Back with a bump!

…no, with a literal bump. We’re having a baby! I’m currently 14 weeks gone, and feeling like a manatee already. I know there’s only one baby in there – we made the midwife check several times.

With this news, it seemed like perfect timing to open up this pretty-neglected blog of mine and start writing again. Having BPD is one thing… having BPD and being pregnant, oh boy. Plus, November is just around the corner, and for National Novel Writing Month I have decided to finally put my BPD story down on paper – because having a month to write 50,000 words is a good kick up the arse, right?

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing here again. For months I was in a very solid (and boring) state of recovery. I’m kidding about the boring bit, it was nice to have some peace and stability for the first time in a long time – if ever, actually. Therapy has done me a lot of good, especially with having to put a lot of the work I did into practice since becoming pregnant. I am still on venlafaxine, but lamotrigine isn’t good for the baby; so at 7 weeks pregnant I came off it cold turkey. I’m going to save that story for a separate post, as I feel it’s very important that other mentally-ill expectant mums have a whole picture of what it might be like to withdraw off psychiatric medication. In short, it was a Pretty Rough Time.

Oh, PIP update: I STILL DON’T HAVE IT. They rejected my claim for a second time not long after my last blog entry, so I escalated it to go to a tribunal. Of course, the DWP wrote to the tribunal services and stated that they don’t believe my case should be looked at, but luckily for me the decision is out of their fat, greedy hands. I got a copy of all the correspondence between me and them since 2014, and the amount of hypocrisy is astounding. I don’t want to go into too much detail, as it is still confidential information, but there was one statement made that still resonates loudly;

“We are not questioning that Mrs Stephenson has the conditions stated, rather, we do not agree with her claim for benefit.”

So apparently, being disabled doesn’t actually qualify you for disability benefits according to the Department of Work and Pensions. If someone could tell me how exactly that makes sense, feel free to leave a comment.

I’ve been able to support myself somewhat with my freelance art work. I did stall for a few months due to a horrendous first trimester – morning sickness is no laughing matter – but I’m trying to pick it back up now I’m into my second trimester and feeling a bit more like myself again. It’s not much, but considering even without the pregnancy I couldn’t work thanks to the BPD, it’s better than nothing.

Does this mean that my blog is going to become a Mommy Blog? Urgh. No. But I think it could do no harm to tell the world what life is like when you’re expecting a baby and you suffer from mental illness. I’ve always been open and honest about my struggles, and I think that talking about being ill and pregnant – and eventually, being a mum – might do some good.

While I’m here, a friend of mine has recently started a blog about his mental health, particularly his struggles with anxiety and working in a high pressure environment. Go and give Freddie’s blog a read – Corporate Survivalist!

People in general need to talk more openly about men and mental health. Male suicide rates have been higher than women’s for quite some time, and given the tragic death of Chester Bennington only three months ago (something I will write about at a later date), the stigma needs to be addressed now more than ever. It could save lives.

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Not a stranger…

It’s been nearly two months since I last wrote on this blog. If I’m being honest, I thought a lot about deleting the whole thing, or at least not writing again. After my last post about my benefit being taken away from me, it hit me just how much of myself I have put out there on this blog for the world to see. And it frightened me. Wizard Psych had questioned why someone as guarded as me felt like they could open up to the world in this medium and I never really questioned it until I started feeling like I was recovering.

In the end, I decided against deleting. This blog is over two years old, and it documents a journey that built me into who I am right now. With the snoring dog right beside me for good measure. I reckon you could all do with an update of life since our last catch-up, so here we go.

I HAVE FINISHED THERAPY. Six months of hard work and a lot of hard conversations, and a satisfying conclusion to something I am so fucking grateful for. I want to write a longer post about the benefits of therapy another time, because I owe so much to it and I know that what I’ve taken from it will go a long way in the future. I’m still on my medication (both venlafaxine and lamotrigine, haven’t had to take diazepam since my benefits were taken off me.)

