bathed, washed my hair or cooked in over a week.
My laundry bin is overflowing, my guinea pigs are quite frankly being neglected, and I'm living off the occasional forced down bowl of cereal.

Welcome to my world, eh?
So, next time my Connexions PA asks me, how does my illness affect my everyday life, well, I think I'll direct her straight to this post.

I have a splitting headache, I'm dehydrated but that means I have to get out of bed less to use the toilet, so I don't care, and I'm repulsive.

I want to die quietly and apologetically, because this existence isn't helping anyone.

Things I Love

I love grass. I love the sky. I love forests, with gnarled trees, the forest floor mottled by the sun shining through the leaves. I love the branches reaching out to touch me, because I am me.

I went to where I used to live, and stayed with a friend of my mum's. We were throwing a party for another friend, and I just got home. I was waiting for the bus near my old house and the forest was just calling out to me. I can't resist nature. It takes my breath away that in the outskirts of London there is this place that is so beautiful. I used to skip lessons and go there to get lost. To lose the world, the worries. To lose myself. I lay there in the grass and for those moments the world was beautiful again and I was so overwhelmed.

My eating is becoming a real problem. I told my mum, she doesn't understand. I don't understand. Telling me I have to eat, my body needs food, stop cutting yourself, why do you do these things, don't do anything stupid.

My grandad commited suicide two years ago. I love my grandad. I think he understood me better then anyone else. I was so angry when he died. How could he leave me to face this all alone, I needed him.

I don't think I would kill myself. I keep myself grounded enough. What would happen to my guinea pigs? They need me. There. One reason to keep going.

This is a really bad blog. I have another bad hangover, and I really shouldn't be drinking on my medication. But I had to tell someone about the grass, the sky and how the world is beautiful.