Self esteemless

Honestly I’ve always had issues with the way I looked. When I was a teenager around 13/14 years of old, I always thought I was ugly, and that if I was skinny boys my own age would like me back, I can see myself in my head now clearly grabbing at my calves, or looking with despair at my nose, prodding and poking at it, as though it would magically turn to plastacine and I’d be able to just reshape it. See the thing is I was a tiny, athletic looking, but due to being bought up riding horses my legs were pretty muscular and I always thought they were fat, like I thought the rest of me was. That way of thinking has been with me throughout. It would become obsessional at certain points too, fixating on certain parts of myself, my nose, my muscular thighs, my arms, my eyes are too small, the freckles on my hands, my knees, being self conscious about various scars etc.

Then I changed my eating at the age of 16/17. An average weekday menu would like this.


Two cups of coffee and three cigarettes

Break at college

Hot chocolate, packet of monster munch and two cigarettes


Coffee and cigarettes


A sandwich

Coffee and more cigarettes throughout.

When I started working I went up to two meals a day and snacks and still remained a tiny size 6. To be fair looking back, I was unhealthily slim. You could see my ribs in places, I mean I could count them by running my finger over them gently. People always had a comment about how slim I was. I didn’t care though, because I ate when I was hungry, I had high cheek bones from my mother and I got a lot of male attention. I think one of the most hateful things anyone ever said to me in regards to my weight was that I looked like an anorexic heroin addict. It’s not just the fact that the dick head had had the audacity to comment about my weight during an argument but it’s the fact he used serious illnesses, an eating disorder and an addiction in a derogatory manner as an insult just to one up me. I mean for fucksake I was the junk food Queen! After my shift on Fridays and Saturdays I’d always make a pitstop at the Time Piece burger van for a hotdog or roll into Maccy-ds with the ladies from work for cheeky cheese free burger. I’d always take a packet of sweets or something to snack on and share with my friend and head doorman too. I had and still do have issues with certain food but that’s another story for another post but ultimately…I ate whatever I wanted when I was hungry. I took after my father.

This is me circa Exeter 2011 tiny tiny.

Moving to Exeter was magic for me, it did wonders for myself esteem truth be told, sure there was still plenty of days where I wished I looked different, where I didn’t feel good enough and like I just, well never quite measure up but those moments were few and far between compared to how my life was before the move. I was always the ugly best friend, or they always preferred my best friend. I was always comparing my lot to theirs. I just felt so worthless and ugly and unwanted compared to everyone else. It’s like they could see my cracks where I’d broken. I reinvented myself when I moved further south to Exeter. I became the person I always wanted to be. I stopped comparing myself, my looks anyway to other people’s. I became confident too. No longer did I walk down the street with my eyes cast to the floor even during a break down with mascara streaked down my face I walked with my head held high marching up Exeter high street haha. So even through the chaos I still had that. My self esteem wasn’t through the floor anymore. I still thought I was first class fuck up and full time crazy but hey at least I could look people in the eyes and look in the mirror without wanting to smash it every time I put my make-up on.

However all of that’s gone now. Four years ago I was a healthy size 8, when I got admitted to the psychiatric hospital for the first time and I ended up taking Olanzapine again.

Me a few months before the above hospital admission.

Fair play it is a wonder drug, it calmed me and soothed my anxiety and agitation, kept my paranoia at bay etcetera, the only draw back for me, was the fact I piled on weight with it and not because it gave me the munchies either, it didn’t. Sedatives/antipsychotics are notorious for weight gain and they slow your whole metabolic rate down. I genuinely barely eat. So as if I didn’t feel completely shit as it was about everything, my weight gain has made me even more miserable and self conscious. I feel embarrassed and ashamed of how I look now, I’m so self conscious, and feel so unattractive, not that I would want to pursue anything right now anyway but it’s how I perceive myself that’s the problem. I suppose thats why i’ve taken to dying my hair wild colours, because I feel that it detracts peoples attention from my chubby cheeks and the rest of my flaws.

And it doesn’t help matters when people ask me when I’m due thinking that I’m pregnant, because that’s where I carry my weight-on my stomach. Plus thanks to whatever the hell is going on inside of my body, making my stomach swell and go solid, it makes people presume I’m pregnant even more.

It’s not solely the aesthetics that are contributing to my low self esteem although that doesn’t help matters either. I just feel crappy about myself in general, that no one likes me, that I come across badly, that there’s nothing good or likeable about me what so ever, that i’m an annoying pain in the arse, I feel this overwhelming urge to apologize for being me constantly, for being so flawed.

