My Dissociative Life. Amazing. And Amazingly Shit.

Yesterday:

Do amazing things. See amazing things. Be with amazing people.

Get home. Burst into tears. Yet again. As the voices and parts say and shout so much.

Today:

Do amazing things. See amazing things. Be with amazing people.

Get home. Burst into tears. Yet again. As the voices and parts say and shout so much and I have to argue even to have a cup of tea because one of them has been seeking to impose a 9pm curfew on it.

....

Some things I laugh about. The banana argument two of them had this week is funny to me even though it resulted in my head hurting quite a bit from being hit. But what's now been recognised as this complex dissociative disorder is pretty damn shit. I would not wish this on anyone. I laugh because what's the alternative? I might be able to do some kind of stand up comedy about it but it's mostly horrible to live with and I do have to hold back or the comedy would get very dark indeed. (Very fortunate to meet someone this year with an equally dark and macabre mental health comedy streak.)

...

I wrote a rant about something today. I wasn't going to post it but Beth says that I should. She supports and understands and has endured twenty-five years of my mental health with the highs and lows. I've been bloody fortunate to be married to someone who stuck by me through so much and for so long.

And this rant is where a few things get very honest. You ain't seen nothing yet! Some people won't like it one little bit.

They don't matter. The people I nearly cried on massively earlier this evening about it supported it. Probably because every one of them knows me - we've met together for quite a while - and has seen at least some of what it's taken to be a part of that group. It's taken a lot for all of that group to be there.

I'll post the rant tomorrow. It'll be extended. With more honesty about childhood, family, dissociation, and so on.

But there will also be gratitude. For all the people, groups, and organisations around me at different times that have stood by me in my struggles to not only stay alive and exist but to push myself (sometimes rather too far for me) into recovery (with set backs - it's only a couple of weeks since I very, very, very nearly committed suicide - I can perform some kind of theatre show but I am far from being well) and a live that's more than worth living and is filled with things beyond anything I dreamed would ever be possible for me.

Without all those other people I would not have made it through this year. I am incredibly fortunate to have all those people. On the other hand I only have them due to years of sodding hard work to get to the places where I've met them and done amazing things with them, often being enabled by their own wonder.

Being incredibly fortunate is one thing. But DID - or DDNOS - is crap. Very crap. Clarity isn't bringing peace. The beginnings of clarity is making things many times harder. In the short term. No, as I said, I would not wish this on anyone even though I were filled with infinite hatred for them. Nobody deserves this.

My Head Hurts - Dissociation and the State of the World

First post here in a very long time. There's such a lot to tell you. It's been a very full year with lots of highs and lows. I end the year having done plenty of things I thought were impossible for me. I also end it on a waiting list for treatment for a complex dissociative disorder (some form of DID or DDNOS) that we uncovered in psychology appointments this year having fought for those appointments for a very long time. Tonight - after a bad day in which parts in my head have not made life easy. It's not an easy head. But I've also managed an autism group in Gateshead and have got to choir and at home have gone through the comedy part of a play I'm performing in this week. The play is just another "impossible" thing. I need to write a list of all the new things this year. This life building thing can be achieved and I have a few long term goals. But my head is more than a challenge too. This year we've discovered part of the reason why. Next year we can start to deal with it in therapy. I've had mental health issues for all my life and have tried all kinds of ways to overcome them. It turns out the this complex disorder is the kind of thing to maintain all the other mental health issues. Everything I've tried has in effect been a bit like deciding I hate leaves on trees and chopping them all off manually in the autumn before looking proudly and happily at a leafless tree, believing I'd solved the leaf issue. There's a good chance that this year has revealed the areas we need to look at in order for the mental health issues to not be maintained. It's going to be bloody difficult to look at them. But at least we know they're there and I will have a good help in the place I've been referred to. What's been consciously revealed is tough. Unbearably tough sometimes. But it's incredibly positive to have revealed it. ... Owwwwwwwwww.

This head hurts so much but we're proud because we made choir and did a good job.

