I am quite a scatty person. I can be annoyingly organised but it is done in a way that others might consider chaotic.

So I will admit to having a terrible habit of writing on bits of paper, and then leaving them everywhere. In drawers, on post-it notes stuck between the pages of books, at the bottom of my backpack. Sometimes I will open up a word document, write something, save it and then stumble across them two relationships later.

I have filled notepads with my thoughts that were flowing through me. Sometimes I can write for hours, and other times writing for a just a few minutes is enough. But when I do, I follow this scatty system with true anxious-driven intent. Because writing has always been my therapy and raw emotions don’t have a filter, they are messy and blunt like how I felt in the moment that I was writing this or anything I have written previously, spread across my home like the years in between each thought.

Sharing this is something I have wanted to do for longer than anyone could ever know. As mentioned in my last post at the time of writing this, it was early spring. I had just taken a holiday and I should have been rested but mentally I was drained. I was sinking further into a depressed state and as I fighting occasional suicidal thoughts. It should have been a hopeful time for me, spring always is. But I just couldn’t bear it.

There was nothing for me to feel because I was in a relationship that was long dead, and I even though I was starting to see a glimpse of myself through very intense counselling, it felt tainted and wrong. I felt utter shame for wanting to be alone, shame for wanting to come home to someone who wanted me, not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally. I lacked connection and living with that feeling of worthlessness was doing nothing but eat away at me. Of course, I had things to live for, but it didn’t change my situation of hopelessness.

It wasn’t easy to open my mouth and say these words, so writing them gave me some peace from my own head, understanding the importance of the process of getting them out and moving on was a stepping stone to building back my strength.

So, since I was little, I have written poems. I don’t particularly have a format as I am an amateur, but writing shouldn’t always be shaped into something other than what it is in its truest form and this is my example of that. Here goes…



When I get home, I wait for the comfort in your eyes

But they are blue in disguise

I wait to see the pleasure in my return

But all I see is the sweet dram filling you numb.


I can’t take the smell of your breath

But for a second our eyes meet and I believe in this again

I embrace you but your aura is all wrong

You pick up the glass and pour yourself a drink

The shame reflects into me, you really made me think.


So I ask about your day

And like a king you start your speech

I wait for my turn to speak

A throne I used to kneel before

But now still, silent for the comments that carve my week.


The evening is your pleasure palace

Filled with clinking glasses of bygone days

Both too stubborn to see a way

To leave this empty void we created

Understand that we have changed.


I try, I try, every night to keep myself sane

But my subconscious flat lines again

I cry I cry, praying that this time you will be strong

But tears won’t shut my ears down

When creeping is your only song


The fridge door creaks shut, the twist of a broken promise

A final sip, a quick fix

The thud of the front door becomes my only sanity.

And walking away became my only clarity

I am no longer a fool to your tricks.


You told me to be a certain way

And I conformed to your principles

But those meant nothing really did they?

You just wanted to know you could be free.

But freedom meant something different to me.




So many of us keep things quiet when we are going through things because it feels as though we will never be able to untangle the thoughts and ideas that rationalise and derationalise our daily lives. I, like many people have secrets. Quiet whispers told to a friend over coffee, drunken bold statements to strangers in bathrooms, breakdowns on pull-up beds with family members. I have held my fair share over the years. But there is a lot people don’t know about me. For this year in particular, it has been a secret that controlled my life in every single way.

All I wanted to do was blurt it out in conversation to anyone I was close to, but I couldn’t. Instead I stayed frozen and silent until the secrets began to have secrets of their own. Suddenly, I was aware that I was now lying to not only everyone around me, but to myself. Things were not fine, only progressively worse, and I was not fine. But still I went to work with a smile on my face and tried my best to make the best out of my life that I had settled for. Because acknowledging the truth was so much harder than making the positive changes to my life, because I no longer believed I deserved more.

And then I changed my mind.