I’m not on such a high dosage of Olanzapine anymore and only take it as a PRN alongside a sleeping tablet occasionally when I’ve had enough of my insomnia (I have to take the two together otherwise they don’t work) I built up a resistance to it and it just doesn’t do squat for any of my symptoms. I’ve lost a bit of weight since stopping it, but ultimately being slim isn’t going to miraculously change how I feel on the inside. Only therapy will do that. Self help. Learning to like myself so I stop apologising for being me. Any tips on how to improve myself esteem would be welcomed.

As is customary with each of my posts here is a song. I’ve gotten really into Larkin Poe at the moment and the soul in this broads voice is phenomenal. Plus the cat has enjoyed me singing it to the point she rubs up against my legs (ear worm) haha.

And an old favourite

Featured image by Aegis.


Surviving, Hope and Events

Since ditching Facebook due to stalker bacon trolls back last August and dipping a tentative curious toe into Twitter, I’ve found my social media home if you will. And in spite of the stale bacon sandwiches that found me on there too, overall it’s been a positive form of distraction, in the respect that when I’m in some form of emotional turmoil and wearing one of the many hideous colours of BPD, I can pick up my phone and see that I’m not alone. That I’m not the only one that feels the way I do or that has experienced the same things that I have. Plus cat memes are a bonus obvs.

Before Twitter I hadn’t really engaged with any other survivors, at least not to my knowledge because sadly not everyone discloses to someone. And to be honest I think connecting to fellow survivors is something I’ve needed. Because as brutal as it sounds unless you’ve been through it yourself, you’ll never fully understand us the same way.

I think that since reporting my godfather I have gone through a spectrum of emotional stages that sit under the heading ‘negative impact emotions.’ From accepting what he’d done and coming out of that nice cosy Stockholm syndrome chrysalis, crying hysterically the whole time of course, to attempting suicide with a near successful attempt and wanting to scrub myself with bleach and wire wool to wanting to go and beat the snot out of him, and tell his neighbours exactly what he is. Don’t get me wrong I do go back and forth, becoming ensconced in all of those feelings that vie for my attention alongside my BPD. I mean it’s not like I had counselling then *Kablam* I’m magically healed. On the contrary that piece of shit saw how vulnerable I was and he exploited that to his advantage as I mention in my post about it all. But on top of that, by him pathetically apologizing to me for what he did to me all those years ago, he unleashed the rest of the hell that I’d buried deep in the recesses of my chaotic mind. Some equally as putrid shit, that I’m going to have to deal with when I’m ready. I tried picking at that scab during counselling. And whilst I got some of the poison out, the rest of the scab wasn’t ready to be pulled at yet.

Out of the entire clusterfuck (reporting him to the police and it going to CPS) Whilst getting to court didn’t come to fruition. Taking to Twitter and engaging with other survivors…I found hope. Not a blindingly white massive beacon, just a few embers that were waiting for me to set them alight. I found a few more, when reporting and thus annihilating paedophile accounts, or jumping in and giving them a verbal ass whooping when they trolled other survivors/survivor groups.

That was a good way of letting my anger out. But I realised that that wasn’t going to achieve much. So thanks to a lot of incredible survivors that I follow on Twitter, I got into campaigning. Sure I can’t do much because of the state of my mental health and physical health at the moment. Drafting this post alone has taken three sittings and about a week so far due to my crappy concentration and moods…however that being said, when I’m able to I’m retweeting, signing or creating my own petitions, and just chatting or offering support to other survivors.

I’m channelling that seething ball of rage I have inside of me, into helping the cause, even if it’s just in a small way by signing a petition to implement change or raising awareness of CSA/CSE or other forms of child abuse. Basically anything that will protect children and prevent them from going through the hell that myself and thousands of others have been through. My eyes have been opened to the scale of the problem of CSA and CSE since coming to Twitter. Our country is riddled with paedophiles that are taking advantage of a system that’s failing children, largely in part to police cuts and them not having the resources. Archaic laws that need updating and those within the police and CPS not being trauma informed either. I think they need to be clued up on the psychological impact abuse has on victims of CSA and how it effects their behaviours. And also when it comes to sentencing. I think the long term damage done by our abusers should be factored in. E.g a poxy two year sentence compared to the life sentence our abusers give to us is a fucking joke.

So before I end up going off on one and drawing on my own experiences with being failed thus making my blood boil even more to the point of launching my notebook out the window or I end up sobbing my heart out. Let me tell you about two events that are coming up.

The first is created by the awesome and inspirational survivor David Leano Lean (give his name a click and a follow if you’re on twitter) who is spreading the word and making people open their ears, raising awareness of CSA and other forms of child abuse through his brilliant #purple campaigns/Twitter storms.

The pic says it all. It’s 100% free to do too. So please join in and start a conversation about child abuse, the signs to watch out for, who to re0ort to if you think a child is at risk etc. E.g When Sandra from accounting compliments you on your fabulous purple dress tell her why you’re wearing it and get her involved too or when the coffee barista asks you where you got your sharp purple tie from, tell him too and start a conversation.