Oh yes. My PIP. I still haven’t got it back. I called last week and apparently my file is with a case manager. I couldn’t get any health records sent to me in time before I had to send it back to the DWP, but I did write a four page letter dissecting every part of the assessment that they got wrong. I also got two statements from former employers saying about the struggles that I faced during employment. Eventually I got sent back my psychiatric records dating back from 2009 – oh boy it’s a tome and a half. I haven’t read it yet aside from a skim through, and I haven’t sent it to them. I dread to think how much it would cost me to, especially when they stopped my benefit and thus my one source of income. If for any reason it goes to tribunal, then I’ll happily bring it with me and hope the clerk keeps a straight face as they hand it over to the judge. I’ll make another call next week, start getting persistent.

I’ve turned my art into somewhat of a long-term career goal. I’m building up a daily routine and taking pride in the direction of where my creativity is going. I finally feel pride in something, and I believe in myself with what I’m doing.


A little something I made for a friend!

My advocacy work has stilled. Not because I don’t want to do it, but I feel that I spend so much energy on just trying to find the right opportunities to get my work out there – and honestly, I get very little back. I’m grateful for the chances I’ve had, I’m glad I’ve met so many great people and I get to talk a lot about mental health and the stigma attached to it. The big problem that I’ve had (again, something that Wizard Psych spoke me through) is that since my BPD diagnosis, it feels like the disorder has become my identity. The fact is, you can have a mental illness and still be a fully formed person behind it. I’m under no illusion that there will be plenty of times in the future where the BPD is definitely more prominent, but there is more to me than my illness.

I do feel much stronger in talking to people about what BPD is; I also feel like I can tackle people’s discrimination without being too emotionally compromised. That takes a lot, and is understandably difficult for anyone to do. I’m also better at recognising triggers and walking away from negative situations – such as former friends online who are still trying to push my buttons after 18 months.

I feel like the me I should have been all along.

There was more that I wanted to write. There’s always more I want to write! I will start writing more frequently, now I’ve got this first post out of the way.

(also, I’ve deleted the Facebook page for this blog. I felt too vulnerable with it out there – if people want to read and keep updated, then they know where this blog is!)

Hope everyone’s been doing okay. Sorry I’ve been off the radar for so long, it’s a kind of habit of mine.

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Disregard that last blog entry…

TRIGGER WARNING for self-harm

So, it turns out that the Department of Work and Pensions in their infinite wisdom, have decided that I am no longer eligible for PIP based on an assessment that saw me score 0 on each component. That’s right, I scored nil points on EVERYTHING. And I can confidently say that the one person who made the decision has done nothing but lie, ignoring the evidence I provided myself along with what I wrote in the previous form and said in my face-to-face assessment at my home.

I got the letter on Friday morning. The day before, I’d had a positive appointment with Wizard Psych and things were looking really good in general. When I got the letter saying that my money had been stopped, I went into almost immediate meltdown. I texted Husband and begged him to come home, but I was freaking out far too much and could not bring myself back down to earth. I cut my wrists with a blunt knife, making no more than deep cat scratches and only serving to upset me even more as I sat and waited for Husband to come home. He’d made plans that would help in the short term and overall seemed positive despite the circumstances – but I felt defeated. As if I didn’t already feel like a parasite for not being able to contribute enough to our household, my one and only source of income had been taken away from me under the government’s desire to cripple the disabled folks of this country further.

For two days straight, I felt like I wanted to die. Eventually, those feelings subsided enough for me to be able to get my own plan together. I’m having to do all the running around for evidence that the DWP and Capita didn’t bother to do themselves as well as keep myself in a fighting mood rather than a flying one. Because god did I want to fly when that fucking envelope came through my door.

This update is only a short one, but I’ll be back once I have a better idea of what I’m doing. I’ve got letters to write – I’ve ordered more printer ink for that purpose, apparently handwritten letters don’t cut it in this situation – and emails to send, to my local MP for a start. As if I didn’t already have zero energy as it is, I’m now going into my energy overdraft for this bullshit.

Too ill for a job, too well to be disabled. Fucking bullshit.

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Still not disabled enough? Thanks Capita!

I haven’t had the Brown Envelope of Doom yet, but today is the day my PIP benefit is paid into the bank and it would appear I’m being paid around £70 less than I’ve been getting over the past three years despite my illness being worse than it was when I was initially assessed. I’m on more medication, under a psychologist and a nurse, visited A&E a bunch of times and have a different diagnosis for fucks sake.

