Saturday Streamer Starts Tomorrow!

Don’t forget to log into Twitter (@WheelsofSteer) tomorrow at 6 pm (BST) for my first livestream! You’ll get an exclusive look around my new home, an update of my health, & an introduction on how I plan to run these livestreams every other Saturday.

Living in Leeds: Saturday Streamer. 6 pm BST on Twitter.

Living in Leeds: Saturday Streamer.

Diary of a Disabled Person Presents Living in Leeds: Saturday Streamer. Watch live every other Saturday at 6 pm (BST) on Twitter, starting 13th July 2019. Pink & white text on a black box. Down each side is a black & hot-pink zebra style pattern. Social media links are listed at the top of the image. Twitter: @WheelsofSteer. Facebook/Instagram: @diaryofadisabledperson. Google: https://diaryofadisabledperson.blog

Having thoroughly enjoyed doing the odd live-stream on Twitter over the past few months, & having got excellent feedback to boot, I’ve decided to take up live-streaming on a regular basis!

Every other Saturday at 6 pm (BST) I’ll be discussing recent blog posts, providing an exclusive look at what’s to come on Diary of a Disabled Person, sharing anecdotes, reading comments & more!

The Blogger Recognition Award Strikes Back.

Happy birthday to me!

Arrogant as this sounds, I have genuinely lost track of how many awards I have received for my writing. I guess I must be reasonably good at this whole stringing words together thing to get this much recognition. Either that, or I’m so abhorrently terrible that people are returning to laugh at my miserable efforts, although if that were the case I would have expected to have gone viral by now.

On this occasion the nomination comes from The Anxious History Teacher, who’s blog can be found here.

Accepting the reward requires me to acknowledge the person who nominated me, give a brief explanation of why I started blogging, provide two bits of advice for new bloggers, & to nominate a few other bloggers deserving of the award. Having previously been nominated for the Blogger Recognition Award, I will do my best not to repeat myself!

Why did I start Diary of a Disabled Person?

There are a lot of misconceptions & generalisations made about disabled people. We’re perceived as weak & helpless, often naive, innocent, or even straight-up stupid. We’re often seen to be in need of help, whether that be impromptu healing prayers in front of an audience, or a flamboyant display of assistance, also in front of an audience for some reason, that actually does more harm than good. When it comes to our fictional portrayals, we’re often depressed plot-points that a protagonist uses to give themselves motivation, and as such are usually accompanied by one lone violinist who remains remarkably off camera.

These stereotypes have done significant damage to disabled people & need to be educated against if they are to change. The lessons you remember from school are usually the humourous ones, so if humour helps teach maths, I’m sure it can do the same for equality.

2 Pieces of Advice.

  1. Keep a regular posting schedule. The majority of the time my blog posts are published on a Sunday. There is, of course, some variance in that depending on other things going on around me, but for the most part it can be predicted when a blog post will appear. That means people keep coming back. My viewer count always goes up on a Sunday morning, even before I’ve had chance to publish anything.
  2. Keep it varied. TV series that run for too long or too many seasons get stale very quickly, & regular blogging eventually runs the same risk. However, you can extend the longevity of your work by keeping it varied. Some weeks I will discuss personal experiences & anecdotes, other times it will be issues surrounding ableism supplemented with my experience, & at other times I publish short stories. There are photos, videos, & multiple social media platforms all helping to keep my content fresh (hopefully).

My Nominations:

Once again, I’d like to thank The Anxious History Teacher for this nomination, & I’d also like to say congratulations to all of my nominees.

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.

Blogger Recognition Award (Again!)

Err… I’m not doing this to brag, but at this point I’ve actually lost count of how many awards I’ve won.

In a much more cheerful end to the week I can announce that I will, at some point, be accepting the Blogger Recognition Award for a 2nd time.

Don’t forget – there’s no blog post this Sunday because from 6th – 12th May, there will be brand new content every single day.

6th-12th May is M.E. Awareness Week. I will be posting every day, unedited content written as a teenager when I first fell ill.

M.E Awareness Month.

May is M.E Awareness Month, & as well as raising awareness at work, there’ll be plenty to look forward to here too!

There won’t be a blog post this Sunday- because from 6th to 12th May I will be releasing a blog post every single day! Make sure to stick around for teenage awkwardness overload.

6th-12th May is ME Awareness Week. I'll be releasing blog posts every day, exploring my illness from a teenage perspective, leaving everything I wrote as a teen unedited!

An Unconventional Medicine.

The difficulty in knowing how to deal with poor mental health is the fact that everyone’s case is very individual; everyone has different triggers, responses, and coping mechanisms. For me, my strongest coping mechanism is to write.

Writing about an upsetting situation helps me think about it logically and clearly. Converting emotions into words forces me to think through what happened stage by stage and piece together which bits are the most problematic. Watching the words appear on the screen in front of me helps me rationalise my reactions, allowing me to adopt the perspective of the reader reflecting on the choices of a character in a book. I don’t necessarily publish what I write in response to a tricky scenario either, although sometimes a passage will grow and develop into something I’m comfortable with others reading.

I picked up on this technique when I was having frequent accessibility issues at a building I used on a daily basis while at university, which despite my feedback and advice continued to occur, becoming increasingly frustrating as the months passed. Often I would come out of the building trying to hide the fact that my cheeks were flushed and I was shaking with anger, so nonchalant and disinterested was the response of the members of staff. I took to keeping a record of accessibility issues, when and where they occurred, and if possible who was responsible for an issue. About once a week I would submit this alongside an email reiterating my frustration to a more senior member of staff, but when that didn’t have an effect I took it to the highest level of management. The problem lingered but lessened significantly, and on my more recent visits I haven’t had any difficulties at all.

What I noticed was that keeping a record and writing an email about the incidents greatly helped calm me down, and while still annoyed and aware of the problem, I wasn’t fixated or brooding about it constantly. I decided I’d try this technique with other problematic scenarios, and was surprised to find out just how effective it was. The many issues I had faced at school concerning a lack of both physical and emotional support formed two blog posts, and my Twitter followers are bombarded with photographs of blocked access routes as I come across them. I found that while my memories of these cases are far from positive, I didn’t revisit these memories as regularly as I once did, and overall I simply felt happier. It worked.

If you want to try writing as a coping mechanism for difficult situations, it’s important to remember that no one ever has to see it. Computer files can erased, and paper can be shredded. It doesn’t need to be coherent, grammatically correct, or full or delicate vocabulary. It won’t work for everyone but it did for me, and it helped me put together something I feel truly proud of. Writing is my therapy.