Another event for your calendars is one created by the equally as awesome and equally as inspirational Shatter Boy UK (give his name a click and a follow too if you’re on twitter) it’s co-hosted by PAGUK and Dark Light and No More Silence.

It’s a survivors meeting on Sunday 29th July at Speakers Corner Hyde Park London bringing survivors of CSA/CSE and campaigners together to form a working collective so we can all work together to make a difference. The system has failed and is failing vulnerable children. More needs to be done to protect them. Danny (Shatter Boy Uk) and PAGUK are working tirelessly to implement change and safeguard vulnerable kids. So please check out Danny’s page for more info about his event.

I want to end this piece by giving a shout out to all of the incredible survivors out there that I follow including Danny and Leano. Your strength and your passion has inspired and reignited the fight in me, the desire to keep going, even on the days when I want to give up and chick the towel in whether that be due to my abusers or whether it’s BPD related. You’ve all given me hope. That I can have a happier existence. Thanks so much. Sending you all a massive cwtch (Welsh hug) and some love.

Stay strong my fellow warrior Queens and Kings. This one is dedicated to us all.

Also the top photo (me in purple) was done by the lovely Ty. Thanks so much Ty 💜

Dissociating my ass to Exmouth.

I don’t like the summer. Hot, sweaty irritable and constantly harassed by wasps. No thanks. Give me frosty winter mornings, rain and snow any day of the week over this shit. However this morning was nice. I went to my church (my local coffee shop) to get out for some air. I do a lot of silent contemplation sitting at my usual table our side, sipping my usual order and vaping. As I was enjoying the quiet and calm I closed my eyes and for a second as the sun warmed my face and a warm zephyr brushed my skin I wasn’t in Wales anymore. I was stood, my waife like frame leaning against the sea front wall, looking out at Exmouth beach, a take away caffé Nero cup between my hands. I was still chaos but I was happy some of the time. Almost content too. Whilst I sat there ensconced and reliving that memory feeling like if I kicked of my shoes and climbed over that wall I would feel the sand scrunch between my toes I realised how much I missed it, then, me and everyone else that was ingrained into those vibrant memories.

I’d packed up my shit and moved to Exeter in two weeks, starting my own adventure. And sure a few years later it went to shit because unsurprisingly because of my mental health…but I did it. And I miss it. Dissociation has it’s perks. It’s about the only perk of BPD.

Things just seem to be getting increasingly turbulent for me and I’m trying like fuck to cling on and not chuck the towel in. My mental health is a concern nut as of last Thursday so is my physical health…since being sent down to the M.A.Unit in the hospital on Thursday (via taxi as it would be quicker) I have had numerous blood tests, an iron infusion due to dangerously low haemoglobin levels, been sent to A+E by the out of hours GP on Saturday night, had ECG’s, more blood tests and a blood transfusion too. I’m incredibly worried about the state of my physical health. They think they know what the cause of it is but I have to have a scan to confirm that but in the meantime I have to go back to the M.A.Unit for the second iron infusion on Friday.

The ironic thing is that I was feeling optimistic about my future and now I’m not. Even my skin is telling me how stressed to fuck I am because my eczema has flared up too.

I write to the tune of my soul.

I’ve been struggling to write this post. Well not this post. I felt like I had to write about something that I wasn’t really inspired to write. Something light and airy. But what I feel in my soul dictates what I need to write about. The whole point of this blog is catharsis. I let trolls silence me from documenting the map of my history. And how those events are still affecting me now. And by trying to write that piece earlier I triggered myself. I’m done hiding and keeping it in because in doing that I’m just making myself feel worse. So here it is. Bare bones.

This week has been more emotionally chaotic than usual. All of my BPD symptoms have been amplified, like as though someone pulled the skein of skin that constitutes as a protective layer, back, making me crazier than ever. Swinging from laughing so hard at something on the tv, that the cat flounced off my lap, to howling and sobbing and feeling suicidal, back to laughing again in the space of ten minutes,and to make the entire shit show that extra bit special my voices have been piping their fucking ugly gobs up too. Which as a result has made me more tense and anxious to the point my breathing goes weird, which freaks me out even more. One second I’m feeling unsafe in the house and scared and in need of getting out, all the while not feeling safe out there either, so when I do come back in I’ve felt claustrophobic and like I can’t breathe. But thank god the voices aren’t sticking around too long. It did get to the point where I reached out to the psych hospital the other day but home treatment were in an assessment, so I spoke to a lovely lady on the duty desk who managed to calm me down a bit and we were able to put a plan in place for the rest of the afternoon/evening. It’s an absolute bitch having an illness that is untreatable with meds. Sure some of the symptoms can be treated but the medication isn’t always effective and for the most part all we can do is grab on to something, bite down and try our best to ride it out and make it out the other end alive or not sectioned.