I’m fortunate to at least be still getting money, unlike so many other folks in the UK who are being so horribly let down by Capita and the DWP that are losing their money completely. I’m also looking at more sustainable ways to support myself through my art and other creative means – because, just like I said to the Woman From Capita, I have tried working a job like A Normal Person and apparently I just can’t do it like I’m supposed to. And of course, I have the support of Husband and my family, but it still makes me angry that someone has read what someone else has written about me and decided that somehow I am less entitled to this benefit. I claim no other benefits and would love to be able to support myself fully through employment. There are thousands of disabled people out there, physically and mentally that would love nothing more than to be able to get out of the house and go to work like everyone else does.

PIP is a piss-poor substitute for the former Disability Living Allowance that used to be awarded to those living with a disability. When you’re on Jobseeker’s Allowance (JSA) or Employment Support Allowance (ESA) you are entitled to help with your housing costs, free prescriptions, dental and eye care. Prescriptions aren’t cheap, especially with the cost being per item rather than prescription. You have to pay for prescriptions on PIP, despite the benefit being for those who might actually require more than a few medications and treatments. How does that even make sense? If you get PIP but not ESA, you can say goodbye to living independently, you won’t be able to afford it. Nobody asked to be disabled, and yet here we are.

There is a very big problem in the UK right now, and it is that our government is working against people with less visible illnesses such mental illnesses. George Freeman, aide to the PM and No. 10 policy unit head said this to the BBC just last month;

“These tweaks are actually about rolling back some bizarre decisions by tribunals that now mean benefits are being given to people who are taking pills at home, who suffer from anxiety,” he said. “We want to make sure we get the money to the really disabled people who need it.”

This coming from a man who says he too has suffered from anxiety and depression his childhood. Benefits might cost the government money, but compassion is free you dick.

Nothing will really change for me when the Brown Envelope Of Doom finally arrives. But I’m angry all the same. And so I should be. People are being punished for not meeting the criteria that a government of able-minded and able-bodied politicians has come up with. We are supposed to jump their hoops all just to save them a bit of money. Oh, I’m sorry you find my mental illness inconvenient for your budget, it’s not like hard-working British pay taxes to a system that is supposed to be for those who need it. I guess it’s easy to forget that when the suits in charge are pissing that money away on things we didn’t ask for.

How has the DWP let you down? Is Capita worse than its predecessor ATOS? How does your disability affect you financially? Please comment on this post or send me a private message, I’m really interested in hearing stories from other folks on this fuckery.

Here’s the best kind of therapist you’ll ever see on the internet;


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Capita visit – take 2

As you’re all aware, my recent dealings with Capita haven’t exactly proven fruitful. Which has been a source of stress for both Husband and I, as is anything that’s out of our control. After the last disaster that was trying to get to the building where my appointment was back in November, I was sent (yet another) form to explain why I was late – and if it wasn’t good enough then I could kiss goodbye to the only benefit I claim. So I wrote about how the anxiety nearly had me vomiting me in the street along with the fact that their building is far too close to another building with a similar address.

This was deemed satisfactory enough to have someone actually come to my home to talk to me instead of having to make that journey into town again. And in this case, luck was on our side as the appointment day and time fell during a time where Husband could join me for the visit and not have to request (yet more) time off work.

So, Thursday last week rolled around. I got up early, showered, chucked some breakfast down my neck and waited anxiously for the door to knock. About half an hour before the visit was scheduled, Husband popped his head round the bedroom door – where I was sat playing FFXIV on the PC – to tell me that the visit was actually on Friday, the next day. It was written on the calendar and everything.

I am 27 this year, and an idiot.

FRIDAY rolled around, and anxiety was in full force. I also checked the calendar at least fifty times before the Woman From Capita arrived. She was really nice, and good with Lady – she told us that she had three dogs herself, ALWAYS TRUST SOMEONE WHO LIKES DOGS – which meant I could hold onto my pup for dear life during the interview.