Last year, I began to share those secrets with the people I am close with. I expected relief so I was surprised to notice I still felt the same emptiness as before. Oddly, I took that on as my own problem, that I was not doing enough to fix the issues in my life. So I chose to fight it instead, and I did so with everything I had, but I quickly realised that it wasn’t my battle to fight. Unfairly, I had been put into a position of responsibility to deal with the consequences of something that dictated everything in my life, that I as a person had no control over whatsoever because it wasn’t my secret and with that it was no longer my life either. I had lost the person I was in love with a long time ago, and I had only just noticed, and that was the hardest part.

I felt like a ghost in my own home. At least if I was at work or out with friends I could pretend. Find a part of myself for a few hours. But that was all i had, happiness and then just a real sense of nothing when i walked through the front door. It wasn’t always like this, but it had become so normal that I had no idea what a steady head felt like anymore.

And then within one week everything changed. Events played out like the ending to a drama series and I was hit with blows from every corner. The protective layer I had built up over the years started cracking. People I trusted let me down in ways I am still coming to terms with. My long-term relationship ended and promises to do right were left out in the cold with me, where I had already been for a very long time already.

Like many people suffering with their mental health. I hit a low so bad that I could no longer function. But in spirit of my normal attitude to chaos, I kept trying until i physically and mentally could no longer keep going.

Very quickly and without warning I started having sucicidal thoughts. In truth, It started off a year or so ago. But the thoughts were fleeting, nothing more than a millisecond of madness, so I passed it off as a ‘low moment’. Yet more recently these thoughts crept up on me at times when I thought I felt strong. I could be serving a customer but in my head I had started planning my funeral. I could of been walking home, but inside I was imagining people attending it. I could of been hanging my washing but I was mentally arranging where my cats would live now. I was writing notes in my head of goodbyes to people I loved. I have never been more scared of my own head until then.

I wanted to scream but I could only cry and look at the floor. I couldn’t look people in the eyes anymore, I couldn’t do anything without being reminded every second that I wasn’t enough for people who were supposed to love me, at least that is how I felt at the time.

I stopped sleeping, and then I stopped eating, I lost just over a stone in the space of 2-3 weeks. Partly due to lack of money to buy food and partly due to being unable to eat because I was severly depressed.

And all I could think about was the past. I went over and over all the things I could of done. I went through my faults and tried to pick which one caused the secrets that faced me. I felt stuck and I wanted to end it.

But I changed my mind.

I decided I wanted to tell someone how I was feeling. The only issue was how do you share something like that to the people you love, if all you feel is shame? How do you get past the fear of opening up about something that you cannot even rationalise in tounge?

You do so by saying the words out loud. By making them real, it is then that you start to rationalise what you are saying. Even if its a glimer of confusion, your head is sizzling with the potential to change course.

It was a typical Thursday morning, I was an hour or so into my shift at work, unable to focus, completely and utterly numb and panicky all at once. I was standing with a very good friend of mine when I broke and fell limp in her arms. I lost it, I just lost the ability to keep going. I had already suffered from so much, so many breakdowns, panic attacks, I could no longer function. The hardest part for me was not telling my friends and family that I was suicidal, but admitting to my work in a tiny office that I had to leave right now otherwise I was going to hurt myself. I needed to take action to stop this, so i cried myself all the way up to the doctors and was to seen to immediately.

I was a mess that day, my friend left work early to sit with me, as I took in my new reality. I talked some things through with her but my head hurt. I asked questions about the pills I had been given hours before. They weren’t the answer to my problems, but I knew that I needed any aid I could to get me back into a good mindset.  My mother didn’t approve, but she understood that it was my last resort. I needed something to give me hope because my normal coping mechanisms were only making me worse.

My mum was so concerned for me, she pledged to phone me every day for weeks and that is exactly what she did. Everyone did what they could to be there for me and I cannot express how much my heart warms when I think of those who were there for me, that messaged me, that came to see me, that talked to me about nothing, and about how I was feeling. That normalised that it was normal how I was feeling.