We are struggling so we're going to write a garbage post which will make us sleepy enough to turn to sleeping. It's been too much this afternoon and tonight but we did well at choir and it is always good to see the people there. I don't know them as well as I'd like but every one of them is marvellous. And we're fiercely feminist too. The national media said so.

Also hurting:

That we have the government we have.

That my head and my mental health is infinitely more strong and stable than the current Conservative regime.

That the USA has an even more crap head who has a tantrum when the country doesn't want to pay for a stupid and racist wall that he promised another country would pay for as one of his unbelievable number of false points in his garbage verbal campaigning.

That every Brexit option stinks but 52% (2 years ago before we all knew more about it that wasn't just lies and spin from the likes of Boris, a man who has only been sacked for lying several times and whose welcome to other people includes words like piccaninnies and I can hardly believe he got away with that one. "Sorry I'm a fucking racist shit." "Oh, that's alright, here be foreign secretary." Would a supposedly non-racist PM make a fucking racist shit foreign secretary? Boris may look lovable and cuddly (or not - I wouldn't. Yuck) but so does a puffer fish.

That too many Americans fell for Trump. That too many British people fell for Boris. That most of us fall for shit things a lot of the time.

That our government deliberately chooses poverty for the most vulnerable members of our society and thus deserve less than zero respect. Mrs. May and all other Christians in the party should be beaten round the heads with hardback copies of the Peace and Justice Study Bible. And as for Jacob with his justice and love denying brand of Catholicism, anyone who does the no abortion thing (which I don't agree with but understand within Catholic belief systems) but doesn't do the preferential option for the poor thing (which I do agree with and understand within Catholic belief systems) has made themselves into a devil and the Bible itself says they won't be accepted by God because of works - in verses quotes in the Catholic Catechism.

Climate change. We have 12 years so stave off total collapse and ensure a bit of suffering is limited. And already there are mutant hybrid species of puffer fish coming into existence. In a month we can say we have 11 years.

Fundamentalist creationists who deny evolution ask bloody stupid questions about whether anyone has ever seen a new species come into existence. There are many millions of these people in the USA. See its even more crap head.

Racism. Trying to understand racism hurts my head. Not its effects. Those are understandable. But its existence. My head can't fathom hatred based on anything even slightly linked to melanin.

The way far right activists critique Islam, sometimes in ways that ex-Muslims and reformers agree with, but in such a way as to demonise a billion people rather than to just be philosophical religious critique without which religion stagnates. And how acceptable and important rational critique of things becomes unacceptable when extremist and prejudiced tosspots transform it into fear and loathing of people who should not be feared or loathed.

The way the moderate right has become closer to the far right and how the far left is polarised in other ways that aren't realistic or inclusive.

That it does no good to point out glaring errors in conspiracy theories or in posts by people who believe them because what good are facts in the face of conspiracy? Even when things are glaringly wrong and when a bit of research and reading gives ironclad proof that they're wrong there's still no point granting to a conspiracy theorist the results of that research. They have stuffed their ears with more cotton wool than you would think possible.

That sometimes I do that research and point out the glaring errors that I could prove in the strictest court of law were errors, even though I know it won't do any good at all and that anything said against a conspiracy theory won't be listened to by the theory believer because it's like a fundamentalist religious belief where cognitive bias and so much else won't entertain the possibility of error.

It didn't for me when I had a fundamentalist religious belief. We saw doubt as weakness of faith. I've read other religious people since who see doubt as a place of strength.

So many things can make a head hurt.

Tonight and today it's been the interplay and argument between different parts. And that one of them has hit me too much even while another was trying her best to stop him. I hope the waiting list for therapy isn't too disastrous.

"Not-God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the courage and energy next year to be more involved in activism to change the things I can ..."

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Self-Redemption and Art

The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz

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The Flying Monkeys Of Oz

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The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

A few days ago I attended an art and writing workshop at Broadacre House in Newcastle run by Launchpad.  The subject of the workshop was stigma.  The day was very good.  Lovely people.  Lovely conversation.  And we all enjoyed ourselves.  After some exercises to get our creative brains working we were told to write something about stigma with a view to creating a piece of art related to the subject by the end of the four hour session.



