then - it’s just an illness: part 2

i watched a dvd where a girl tried to kill herself with a pink lady bic razor - just a fairly mainstream flick that delved into that in a small way.

but that’s how i cut myself the first time. it must have been in about 1998/99.

it’s a strange thing to do - harm yourself by choice, but then again perhaps at some point we all do that somehow. working in a job you hate. staying in a relatiohip that eats away at you. eating the wrong foods. drinking too much, taking drugs. not exercising. spending time with the wrong people - these are all forms of self-harm.

but actually cutting yourself - drawing blood - is taking it to a new level i suppose. i mostly did it on my arms and wrists. once on my face, near the cheekbone, and then i told mum i’d tripped and hit my head. of course i wanted her to see, to notice, to question what was going on. it’s so cliched - i was crying out for help.

so why did i do it? it provided relief. it was like a pressure valve for all those emotions caught up in me that i couldn’t get out. i’d be screaming inside - hurt, angry, anxious, frustrated - and cutting let it all go. phwwwooosh.

i didn’t have the skills, ability or confidence to talk to anyone about this until later, when things deteriorated.

when i was 19 i was finally able to move out of home. i guess i could have done it earlier - on my own. but i felt that being at uni prohibited that, if i’d been more independent than perhaps i could have found a way. which is funny because i always thought i was really independent. so maybe it came down to not being headstrong or confident enough, rather than not independent enough.

either way, i had a unit near the city and soon i got a flatmate, a girl from victoria who was lovely and a great flatmate but who i don’t see or speak with anymore - another victim of the depression, so to speak.

it was great to be in town. i felt a bit more independent to my family - i was going out and kissing boys and making bad decisions. i was also working hard and studying, spending money, spending time with friends.

and i was also pretty miserable.

i thought it was my fault that i felt like that. i thought that i was lacking something. i felt inadequate.

i was working a fair bit - starting at about 4am then working til 9am or 11am, or sometimes 1pm in job #1, some days i then nannied until 4pm and a couple of times I then worked at job #3 until 9pm. and i had uni too. i’m sure that didn’t help. that was on extreme days though - other times i would work at job #1 then go to uni, or go shopping, or meet up with friends.

the cutting continued. and then the panic attacks started. but that might have to be another post for another time.

to be cont…

now - a letter

A letter - sorting things out. I just hope I can now believe in the things I have written here. Do I believe them? Yes.

So, why am I still scared to live like I do?

Dearest xxxx,

This may be the end, or the beginning - who knows? What I do know is that I want to sort some things out - possibly for that strange term ‘closure’ more than anything else.

 I have started writing a blog - to unlock some memories and work through some thoughts. It’s just a way to write things down and try and figure out a bit more about myself. It’s anonymous but Darcy knows about it.

 I have written an entry on that horrible day in 2001 when I was coming off my meds and yelled and screamed at you and said all those awful things. And I had someone question me about whether I have forgiven myself for that. I know I haven’t - I don’t know that I ever can. It was a terrible, horrible way to behave and I think the shame I have and the fear I feel that that person is lurking inside me somewhere is hard to process, so to speak.

 I thought the other day of our friendship - of how it seems to ebb and flow and of how I seem to regress into that old fearful self a lot when we spend time together. I have been wondering if the friendship can survive all that - I’m not sure it is - but before it just ebbs right away I wanted to…I don’t know….write all this I suppose.

 You know what I would love? To just have a “normal” friendship where we can talk about nothing (curry, wine, books, TV, canasta!) and where it isn’t tainted by my awful behaviour and my illness. I have let that time define and inhibit me - I thought it was over but it isn’t. I can run away or avoid relationships and people or drink wine and vodka but it won’t hide the fact that I have never got over what I did back then, who I hurt. I continue to blame myself - because I’m scared if I blame the illness, if I blame the depression and anxiety, then people will think I’m a cop out.

 But then I’m just letting it win. It was an illness. It wasn’t my fault. I did behave like a complete tool but I did not choose to act that way. I just need to believe that.

 I feel like our lives have always been two spheres - two neighbouring worlds revolving on their own axis. At times they have moved together, at times they have collided and now they seem to be moving apart. Both our lives have taken such different turns since those early days at xxxxxxx.