I took a few days off work, and then reluctantly went back. As the weeks drew in and the side effects of the anti-depressents started to dissappear, I began to feel a higher level of low. I was still sad and lonely, but the dark thoughts were less so. I became hopeful that maybe I wouldn’t feel consumed by dread forever. And it was then that I started fighting for myself again.

To be able to write this down, means I am getting better. It is important for me to be able to rationalise that I am ill, through no fault of my own, and own up to having these thoughts. I am thinking clear for the first time in so long and it feels wonderful. And I hope someone I know, or even a stranger can read this and relate and understand that you are worthy of your own self.

I am getting stronger and feeling more myself as the days go by. It will get better, just talk about it, ask for help and allow yourself to take it, for we are only human.



Mental Healing

If I am ever asked to describe myself, being open and honest is my instinctual and subconscious response. Why? because it is a part of me that I feel proud to acknowledge. A perception that I have fixed together from various social interactions and my own built-up version of myself. This is a part of me I want to thrive, so my actions reflect that.

So why is it that there are times when I am not open to others about how I really feel, or that there are times where I am not even honest with myself? Is it so much a coincidence that this behaviour worsens as my mental health flatlines, and I can only find solitude by shuffling apologetically into my very own toxic tomb, instead of going ahead and doing what I perceive myself to be best at?

Truth is we all believe we are more than what we are, and that is not a criticism. Humans are prone to natural optimism and that extends to our self-belief. We take risks in life accompanying this philosophy that if we believe, we do – something society has driven into us from an early age. But when my mental health starts to crumble around me, this optimism disappears and any risk-taking isn’t for the better. I can feel my hands tightening the ropes I placed around myself.

And that darkness is something I want to discuss.

I know this sounds a little out there, but my truth is, ever since I was a child, I could feel it – a black void-like sadness. As a childhood goes, I had a good one, but certain experiences conditioned my mind to feel severe lows.

Having a strong emotional intuition is probably a natural form for a child to take, but to be able to feel and understand the meaning behind them, or the consequences just didn’t feel right. I felt like I was on a level with adults more than children at times. Of course, I was still a child and I still didn’t fully understand things because they were new to me, I was just really quick to recognise patterns.

It was this innocent confusion that lead me through to my teenage years. And it was only then, that I realised I wasn’t fully in control of my own thought pattern.

To add context to this black void-like sadness, I have many memories of increasingly dark moments. One, in particular, was an 11- year old me sitting on a swing in a park. I was alone, staring out into the sea and I wanted to jump into it rather than deal with the idea of starting high school without anyone I knew. My best friend and her family had moved to Rothesay too, so I knew, that really I wasn’t alone. But to deal with the loneliness in those moments was too raw and too much to bear. I would have rather died than face up to my insecurities. At least that is what my mind told me at the time.

I felt it was important to share this, because for me moments like this come in waves, and it has been an on-going battle. I could go for a year without one and then out of the blue, I am triggered. If I am overwhelmed or feeling down anyway, I am potentially triggered. It is confusing and difficult, and I understand that many people will probably have similar experiences. So I thought I would be open with things I feel ashamed of, about negative patterns that I followed through to adulthood, and that I have never really been able to explain other than just having a ‘down day’.

I have never been diagnosed so we could call it depression, severe anxiety, even bipolar disorder. Instead, I distinguish these negative pulls as my dark days and that alone is terrifying enough. Labels only recognise the issue, and I am on a path to do more than that now.

I would consider myself to be quite a strong-minded person but since late autumn of last year, all I could feel was numbness. It felt like I was carving through the walls of my own head, trying to get to grips with what this all meant.

It got to a point where I was beginning to lose sight of what was real because my mind kept fogging out. I was forgetting conversations that happened the night before, sometimes even moments before, I couldn’t retain anything other than the screaming in my head for me to do something.