When you’re having to explain to someone what it is about your illness that makes you ‘ill’, it never makes you feel good about yourself. Recounting psychotic episodes, hospital visits, medication, relationship and friendship breakdowns, plus the very visible scars… I kept going blank when she was asking me for details, especially when it came to the BPD episodes themselves. Luckily (for her, anyway) Husband was there to give her the gory details of how he has had to physically restrain me before giving me a diazepam and putting me to bed. I felt so bad for him, especially when I realised through talking to Woman From Capita just how much responsibility he carries in our relationship when I’m not well. I am so grateful for this man.

For the whole meeting, I don’t think I looked at her in the eye much. I still feel a great deal of shame for something I am trying to deal with, and learn to get under control so that there are no repeats of the worst things I did whilst ill. BPD is an ugly illness. She was really nice nonetheless, typing away and asking me all the things she needed to – including the obligatory questions about being able to walk so far, feed myself, go to the toilet unaided etc. As soon as she was done, she gave Lady a fuss and said goodbye before she left.

The anxiety stuck around for a little while. But we had lunch, painted some things together and went out to see our friends at FNM. Sadly my mood dropped before the night was over, so we came home and had an early night.

I just hope that everything goes okay and they don’t take that money from me. It’s definitely not enough to live on, I still have to pay for my prescriptions and rent, but it’s enough to help Husband with bills and the like. It makes me feel a little less on a parasite in our marriage.


I painted my friend Rachel – had a lot of fun doing so!

I’m still trying to find my feet in the world, especially after leaving my job in October last year. But my art, making art for friends and being commissioned for my art has become a huge part of life recently. I mostly make tokens for Magic: the Gathering, but it’s allowing me to develop my personal skills and most importantly? It keeps me busy. It keeps my mind quiet, something that Wizard Psych has been desperate for me to try and stick with. It’s also boosting my confidence and giving me faith in myself as a person. I’ve always drawn and doodled my whole life, until Dad died and I gave it up. Having art back in my life… it feels good.

(Obligatory self promotion in my own blog – here’s my art Instagram if anyone is interested in that sort of thing!)

On another topic, I’m a shameless Evanescence fan and they’ve recently recorded a song that I loved over a decade ago when I was a different person altogether. I love this version as an adult as I loved the original when I was still a teenager.

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This is when It All Gets A Bit Dark

The skills that I’m learning in therapy have actually started to become easier to ingrain in my everyday life. So much so that I find myself being able to subconsciously deal with situations that would usually be very difficult and troublesome for me. Last week a friend snapped at me in a bad mood – normally, I’d assume that he hated me and that would be very upsetting. That didn’t happen. I didn’t think anything of it until he apologised to me for his reaction.

Wizard Psych is astounded that I’m making so much progress so quickly, and that meant we were ready to move onto the second part of my desired plan for therapy – digging back into the past and seeing what sort of shit I can actually put to rest so I can move on with life. So… we dug. I spoke. I cried. I spoke a lot about Mom. Wizard Psych noted a lot of things I told her about my mom, her behaviour and how she treated me while I was growing up. She pondered about Mom possibly having undiagnosed BPD as opposed to the bipolar disorder she was said to have in the 1980’s. I agreed wholeheartedly – I’ve written in great detail about Mom possibly being borderline at the beginning of my book about my pre- and post-diagnosis life.

Then, she pondered the BPD diagnosis in itself, my diagnosis. Do I have borderline personality disorder, or am I just a victim of significant trauma? I do fit the framework of the disorder, but does that mean I necessarily have the disorder? Wizard Psych said that I am responding to treatment so quickly, and adapting at a rate that she hasn’t seen before in BPD treatment. Of course she says this is positive! This means there is room for recovery. That I may not have this mental life sentence hanging over my head after all.

But… I’m not saying I want to have BPD. Not in the least bit. But the diagnosis has always made so much sense to me and those around me. I’ve had three years before starting therapy to get my head around what the condition is and what it means in the long term – and I had many more years before that of trying to control my symptoms myself. There’s no doubt that the trauma of losing Mom probably turned my unbalanced state of mind right up to 11, but since a very young age all I have known is trauma. In all honesty, we barely scratched the surface in the hour we spoke, and while I’m not a professional I feel that with further digging, Wizard Psych might find that there’s too much there to not point to a more complex diagnosis. Despite what some individuals on Tumblr might have you believe, BPD is a very complex diagnosis. It isn’t just ticking off lists and answering questionnaires, there are plenty of experts in both psychology and psychiatry who still don’t fully understand what BPD is and isn’t.

