I am declaring 18th November ‘National Go Fuck Yourself Day’

I am done. I am sick of selfish assholes making me feel like shit.

If I stop caring, I can’t hurt anymore right? I cannot waste any more energy on people who put me at the bottom of the pile. Fuck them.

Today I was supposed to running a large charity fitness event to raise funds for an incredible local charity. I sold 6 tickets. Six.

This resulted in me having to cancel the event as ticket sales wouldn’t even cover costs of hall hire etc.

In addition to this, this afternoon I was due to meet friends I haven’t seen in almost a year for afternoon tea. It had been planned for months – as always I was the person who had organised it.

I invited 6 people – 3 of them ignored the invitation, 3 of them accepted. And so I called ahead giving the required 24 hours notice for the restaurant to prepare accordingly.

The 3 who had confirmed ended up not attending, informing me a couple of hours before we were due to attend.

3 being ALL of them.

I invited practically every person I knew in the hope that I could fill the spots that would have to be paid for.

Not one person accepted.

So there I sat with my 6 year old, trying to smile and cover the tears that pricked at my eyes.

I can’t do this anymore, I’m done.


The Hurt Locker

I hurt. So fucking much. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone in my whole life.

I made the stupid mistake of reaching out last week. My best friend of over 30 years had complained that I never shared what was going on inside my head with her.

I’m just not that type – I’m the one who is always smiling, always helping others and doing good deeds for the community, not dwelling on the shit that eats me up inside.

I am not the sort to say how awful I really feel. The people in my life don’t need to hear that.

Last week was bad. Really bad. So I threw caution to the wind and thought, “Fuck it!” I’m gonna tell her.

I now remember why I never tell her anything.

I waited for the obligatory “You ok?” text that I get every so often to decrease her guilt of not seeing me (she lives 30 seconds from my house, is not married, nor does she have kids). So I explained for once that no I really wasn’t ok and had even self-harmed the day before (something I haven’t done in a long time).

“I’m sorry to hear that. Wish I could help.”

She then proceeded to cancel our plans that we had made for Tuesday night (which I knew she would) and I’ve not heard from her since.

I find it staggering that someone can watch their ‘best friend’ going through crisis and simply turn away. I had conditioned myself to reply “I’m fine,” whenever she asked because I knew that my response didn’t really matter; she was just ‘going through the motions’ of friendship.

I am so mad at myself for believing that this time she meant it.

There’s a reason that I have built up these walls around me. My heart is delicate; so easily broken. Each let down and disappointment takes me one step further away from the bubbly, giving person who inherently trusts with wholehearted belief.

My heart blackens as I fade away to become the shell of the woman I once was.

It is easier to be numb. Cut off all emotion from those who can damage you. I have been burned so many fucking times, yet each time I tell myself, “This time it’ll be different!”

“You need new friends” people tell me. But I can’t do it anymore. I can’t put myself out there only to be humiliated and rejected all over again. I just can’t.

I just need this pain to stop.


I’ve just self-harmed. I’m so angry at myself. I can’t remember the last time I hurt myself to make the pain go away.

He pushed me. And pushed me.

I screamed at him to leave me alone as the red mist descended.

When my mind reaches that place I need to be alone.

Just me, myself and I.

Pushing my buttons will make me explode.

But he refused to leave.

He stayed and he pushed.

And he pushed.

And he pushed.

Screaming at me. Hitting himself with rage.

There was nowhere to direct the anger that was boiling within;

I did the only thing I know how to do.

I direct the rage inwards

I hurt myself.

The rage has now passed and the fog has lifted. And only now does the pain of what I did, begin to seep into my conscious alongside my pain receptors.

I can’t do this alone.

“I just don’t know what to do with myself…”

I don’t remember ever being this bad.  Ever. This is the scariest episode of my life. I have dealt with a major manic episode before, I have dealt with a major depressive episode before but never a mixed state; not to this extent.

I have been so fucking high and nothing is working.  Nothing.  So last night I made myself watch ‘102 minutes that changed the world.’  I forced myself to watch it because no matter how many times I watch it, the horror never decreases.  I knew that I would have an emotional reaction to it.  And I did.

I have just finished reading ‘All the Bright Places’ – I was asked to read it for reasons that I won’t go into here.  However, I bought & received the book simultaneously knowing nothing about it.  I have been reading it for months.  It has been a breath of fresh air – the content is harrowing but for once I finally feel like the reality of this disorder has been captured outside the realms of a textbook.  If you want to understand the reality of living with this C**t of a disease, read it and focus on the character of ‘Finch’ from the very beginning.

There is only one other person in my life who understands what living with this fucking asshole of a disorder is like.  Someone else who knows how it feels to wake up and fight the same battle, day in, day out. To open your mouth and feel nothing but shame, disgust and regret surrounding your existence. But to not be able to shut up anyway.  That person lives 4 thousand miles away from me.  But we speak regularly and our emails keep each other afloat. Mostly.  There is zero romantic involvement.  It is more of a Thomas J – Vada kinda thing.

I have never felt this aspect of guilt and self-loathing that the textbooks speak of, before.  I have experienced worthlessness, lack of focus/drive, suicidal ideation and all that other shit.  But never guilt.  Why guilt?  Do you know how it feels to be ashamed of your entire being, yet can’t quite pinpoint just why you feel that way?

I am terrified.  I know that over the years, these episodes will become more frequent and more intense.  I don’t know if I am cut out for this.  All I want is contact.  Just someone other than my husband to sit with me and say, “I can see you’re in trouble right now.  It’s ok.  I don’t understand how it feels to experience what you are going through but I am here by your side…” That’s all I need.  That is what will get me through.  That and this blog.