I am so very sorry for all the ways I have behaved poorly over the years - the times I ran away, the times I spat the dummy, the times I sat silent and sulked. The time I yelled through the window and abused you over the phone. I don’t think I can ever explain how sorry I am for all those times.

But I need to stop wishing they never happened. They did. And I want to now learn from them. I want to stop these voices that tell me I’m not good enough, I’m too this or too that. I need to stand up and say ‘yep, I did have depression and I did have anxiety and that resulted in me making some bad decisions. But it does not make me a bad person.’

I’m now not sure how to finish this - except to write ‘that’s it - that’s what I had to say’.

then - it’s just an illness: part 1

i think it all started at the end of year 12 - the end of life as i knew it. somewhere along the line i started questioning everything. i started wondering why my friends liked me. wondering if they were talking about me behind my back. i started having doubts.

it started small - and i had felt like that before, in year 3 when my best friend turned her back on me for a boy (in year 3!) and again in year 7 when the same thing happened again with a new best friend.

it was that realisation that, actually, you are owed nothing in life. that people are under no obligation to like you, treat you well. that alliances can be broken and friendships discarded.

i was unhappy at home - i guess most teenagers are. and i was so keen to move out. i was torn between wanting to be my own person and leaving Scout. my little Scout was my rock and I was loathe to leave her. but at the same time i was so angry at mum for the way she would expect me to look after her all the time.

i was so angry at mum for returning from overseas - while Girta and i looked after Scout and Fos - and then immediately heading out to lunch with her then boyfriend. i knew Scout had been so excited to see her - and it hurt my heart to see mum come home after being away so long (one week, maybe two?) and then almost immediately turn around and head back out again.

“Well, xxxx wants to see me,” she said, when I complained.

SO DO WE - i felt like screaming.

but i didn’t say that. i just continued to spoil little Scout. i had bought her a pet fish the previous week. held a whole week of celebrations in order to cheer her and Fos up and make sure they didn’t miss mum too much. She was only about 9 or 10 then I think, and I would have been about 17 or 18.

so I wanted to move out. but before i could do that i discovered cutting.

…to be continued

This post has been dedicated to Guilty Secret who, in response to the now-lucky post, asked me about the clinic and my depression.

now - letters of apology

I have been thinking lately that perhaps I should formulate some letters to send to people that were directly affected by my depression and behaviour back in 2000/2001.

The reason behind this was to clear the slate - to apologise to people so I would feel like I can be part of the human race again - rather than a sub-person whose actions and selfish behaviour will always taint me.

As it is I feel like I have a great big sign still painted on my forehead when I am around some people - “WARNING: VOLATILE. HAS BEEN KNOWN TO CRACK. KEEP CLEAR”. These people are those friends and family that I want to be closer to, who I am a bit intimidated by and/or who I look up to.

But then I thought - do I really need to do this? Do I need to bring up the past? Is that courageous or is it just unncessary? If others haven’t got over it, or have questions or want me to explain then shouldn’t they initiate this action?

Shouldn’t I just be over it all by now? Why do I still let it define and inhibit me?

I think I just need to let the past go, to stop letting it define me. I am totally comfortable at home - Darcy, Buzz and Dahl see me as I really am, as I am when I’m not self-consious or worrying what people think. Darcy still loves me despite (because of?) my real self - so why can’t I feel so comfortable when I am around others.

There was a section in a blog I read recently that accurately portrayed the way my mind works in some social situations:

We drank and chatted, then went back to Bess’ place where we drank, ate and chatted more. The voice inside my head was too loud, telling me I was being too this, too that, but I tried not to let it get to me and it was fun.

That voice drives me nuts. It drives Darcy nuts - I recently almost sabotaged a night out because I was so stressed about why we had been invited to this particular dinner, and what I was going to say, what people would think of me, what they already thought of me, who would be there, what would happen, what would Darcy say, what would they think of us as a couple, what would I wear, what would they think of what I was wearing… etc. etc.

Darcy, on the otherhand, just doesn’t seem to think about any of that - I am so envious of that. I hope I can be like that one day - I’m just not sure how to get there.

now - the things kids say

9.30pm - Buzz has just come running into the room

Me: “What are you doing Buzzy, why aren’t you in bed?”

Buzz: “Because I got vomits, I tried to sleep but I got vomits.”