Today has been no different to that either. I chatted to my friend on the phone and had a good catch up. An impassioned conversation about mental health and whether or not people’s attitudes towards it are changing. And how liberating it felt posting that pic last night in regards to my excoration/dermatillomania as it is known to laughing at the only funny scene in the film ‘The Other Guys’ and that was great but things took a swan dive, and I found myself sitting outside gazing up at the mountain thinking.

And honestly it just made me sad. I told myself that this year was going to be my year. That like as if by magic the stars would a line and I’d be stable for the first time in my life and I’d be able to have a happier and brighter future and that come September I’d be well enough to start learning to become a counsellor and I’d get somewhat of a happy ending but that is bollocks. It’s never going to happen. My psychiatrist said that she thought I should become a therapist, that I’d be good at it. Others have said it too. But what do I have to offer to anyone. How the hell am I supposed to help someone else heal their pain when I don’t have a clue how to heal my own.

My psychiatrist also said that she likes me because I try. I try and make things better for myself. But what good is repeatedly trying when everything turns to shit. At one point do my endeavours stop being heroic and just end up with me looking like a glutton for punishment. I’m upset and I’m angry. Those cunts robbed me of a life. All of them swanning around without a fucking care in the world living nice happy lives and mine is still ruined. I’m so sick of just existing. Of getting through the day. I mean seriously what is the fucking point. I’ve got to stop writing now. I need to go and breathe and do some distraction. I’ve recently taken up doing digital art and being less inclined to pick up Twitter as my distraction tool and instead picking up my app and stylus. Here’s the recent one I did of my cat Lola.

‘Pets at Home’

And a cool band I’ve gotten into lately called Larkin Poe. Here’s a couple of my fave tracks as I’ll probably be listening to them for a bit tonight.

Over Achiever

Trouble in Mind

Mad As A Hatter

#CSAreview and my poem.

I was inspired to write this poem last night, during the #CSAreview Twitter storm, organized by the incredible Shatter Boys UK and the equally incredible Jayne Walden. Hopefully all of us, that have been failed by the CPS, will now get our cases reviewed. We all fight so others won’t have to. The poem is called The Monsters.

‘The same old ghosts follow my scars,

I was purity and now I’m tar.

My innocence reeped by monsters and foes,

Soul is dirtied in It’s final deaththroes.

Deemed unworthy by the woman that bore me,

Why did she encourage it and then ignore me.

How did all see the signs,

People were so conveniently blind.

I was driven to chaos and pain,

To those in power I am but a name,

But they don’t walk around with this hurt or shame.

The monsters roam free,

With not an ounce of guilt for abusing me.

And still the same old ghosts follow my scars.

There’s so many of us that have been failed not just by the CPS, but by the police too and many others, that have failed to spot the signs, or worse failed to do anything about them. To them we’re just names that make up statistics. They have no idea what we the survivors go through every day and night. The long term impact that it has on us, on every aspect of our life.

Those so called “experts” making claims in the papers that not every child will be traumatised for the rest of their lives, is just a shonky attempt at whitewashing the issue. I challenge them to speak to any adult survivor and actually educate themselves, before coming up with yet more ‘airy fairy, life is all candy floss and unicorns for a lot of survivors of CSA’ bullshit in order to down play the seriousness of it. Because let me tell you something for nothing, life for most of us is anything but and we’re all effected in a multitude of hideous ways. From mental illness such as Borderline personality disorder, other personality disorders, depression anxiety disorder etcetera (all of which I suffer with) to intimacy issues/relationship issues, nightmares, flashbacks, trust issues and the list goes on.

My doctors and other mental health professionals that treat me and that gave me my diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder said that I have it as a result of the abuse I suffered when I was a kid. It’s a common diagnosis amongst those of us that were sexually abused as children, or that endured any other form of abuse during childhood. That’s why it pisses me off that it’s so stigmatized. Or used as an insult. Err yeah thanks film industry for perpetuating the unrealistic portrayal of the illness.

Here are couple of song that I was drawn to listening to after re-reading the draft of this post.


Ray LaMontagne-Trouble Ray has an incredible voice. Like velvety whiskey and Smokey bluesy bars.

Featured image ‘Deliberation’ by the awesome Aegis. His work blows my mind.

Fake Happy.

I had planned on doing self care this afternoon and using my distraction techniques by doing nice things like painting my toe nails, starting a portrait of my neighbours dog, who is best friends with my cat, as a thank you gift. I even got my sketchbook out and my pencils that Geordie Shore got me for my birthday last year. But my mood has plummeted and I feel heavily depressed. In fact I’d like nothing more right now than to cwtch down on the couch under my duvet and go to sleep. But I can’t, because I have to stay awake due to my meds being delivered.