It’s not going to be fun, regardless. Or simple. I know I’m pretty good at talking about feelings, but not all that good at feeling feelings. It hurts too much. And in all honestly I’m afraid of what might come to the surface once we start looking deeper. But things don’t stay hidden forever, they never do.

Everything is still up in the air, as always. But I’m doing okay. I’ve still got miles to go regardless.

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Weight of a (very distant) world

The past few weeks have been hard. On January 18th I was told on Facebook that a dear friend I’d known online for over a decade had passed away after suffering an aneurysm. We never met in person as Tanya lived in America, but we started talking after meeting on a website back in 2006 – the same website I met my friend the Kiwi on, as well as dozens of other friends – and her friendship meant so much to me. She was always only a message away, and supported me through some very rough times as I left my teens. The fact that she’s gone and I never got to meet her in person… it’s really getting to me at the moment. There are so many friends I’ve made over the years that I’ve not met, what if I never get the chance to meet them at all?

I spent a good amount of time in bed last week, out of exhaustion and sadness. My sleep has gone awry (again) and despite making a lot of positive progress at my last therapy session, I almost feel like a fraud. Wizard Psych was very surprised to see me in our morning appointment though, after it was clear last time that we had hit a wall and I was seemingly ready to run and never look back. I guess it’s simple really – I want to have control over my emotions. I want to be able to feel sad and not be so devastated that I’m bedridden. I want to feel happy but not end up manic and doing a million things at once, eventually exhausting myself for the rest of the week. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop being so intense, but I want to manage it nonetheless. Being crippled by your feelings – not exactly something you can announce without looking like an angsty teenager.


(FYI, I was an angsty teenager.)

The other thing messing with my head right now? The new US president is a Tango-faced lunatic with his tiny hands far too close to the red button. The last time I felt so hopeless about the state of the world was when the US invaded Iraq and war was started. Of course in recent years, the Tories got back into power here in the UK and the less said about Brexit… the world is a very shit place. And there remains a voice in the back of my head telling me it’s going to get worse, so why wait for the inevitable? I don’t want to still be here when the Doomsday Clock hits midnight… and that is a very real, tangible feeling that I’m dealing with. And it’s not something you can exactly hide from.

(I’m 26 now, I am too old to be an angsty teenager.)

Rest in peace Tanya, my life is better just for ever knowing you.

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Eurus: The lost and lonely child

WARNING: This post contains spoilers from the BBC Sherlock finale ‘The Final Problem‘; if you haven’t watched this episode yet then avoid this post. 


I’m not here to dissect what may have been the last ever episode of BBC’s Sherlock. There is only one thing I want to talk about, and that is the secret sister of the eponymous detective – Eurus Holmes. We were introduced to her initially in ‘The Six Thatchers’, albeit in disguise, before meeting her again in ‘The Lying Detective’ in another disguise as troubled Faith Smith, the daughter of that episode’s antagonist (who was seemingly modelled after Jimmy Savile…) At the end of the episode, she was finally revealed as the ‘mad’ younger sister of Sherlock and Mycroft.

We went straight into her background near the start of ‘The Final Problem’ as told by Mycroft. The two older boys were smart beyond belief, but little Eurus was on another level. She self-harmed at an early age to try and see how her muscles worked. She didn’t understand what pain was. She loved her brother Sherlock but he already had a best friend – originally thought to be a dog named Redbeard, but it’s revealed that he was actually another little boy named Victor. Eurus ended up killing Sherlock’s best friend, giving him a puzzle to try and save him as she had left him to die; this event was so traumatic to her brother that he blocked out those early memories, even the memory of his sister. It was after she burned down the family home in a seeming fit of rage that she was sent away to a secure facility and kept there through her adolescence into adulthood.

