Aspirations of Inspiration.

When I started this blog as a student, I barely expected anyone to read it. I thought a few of my friends & peers might find it interesting, and I found that writing about my experiences helped me to process them. It wasn’t until some months after starting to write that I even set up social media to support my blog, & it took over a year before I bought a proper web domain, having never expected Diary of a Disabled Person to get beyond its first birthday.

As the weeks turned into months, & the months into years, my words appeared to be having a bigger impact. More people were visiting my blog, & more of them were returning each week for my latest piece. My follower count was climbing, not just on WordPress but on social media too, in particular Twitter. While I am under no delusions of grandeur or infamy (except for the fact that I am undeniably fabulous), it is hard to deny that my influence is growing.

Anyone who knew me at school will know that I was mostly quiet & reclusive, putting up walls before allowing people to get close, & preferring to spend time with my cat than other people. These traits have mellowed but still exist to this day. My loud & brash mannerisms displayed on the internet give the impression that I am an extrovert, but in reality, if I get an unexpected phone call, you can find me hiding behind the sofa. Yet I unwittingly find myself at the head of a slowly growing movement towards improved accessibility & equality for the disabled, with people looking to me for advice & asking me for my opinion on stories in the news.

Almost on a weekly basis I get emails asking me to participate in equality groups & societies based in Leeds, inviting me to give interviews for articles, & even to appear on documentaries representing the disabled community. Increasingly I’ve had to politely turn down many of these opportunities, as working full time while running a blog leaves little time for rest as it is, & I do have a chronic illness after all!

As an aside, if you message me trying to get me to sell something for you, you’re going to get ignored. If you persist, you’ll get blocked. I don’t do shady business because, contrary to my appearance, I have standards.

Anyway, to go from a complete nobody to slightly less of a nobody in the space of two years has been a lot of things; exciting, enthralling, & downright bloody scary. Recently, an American teacher emailed me to ask if he could use my short stories to educate 9th grade children about disability. After googling what on earth 9th grade means, I said yes, but the idea that I could be having an influence on impressionable youths across the globe does make me worry for the future generation.

I’m proud to achieve what I already have, & I’m excited to see where this goes next. I hope that my influence continues to grow as I would like to help disabled people of future generations have a slightly easier time of it than I did, if only so I can use “back in my day” to annoy them.

While it’s important to me that I don’t become “inspiration porn”, deep down everyone secretly wants to have left a mark on the world, & I feel like this is mine.

A Trip to the Dark Side.

As my alarm burst into life at 5.30 am I began to regret my decision to go to Manchester (which is in Lancashire, the sworn enemy of Yorkshire, for anyone who doesn’t reside in the UK) for a conference on disability & LGBT+ intersectionality. I scoffed down some cereal & coffee, washed & dressed hurriedly, & carefully pinned my hair into something resembling a neat hairstyle. Within an hour I was making my way down to Leeds train station where I met my colleague, & together we wove our way between the extensive building works scattered around the ticket hall. Commuter traffic began to increase as we headed to the platform, which involved a lot of ducking under backpacks & around important-looking men in suits who looked down their noses at everyone else.

Black & white selfie. My hair is in a bun on the back of my head & I'm wearing light eye make-up & lipstick.

My colleague & I had booked a ramp to enter the train, instead of relying on mythical levitation tactics, & to my surprise a porter carrying a ramp appeared with time to spare. The ramp was set up without a fuss & soon enough I was on the train heading to Manchester. Funnily enough, I was in the 2nd wheelchair space opposite another wheelchair user, who as it transpired, was heading to the same conference.

A little under an hour later we disembarked without problem, & I pulled on my raincoat as the first drops began to fall. Sheltered outside a small, inaccessible coffee shop we began to call taxi companies. The first company didn’t take wheelchairs at all. The second only took manual wheelchairs that could fold up. The third only had one wheelchair-accessible vehicle which had been booked. The fourth didn’t even answer the phone. In the pouring rain we headed onto a main road & hailed a black cab, & then spent a good 5 minutes finding a suitable place for the taxi to pull over & let me in. The taxi driver lowered the ramp, barely wider than the wheelchair & with no edges to stop me falling off. With great care I edged up the ramp & sat in the taxi. There were no restraints for the wheelchair so I was forced to brace myself as best as I could while we drove through the city centre.

