M.E Awareness Week: Day 4.

TRIGGER WARNING: Please be advised that this post contains explicit details of how & why I attempted suicide. If you are affected by issues surrounding mental health, please refer to mind.org.uk for help.

From Bad To Worse.

By now mum had become very ill, but over the period of the summer, her asthma was not too troubling. Her overactive thyroid still caused issues, and fluctuated. She often felt tired and sick, but with the care of our good GP, and the endocrinologist, she seemed to be as healthy as possible under the circumstances.

Mum was always very determined to get through illness, and carry on as normal. Even when she was feeling really bad she would get out of bed and continue with the housework. This encouraged and inspired me to do the same whenever it was possible. She was the rock at the centre of our family, who supported and cared for us through the bad times as well as the good. She kept the peace during family rows, and supported me through my friends’ rejection.

Being left alone so suddenly had caused a lot of pain, and the sadness did not ease as the summer passed. In fact, the longer the silence went on, the worse I felt. I yearned for teenage company, face to face, as I had no brothers or sisters. I had AYME, but it was harder to type a message about it than talk freely.

***

At the end of June, I was given an appointment to go and see CAMHS. There, I met a psychiatric nurse and a social worker, who interviewed both me and my parents about the depression.

I explained my situation; that my depression was prominent but stable. I asked for some help controlling it and potentially overcoming it, as beating depression is virtually impossible to do without some form of support. In times of sheer desperation all I could think about was that I wanted the pain and the misery to end that very instant and never come back. It was impossible; the only way out was death. Suicide. I didn’t want it to come to that, but the thought kept haunting me. I didn’t mention this because it seemed silly and pathetic. I told CAMHS about how I felt like a failure, how I was angry about being ill, and how I blamed myself for my mums’ illness. My reasoning was that if I hadn’t fallen ill, and listened to doctors’ instructions, then the stress of looking after me would have saved mum from illness. I left out the part about my friendship situation; I wasn’t comfortable to talk about that. It was still too painful to me.

My parents stayed in the room with me, and were asked about my school and social life, what our home life was like, my behaviour patterns, and possible triggers.

At the end of the session, it was agreed that I should start a therapy commonly used for M.E patients called C.B.T (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy). It looked at thought patterns, and how they tied in with behaviour and emotions. It addressed the issues faced with depression, and aimed to get the patient thinking clearly, logically, and positively. It appeared to be a very good idea.

It was too good to be true. I was placed on the waiting list to receive C.B.T, and waited several months to hear anything at all. Once we did hear something, appointments kept getting cancelled, for lame excuses. It looked like I would never get the C.B.T after all.

There was a more present concern, however, and this preoccupied my mind for the rest of the summer.

The depression wasn’t as stable as I thought it was. I would break down in tears for no apparent reason, without even the tiniest trigger. I would become suddenly very angry and was easily irritated beyond control. I felt permanently useless, worthless, lonely, unwanted, angry, confused, hurt, sad, and downright miserable. I hated myself, and began to punish myself. I would scratch into my wrist with my fingernails and keys, drawing blood and leaving permanent scars. I managed to hide this from my parents by hiding the scar under my watch, a bracelet, or a long sleeve.

I spoke to others on AYME, and although they gave me a little boost, I would soon go back to feeling depressed again. I was trapped in a haunting reality with no escape. It was far too real to hide from, and it was far too strange and embarrassing to talk to people about. I kept my feelings clutched to my chest, where no one could see them, and use them against me. Depression is stereotyped and mocked at by teenagers and young adults. It is laughed off. Yet, for those that have it, it is no laughing matter.

Rock Bottom.

It was a mild and sunny day in July when it happened. I had been feeling particularly low for about two weeks, and the constant misery was taking its toll. I had heard nothing from CAMHS about the course of CBT, and I was still suffering the cold shoulder from my friends.

I was desperately lonely because of this. My estate contained very few teenagers, and those that did live there didn’t know me. I couldn’t even get out for a walk around the park. Loneliness leads to a dreadful, empty boredom that seems to stretch on forever. I began to brood again, and couldn’t stop thinking about the meningitis and the M.E. It didn’t seem fair. The poor treatment at school, mum’s illness, the silence from CAMHS, and my friend’s rejection ate away at me. I couldn’t see a possible way out, and felt cornered.

I remained uncommunicative about my thoughts. I thought that they were shameful, and that if I kept them to myself they would eventually go. Instead, they plagued me on a more regular basis. My parents didn’t know the way I felt, neither did CAMHS, or anyone else for that matter. I even kept it quiet from AYME.

All I could think of was how I wanted this journey to be over and done with. I wanted it to be behind me and forgotten. I was always one for a challenge, but this was too much. I was in too deep this time. The pain, grief, anger, confusion, misery, torment, and darkness was with me all the time, even during sleep. My dreams were sad, and full of friends’ faces- friends I no longer had. When I woke the pain was as fresh and prominent as ever.

I was sat in my room, as usual. There was some music playing in the background, but I wasn’t really paying it any attention. I was picking at the scar on my wrist, brooding, when the thought came to me. There was a way out. It wasn’t pleasant, and it would be regarded cowardly by some, but what did it even matter anymore. The thought was of suicide.

I wasn’t overcome with a tidal wave of emotion. There was no guilt, pain that it had come to this, or even misery that this was how it had to end. I felt numb. Being numb was sweet relief after all my confused emotions, and it was wonderful to feel so calm and tranquil. If anything, the only thing I did feel was hope for escape. The answer to my problems had been provided for me in one, glorious brainwave.

I ambled down to the kitchen, trying to look as aimless and inconspicuous as normal. I didn’t waste the time to write out a note; not when the end was so close. I pulled a glass out of the kitchen cupboard, and filled it with water. Then, I reached into the cupboard, and got the tablets. I wanted to do it this way because I would fall asleep, and my body would just forget to wake up. I would slip away quietly, in a warm haze of drugs.

Mum knew something was up. There was an atmosphere of calm that was unusual, and also an air of determination, something I had been lacking for a long time. She came through to the kitchen, and before the first pill had even reached my mouth, the packet had been wrenched from my hand, and the water was falling down the drain.

I tried to fight back, but all of a sudden I couldn’t seem to find my motivation or enthusiasm. I was back to the dark, lost way of life. Instead, I crumpled up into a heap, and cried. They were tears that had been held in for years. They were tears of frustration, and anger, and pain. They had been bottled up for years.

As I sat there and cried, mum phoned the CAMHS office for help, but apparently there was nobody in and help was refused. I was beyond caring. I was such a failure that I couldn’t even carry out suicide, and I didn’t want some nurse questioning me about it.

It would be a long and tiring haul. It would be endless hard work. However, I had to beat the depression. I couldn’t give in to it now. Billions of people suffer illness, deaths of friends and family, famine, poverty, war, abuse and much more besides, and they all pushed through it.

So I would too.

I would need support, love, care, and trust, but I would get there. It would just take time.

Author: diaryofadisabledperson

My multi-award-winning blog discusses what life is like as a disabled bisexual woman. I have a 1st class honours degree in nutrition from the University of Leeds where I now work in medical research, something which has been very difficult when I have had a chronic illness for many years. Outside of work I have a passion for wrestling, rock music, and the MCU. You can find me on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram simply by searching diaryofadisabledperson.

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