Me: “O oh, do we need to change your sheets, are they dirty?”

Buzz: “No, sheets not dirty. I got vomits in my mouth. I need milk to help wash down vomits.”

So we go get a small spoonful of Mylanta and some water, then…

Buzz: “Mum, I did two farts!”

Me: “Okay Buzz”

Buzz: “Excuse me, pardon”

He’ll be three later this month and I love the way I can have a conversation with him now - even if it is about vomits, or farts.

then - icecream, apple pie, milo and traps

It must be late afternoon but I can’t remember what year - late 80s perhaps?

We’re in the kitchen, I can’t remember exactly who but I’m pretty sure mum, George and Girta are there. We hear the car beeping as it comes up the long, steep drive way, towing the float.

“Dad won!” someone yells. “Woo hoo, icecream after dinner” says someone else, maybe me.

Icecream was allowed on Wednesdays and winning Saturdays. Winning meant such different things to each of us.

——————————————

The fridge door is open and my hand is creeping inside, keeping an ear out for parents potentially coming in from behind me and siblings from the right.

I break off a piece of the apple pie crust and stuff it in my mouth, close the fridge and nonchalantly wander down the hallway towards the kids’ TV room.

Later, George sees the mouse-nibbles off the side of the pie.

“BC, did you eat some pie?” he says.

“NO” I answer, perhaps too forthrightly, like any guilty kid does when questioned.

“Yes, you did, I saw you eat it,” he challenges

“Oh, okay it was me. But I just had a bit of crust,” I whine.

Of course, he never did see me eat it.  Five years extra experience taught him how to get the truth out of me using only his words. He was a great lawyer as a kid. The problem is that I fell for that more than once. I have always been too trusting of people.

———————————————————

George: “BC will you make me a milo?”

Me: “But we’re watching Neighbours…”

George: “Common, you’ll be the best girl in the world.”

Me: pause

George: “You know there’s a girl in Africa who is coming up in second place, she might overtake you.”

I put heaped teaspoonfulls of milo in the cup of milk, just the way he likes it. I adore my big brother.

——————————————————————

But one time I got the better of George. I had something that he wanted, I can’t remember what but it must have been later, around the early 90s. He was in high school and I was in late primary.

He’s been trying to get it from me all day, but I’ve grown up a bit - I’m a bit more thoughtful now, a bit more clued in to his actions.

I know he’s going to come in at night, late, when he knows I am asleep. He has done it before - crawled into my room to scare me while I have been reading:

Me: “I know you’re there George.”

Him: “Aww, how did you know?”

Me: “I just knew. I could just tell.” The truth is there was a shift in the air. It must be the same thing that woke my mum up when I crept into her room at night - I wouldn’t even say anything but she would just wake up, saying “what’s wrong?” That always amazed me - it seemed like such a maternal thing to be able to do. I have a feeling I could have stood by dad’s side of the bed all night and he wouldn’t wake up.

Anyway, this time I set the trap.

Sure enough, I am fast asleep by the time George decides to recover the coveted item. I can imagine him, down on all fours, slowly turning the door handle, imagining the layout of the room, wondering if I am asleep, easing the door open…

PLONK!

Me: “George! I knew you would try and sneak in.”

George, in surprise: “What did you do?”

Me: “I knew you would come in, so I put the softball bat up against the door and then put a lunch box on the floor, so when you opened the door the bat fell over and hit the lunchbox, to wake me up.”

It’s a sweet memory - George looked at me in actual awe. I had outsmarted him. After all those years of his taking advantage (good naturedly) of my trust and faith in him I had turned the tables.

now - cast of characters

I need to start posting some of the good memories I have - so far they have been drab and uninspiring, but that was part of the point I suppose.

In the meantime I am going to formulate a cast of characters - so at least I know what is going on. It could get complicated - my husband and I are both one of five kids. He is the eldest, I’m in the middle.

Immediate family

Darcy/He - so far I have only been referring to my husband as He, but I think he needs a name, so he has now been christened Darcy after the one and only fabulously gorgeous BBC Darcy (Colin Firth).

Buzz - 3 year old son. Fan of Toy Story (hence the name), Spot, Thomas the Tank Engine and old Disney films. Likes books, trains, sport and chocolate.

Dahl - 1 year old son. Loves books and balls. Named after my favourite childhood author, Roald Dahl.

