I Should Perhaps Begin

Over the past few weeks I’ve written millions of beginnings to this thing and they all disappear with the lovely delete key soon after, the marvels of modern technology and the ability to change your mind!

I don’t want to be horribly formal and resemble one of the many Myspace/Bebo?/Facebook whatever quizzes whizzing around. The basics? I’m 17, soon 18 and live in sunny, sunny Manchester – Madchester. I’m female. I’m an over achiever. I’m scared and I’m scarred. I’m a self harmer and have been since I was 12, although the cutting stopped in November 2007 when “it” stopped working its magic so now I’m a little lost.  I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression when I was 14 and have had a few taglines through the years – anorexia, anxiety, OCD tendencies etc. I’m frequently suicidal, I’ve frequently tried – but obviously unsuccessfully – another failure for the old list. I’m I’m I am…

Yesterday, after 2 thrilling bus journeys, punctuated by little twitches of panic, and a long 30 minute walk, I arrived at the local loony bin to be told that actually, the various SSRI’s that I’d been dutifully necking each night for the past 5 years, probably weren’t going to do anything but perhaps worsen my condition, because infact I was more than likely Bipolar II. Bombshell.

I’ve recently flew and tripped my way out of blind hypomania into another deepening depression and I can feel myself falling. I’m to keep a mood diary for the next 6weeks, which in all honesty makes little sense as it’s unlikely that I’ll be back up for a little while if the past is any indicator, but yes I’ll admit; I’m not a doctor. I only have personal experience to compare with rather than years of textbook abuse. (Though when I was a little girl I loved running round with a plastic stethoscope.)

I frequently wish I was that little girl again. Walking up the road from the train station this afternoon, I saw the school kids from over the road being walked home with genuine smiles on their faces, yapping away about this and that and being happy happy HAPPY. How much do I wish that I was 5 again. Mischievous yet wholly innocent. I want back the years of kissy kats and tag and bottles of milk at break with a little blue straw poking through the foil.

I’m not going to pretend I have some worldly knowledge because of my illness. Sometimes I wish I had a little more youth in me, a little more hope and a little more blissful naivety. Although maybe I have a teensie bit more insight than my peers (or is this grandiosity slipping so quietly in?) and eyes that can see that perhaps the trackie/sock combination isn’t such a good look, nor is pushing a pram at 13 either. Thank god I passed that milestone without being impregnated by some unruly chav (I’m a little bit of a snob perhaps). Having said, I did have a Goth phase back in the day, and now rummage around Oxfam for my somewhat “weird” concoctive wardrobe (a snob in vintage clothing?) so can I really say much? I can be immature, especially when I’m “on one”, I’ll say what comes to mind before thinking, or at least thinking properly. Thoughts come too thick and too fast to worry about consequence, especially when the walls have started moving and breathing down your ear.

I can’t think of much else to say. Prolly too much already anyway. But yes. Voila.

Em