Eventually the taxi came to a stop nowhere near the venue, & I was forced to reverse down the horrendous ramp, leaving a puddle of rain water in the cab. The rain lessened as we hurried to the conference centre, where I saw two sets of revolving doors.

Revolving doors are to wheelchair users what Shakespeare is to infants; a complete waste of time & resources (in fact, I suspect many adults feel this way about Shakespeare too). There were automated double doors between them however, so naturally I went to those.

“Call reception” was the only button for the doors. In the rain I rang the bell & waited while the receptionist finished having her coffee & chat before the doors eventually opened. Then there was a second set of doors, & again I had to call reception & wait to get in. The fact that able-bodied individuals could come & go as they pleased curtesy of the revolving doors, but that I as a disabled person had to be let in like a dog, was infuriating. I was attending a conference about disability that had disabled speakers, & yet ableism was the first thing I faced.

I made my way to the reception desk where the member of staff told me I hadn’t registered (I had, or I wouldn’t have had the ticket with me) because they had missed my name when creating visitor badges. I got a blank & wrote down my name, then had one small cup of coffee. In that short time I was recognised by the first of several readers & followers, something which was a very new & novel experience, which I must admit to enjoying. Then the conference began.

The opening screen of the conference presentation, projected onto a pull-down screen in the sports hall.

As we sat around tables in a chilly sports hall the leaders introduced themselves, & then the first talk about the social & medical models of disability was underway. An hour later we broke off into smaller groups for more interactive workshops, & I remained in the sports hall to look at how being a marginalised group within a marginalised group (i.e. being disabled among the LGBT+ community, or being LGBT+ among the disabled community) effected social interactions, while my colleague made her way upstairs. After the morning’s work we were directed to lunch, a buffet which was impossible to reach from a wheelchair, & went to eat in a dining area filled with long wooden tables & long wooden benches, the type that cannot be moved to accommodate a wheelchair user. I chose to get out of my wheelchair & sit with my colleague, but the others were forced to eat in a separate area with their lunch. I regretted not joining them to make a point, although it did mean that I was nearby when the assistance-dog in training decided to take a nap on the floor.

A black Labrador, assistance dog in training, resting on a patch of sunlight on the floor.

After lunch was a short talk before another workshop. This time I made my way upstairs, having to wait some considerable time for the lift as at least 1 wasn’t working. In the room a member of staff stood in the only space available to reach from a wheelchair due to the cramming of furniture into a small space, & once she did move I had to kick a chair out of the way. Shattered, I barely took in the next session, not least because they decided to over-run into a much-needed break.

I made my way back downstairs for the final session, once again in the sports hall. This one addressed discrimination that can be experienced within marginalised groups, particularly racism, ableism, & transphobia within the LGBT+ community. It is the only time I have ever seen Grindr screenshots used to make a poignant statement.

Afterwards there was a drinks reception, which was ironically one of the most accessible parts of the day, & slowly we drifted away. Myself & my colleague wandered through Manchester, the day having turned bright & sunny, & we stopped for a drink purely for the purposes of hydration. We waited until the commuter traffic had tailed off before heading to Manchester Piccadilly station, & this time we had the cabin to ourselves when we entered the train (also without incident).

A little while later as we pulled into Leeds it was going dark, & the station was the quietest I have ever seen. A ramp appeared as if by magic, & I said goodbye to my colleague who caught a taxi home, this time having no trouble whatsoever as I wasn’t travelling with her. About ten minutes later I was home myself, & not long after that, asleep.

M.E Awareness Week: Day 7.

In loving memory of Sylvia Everritt, 23rd September 1931 – 9th May 2019, strong matriarch & welcoming to all. She will be missed by all who had the pleasure of knowing her.

A black & white photograph of Sylvia from the shoulders up. She is in her 70s or 80s in picture.

C.B.T (finally!).

At the beginning of February 2013, I began my course of C.B.T. The first appointment was the introduction, where I spent twenty minutes arguing with the therapist over where appointments would take place. As dad had to work, and mum could not push the wheelchair, we could not travel out to the CAMHS centre. She refused to do the therapy at home, as this was unsuitable. Eventually, we settled on a school appointment, during one of my free periods. She wasn’t happy, but it was the best we could do.