My family

Mum - Retired. Loves travel, good food and wine, friends, shopping and alone time. Lives about 2 hours away.

Dad - Died in 2001. Hard worker, loved motorbikes, cycling, yoga, flying. Had a sweet tooth and a propensity to fart - most embarrasing. Gave great hugs. Generous.

Cardio - my stepmum. Quite a few years younger than Dad. Now has a son a bit younger than Buzz. Lives about 3 hours away.

George - older brother. Extremely hard worker, focussed, goal-orientated and driven. Has a wife, CR, and three children (aged 4, 2 and brand new). Lives about 2 hours away, in same town as mum.

Girta - older sister. Lives overseas with her husband, Hydro, and their 1 year old daughter. Another baby on the way.

Fos - younger brother. Studied archeology but is not sure what he wants to do or where he wants to work. Thinking of studying psychology. Lives about 3 hours away.

Scout - younger sister. At uni studying human movement. Has a boyfriend and a cat. Lives about 3 hours away.

Darcy’s family

MIL/FIL - his parents. Lived overseas for 10 years doing missionary/social work. Now teaching (MIL) and building a school (FIL). They’re both overseas but in seperate countries while FIL builds the school and MIL works in a school to save money.

BIL - Darcy’s brother. Married to Victoria. They live about 6 hours away (3 hours drive, 3 hour flight) but are about to move (still about 5 hours away).

Faith - Darcy’s younger sister. Almost finished uni. Lives in the same city as BIL and shares a house with the twins - Sadie and Andie.

Sadie - Darcy’s younger sister - one of the identical twins. At uni studying to be a nurse. Lives with Faith and Andie.

Andie - Darcy’s younger sister - one of the identical twins. At uni studying teaching. Lives with Faith and Sadie.

then - irrational

2001

once again i am standing by a window. my mind is a hive of frantic thoughts, talks and anger. i watch as the three of them, laughing, prepare to get in the car and drive away. just one door down.

yesterday I said i didn’t want to go because i had a cold. but i am furious. i am spitting mad because they don’t even check to see how i am, to see if i’ve changed my mind.

as they start to drive away i stand on the balcony and i scream…”FUCK YOU”

i pace the room, i scream and cry. i pick up the phone, dial her number and unleash a wild torrent of abuse down the line and into her ear. it is nonsense. it is vicious. it is so totally out of context with the situation.

anyone else would have just let it go, would have called out - ‘hang on guys, i’ve changed my mind, i’m coming out to lunch.’

instead i paced the room, growled, yelled, temper-tantrumed and screamed while He tried to calm me down.

later i apologised. but it was not enough. too little too late. the frienship was tainted.

i can’t understand what i was thinking. what took over my mind? it didn’t make sense. it was totally, unforgiveably, crazily irrational.

in retrospect i think that stopping the anti-depressents cold turkey, without medical support or advice, led to that animal behaviour.

i hope to god that is the case, because i don’t want to believe that person is still inside me. that she could surface once again.

now - lucky

the memories are so dim. no one has ever asked me about it.

i never realised that until i thought about it. no one has ever asked.

www.beyondblue.org.au

Being late faded not long after I got home last night. I completely understand where he is coming from - expecting me home any minute and then I phone to say I am just leaving. Not very thoughtful.

I love my family - I am so lucky. The retrospective posts, name and design may make this blog seem so negative, but I am truly a lucky, happy person.

then - clinic

july 2000

the post-it note on the bedside table next to my bed reads: ‘it’s not your fault. it’s just an illness’. Tori Amos sings Cornflake Girl and the lyrics seep into my head direct from the walkman to a section in my brain that says: this is yours.

the flowers spill out of the room into the hallway. you can smell them before you see them. the smell seeps up the grey hallway before it is lost within the rooms, the people, the space.

the woman i share a room with is overweight with short brown hair. she is sad. i don’t think the flowers help. where are her visitors? mine come daily.

there is the boy who took so many pills, fell asleep thinking ‘this is it, thank god’ and woke up two days later. it wasn’t his first try, and i doubt it was his last. that was the only time a few of us got talking - in the small tv room up the hall from my shared room.

i didn’t attend the sessions. i didn’t know where to start. being there seemed enough. being there made sense.