Last night was pleasant and chilled out. I watched Bob’s Burgers (seriously hilarious) and an episode of Rick and Morty (genius) chatted to Geordie Shore too. I felt serene for the first time in months and I was feeling optimistic. I thought that if I could just get even a little bit stable that I could make some steps towards having a happier future. Whether that was by somehow overcoming my issues with being around people, or having them over, in my space or being well enough to sign up for the counselling course. But now positivity like my motivation has left the building and now I’m back to feeling like my usual self. I mean what hope do I have at a normal life. Of a happier existence. That’s a fairy tale ergo utter bullshit.

I like to think had my cards been different that I would be living a completely different life. One where I had a happy, safe and healthy upbringing, one where I’d end up becoming a psychiatrist, helping people, I’d be married to my soul mate and I’d have children. And overall I would be happy. It offers me no comfort to think that in a parallel universe there’s another me living that life.

I want comfort now. My ex and I are finally at a level where we’re friends. So I trust him enough to let that vulnerable side of me show. I don’t tell him everything that is going on with me though. I think the only people that I tell everything too are mental health professionals. But I would quite happily give up my book collection for one of his shoulder massages. I just need to feel safe for five minutes. It embarrasses me to admit this but I crave physical comfort when I’m at my lowest points. I’m just selective whom I seek it from, whom I trust enough. To be fair It’s a good job He’s on the other side of the country to me as I’d probably start crying if he hugged me right now.

I am just fucking sick of feeling this way, of constantly remembering, of constantly feeling like utter shit. There’s not been one moment of respite since my godfather apologized to me and unleashed the contents of Pandoras box in doing so. Not one. I hope he’s ever so happy. Where do nonces get off exactly saying sorry. Like that’s going to fix it. Christ you ruined my fucking life sorry isn’t going fly. I don’t know whats worse him saying sorry for raping me when I was a kid or my step father and mother not apologizing for abusing me too.

I need to do something about my anger. I need to learn a healthier way to let it out. Maybe I need to get my punch bag off my uncle. Walking around with this anger is far from healthy and it feels so huge. I mean what are you meant to do when you can’t shout a fucking blue streak at the people responsible for it in the first place. I’m going to go and take a nap.

Featured image is by Chicano

Fake Happy

Trolls *Update*

It’s time a little update.

The award for the shittest troll ever goes to the troll to whom I refer to below. Each time you attempt to post a comment to my blog….WordPress logs your IP 🙂 Enjoy that thought. Happy fricking Easter.

Do you know what. It’s time for a rant. Until taking to Twitter last August I’d never encountered a troll before. But it would seem I’m plagued by the odious creatures. As most of you know, I started my original blog to coincide with receiving counselling. Writing has always helped me process things, to digest and order the chaos inside inside my head or the pain the is felt in every nook and cranny of my soul. In college it was a lyrics for my band or songs that I used to write with the guitarist. And over the years since it has been a diary. I knew counselling was going to be a rough ride and I knew that writing was going to help me too.

You may have noticed that I’ve stopped documenting my abuse and sharing my story with you all. The one that shaped me. The reason for that is that a bunch of sicko paedophiles and their fan is using the contents to troll me with and no doubt getting their disgusting jollies off on what they read here. Evidently they don’t like the fact that I despise them and the rest of their kind, or the fact that I’m a fan of paedophile hunters and think that said paedophiles trolling those awesome people are even more despicable than first thought. (I know right, i didn’t think nonces could get any lower) and they certainly don’t like the fact that I actively campaign against CSA or that I stand up to them.

You see I read a very interesting article on the psychological characteristics of trolls and I’m sure you’ll agree with me that a lot of those traits are also found in…paedophiles. I want to do more research on that but it’s not a half baked opinion either.

I mean you have to be pretty sick, don’t you think, to troll CSA survivors. Here’s a few examples of things that have been spouted either to me or about me. That I enjoy incestuous sex and that I enjoyed being raped by god father. Or that I seduced my abuser and then tried to rape him. That my CSA is fake. And that is literally all I can bring myself to type because the rest is just as abhorrent.

I have every right to agree with paedophile hunters and support what they do. I have every right to my opinions e.g that nonces deserve locking up for life for their first offense because they evidently cant be rehabilitated. I also have every right to not wish to converse with them. Just like I have every right to be left the fuck alone and to go about my business without a bunch of raging psychopathic nonces stalking my every move and trolling me.

You see even when you ignore them they do backflips for your attention by either tagging you or by becoming even more vicious. But unfortunately for them…the nets closing in on them. You don’t belong on social media, you certainly don’t belong in civilized society and you certainly don’t have the right to troll survivors of monsters like you. You don’t like what I retweet…here’s a tip quit stalling my time line and my blog.

