Emily Violett. My Life.

Refilling this on a Sunday night is bittersweet. Not just because of the coating on each pill, but because it symbolises both how far I’ve come and how far I have left to go. On the one hand I’m aware, while popping each pill out of its packaging, that I can’t function without these little guys. That I cannot cope with life, it’s too much, it’s overwhelming and I don’t want to carry on anymore. Each tablet contributes to my life in a way I depend on. That can be a scary realisation. On the other hand I’m reminded that I have control of my own medication again. I’m safe to take charge of it. It’s not a danger for me to have all of these pills within my reach anymore. I’m reminded that I have the power to decide what’s best for me, to know what works and what doesn’t. For a few months I have been taking a low dose antipsychotic, used as a mood stabiliser. I’m not ashamed of that. Unfortunately after three months I decided that the side effects I was having from this med...

I remember, during my last therapy session, my counsellor reading out what I had said to her in my very first appointment, just 4 months earlier. I was shocked. I knew the words she read were mine but I didn’t recognise them, I was completely detached. I knew I had said them, but it wasn’t the same ‘me’. It’s like I had a mental block stopping me, protecting me, from remembering the lows I had been dealing with. When I’m feeling good, I can’t remember the bad. I can’t think about it. I can’t put myself back in that mindset. If someone asks me about the lows, I brush over the details because I can’t put myself there again. It feels as though it was a different person experiencing it. I’ve spoken to others with similar mental health problems and it seems to be something a few of us experience. It’s like the periods of highs block out any negativity and only allow me to access the happy thoughts, creating more happy thoughts and so on. Then the low periods lock those away so I on...

I’m scared that I won’t get the help I need. I’m scared that no matter how many times I ask (beg) for help, I won’t be listened to. I’ll be ignored. I’ll be forgotten. I’ll be lost in the system. I’m scared that because I’m not an immediate threat to myself or others, that I’m dismissed as not important. I’m scared I’ll always be abandoned. By friends, family, and now professionals. I’m scared that because I’m able to ask for help, I’m not bad enough to receive it. I’m scared that I’ll be stuck in this in-between of not being ill enough but being too ill to function normally in the world. I’m scared that I’ll always feel like I don’t belong here. Like I’m waiting to go home, but I don’t even know where home is. I’m scared I’ll never feel whole. That I’ll always feel incomplete. I’m scared that I’m not enough. I’m scared I’ll always need validation from others. I’m scared I’ll never be happy. I’m scared that everyone thinks I’m not trying hard enough. I’m scared that everyo...

You know those days when even the simplest of tasks are impossible, like showering or even just brushing your hair?  When you finally get the strength to do it, sometimes people tell you they’re proud of you. I’ve said it to others too. But shouldn’t we be even more proud of the days we struggle the most but still get through? The days we don’t want to do anything. The days we don’t want to exist anymore. I feel like it’s important to be proud of finally showering, finally changing out of the clothes you’ve spent the past 4 days in. You know the clothes I mean. The baggy hoodie or the dressing gown. The top underneath that hasn’t seen the light of day since that hoodie zip went up last Tuesday. Those socks that you have to keep twisting back round the right way three times a day.  Yes, I’m proud of myself on the days I can shower and brush my teeth. But I’m also proud of myself on the days I can’t. Because those are the days I’m fighting the hardest.