We were given a whole twenty minutes to write.  Later in the day our writings were taken and typed up.  I wish I'd proof read the typing on the day.  There are mistakes in it.  That's a shame because all of our writing and art from the day is going on public display in two locations through mental health week.  I may have to go along on the first day with Tippex and a pen!

Twenty minutes.  I spent the first five of these minutes boiling a kettle and making a much needed mug of spiced tea.  So fifteen minutes.  Here's the result.  I finished before the fifteen minutes were up too!

Self Redeeemed

Don't speak to me and I won't speak to you.

Won't mention it, imply it, talk it out.

It's a private thing you say, too much for you.

“Why don't I just stop?” you say.

“Stop being autistic, difficult, so bloody selfish.

Snap out of depression you ungrateful bastard.

And if you mention a personality disorder again?”

But I didn't mention it. You did.

And yet, the biggest stigma was in my own head.

Autism? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

Not shut in. Not melting in the street.

Not much anyway.

Not some mono-focussing idiot savant,

The local Rain Main equivalent,

Or as socially inept as a Sheldon.

BPD? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

It's just wrong, like all the other diagnoses were wrong.

I'm not like that.

And they only ever said I was because of the cuts.

It's bull. Stupid psychiatrists.

BPD? Nonsense. Just like the rest.

I'm not bipolar, schizoid, schizotypal, schizophrenic. Or any of them.

Yeah, I received stigma. Internalised it. Just another reason for self hate, calling myself a monster.

Couldn't accept the truths because I was raised proud, raised pure, raise to not be disordered.

No ASD or BPD. No Ds at all. Or they'll see me for what I am and hate me just like I deserve.

Freedom is worth fighting for.

Coming back to what I thought false myths and accepting the facts. Facing down the myths I believed and rejecting them.

And now?

ASD, BPD – and my queerness, my irreligion. So what? Inside I will broach no stigma.

I will stand. Out and proud. Out. Public. Self-accepting. Self-believing. Under no illusions.

No. Less illusions. There are still stories I tell.

Lies I kid myself with. Lies of the old monster kind.

Lies. Stories.

Can't write. Can't sing again. Can't hope.

Lies. Stories.

And they will fall too.

Now is the time to live. Free. Self-redeemed.

No matter what they say.

And they do say.

But less than I ever believed they would.

I believed they would damn me.

Because I stigmatised myself more than the so-called society ever could.

I am out and proud.

Free and self-redeemed.

Then it was time to do some art.  I can panic at art.  Panic at paint.  To be given paper or canvas and some paint and be told to create something is a thing of dread for me.  And yet.  I made something.  We all did.  Each piece arising from the honesty of our own situations and experiences.

The words in the red sections represent words that have spoken to me.  The words in that strange looking face are questions I've asked and stories I've told myself.  The words round that face are positivity.  In the midst of all the rest I am determined that those words are part of my truth.

It's not an artistic masterpiece.  But it's mine.  And I'm proud to have done something without guidance, without help, and without having a meltdown.  That's a joy for me.  Seeing the work and hearing the words of the other people in the workshop was also a joy.

As for that exercise to get our brains loosened up.  We were given a sentence to free write from.  As it turned out we were given just enough time for me to fill a page.  What we came up with was great, each person happening to go in a completely different direction.  Here's my direction.

Reluctantly, he handed over the key.

She looked at him in horror.
"C sharp major? You've got to be kidding me.  I can't play that."
"Well that's going to be a problem, isn't it missy?  I've paid for you to play and you're going to play.  Don't think I won't report you if you play it wrong."

Life as a music slave was not the worst way to survive in the new world.  At least there was food.  At least there was the transfixing joy of playing from your own soul when you weren't working.  Kate wondered.  Was this difficult, angry customer really a music expert from the old world?  Or was he just being harsh out of cruelty?

She decided to risk finding out, risk playing in a way she knew her rendition of the piece would be perfect.  Kate liked playing Bach, even with difficult intervals.  But even the master himself would never have chosen a key with seven sharps.  Kate wondered what he would think if he knew his music was being played by slaves on another world, what kind of sonata or cantata that knowledge would inspire.