Also I’m not a Kat so give your brains a rest 🙂

The featured image is called ‘Troll’ by the awesome Mattias Fahlberg.

‘Deeds not words’ a tribute to The Suffragettes.

I hated school with a passion. The only subjects I really liked and excelled at were English, French, music and home economics, which in spite of my issues with food I enjoyed. My lemon meringue pie was bake off worthy. But hand on heart, taking a joint second place on the ‘subjects I hated the most’ list after maths is geography because it bored me rigid and history because it put me to sleep.

Picture this. It’s the height of the 1990’s. The Spice Girls are eeeeverywhere. The country is suffering from a severe case of Spice Girl fever and I, like everyone else was in awe, sporting their spice girl body spray and wishing I owned their collective shoe wardrobes and their entire make-up stash. And there I am trudging my way into Mr C’s history class room hating my flat geeky shoes and uncool hair, preparing myself to be bored silly and to slyly pass notes back and forth to my best friend.

However that lesson was where Mr C taught us about the Suffragettes. From start to finish I was utterly enthralled, and I absorbed his every word. I remember quite clearly thinking that the Spice Girls were a bunch of rubbish because The Suffragettes, now that was girl power. Mr C’s impassioned speech on them and their bravery, their courage, the things they endured to win us the vote, lit a monolithic fire inside of me, that would not only go on to help shape the woman I would go on to become, but as I left his class room that day, I knew that as soon as I was old enough, that I would exercise my right to vote and would do so in honour of the women that had fought so hard and given their lives to give me that privilege.

Over the years I’ve dipped in and out of the internet, reading about the great Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters Cristabel and Sylvia.

And not forgetting the illustrious Emily Wilding Davison

who died in 1913, tragically from the injuries she sustained walking on to the race track at the Epsom derby. She fought with a heart of a lioness for the cause and literally lost her life in the epic battle for equality. She did 9 stints in prison for Suffragist related offences. She like many others endured the torture of not only starving herself but of being forcibly fed by a rubber tube down her throat. In protest of this barbaric practice she threw herself from a balcony in strangeways prison in Manchester and is quoted afterwards as saying the following in regards to why she did it.

“The idea in my mind was that one big tragedy may save many others”

That’s how much she cared. She’s buried with the Suffragette moto ‘Deeds not words’ on her grave stone. It’s heart breaking that she like so many others didn’t get to witness the fruit of her labours. She never got to go and cast her vote.

Some people refer to the suffragettes as terrorists. I disagree and vehemently so. Back in those days it seemed the system they were fighting against only understood one language…war.

The great Emmeline Pankhurst is quoted as saying.

“We are here, not because we are law-breakers, we are here in our efforts to become law-makers”

That photo is probably one of the most iconic images in British history. She may have been small in stature but her voice…was heard by many and she along with every single person that fought for equality, for women up and down the length and breadth of our small and mighty island to be seen as equals to our male counter parts will be revered and thus remembered as part of British history forever. I’m raising a cup (of coffee not a glass) to them.

For M and the importance of social media.

A lot of people close to me or people that treat me have suggested to me that coming off social media will be a help, in light of what’s been going on. But whilst social media can cause all sorts of dramas, sometimes when it is used for it’s intended purpose as opposed to troll people it’s a pretty great tool.

I was a social butterfly for years when I overcame my crippling shyness. A very sociable person and dare I say it, popular. In fact I earnt my living from it at one point. However I always beat a hasty retreat on the socializing front when my voices, paranoia, or anxiety were being particularly horrendous.

I haven’t seen my friends in well over a year or my uncle since August. I’ve isolated myself so much so that I can’t handle being around people unless they are a mental health professional with whom I’m familiar with or little chats over the garden fence with my lovely neighbour who would understand if I ducked indoors at any point. I have isolated myself to the point that if it weren’t for social media or my mobile phone…I would literally have zero human interaction. I know I’m letting my illness get the better of me but I just find it easier to avoid those situations rather than deal with them, because I know how much certain voices terrify me when they chirp up and thus cause me a great deal of distress. Plus it allows me to maintain contact with my friends all over the country and the rest of the world.

People think it’s odd that I met my best friend Geordie Shore via social media and that we’ve only ever met the once in person. I don’t think it’s odd at all because we chat all the time and talk on the phone. There’s a connection that had it not been for the internet I would’ve never made. Geordie Shore knows me better than anyone and certainly better than I know myself, which as those of you reading this, that either have BPD or experience of it will know having a sense of self is a struggle. He makes me laugh and we have loads in common. That’s how I met M too, via social media.