At this point, she asked my parents to leave the room, and she told me what C.B.T was all about. It focused on the cycles of thought and behaviour patterns. Negative thoughts and low self esteem often lead to unhelpful behaviour. The aim of C.B.T was to break this cycle, so that it did not spiral out of control so easily. It was a vicious cycle of depression.

However, the nurse refused to believe that I had depression at all, and simply said it was a low mood. This was cover for “get over it”. I could understand where she was coming from, but for a GP to refer someone as needing help, simply getting over it wasn’t an option. I needed help. Then, after discussing the cycles for a while, she gave me a sheet to take home and read.

I read the sheet the next day, when I had some space and time to think clearly about it. The sheet talked about activity being a good way to diffuse depression, which was a valid point, but not always achievable with M.E. The sheet then talked about bed resting being the worst thing for M.E. According to the sheet, getting out of bed and exercising more would sort the M.E out in no time. It was like the physiotherapy all over again. There was no way that I could possibly do this, as I struggled to walk around the house some days. If I followed the sheets instructions, the likelihood is that I would have another major relapse, and be set back by months.

On the next meeting, the nurse arrived twenty minutes late due to snow, so had to rush through my appointment in twenty minutes. I tried to bring up the point about the sheet being inappropriate to give to sufferers of M.E, but my point was disregarded as irrelevant. The point was instantly dismissed. It was like talking to a brick wall; anything I said was either ignored, or in some cases completely contradicted. After the rushed session, the nurse gave me the task of setting some goals, for short, medium, and long term.

I set goals about being more positive, having a high self esteem, doing myself proud, making changes for people with M.E, being better at pacing myself, and eventually to settle down with a family all of my own. I wanted to use the M.E as a learning experience. I was certainly different to when it all began. These goals would be the best way of challenging the depression.

On the third session, I showed the nurse the goals I had written, and she approved of them all. She was pleased that I had tried so hard with them. Surprisingly she took the time to read them, and listen to what I was saying. She also agreed that I actually had depression, and maybe a few anxiety issues too, that could be dealt with using the C.B.T. It was extremely pleasant, and the session was very productive. This time, she set me the task of recording my feelings when I got marked pieces of work back, including exam results. She told me to perform this on my strongest subject, biology, as this was the easiest one to be positive about.

I did the task as asked, which included the result from the exam in January (a B, pleasingly). However, on the fourth session she was back to her normal self, and barely even glanced at the work I had prepared.

I was in two minds as to whether I continued the C.B.T at all, but there were one or two useful things that I could gain from it, so I stayed as open minded as I could. My GP agreed that when it got to the sixth session, which was a review, that I should say that I was able to continue on my own, and be discharged from CAMHS. This I did successfully, and although the C.B.T hadn’t done much for me, there were one or two small things in place that helped me. The best of these was the ability to think calmly and rationally in a difficult situation, and I was never quite so negative on myself again.

Life was beginning to look up.

The Start of the End.

Even thought I was beginning to feel better, I had applied and qualified for the higher rate of DLA, as I couldn’t walk fifty metres without support. This also meant that I was allowed to have a blue badge, which made car parking a lot easier. It was a good feeling to be supported and listened to, after all my trouble with school.

Now that I was recovering, I had to be extremely careful to resist temptation, and not do too much. It was much harder to rest when I felt good, than when I felt really ill.

What I could use my energy for was thinking clearly about my experience of M.E, and to use it as a learning curve.

I’d learnt how to pace myself much better, and to be more patient with myself. It didn’t matter if I failed at something first time through, there was another chance. I had to accept that sometimes I needed help to accomplish things, and that was nothing to be ashamed of.

I’d learnt that I was stronger than I looked, and tougher too. I could take a lot of pain and illness before I began to crack, and even then, with a little help, I could push through most of it.

The importance of true friendship had become visible to me, as well. It was no good hanging around with someone who was a good laugh, if I didn’t feel that I could trust them. My new found friends were better, and much more trustworthy. I could talk to them about faith, illness, and misery. I also learnt that being a good friend was essential too. I had to be the shoulder to cry on sometimes too. To my surprise, I soon grew to love this role, and found that I really cared if my friends were upset.

I’d also learned that money couldn’t buy everything. It couldn’t buy true friends, or family, or good health, or happiness. Money was nice, and it could pad out the life with small luxuries, but it never did any good. The things of true value were the feelings of happiness and pride, and the love that I shared with friends and family.