She decided.  The risk was worth it.  Even if discovered the punishment wouldn't be much worse than that for playing badly.  The thought of being separated from her precious piano for a day, a week, longer, was almost unbearable.

Kate looked at the man.  He was sweating in anticipation of hearing.  He looked more a fool than a musician.

C sharp major.  No thanks.  Kate knew she would be playing the Goldberg Variations in C.  Just a semitone out.  And no sharps.  He wouldn't notice would he?

She placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and began her performance.

The Wizard of Oz Art Box - A Recovery College Course

Recently I participated in my first course at the Recovery College in Newcastle Upon Tyne.  It's a brilliant place, offering a wide range of creative and therapeutic courses and groups to people in the local area who are experiencing mental health difficulties.

I think I'll be back there soon, taking part in more courses.  I'm looking forward to them.

During my one course we were asked to choose a fairy story and then decorate a shoe box or a suitcase in a way that would show the relationship between that story and our lives.  I'm not particularly good at fairy stories so ended up choosing The Wizard of Oz.  I love the movie and have a cheap paperback set of all the Oz books by L. Frank Baum.  It seemed a good choice and I'd made a half serious comment about fighting through all kinds of hell in search of something that we already had in the first place.

I panic about practical art projects.  I've been known to have meltdowns over very simple artistic endeavours.  But, without any guidance at all, I decorated a box.  And then, because I was self-conscious about the box and thought it a bit rubbish, I decided I'd write about how the Wizard of Oz relates to my life.  This has grown into a set of fourteen blog posts, including this one.

You can find the contents page for the main series here.

Some of it is quite light but I'll warn you that it gets quite dark in places and there's a lot of sadness mixed in with the joy.

Yes, I made a box.  While it won't be exhibited at the Tate Gallery I'm quite proud to have done something practical and creative without meltdowns.  Although there was that week I just stared at the box before wandering off and writing a poem about something else.  And there were sessions I found I couldn't get to at all.  At the time of writing the sessions aren't over but I'm having to miss all that remain due to other commitments - we're putting on a play!

Here are a few pictures of the box.  All of our boxes will be exhibited.  Somewhere.  At some point.  I don't know where.  There will be dancing too.

The lid of the box: "The autistic, transgender, God obsessed, wizard of Oz.  Come, follow the yellow brick road with me."

This mouse was in a tree together with a colourful teething ring.  For some reason my brain fixated on these things and I had to get them.  The branches were sharp and there were thorns and my arms got pretty cut by the experience.  But I retrieved those items.  Since then I've thrown the ring away and now I've left the mouse in a box.  Although what a mouse has to do with the story is anyone's guess.

Yes.  God obsessed even though I no longer believe.  This is the image of divine mercy.  I used to have copies of this image.  Everywhere.  Some of what Jesus said I can still go along with.

The Refugees welcome badge is a replacement.  I had one before a big march for refugees here in the pouring rain before spending days sorting donations until the point at which my head couldn't do more.  I lost that badge in London and replaced it last year at the Greenbelt festival.  I asked people if they had a spare badge and they handed me a pack of ten.

This box is inside the main box.  "Open Me.  We welcome you to autistic Munchkin Land."

"The journey is held inside, knowing its safety."

Inside that box are lots of pieces of card, each containing the web address of the blog posts.  A sheet inside the box lid explains what the cards are.  Perhaps nobody will take a card.  Perhaps nobody will read the posts.

The rosary.  In front of the lion.

Did I hide myself, fearfully, under the mask of my religion?

The box.  It's not spectacular.  But it's mine!

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The Scarecrow of Oz - Or The Validation And Acceptance Of The Child

The Scarecrow Of Oz

This page is part of a course taken at The Recovery College
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The Wicked Witch Of Oz

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The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

I always knew I had a brain. Sometimes this led to arrogance. A feeling of smug superiority that my intellect was amazing.

Sometimes. But I knew it was wasted too.

They taught me at school to waste my brain. They taught me that my academic abilities were a burden to others. Over and over they told me not to shine. To be only quite clever.