Through the episode we see how Eurus is apparently a master manipulator, a cold-blooded killer, it’s hinted that she’s a rapist, and she plays twisted ‘games’ with her brothers in a bid to observe their emotional responses and moral compasses. While this is going on, Sherlock is on the phone to a little girl who is alone in a plane ready to crash into London who is desperate for him to help her. Everyone around her is asleep, and she’s frightened. Towards the end, Sherlock ends up at the burnt out husk of their former family home where he finally solves the puzzle Eurus set him as a child – where she was begging for his help and his love all that time – and he finds her curled up in a dissociative state in her old bedroom.

The little girl in the plane? It was her all along. The little girl lost in the sky with no-one to help her, waiting to crash and burn – Eurus Holmes. She soon loses that cold, calculating split in her personality and becomes almost catatonic as she is returned to her prison. Her only form of communication after this, is when she plays the violin with her favourite brother Sherlock. Because when he finds her, he reaches out to her despite everything and gives her what she wanted all along – to be loved, and to be found.eurus1

After the episode finished, I said to Husband that things could’ve been so different for Eurus as a child if someone had just listened to her and didn’t sweep her away. Yes, she clearly had psychopathic traits along with high intelligence – but she clearly had no grasp of emotion or empathy. I was suddenly hit with immense sadness, and after a moment alone in the bathroom, I told Husband that I felt so much of Eurus’s pain.

I wasn’t a psychopath as a child. I was very smart for my age, my imagination was endless and full of strange, dark things. …actually, based on the things I used to write and draw, maybe I was a psychopath. Like Eurus, I was desperate for a friend. Friendship with other kids however, was hard to maintain when I was being moved around from home to home and between different schools. I shut off a lot of my emotions until times where I couldn’t – which resulted in outbursts that I couldn’t control. Unlike Eurus Holmes, I wasn’t a skilled manipulator, and I certainly didn’t have murderous tendencies. As an adult she could seduce John Watson into an emotional affair, spends a night with Sherlock eating chips and letting him ‘save’ her and even fools John once again presenting as his therapist. This seems to be the cold, psychotic side that is sophisticated beyond Eurus’s clearly underdeveloped personality.

Mycroft tells Sherlock that Eurus has been locked away since childhood. Which would mean as a teenager, her development as a person and a woman would’ve no doubt been stunted. We see through the ‘games’ she plays that she is definitely still very childlike, even tranquillising Sherlock in a tantrum when he wouldn’t play along. But these games are the work of someone with no empathy or care for consequences – the mark of a psychopath in contrast to Sherlock being a self-proclaimed ‘high-functioning sociopath’. Eurus seems to be completely detached from emotions and reality, very much like the little girl in the plane high above in the sky.

It begs the question; “Could Eurus have been saved if someone had just listened to her?” This child was gifted beyond her years, but had no concept of emotion or morality. What was the answer? To lock her away for the rest of her life. So the fire within her grew and grew, but the scared, lonely little girl was still there, desperate to be saved and loved by her big brother. She was unstable, and she needed help. Not much is said of her parents or their feelings towards her, which begs the question of how they were okay with their child just being locked away before being told that she died. (I blame that moreso on the writing of the show rather than something deliberate – I used to be a big Doctor Who fan before Stephen Moffat took the helm, put it that way…)

At age 23, I was finally diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, the result of a life spent having each and every cry for help and love ignored. My emotions are akin to that of a child, and when I have had episodes in the past it has been clear that there is a split between my cold, rage-filled BPD side and the child-like side that is afraid to feel. A lot like Eurus Holmes. I’m definitely not saying she has BPD or any designated disorder, seeing as she’s presented as some sort of Derren Brown-like mind bender, but she is broken.

Perhaps all Eurus Holmes needed was to be loved. What little girl wouldn’t want that?


All images (c)BBC 2017 / Bottom GIF is from livingthegifs

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“This is the part where you run away…”

So I reckon I’m about five sessions into therapy with Wizard Psych, and progress is being made I must say. Over Christmas we were with The In-Laws and had a strangely (to me, anyway) functional time with zero fights, no drink-fuelled arguments or drama boiling over; and during this time it was noted by my mum-in-law that I was doing heaps better than the last time I’d seen her. Before we went up north, I saw my nan who also noted how much ‘better’ I was – she was so happy to hear that I was finally getting some treatment that had potential to help me. Husband has been happy to have his wife back as I’ve been following all the advice that Wizard Psych had been giving me.