During this time, I was still a capable functioning human being, caring about others, socialising, worrying about money, about friends, about everything but myself. I had almost often forgotten how to feel my own emotions or be myself in even the best environments, places I once loved.

I tried to break the mould but nothing was working. I wasn’t enjoying anything, not even myself. And that was hard to bear.

Eventually, it got to the point where I started to decline invitations to my friends birthdays and gatherings because I was worried they would ask me what was wrong, and I wouldn’t be able to answer. To make it worse, even if I wanted to go out I couldn’t. I was so financially unstable I couldn’t afford food. I was at a point where I could no longer carry my burdens let alone focus on other people’s.

That night was poignant to me because that was when I realised I wasn’t okay. The numbness had gone and now I was just really scared.

People are very good at painting a deception for others, in order to drive them away from how we really feel. Somewhere along the line, being honest with myself, sharing my feelings with my family and friendship circle began to feel like a burden and I knew I had reached the end of patience with how things were. I was ready to take responsibility and change my pattern.

For the second time in my life, I sourced help and contacted a charity that specialised in counselling.

So Monday’s became my new torture. But at least everyone was proud of me. There is a silver lining in everything right?

My counsellor was the best I could have hoped for, she was warm and friendly and she was the best combination of serious and sassy. She reminded me of my friends and she made me a cup of tea. Something I didn’t particularly like, but she made it comforting and worthwhile.

Every Monday at work, my stomach would do somersaults because I knew I was going to finish soon and then I would have to deal with my feelings – and sometimes a lack of.

At times, when I was there, It felt like an interrogation, a question would catch me off guard. I would walk home and cry because I had responded instantaneously in a way I didn’t want to accept.

Other times I would walk home and cry because it felt good to have someone want to help unlock my potential when I was convinced I had none left.

All in all, she built me up again, she confirmed that a lot of self- doubt, a lot of these moments were hard to deal, almost impossible situations and I began to understand that I had a right to how I was feeling. A right I had believed was no longer mine. She started teaching me different techniques for communicating my feelings verbally.

I started to understand how important it was for me to be heard, and how mutated my thinking process had become. It did me the world of good.

Monday’s became okay. I was nervous, but less so because I wasn’t as scared. She pushed me to maintain my hobbies or start doing things I loved again. I did so reluctantly at first just to prove a point. But as time went on, I started noticing things that I have subconsciously turned a blind eye too.

As the month’s rolled by, I was feeling proud of what I was achieving every week, and my counsellor could see that. She heard about my writing, so she asked me to write, and I went home and I wrote a blog post called Promises to keep.

I make it sound so simple, but to me, this was a major stepping stone. I had not been able to write during a truly dark moment before. So to be able to feel hope during rather than after, it was unbelievable. It felt like a breakthrough.

Today I feel grateful for who I am, and I am grateful for the good people in my life, always looking out for me, as I do for them.

I may not be rolling in it. I may not be on the path that I expected to be on at this stage. But time is a blessing. I am fortunate to feel free, to speak freely and to be me. And that is enough. I know that now.

A few months ago, a good friend once caught me on a really bad day, sobbing quietly in the stockroom at work. I was crying about many things at that moment, but mostly at the death of my beloved grandma. He didn’t ask what was wrong, but I still tried to explain myself. He went back to work, and I felt ashamed for being so vulnerable.

He came back up the stairs, obviously taking some time to think of what to say, and instead of talking to me about it, he reminded me that I was still young and I had all the time in the world. It was simple and true, and it was enough of a nudge to throw me out of myself.

I was entitled to feel sadness and feel overwhelmed of course I was, but I was allowing myself to slip back into a negative thinking pattern so easily. I decided to be honest with myself and tell myself I can cry about this, but I should also be happy and keep being myself as much as I can too.

It is good friends like him that keep me grounded. And I know now I am much better at doing the same.