They held me back. I was forced to push myself beyond the boundaries they set me. They didn't appreciate that. And if I happened to make an error in that wide wonder space beyond they slapped me back with full force.

They slapped me so much that I accepted their ways. I did only what was necessary to pass the exams they set. Nothing more. Because I knew they didn't want more. Most of them anyway.

As an adult I've been frustrated by this. Once you've intentionally switched much of your brain off and done your best to kill it it's very difficult to switch it on again. I still haven't succeeded and it's painful that my brain cannot do the things that it can do.

I think this was one of the factors in developing mental health problems as a child. It was a part of my crushing, my annihilation at the hands of the world. Just one part of having to be someone else and reject me.  How's that for an over-dramatic paragraph?!

You're right of course.  It is.  Yet it looks more and more like I have a disorder that comes about often through a combination of having a biologically based emotional sensitivity with growing up in an invalidating environment.  It wasn't that I had bad parents.  There was just invalidation based around that innate sensitivity, around my academic ability, around gender and probably around much more.  My parents did their best of course.  They weren't abusing me or anything like that.  Nevertheless the invalidation was there and it contributed to problems I now have and certain problems that I'm only just accepting I have.  More of that in a later post.

My functional brain – that just so happened to function well in the particular direction that can pass exams and sail through IQ tests – became dysfunctional.

The message here is not just to let clever children be clever to their full potential.  IQ and academia aren't the points here.  They don't make you into a superior person except in the world of IQ and academia, which we all know isn't the be all and end all of life.  Recently I've been working on a project with some learning disabled adults.  Great people.  Who just happen to have learning disabilities of various kinds.  The message here relates to them just as much as it might relate to me.

It's to let children be their own wondrous selves to their full potential. To encourage them in selfness.

The Bible says to “raise up a child in the way they should go.” Christians and Bible translations have so often got this wrong. They try to force a way upon the child – that the child should be a Christian too. That's the opposite of what the proverb says. The Hebrew is more concerned with “raise up a child in accordance with the pattern of their own character and attributes.”

That is, whoever the child is, encourage them – as long as love governs the encouragement and the child's actions.

It's not forcing our own hopes and aspirations on our children.

It's not imposing a religion or a dogma or a way of being and saying that they are doomed outside that imposition.

It's not telling a very, very clever child to be only a little above average.

It's not telling a child who may not have such academic ability or who can't ace IQ tests that they are anything less than wonderful for not passing every exam.

It's embracing the child when they dream, when they develop interests, when they turn out to be autistic or neurodivergent in other ways.

It's not pushing the child into dreams, failed or otherwise, that belong only to their parents or guardians.

It's loving the child for the child. Not for who you want the child to be.

It's asking a child who they are.  And being excited when they tell you and show you, for their sake.

That's a path to a healthier brain, to happier children and adults.

That's a path I could never grant myself – let alone anyone else for I too was a hell believer and thought that outside of my own path there was only damnation.

And then, turning from the sky wizard of lightning flashes and spectacular show, I met the Oz wizard within. The ordinary person. Just me.

I said, “I have a brain. It's damaged in too many ways. Each week I want to hurt myself. Each month I fall apart. Each year I plan my suicide. Each day I want to give up. O wizard, grant me a new brain.”

The wizard spoke.

“You have the power to grant yourself a new brain. Though you may take a dozen helpful medications and see a thousand tremendous therapists, in the end only you can do it.”

The wizard spoke.

“Heal yourself. At your core you are already healed. Let that knowledge permeate your consciousness.”

Four years have passed.

I am still healing. Still finding out what my brain could be. Still learning each day and falling often. Still taking those medications.  I have a long way to go and yes, if a therapist can help I'll happily accept their intervention.

Looking to the sky god or the earth god for healing and succour is easier. But it's passing the buck and doesn't really wash away the brokenness.

Accepting the responsibility to heal yourself is far more difficult. It's a treacherous mountain route with loose rocks on every corner and more monsters and faeries than we could have possibly imagined.

It's the hard road. But it's the better road.

I choose to walk it.