Except no-one has noticed.  Not even my ‘best’ girlfriends.  It is too icky to get involved in.  Far better to wait for the storm to pass.  But what if it doesn’t pass?  What if I’m caught up in it and this is my fate.  What if there’s no one to shove their arm into the gloom and say, “Hey! I’m here, grab my hand, I’ll pull you out.”

The quickest ‘fix’ for me is contact.  It helps to pull me out of my head and distract from the pain.

Today I had popped into town to get some bits from the shops.  Despite it being an autumnal day, I had to wear sunglasses as the pressure of the last few months built up and I found myself sobbing in a locked cubicle of the women’s toilets.  I never cry.  I think my husband and previous boss are the only people who have ever seen me in tears, apart from my mum, of course.

I slipped my glasses down over my eyes and strolled towards the shop I needed, determined not to cry in public.  I spotted a homeless guy sat next to the shop I wanted to go in.  He was counting out the change in his hands – it amounted to nothing.  I sat down next to him, introduced myself and asked his name.  His name is Michael.  I asked if he’d like a tea, coffee and something to eat.

For those 5 minutes I was able to get outside of my head and focus on addressing Michael’s needs.  God knows when the last time he ate was.  Momentarily that human contact helped not just him, but me too.  To connect with others, reminds me that we are all part of a tribe but when people start forgetting to remember, I start to sink.

I am not an attention-seeking person.  I am not the sort to post suicide/depression memes on Facebook.  That helps nobody and probably only triggers others.  I have deactivated my account.  I haven’t done a ‘I’m leaving Facebook status’ because I don’t want the shallow ‘inbox me’ hun messages.  They stand for shit.  Anyone who truly knows me will know that I post regularly, they also know that I wouldn’t have blocked them.  But sometimes people are so locked in their little ‘me’ bubbles that they don’t even notice a crisis when it’s staring them in the face.

It is times like this when you notice who really cares.  Who really picks up on those subtle changes?  If I were to leave this life, it would become, “There were so many signs, how did we not see it coming?”  But it shouldn’t have to take that for someone to genuinely notice what is wrong.

I am not going to kill myself.  Not right now anyway. You never know how bad you’ll become in the future and I have seen the devastation suicide causes (see post ‘I will try to fix you’) but this illness is a bitch.  It lies to you and it tells you things that aren’t real.  I just hope that I can remember that in the darkest of times.

Let’s make that clear.  But am I glad to be existing right now?


It hurts. It hurts so much.  And what hurts even more is pretending to be fine for the comfort and convenience of others.  My daughter needs me.  She is my entire world. She doesn’t know it but she has saved my life over and over again.

I have to collect my daughter from school in just over an hour.  I need to cry this out of my system and then get my ‘game face’ on.

Bipolar Disorder, go fuck yourself.


I can’t come down…

I’m scared. I’m really scared. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like my normal management strategy is working. I usually pop a Lorazepam and I drift back down. But it’s not working.

I’ve had Lorazepam every night for the last 12 nights and because it’s a controlled drug in England, I’m almost out. There’s no way my GP will write me another prescription this soon. I usually get through a pack a year; not a pack a fortnight.

Yesterday I hit my husband. That’s how I know how bad it’s become. I never lose my temper – I have hit him once before and that was when I originally sought help and ended up with a bipolar diagnosis. Once is too much. Twice is unforgivable.

For me to lose control is out of character; I don’t even shout when I’m mad. I don’t cry. I don’t yell. I have never once raised my child at my daughter. I do not appear stressed to most who meet me. I am calm and contained by nature.

But we were arguing in the car and I was scared of my mind and I had nowhere to escape to. When we argue, I remove myself from the situation. I was scared that I would crash the car with all the yelling he was doing. And then he called me “Psycho” and I flipped. I swung and punched him with all my might in the chest.

I feel disgusted with myself. It is never ok to display violence to someone you love. Never. And that is how I know that I’m not coming down anytime soon.

I’m scared. I’m lonely. No-one in my ‘real’ life understands. All of my girlfriends have run for the hills because they don’t/can’t understand the mania aspect of my illness. It hurts so much. It is times like this that I need them the most.

I just need time. Time to take a break from being me. Time to take a break from this life. I just need it to stop.

Contain yourself…

I’m hating myself right now. Self-loathing is paramount.

I can see the eye rolls, the awkward glances between people.

I am high. Too high. But I can’t get down. I want to leave. Leave me behind. Shed myself of this loathsome individual that’s been rejected for the past 36 years.

I tell myself to “Just shut up!” inside my head.

Just make yourself invisible. Then they’ll forget what an embarrassment you are. Except I don’t shut up. I talk. I blurt. I blabber and the eye rolls escalate.

And in turn, so does the self-loathing…

I feel it coming…

I can feel it coming again.  The darkness.  Slowly, slowly creeping its way towards me.  Not slammed like a tidal wave, this time.  But almost like a game of  “What’s the time Mr Wolf?” You don’t see the change happening but you can feel it.  You can sense the shift in your perceptions and attitude.

I knew this was inevitable.  The last few months have been absolute chaos.  I haven’t had a second to myself and this constant demand for my time has meant I’ve gone higher and higher, running on nothing but adrenaline and caffeine.  But the saying, “What goes up must come down” is rooted in truth.  That’s the thing about cliques, they exist for a reason.

I’m lonely, that’s a fact. The summer holidays are too much time alone for me.  I’m with The Kid obviously, but an adult needs adult company now and again before you start to forget who you are, other than ‘Mummy.’

My mood is not black; nowhere near but still I feel it. My desire to sleep.  The heaviness to my limbs that makes me just want to crawl back into bed when that’s the last thing I’m able to do.  My desire for time alone to recharge myself. My loss of desire to ‘do something’ is fading fast…