Last of all, I discovered that it was OK to be “faulty”. I didn’t care what people thought of my looks, my taste in music, my “geekiness” (which I actually came to love), or my disability. The people I wanted to think good of me were the ones I cared about. If they liked how I was and could overlook my faults, then I was fine.

As well as my past, I looked towards my future. I dreamed of a complete education, and a good career. I also yearned for a relationship, someone I could trust & not feel ashamed of them seeing me at my worst.

***

Unfortunately, mum was still very ill, and had reacted to the tablet used to control her overactive thyroid gland. There was no replacement. She now had to suffer the weight loss and sickness; while waiting to see if there was anything else the doctors could do. There was a suggestion that radioactive iodine could be used to kill off some of the gland, forcing it to produce fewer hormones. This would mean that mum had to be kept in isolation for a month, but once it was over, it shouldn’t trouble her again for the rest of her life. Her health was monitored, and nothing was done for the time being. There was still a chance that the disease would correct itself of it’s own accord. Stranger things have been known.

Still, whatever happened, we would be a family.

The Ending.

I used the DLA I had earned to buy two walking sticks and a mobility scooter. I used the sticks round the house, and for trips out into the back garden. With the sticks my balance was much steadier, and I could walk further. I felt safer too. The mobility scooter gave me the freedom to travel out on my own. I could go to shopping centres, and visit one shop, while my parents went in another. I also enjoyed many trips around the park, where I could lose myself in my thoughts, and take in the views. It took a while to get used to the stares and daft comments of others, but I was soon able to cope with it. The freedom it gave me was well worth any negative behaviour.

I finish writing this maybe not quite at the end, but near it. The M.E is burning itself out, and eventually will leave me. I have at most a year to go, maybe even six months. My returning health is due to many things, including patience, good health care, and a positive attitude. I have many things to go ahead and achieve.

Mum is still ill, and will always remain so. With the support and medical care she needs, she should be OK though.

The end of the road is in sight for the M.E, and maybe this means so for the depression too. Someday, all this will be behind me, and I will be leading a normal life, hopefully as a wife and mother. I have learned a lot, and forgotten little. This has been the hardest lesson of my life; far tougher than anything A-level maths could throw at me (not to say that A-level maths was easy. It was just easier)!

This is what I need for my story; an ending full of hope and one or two loose ends. However, I can assure the reader that all these loose ends will sort themselves out over time. They always do.

Edit: Obviously I didn’t recover as I had hoped. I clung to this hope for far too long but once I had admitted to myself that recovery wasn’t certain, I actually felt a lot more positive about my condition. It took many years following on from this point, but eventually I learned to accept my lot in life and carry on.

M.E Awareness Week: Day 6.

Relapses.

Mum’s illness was progressing, and it affected her everyday life. She was told that the overactive thyroid gland had caused irreversible damage to her diaphragm. This in turn caused breathing difficulties with the asthma, as the diaphragm was not able to contract and relax fully. However, mum pushed on as normal. She didn’t have much choice, as the workload was affecting me badly.

While the schoolwork relieved the depression greatly, the physical aspects of M.E did not improve.  I had managed to push through to the first few weeks of term, until eventually the M.E kicked off. I woke up feeling horrendously sick, and my muscles ached as if I had run a marathon. My back was screaming from the pressure applied on it from the mattress. I rolled onto my side, despite the pain, as I knew I had to ease the back ache before it got too much for me to handle. I opened my eyes, and even in the dimness of my room with the curtains drawn, the light burned into my eyes. It felt as though my skull was on fire. I couldn’t believe the state my body was in. I hadn’t realised how much stress my body was under, and now it was out of control. As I lay there, I thought about how well I done to get so far through the term without any time off. However, this didn’t ease the terrible guilty feeling in my chest that I would be missing important lessons. I couldn’t begin to imagine how I would catch up on all the missed work.

I forced myself to sit upright and get out of bed. Slowly I made my way down stairs, and got a coffee. I thought that a caffeine boost might lift me out of this dreadful state, and that I would be able to attend school. Ten minutes later I was back upstairs, having somehow managed to climb back up them. They felt like a mountain. I crept into mum and dad’s room, sank onto the bed, and burst into tears. They were quiet tears, as I didn’t have the energy for anything else. Mum took one look at me, and phoned me in sick. “Yes, I was far too sick to come into school. I should be commended for doing so well, not criticised for needing time off.” I hobbled back to my room, and fell asleep in my own bed.