But, Christmas was tougher than I expected. From an early age I struggled with the festive period and the unpredictable, often volatile season. Then as I’ve lost loved ones with each passing year, it’s got worse. Even in recent years with just my Husband I’ve found Christmas to be tense and exhausting. That definitely wasn’t the case with my in-laws, we ate, we slept, we drank and relaxed in front of the telly. It was definitely not something I was used to, and it was wonderful. And it threw me for a loop. Along with Husband having the time off work which totally unbalanced both our routines, I felt some of the good work I’d been doing in therapy being undone.

A few days into 2017 and it was time to see Wizard Psych again. While I have been putting a lot of our time into practise, I haven’t been doing the written work she has wanted me to do. I’ve also started putting up the Wall again as I always seem to do when being challenged by someone who might have a clue of what’s going on in my head. I don’t know if it’s a defence mechanism or a subconscious tantrum that the BPD causes my brain to have, but it’s an undeniable pattern. Professional questions why I don’t do this, why haven’t I tried that, eventually asking questions and digging deeper.

Suddenly – NOPE. The brakes are slammed, Claire shuts down and when she walks out of the door she never comes back. And I can safely say we’ve hit that point in therapy now. I even said that to her when I started crying out of frustration and confusion when confronted about the time that’s being taken by me simply not doing as she’s asking me to. It’s clear Wizard Psych has an idea of where she wants me to end up, I think she knows more of what’s going on in my head than she’s letting on – after all, I need to find this for myself – but she’s said that she wants to help me equip what I need to deal with life with BPD. She said that if I don’t have those skills, then we can’t start digging into the past. And with the brakes slammed down hard, she said something that unnerved me; “There’s something in your mind that deep down you don’t want to find, I don’t know what it is but it’s there and there’s a reason it’s been pushed right back.”

I’ve spent most of my life very aware that my mental state was more than just depression as I’d been told. I knew something was wrong with my mind, I just couldn’t explain it until I was diagnosed with BPD. It’s a gut feeling. Along with that, I have worried that there is indeed something in the deepest corner hidden away that has been pushed there for a reason. It frightens me because of the stuff I DO remember because if I can remember those despite the trauma, how bad does something have to get for my brain to go, “NOPE, FUCK THAT, IN THE CUPBOARD WITH YOU”? That’s one body that I would want to keep buried – unless Wizard Psych thinks it best for me to dig it up.

At the end of our session, she did say very gently that she hoped I would return. I left feeling very raw and vulnerable about the things we had spoken about, pretty sure that it was time for me to cut my losses and run again. But that’s all I’ve done whenever it’s got too scary or too tough for me – I can’t keep doing that forever. Not now I have a family I love and a future that I can see for myself. I don’t quite know what exactly I’ll be doing in that future, but I want to be in the thick of it and not spending my years thinking myself into an early grave.

One of the big reasons for working my way into recovery is the fact that for the first time in my life, I truly do have an amazing bunch of people around me. I am much closer to my family now than I probably ever have been, and my friends are all brilliant. Before Christmas, we had a Secret Santa between a number of us and not only was it hilarious, but the gifts exchanged showed just how much we all ‘get’ each other. I got given the brush pen that I’ve been lusting over for my art, while I did a painting for my Secret Santee (is that a word? It is now) and some of the other gifts included vegan cakes, fake drugs, a scratch and sniff book of whisky and a Waka Flocka Flame CD.

Yes, you read that right.


Pictured: Some of those said dorks

That same weekend we all went out drinking, and not only was it fun but I didn’t have an alcohol-fuelled BPD episode either! I was so drunk I ended up buying blue lipstick online. Sober Claire would not have made this sort of decision.

I have my own cheerleading squad it seems, consisting of my Husband and these adorable dorks I call my best friends.

(I am a hobbit amongst elves, story of my life…)

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Carrie Fisher, and why everyone needs a Gary

To say I’m devastated about the sudden and sad passing of Carrie Fisher is no exaggeration. Growing up I only ever knew her as Princess Leia, who my dad (and probably everyone else’s dad) fancied from Star Wars. In more recent years I’ve learned more about this amazing woman and the trials she went through very publicly with addiction and mental illness. It was hard NOT to look up to her, especially as I read about her candid tales of self-destruction and the dark, sharp humour she presented. If I was to survive my worst days I wanted to be like Carrie Fisher.