I found out that M had died the other day. The world has been robbed. He was sweet, funny and vivacious and we had passionate conversations about politics and our respective heritage. I think it’s called Geneology. He was also a talented musician too. That man had soul, and it was pure. I bawled my eyes out for a solid hour when I found out. He’d booked a trip that he’d always wanted to take. Spontaneous. I literally spoke to him a few days ago when he was in his second destination, Marrakesh. He sent me a picture of a goat and a stray cat just chillin’ that he’d taken. For no other reason than because he knew I’d like it. He called me beautiful too which made me all swoony naturally because he’s devastatingly handsome with the whole, long hair surfer thing going on and movie star good looks. I never got to meet him. I’m devastated about that because he was such an incredible person. His passing has left such a hole in my world so god only knows how his poor family and friends are feeling due to his passing and his poor little dog too. I believe in reincarnation so I’m hoping our paths get to cross in one of our next lives.

Much like I struggled when my dad died I find myself once again grappling with the fact that someone can be here one side of a second then not on the next. It also pisses me off beyond belief that arsehole’s get to live to an old age where as good people like M and countless others get theirs cut short and don’t even make it to 45. M wasn’t much older than me either. He was sweet. If I was low he’d tell me he was sending me cwtches. One of the only Welsh words I know but that I teach everybody as it’s the best.

This one’s for you M. I’ll remember you every time I hear them.

And this one because you would’ve thought it moving and beautiful too.

Symphony of Chaos.

I’ve been meaning to write but I let some people’s actions silence me, when I had finally found my voice and one that helped me express to the world how I feel, the things I’ve experienced. Things I’ve kept bottled up and pressed down for too long. So aside from procrastinating over what I should write about etcetera that has been my main reason. Not writing my thoughts down makes me feel claustrophobic and itchy and kind of on the brink of combustion.

I want each of my posts to be this profound thing that helps people in some way, whether that’s being able to relate to it and knowing they’re not alone, or gain an insight as to what BPD or being a CSA survivor is really like.

Initially the plan was to write my next post on the psychotic episodes and write about the particular symptoms chunk by chunk with stats and examples from my life how they effect me, but truth be told I’m not a teacher. I am however someone that is living the nightmare for real. Someone that is struggling and trying to grip on sanity and the cliff face called stability only someone has covered my particular footholds in oil.

I’ve been having a more turbulent time than usual and I’m trying harder than ever to handle things by myself, you know doing the usual distraction/mindfulness from social media, watching YouTube videos or doing Mindfulness colouring, which is therapeutic. Here’s a sketch I started (the nose and mouth are just rough plotted in for me to work off of/into)

During one particularly tempestuous night where I couldn’t sleep…again and couldn’t take my sleep meds combo that knocks me out because of having to be awake early to take receipt of the delivery of my cats prescription food I wrote my mood diary. Originally it was going to be 24 hours worth but I couldn’t focus to write it continually and I was even more frayed around the edges by the time last entry was noted down.

‘Can’t sleep. It’s 4.03am and I’ve been trying to sleep for the last half an hour 45 mins. My head is noisy and all over the place. Chewing over what my next blog post should be about. I feel like I have to edit myself or just not post anymore. I haven’t taken any zopiclone or Olanzapine because I have to be up early because Lo’s food is being delivered and I have that phone call due at 1pm and come 6am I know I’ll either want to crash or still be wide awake. It’s a pain in the arse.

Aaaand I’m hallucinating again. Same woman as last night. How do I tell if it’s simply just a hallucination and that i’m not seeing spirits/ghosts again. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was my mother. It certainly would explain why the cat has been acting so strange. But then what if I’ve never seen spirits and those occasions were just instances where I was hallucinating. At least the bus/wasp incident was something realistic and of this world looks wise. What the actual fuck is going on with me right now. The hallucinations have never been this regular an occurrence.

Maybe nurse A is right maybe I do need a hospital admission and maybe nurse K is right too that I should try and see if my psychiatrist can see me sooner than my next appointment. I think being crazy and not sleeping is just a really bad combination. Like “Peas and tuna fish” only I don’t need Adam Sandler to point out how badly they go to together.

The second I turn my phone off and get settled and led down I can feel my entire body tense up, It’s hard to explain. I don’t mean as physically tense as I was during the counselling session having to discuss my step father. It is all over though, but a mild version of that. I keep getting spooked at noises too because the wind is up and giving everything a battering, including my wheelie bin by the sounds. I know it’s all pertaining to the abuse I went through. So I guess on edge sums it up. Maybe I should just post this as my blog post. It’s give a bit of an insight as to what is going on with me.