Several hours later, they felt like mere minutes, mum woke me up with a drink. I tried to sit myself up, but couldn’t. My arms physically wouldn’t take the weight and trembled continuously. My back pain limited my flexibility. All I wanted to do was curl back up and fall asleep again, but I needed to drink something. Mum put her arm around my shoulders, took one hand, and between us we managed to get me upright. I slumped back against a pillow, which had been leant against the bed head. I hated to feel so dependent on others, and I felt guilty again, this time for making mum do so much when I knew she shouldn’t. I drank the tea while it was still warm, and then sank back under the covers for another sleep. I couldn’t sit up much longer as it was exhausting me.

The day passed in a haze of pain and depression. I was lonely and bored. I hadn’t been able to pass the time with reading, and my head hurt too much for music. I hadn’t eaten much either, as lifting the spoon up to my mouth and chewing took far too much energy. This meant I didn’t have any fresh energy for the next day, and had to take that one off school too. This did the depression and rising feeling of anxiety no favours, and the high stress made it harder to recover from the M.E. However, on this second day of relapse I could eat slowly, and read. I listened to my MP3 player. Music was a huge escape to me, as I could relate to it extremely well. It was the most effective way of relaxing.

Now that I was more relaxed I slept well. The next day I got up, all be it shakily, and went to school. I managed to collect all the work I had missed, and that weekend I ploughed through it all.

These relapses now began to repeat themselves every two weeks or so, sometimes requiring two days, sometimes only needing one. Every time I managed to get back, and get up to date with the work I had missed.

At around Christmas time (2012) things seemed to pick up. Despite lots of revision for the upcoming January exams, I got lots of rest, and didn’t have a relapse at all. When I returned to school, I got the exams done, and found that I was beginning to have a lot more energy on a daily basis. I could do more, and not experience any more fatigue or pain than normal. I stayed out to rewards ceremonies, and could attend school the next day with positive ease.

My medication had been altered a few times to relieve pain and nausea, and now it seemed to be working excellently. There were days when I felt worse, and there were days when I felt very well, but most of the days were spent on the edge of discomfort, content enough to plough through the days. However, the depression did not lift as I had been expecting, and hung over my mind like a dark and endless cloud. Seeing the positive side to anything became as hard as studying any A-level. Still, I told myself that CAMHS would surely be contacting me soon about the C.B.T, and then everything would ease up.

Now that I appeared to be healing I had to be careful not to push myself too hard. The temptation was to use my new found energy to the full, and not store it up. It was a hard impulse to resist, especially after not having energy for so long. However, I resisted, on the grounds the quickest way to good health was to rest up. I did allow myself one extra exercise though, and that was drumming for fifteen minutes at the weekend. I loved drumming. Being behind the drum kit gave me a feeling of safety and protection, as well as knowing that it was something I could do to a reasonable standard. There was no one judging me behind the drum kit, except the odd person telling me how unladylike I was. I loved being able to rebel slightly; I have always been one to break the mould. It was glorious. For those few precious minutes, there was no pain (there was when I stopped!), and no one could hurt me. I looked up to drummers like Harry Judd (McFly), Ronnie Vannucci (The Killers), Phil Collins, and of course Tre’ Cool (Green Day).

Two long years had passed now, and I had been ill for all of that time. Still, I could feel myself returning to my almost former self, but I knew that the M.E had changed my perception of the world. I was not so arrogant, and I was more aware of the dangers the world throws at people. I was ready to become a healthy teenager again.

M.E Awareness Week: Day 5.

The Return to School.

CAMHS had been informed of my suicide attempt of course, but we still had no response from them. It was a case of biding our time.

By this time mum was seeing countless doctors and specialists, and I had completely lost track of them. I could barely keep track of my own existence. I only knew that mum had occasional asthma attacks, and the overactive thyroid was causing the odd bout of weight loss and sickness, but again, it didn’t appear to be too drastic.

I decided to return to the same high school, despite my previous treatment. The teaching standards were high, and I knew that I could make new friends, who would be trustworthy and kind. After a few weeks fighting, the school agreed to give me an assistant to help me in lessons and around the building. I would be taking AS-level Maths, Chemistry, Biology, and Physics; I would need help with experiments, and fetching equipment and books. I would also need regular access to painkillers, as I was stepping up the work-load by a huge amount. I would also need someone to befriend me over the first few days as I tried to make new friends. I found it hard to trust new people, so the first part would be rather lonely.