Over the coming days and weeks, you’re going to read a lot of people’s own personal stories of grief for this icon. Her story meant a lot to so many and her role on Star Wars was no small feat. Yes, she was a princess – but nothing like the ones we’d seen up until we met the fiery and fearless Leia Organa.

I was with Husband and some friends last night as we played some Magic and I marvelled over some new art goodies I’d treated myself to (art has been a big part of my life again recently, something I’ll talk about in a future post) when I looked through Facebook on my phone and very literally cried out in horror. ‘Carrie Fisher passes away at age 60.’ I had been horrified when she had a heart attack days ago, but I was hopeful that being stabilised meant she would make a recovery and we would have her back. I was immediately saddened by the news, but oddly my thoughts didn’t fall to Star Wars, her battle with bipolar disorder or even having only seen her days before on TV.gary1

I thought of her dog, Gary. And then I had to stop myself from bursting into tears.

Gary was Carrie’s floppy-tongued French bulldog, a stoic little chap that followed her everywhere she went. It wasn’t uncommon to see him by her side on the red carpet, TV appearances and on social media too. It was no secret that this dog was a lifeline to Carrie when she needed one most, not only as a therapy dog for her bipolar disorder but as someone who needed her just as much. “Gary is like my heart. Gary is very devoted to me and that calms me down,” she had said in an interview. They were loyal to one another, and now Carrie was gone.

How would he know she was gone?

It made me think of my own pups. Shandy and Lady had always been in the background as I went through my teenage years, I found myself having to tell my mom to take it easy on them both as they presented with anxiety after my dad died. They were disobedient, often ignoring her as she’d shout, and sometimes they would try to escape despite Mom insisting they were ‘house-dogs.’ There were times where she wanted to get rid of them. Manipulative Ex wanted rid of them. They were noisy nightmares. I was asked to get rid of them once while Mom was in hospital. I couldn’t do it. In some of my darkest hours, they were there for me when all the people who supposedly loved me had left me. I didn’t understand these dogs; but it wasn’t their fault that they were brought into our family and left to their own existence. I loved them. My mom wasn’t cruel, she didn’t beat them or physically harm them, but she was old and frail (as much as she wouldn’t admit to it) and two young, demanding dogs were too much for her. But that wasn’t their fault and I wouldn’t see them abandoned for it.

When Mom died, my brother T insisted that I get rid of them. I wouldn’t be able to look after them, they would be a burden, they would be nothing but trouble. Those dogs gave me a reason to live. My dad was gone, my mom was gone, people had come and gone from their lives and they would never understand why – I wasn’t going to do the same to them. When I howled with grief upon returning home from the hospital when Mom passed away, Shandy and Lady joined me. I cried with my dogs as Husband comforted us all. I wasn’t sending them anywhere. I had just lost the last piece of the family I had known, losing them would have given me nothing left to live for. I was suicidal every single day for months. I wanted to stay in bed and rot away, some days I didn’t eat and some days I ate too much. I wouldn’t shower or change my clothes. But I would get up regardless, because Shandy and Lady needed feeding as did the cats. They would all need to be let out to do their business, the cats would need fresh litter, they would also need warmth and comfort.


My own beacons of hope

When we had no heating in the house, I would have all four of them (even antisocial cats Munch and Pip) under the quilt with me to huddle for warmth with a tiny, shitty electric heater in the middle of the room. I’d do this night and day, and when I took the flat that is now my home, I kept their welfare in mind. Before Shandy passed away nearly two years ago, I worked with Husband to bring their more ‘destructive behaviours’ in check. All it took was patience and love. I’ve never been prouder of those pups, and I would never have sent them away or left them behind.

The love of a dog in the bleakest of times can be a beacon that you never expected. And seeing Carrie with Gary was a reminder of what I went through with my pups and what I would give to have Shandy back with her sister. I couldn’t imagine their faces if I left one day and never came back.


The tweet that broke all the hearts…

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