Ground Zero

So, here I am again, back where I started. In exactly the same position as last year. Ground Zero. At least it can’t go downhill from here.

To give some context – I am a 21 year old studying biomedical science at the University of Essex. I get good grades, have fantastic friends, a busy social life and I’m on the committees of both St John Ambulance and SSAGO (Student Scout and Guide Organisation). In have volunteered thousands of hours for St John, received awards for my commitment and interactions with patients, I work for another medical company, I have a fantastic relationship with my parents, who raised me in the Cotswolds, and relax by playing guitar, violin, saxophone, or singing.

On paper, I have the ideal life – so why doesn’t it feel like that? And why am I labelled a nutter?

Throughout my teenage years I suffered with low mood and crippling anxiety, which meant I suffered what I now know to be huge anxiety attacks every day. The frequency of these has lessened, but by no means is all fine and dandy.
After my A levels I moved to Spain, where I worked in a nursery and lived with three horrible human beings. Understandably, this did not do wonders for my mental health and through a series of unfortunate events I ended up being put on resperidone, a very strong anti-psychotic, and an awful lot of benzos.. Spaced out is an understatement.
However, on my return to the UK I got put on mirtazapine, the wonder drug! …. Or so I thought…
My WONDERFUL GP, who is one of the best, caring and generous spirited people I have ever met, forgot to warn me about the ‘weight gain’ side effects…. As a young woman, this caused a slight problem. All the weight I had lost in Spain from being so unwell all went back on, and then some. This is something I’m still attempting to fix.

Anyway, six months on from this, following an eventful (and slutty) few months working in a hotel, I began university. And then we had the first suicide attempt. A small altercation with one of my new flatmates led to a panic that I’d have a repeat of Spain. I didn’t know how to fix it, I couldn’t live (again) with someone who hated me, so in my eyes the only option was to drop out of uni. All that went through my head was that I couldn’t fix life, so I decided it was over. A huge overdose, and ambulance ride and about 27 hours in hospital later I had my first interaction with the local crisis team.
I recovered from this pretty quickly, with the help of some fantastic friends, got back on my feet and continued being my usual bubbly self, getting my coursework in, attending lectures and juggling a social life. I coped with a plethora of exams in January, and all of the spring term, until the Easter break. I was in Spain with a sports society, and somebody thought it would be a hilarious idea to put his hand up my skirt in front of all of my friends. I, on the other hand, did not agree, and we had a second overdose, as I coudn’t bear the idea of meaning so little to another human, who I considered a friend, that they would, essentially, sexually assault me as a joke. If there’s any advice I would ever give anyone it would be not to take an overdose in Spain. They WILL pump your stomach, and it WILL be one of the most traumatic experiences of your life.

So then we repeated. I recovered, left the relationship I didn’t want to be in and had a summer similar to the last.. In my eyes I was just being ‘young and carefree’ and behaving as a student should; spending money, sleeping around, drinking lots and various other questionable behaviors. Bu that’s just fun, right? It’s a laugh, especially when the stories come out in drinking games at parties… Or possibly not. Possibly, it’s the manifestation of someone who doesn’t know how to cope, or doesn’t have access to their feelings. Sleeping around is the only way to feel close to people.

So, eventually, everything came crashing down again, this time around November. I had another suicide attempt, and ended up with a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder. This is a diagnosis I struggle with. The stigma surrounding it is huge, and it makes me feel like my illness is my fault and like I’m a flawed person. One of the people I’d been sleeping with came to the hospital with me on this occasion. He stayed by my bedside for 24 hours without sleeping, eating, or resting. He made it clear that he loved me, and gradually, over time persuaded me into a relationship. It was not something I wanted, as I’d been so hurt from a previous affair that I was terrified of commitment – mainly because that gives someone the opportunity to leave you and destroy you. And that’s what he did. After months of persuading me into the relationship I trusted him enough accept my feelings for him, and very quickly fell head over heels. Once together, we rapidly began to spend most of our time with each other, and were both sure very quickly that this was what we wanted. Forever. He persuaded me into thinking he would always be there for me. Always be by my side. No matter what. He promised time, and time again that he could cope with the mental health issues. But suddenly, one day, he couldn’t. The previous night he had upset me at work, which led to me having a panic attack, at work, and my boss telling me I couldn’t work until I was more stable. We ended up in A&E to see the crisis team. We talked, we sorted out most of the issues, even if we still had a few creases to iron out. And the next day, he disappeared. He told me he couldn’t cope. He didn’t love me enough to work through the issues and to wait until I got better.

Which is where we reach Ground Zero. I have effectively lost my job, I have lost my partner, I cannot bring myself to attend lectures and I can’t focus enough to do my coursework. I have lost friends, some because of a fourth suicide attempt, and I’ve hurt those still with me and my family. And essentially, it’s all my fault. I have sat and watched my life crumble, but been too unwell to do anything about it. My actions and words are what have pushed people away and destroyed so many good things. Even if I haven’t been in control when I have said or done them… It’s me. It’s my fault. I have no self esteem, I despise myself, I’m well aware that I look disgusting and desperately need to lose the weight that I put on with the mirtazapine. But these are things I can work on.

From here, I can recognise the psychological issues, and accept the psychiatric issues. My medications is being tweaked, the diagnosis is still being determined – Borderline Personality Disorder and various types of Bipolar Disorder have a lot of cross-over. So, the medication will change and the psychiatrist has recommended some psychological therapy. This is something I’ve never had before.

I may have hit rock bottom, but at least that means the only way is up.