The only problem that remained was transport to and from school. Mum still couldn’t push the wheelchair because of her bad asthma, and Dad worked 30 miles away. We applied for council transport, but we were turned down due to a lack of funding, even after appeal. The reasons stated were “not being able to get down (our) road”, and “(I) didn’t legally have to be in education”, as I was over sixteen.

School refused to help at first, so we relied on other people to push me back from school. Dad managed to push me in every morning. The friends in our community helped greatly, but most of them had children of their own to pick up, or were elderly, or had jobs to attend. School frustrated me, as they expected me to get straight A’s, but refused to help me at every little step. Having to fight for the smallest of resources put a huge strain on me, and I knew that if it continued for much longer my grades would really begin to suffer. Then, to add insult to injury, I noticed how school helped the kids who didn’t work, and who purposefully underachieved. They got transport to and from school despite perfect health, and trips out on a regular basis. It seemed really unfair.

Eventually, schools health and safety officer noticed how bad our situation was becoming. He looked over legal forms, discussed financing, and after plenty of arguing with officious members of the admin team, it was decided that one of the care assistants could push me home every night, if dad pushed me in every morning. This arrangement was perfect and worked smoothly. It was a great relief to us

The assistant who was given the job was kind and friendly. She enjoyed pushing the wheelchair as it gave her a break of fresh air every evening, before returning to staff meetings.

As soon as this was all arranged, my school life became a lot easier, and I began to really enjoy my lessons. I was doing subjects I enjoyed, and didn’t have to bother with the things I didn’t like. My carers were happy to help fetch and carry equipment for me, and were thrilled to aid me in experiments, which were often fun. They became friends, and I could talk openly with most of them.

As time progressed, there were a few issues with lesson lateness, and access to respite care, but these issues were resolved as speedily as possible. They were annoying while they lasted; but all of a sudden school had become a lot more willing to support me. Maybe they had recognised how much effort and care I put into my work, but maybe pressure had been applied by the head teacher to support me more. I never found out, to this day.

My old friends mostly ignored me. This hurt me of course, but as I made new friends, I soon realised what a false friendship ours had been anyway, and was glad to be well shot of it. It did pain me to see how little I mattered to them, but my new friends were supportive. We were a mixed group; it was wonderful to be surrounded by such diversity.

In class, I had friendships with people who shared the same passions with me. I bonded best with the other girls, as we were distinctly in the minority, as was to be expected. However, most of the boys were nice too, and I formed some strong friendships with them. Very few of my class members judged me, and I returned the favour by not judging them. We were from all different backgrounds, and lifestyles. We were all different. Yet we all shared similar interests. The new found friends greatly eased the depression, and my studies distracted me. I threw myself into them with all the vigour that I could muster up. I had found happiness again.

I loved my subjects. Despite miserable grades at the beginning (D’s and E’s), I still found enthusiasm and passion for them. I felt that for someone my age, in my condition, I was doing well.

Maths was hard, and not all of what we learnt was useful, however, I learnt lots of logic skills.

Physics was a very small group, 4 of us all told. This meant we got a lot of attention of the teacher, and we had a lot of fun. The seemingly ridiculous ideas and theories that Physics proposes became perfectly sensible to me.

Chemistry was mostly about industry, and was both useful and interesting. I found plenty of time to practice my logic skills, and also developed a lot of memory aids, as Chemistry required quite a bit of memorising equations.

Biology was my favourite. It opened a door to me; there were things the human body could do, that I never even had dreamed of. I saw how beautiful and precious life was. I learnt how a single heartbeat is controlled, how disease spreads, the inner workings of the lungs, and the digestive system. I studied DNA, microbes, plants, animals, taxonomy, epidemiology, and humans. I was in love. I didn’t want to leave the lab at the end of the lesson, and often went home and studied hard. It never felt like study because I loved it so much, I knew that this was what I wanted to do as my career, for the rest of my life.

It was a relief to my parents that AS-levels were such a joy to me. For the first time in just under two years, I was happy. I actually wanted to get out of bed and attend school every day. There were rough patches, but the good outweighed the bad.

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.