A Bad Place To Be

Dear Reader,

I have to warn you now, this post is pretty intense. But this is me, with my guard down being totally open and honest. This blog is about my illness and this is a part of it- the gruesome side- which I won’t hide. I know so many others go through this and people ought to know that they’re not alone, so I hope this will help someone in some way.

This is another excerpt from my diary. I wrote it last summer when I went through a particularly bad patch with my bipolar. I had been manic and psychotic for weeks before crashing into a suicidal depression.

I begged the mental health services for help but I never received it so here I describe my pain and frustration.

“…the fact that you are asking for help destroys your very chance of surviving.”

Well everything has gone horrifically and disastrously wrong lately. Mania has left and depression has arrived. It’s still here. I have tried and tried so desperately to get help, only to have it thrown back in my face time and time again. Not one ‘professional’ person has listened to me, and as for the Crisis Team… I would have to dedicate an entire page to talk about how useless they’ve been.

The only one person that has taken me seriously was a woman on 111. I had dealt with them four or five times already only to be passed onto the Crisis Team every time, until my friend phoned them last night out of concern when I kept repeating that I was going to kill myself, I had a plan of how and when and knew what to write in the note. That woman then called me and I spoke with her about how I was feeling and she sent an ambulance with the view that I should be admitted to hospital. What actually happened is practically unbelievable.

Two men came. One of them had been to my house several times before because we went to school together and apparently we used to get drunk together, but I can’t remember much about my drinking days. So that made it even more embarrassing and awkward. He didn’t really say anything, understandably.

The other guy, however, had plenty to say which made me feel so much more alone and helpless. As most of the people I have spoken with said: “you sound fine”. It is a raging stereotype to assume that someone with bipolar is going to be angry/swearing/hysterical/inarticulate when they are feeling like they want to die inside. I don’t know why I do it, but I can’t seem to help it, I hold back the tears (if I haven’t run out of them) and act with manners. I guess I am doing that now. This obviously works against me. He said my main problem is that I want help and I realise I am not myself. Apparently you have to think you are being normal and yet running the streets naked to merit help. So they LEFT. They left me suicidal and it is some sort of miracle that I am sat here now writing this.

Maybe when I’m dead I will finally get their attention.

I am so done with all of this. I truly hate my life. I of course had some terrible times when I lived away from here, studying, but this place is cursed. I grew up here for so many years and now I am back I would prefer to be anywhere else, just not here. The mental health team don’t even do their job. The general consensus is that the Crisis Team are useless everywhere, but here they are vile.

I got told by a mental health ‘professional’ today that- essentially- I was wasting their precious time. That they have ‘limited resources’ and I am just not mental enough to access them.

It makes me wonder if someone else had called someone- anyone- when I was manic, especially during the psychosis, because during the hyperactive happiness I had no idea I was unwell, for ages. But of course you don’t ask for help then, why would you? You feel good. So you crash into a suicidal depression and suddenly it’s not enough to want to die. No, the fact that you are asking for help destroys your very chance of surviving.

I’m sure there have been enough deaths around here related to unresponsive mental health workers, and even 111, so one more may actually help them to get a grip and start listening to the right people, not the ones that get naked and pour paint on themselves- they get sectioned easily- the ones who try to save themselves to try and be unselfish, thinking about people that might actually care.

There is a certain amount of ‘trend’ that seems to surround this illness. I have met people virtually jumping at the chance of gaining the bipolar label. Wouldn’t it be nice to have the label without what comes with it, in reality?

I am never stable for long. I don’t know who I am anymore. I act so insanely and often promiscuously when I’m manic that when I come back down a bit I feel intense shame and remorse. A lot of the time I don’t even remember what I have said and done during the madness. No one wants to be around me or even talk to me when I’m that way. I do try to talk to people when I’m depressed- like now- but I just annoy and/or depress them too. I am never talking to any mental health worker ever again.

I have a long record of dangerous manic episodes, hallucinations (the last time I saw giant breathing Chinese rugs hovering over me), I’ve jumped in front of buses, tried to jump in front of the tube. I’ve gone to the beach at 3am in January and gone swimming naked; I’ve started fights with gangs. I have taken overdoses more times than I can remember, often on hundreds of pills, I have relapsed on alcohol over and over and over, I am an expert at self-harm and I almost did a fantastic job of slitting my wrists.

I told everyone this over the last couple of days. It doesn’t make an inch of difference to them. Why would they care if I died? I am the minority. They don’t know me.

There is an Oasis lyric that goes “…I’m gonna leave this planet. You know I would stay but I just can’t stand it.”

I have had far too much of this life to hang on.

I’m sorry if I have been too well spoken today. Who ever thought that being too articulate could be the death of me? It has quite a ring to it…

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