Will you walk the yellow brick road of self healing with me?

The Wicked Witch Of Oz - The Words And Weak Power Of Anxiety

The Wicked Witch Of Oz

This page is part of a project undertaken at ReCoCo, Newcastle Upon Tyne

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The Cyclone

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The Scarecrow Of Oz

The Wicked Witch of the Anxiety says:

I'm strong and powerful.

I can make the trees trap you, smother you.

I can make even the fields of flowers into death traps. So there's no point thinking of beauty.

I have whole armies at my command. There's no place you can hide. Not in the past. Not in the future. And especially not in the here and now.

I laugh and whole nations quake. Munchkins cover their heads. Talking monkeys bow and obey. Even the Wizard of Oz is powerless.

I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too. I'll get everything that's important to you.

Watch the sand fall. Each grain one more terrified thought I tell you to think. The last grain leading to your death. And you'll want it so much by then that you'll embrace death as a friend.

The reality:

She's weak. She's flawed. She does have powers.

She arrives in an instant out of nothingness and overpowers in green, pungent, toxic smoke.

But most of her power is just a show, a sham, a flimsy facade hiding the truth:

She's weak. She's flawed.

She can be killed. And I can become free without the loss of my little soft toy dog.

I can become free and when I do the whole land of Oz will rejoice with me.

I won't be like Dorothy though. I won't apologise for killing the Wicked Witch.

Oh no. I'll celebrate and then I will sleep in peace.

Because she's weak. She's flawed.

All it takes is one small bucket of water.

All it takes is the courage to throw that water. Over and over again no matter how many times new witches appear.

Outside the story.

Of course, it's not a real bucket. It's not real water. It's not even a real witch.

In real life a bit of water won't cause anxiety to die, screaming that it's melting.

But I believe there are metaphorical buckets of water.

Bucket number one is the bucket of recognition. Seeing the anxiety witch for what it is.

Bucket number two is giving the witch a label. Looking at the unbidden thought processes to check whether they're real or not.

Bucket number three is learning to step back from the labelled anxious thoughts and choosing a more rational path.

Bucket number four is learning to be kind to yourself, intentionally rejecting the unfair criticisms and embracing what is good in all gentleness.

These are powerful buckets of water. Of course they're not as simple to use as a real bucket. They are skills to be learned, and ideally to be learned before we need to use them.  They're also hard work.  Nobody should pretend that overcoming an anxiety disorder or a personality disorder that includes a lot of anxiety is easy.  Anxiety may be a fraud but it's closer and more dangerous than any green-painted witch.

I learned to use them. Lately I've forgotten about them. They've lain neglected in my mental armoury.  The result of neglect is clear.

I need to repair them, pick them up, and start using them again. I learned of these buckets seven years ago. They changed my life.  They can change my life again.  And this time I'm going to get bigger buckets!

I think it's time to use them to change my life again and this time I shouldn't ever put them down again. As I type this I'm seeking assessment again with mental health services. I think I've recognised a specific condition I have. I was diagnosed with it once and totally rejected that diagnosis and the therapist who gave it. I can't even remember who that was but today I believe they were right. It's time to look that condition squarely in the face and tell it that I'm in charge. I'm full of hope. Properly treated and with a lot of work this condition can be beaten. I hope the health service sees that too and refers me in the right direction. If not, there are alternatives. This Wizard of Oz project is part of a course run by the Recovery College Collective in Newcastle Upon Tyne. Next month (at the time of writing) they will be running some courses that teach the skills that are part of the treatment I'm hoping for. I plan to sign up for those courses. I plan to recover. I'll put a post about that condition in this Oz project - last week I wrote a quick poem about realising that I suffer with it.  Full disclosure, total honesty.  No shame.  The time for shame is over.

I just hope they're not at a time I can't be there. Because currently on Thursday I'm currently part of a theatre group. On Friday morning I'm part of a small cast preparing a play for performance in October. And on Friday afternoon I'll soon be taking a small writing course connected with those theatre groups. Somehow or other during the last year to eighteen months I've developed some kind of life that's more full than it's been since I was at college. And anxiety can't take that away from me. Yeah, I've got some difficult mental health challenges. But whatever those voices in my head say, I should be proud of how I've managed to develop this life despite them.