Plus Lo is asleep in the living room and I struggle to sleep at night in the bedroom without her, these past few months. She has this really awesome affect on me and chills me out. Same as doing the mindfulness. Colouring is proving a particularly good distraction but apparently anything other than a hefty dose of sedative and sleeping tablets are the only way I’m destined to get any sleep. The question is at what point do I chuck the towel in on the sleep situation and go and make myself a nice cup of decade coffee (I literally only had two cups of coffee yesterday) so I’ve even dramatically cut my caffeine intake down too. Argh


Sacked trying to sleep on it’s head as I’m still wide awake. Went to make a coffee and get my yoghurt from the fridge, when I was checking the milk, I heard a man clear his throat in my garden near the kitchen window. Shit myself. Exhausted all distraction, called the psych ward as home treatment don’t open for another few hours. Ended up crying and worrying that the nurse thought I was a pain in the arse. That wasn’t the case.

Really struggling and feel like I’m losing the plot more so than normal. I have always struggled like this. Really had an absolute fuckful. This isn’t living, this is trying to survive a nightmare. What if that man wasn’t real or what if he wasn’t in my garden. My instincts and voices are telling me other wise. I knew I was being spied on. I just haven’t figured out why though yet and why anyone would take such an avid interest in my insignificant existence. Fuck me maybe I’m living the real Truman show. Freaked out.

Spoke to my uncle too because I was still distressed around 5.50am. Promised I’d call him later to let him know I’m ok.

7.54am Just blitzed my kitchen and bathroom. Also put a load of washing on. Feeling very hyper. And energized. Feel very awake. Replied to Geordie Shore. Our chats crack me up. His reply made me laugh in regards to the new Lenor comfort softener being on the spicy side. In the time I’ve spent here writing this my mood is crashing and I but I still feel wide awake. How the fuck is that possible.

8.50am Yes because being called over sensitive is exactly the thing you should say to a borderline. In fact not listening in the first place and repeatedly calling me by my old name that isn’t even my actual old name is precisely how to treat someone with BPD hey here’s a tip why not just hand out the Dignitas web address with our diagnosis whilst you’re at it.


I want an actual cigarette. A roll up. Amber leaf. Fuck. Why do I not keep an emergency baccy stash for times like these. *tokes repeatedky on e-cig until nic sick. Keep looking at the full box of codeine I got from Boots and doing meds maths in my head. It’s been so hard to differentiate between suicide ideation and being suicidal, the lines are blurring. And honestly I haven’t been seeing the point to this whole

“You just need to make it through the day”


“Things will get better, look how far you’ve come” thing.

Considering I’ve been like this since I was teenager…things haven’t gotten better. It’s a crock but the cat needs me to keep going. Who would take care of her. The humans in my life would be better off without me.

My eyelids are swollen because I have been in floods of tears on and off all night. My skin is a train wreck hormones+dermatillomania can fuck right off. And I need to pick more than ever but my main sites have either healed or have been picked to buggery over the course of the night. Fuck this shit.

9.04am. Sitting here lamenting the fact that those I thought care don’t really. I’m honestly livid and upset by how someone treated me. Who the hell am I supposed to ring when I have a crisis that I can’t handle. When I’ve exhausted all of my techniques. That was the plan I had in place to call that particular team when shit is going to hell in a handbasket and I can’t deal with it.

The above as I said is a mere snippet as to what things are like for me. It’s barely scratching the surface. All of that. Every single thing mentioned is a result of what I went through as a child. My abusers parading around without a care in the world with the exception of my so called mother of course. Whilst I’m living in hell.

Today has been an ok day. Lost my temper a few times it’s so quick and explosive but now i’m serene and contemplating taking an early bed. I managed to post the thank you cards to Nurse A and Clinical Support worker S, yesterday too and had a coffee. I’m proud of forcing myself to go out. Because I’ve pretty much become a recluse and only leaving the house once or twice a week. I seem to be isolating myself further. But I am maintaining contact with the outside world thanks to my phone though. I can’t deal with being around people or having people in my space. So even when I think I’m lonely I know I’d feel claustrophobic if I was well enough to deal with/manage being around people.

I’ve also been keeping a sleep diary so my psych can have a better insight to the issues. Episodes like this where I feel alert and awake even without the side of coffee are common. I just wish they weren’t so long. Sleep and I are ‘bezzies’ most of the time. Last night was ropey as I put my ear plugs in and settled down ready for the meds to kick in and heard what sounded like my mother arguing with someone only muffled because of the plugs. Adrenalin kicked in and my blood was rushing I took ear plugs out and heard the argument I couldn’t quite make out the words just tone and inflection. It went quiet after a minute or so. It was like it was taking place in a room below me that type of thing. I’m hoping it was just the neighbours but given that they sounded like my mother I doubt it.

The featured image by Jackson Pollock. Fitting I thought. And on that note I shall leave you with this. Not really into heavy music much these days but the chorus sums it up.