The witch says I'll die. The witch says she'll kill me. But does she? No.

I'm going to pick up my buckets of water again.

I'm going to throw them her.

She's going to scream. She's going to melt away.

Oh what a world!  Oh what a world!

I will rejoice.

And Oz will rejoice with me singing, “Ding Dong, the witch is dead.”

The Cyclone - The Thoughts And Voices I Hear, The Hell of Mental Illness

The Cyclone

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Life in Kansas - Before the Cyclone

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The Wicked Witch Of Oz

Trigger Warning: Mental health problems. Self harm. Suicide.

The Cyclone - The Wizard of Oz

You've had a good day you say? Met with friends? Climbed a tower? You're happy with your life are you? No you're not. Idiot. You can't do it. You can't keep going like this. It's all going to go wrong you know. Come crashing down around you. Tonight. Now. It's all gone wrong already. You just haven't found out yet.

It's true. I had climbed a tower. Grey's Monument.

Get that feeling in your stomach? You know it so well. Let's start to ramp up your heartbeat too shall we? Just try to tell yourself it's not real. Try to say it's anxiety and that it's not rational. Yeah, go on. Be rational. You can do it. … Of course you can't. So have a few more beats per minute just for attempting.

You're useless. Never going to amount to anything. You can't do people. Can't do skills. Can't keep up appearances. Can't keep up pretending to yourself that you'll be able to keep those friends or develop those relationships into something meaningful. You can't. Because you're a useless piece of shit aren't you?

She's going to leave you too. Look. She didn't say that in just the right way. She's not said enough. It's obvious. It's over. Christ, you might as well call it off yourself because she's going to do it for you eventually. You're going to be abandoned. By her. By them. By everyone. As soon as they see through you. See just how evil and twisted you are. You're going to be alone so what's even the point of keeping on trying? Remember those friendships that didn't work. The people you don't see. What's that? You don't see them because you moved town or changed your interests and left their club? What does that matter? It's you. It's your failure. It's your own stupid fault and it's going to happen again. She said today she wanted to meet for a drink. She didn't mean it. Who'd really want to meet with you if they knew you? And those people who want you to come for lunch next time? It's only because they don't know you. If only they knew. Stop kidding yourself. You deserve to be alone and you will be alone. Yeah, abandoned. Left. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.

Oh no, don't try to fight this. Don't get rational on me. I'm not going to let you think your way out of this. Here. Some more stomach pain and just for a laugh let's spread it out across your whole chest. Few more beats per minute too. Palpitations! Yes, have some of those. Then you can worry yourself that you're heading for a proper heart attack. Might kill you too. But that's okay. That would be better, yes?

She doesn't love you. She's just waiting for the right time. Don't try to deny it. Don't look at the evidence. I don't care about evidence. I care about panic. Panic. PANIC. Just get on with it and panic.

Here. I'm happy to assist. We're happy to assist. Hey, I've been joined by my friends. I've got friends you know. United in a cause. You've got nothing. Don't look at them. Stop it. Don't look at her, or her, or her, or him or anyone else you might try to think of. Don't think of how much you feel at home with those writers or actors or those other nice people. Don't try to remember how she made a point of inviting you out with a few friends to celebrate her birthday and how good it was to be there. You bitch. I told you not to go. We said to stay away but you went anyway. Bitch.

We're going to talk louder. In unison. In chorus. In a total disharmony. Abandon. Pain. Sorrow. Anguish. Happy. Sad. Happy. Sad. Sadder. Sadder. Sadder still. Until all is sadness. Apart from the anguish, anxious, and what the hell is the point of it all? Don't you go hoping that the drugs are going to take you to sleep. Just imagine what we can shout at you and scream at you and even sing to you before then. And maybe we'll give you nightmares.

A few more beats per minute and would you look at this? Look at that person in your room. She hates you too. Naturally. And look at this crowd. Wandering up and down in front of your eyes as the walls close in upon you. You're going to be squashed, squeezed, all life removed. And you don't even know who you are do you? All that work you've done to work it out. You're kidding yourself. It's all pretend. Even she said that. Oh? She didn't? Really? She said that. That's how you should interpret those words. Even she doesn't think you're real and you're not. Sham. Fake. Façade hiding nothing. You're just an ignorant cipher, a null set, an emptiness wider than the sea. What are you going to fill it with tomorrow? It's all a distraction you know. Because as soon as you stop you'll be back to square one and we'll laugh at you so much tomorrow night. As you deserve.

She's going to leave. They're all going to leave. Apart from those people walking in your bedroom. Looking at you. Reaching out their hands to you. Calling to you.

It's fortunate for you perhaps that you're not even in your body and you can tell yourself that the whole thing isn't even real. Get back in your body this instant. It's not over yet bitch.

Had enough yet? We've got more. Lots more. The tales we will tell.

There's a way out of course. You know it. Remember. See here. These images. Your arms. Bloody. That's right. Cut. Cut. Cut. It's easy. How about it? We'll even go away for a while. Fetch a blade. Play with it. Stroke yourself with it. Press it in. Testing metal against flesh. And slice. Find peace.

Hey, it's better than the alternatives. Here's one. Why not go out for a walk now? What? No, we don't care at all that you're drugged and want sleep. Get up. Go walking. It's not far to that bridge over the motorway. That's nice. Or even better, that bridge over the river. Why not go there? It's pretty there and I know you love pretty things. Make up for your own ugliness. Ah, shit woman. Don't try to tell us that you know you're not ugly. Don't tell us to go away. Don't tell us that you know better. Hear us laugh as you tell us you're a good person and that people like you and that you have skills and life's worth living. Just don't. We're not going to believe you. Not when you should believe us.

How about it? One jump and it'll all be over and you won't have to hear from us ever again. No more anxiety. No more abandonment fears. No empty places. No more battles as your emotions rise and fall with everything turned up to twelve on every fall. Kill yourself girl, and we will never speak again. That'll make your life much easier.

You refuse? Idiot. Stupid bitch. Okay. If you insist. But the blade. Or just scratch yourself. Then you don't even have to get out of bed. Or hit your head or your wrist. Just do something.

Do it. Do it. And then you'll have peace.

View from the tower.  My life is very good.

The drugs kick in. Sleep wins. Peace comes without harm. Tomorrow I will fight again. Tomorrow I will take one more step to being free from the voices, free from the hell that it can be inside my head.

I will win. Rational evidence will win. I am a good person. People like me. I'm not going to be abandoned. I have skills. I have joys. I have purpose, meaning and am finding more. And I do know much of who I am – having had a long battle to find out. I'll fight my over-reactions again tomorrow. Stave off anger and try not to over-react.

I won't self-harm. I refuse. And I'm not going to kill myself no matter how loudly the voices scream or the images they show me.

Don't worry. I'm staying in one piece. I may not climb a tower tomorrow. But I will climb. And I will triumph in some little way.

One more day. One more step along the road to healing.

Tomorrow night the voices, the anxiety, the fear may strike again. But I will win. They're not real. They're just thoughts. Neurons firing and old neural pathways that haven't yet collapsed to be replaced by the life I'm choosing to live.

I know that the healing may be difficult. As I type a voice tells me it will be impossible. They lie you know, the voices. They lie. Find a small part of truth and twist it so far out of context, out of shape that even that truth is a lie. There's not one thing they say that I should believe. Not one. It doesn't matter how clever they are about it. It doesn't matter whether they're coaxing me or screaming it so loudly that I'd block my ears if it did any good. It doesn't matter what they show me. It doesn't even matter when they tell me to do things.

It's all lies. Beyond the lies, I know better.

So sleep takes me. For a while I can live in Oz. But whether I'm in Oz or Kansas or even in Newcastle Upon Tyne I know my life is good. I can kill the witch. And I can kill the cyclone in my mind.

I can. And I will.

No you can't. You ridiculous charlatan.

Yeah, I can. It's all going to be okay.

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