Emily Violett. My Life.

I share so much online that it’s probably considered oversharing now. I don’t hide my thoughts or my feelings. I openly talk about my mental health, sexuality, political views, and relationships. None of that is airbrushed. Reworded a few times, maybe, but still my honest thoughts and opinions are voiced. You see, I’d been quiet for too long. My whole life I’ve been the quiet one, the shy one, the well behaved one or the clever one. Not anymore. I’m the talkative one, the passionate one, the funny one, the unpredictable one. I didn’t like any of those boxes I had been put in and left in at age 4. I felt caged, trapped. Never quite living up to the expectations others had for me. So, using the shield of a mental breakdown, I took the opportunity to  smash out of those boxes. To allow myself to be true to who I am. Anyway, I went off on a tangent. Let’s get back to what I wanted to speak about. (Yet again I’m avoiding it.) The way I feel I look is a huge issue for me. The words

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

This week I met my psychiatrist for the first time. I spent just over an hour with her, talking about everything from childhood, relationships, daily life, my highs, lows, and anything else that has impacted my life and the person I am today. For the most part it was me who talked and her who listened. She asked questions and let me take my answers where I needed to. I felt free to express my honest feelings and experiences without judgement, and honestly, that acceptance was more valuable than I realised. I feel validated. She believed me, she listened and took in what I was saying. She wrote six pages of notes as I talked, she read my previous notes - which stated my only issue as social anxiety with depressive disorder - and as I told her that parts of those records weren’t true to what I had said, I hadn’t listened to by the GP who had written that, and she trusted me. I’m still in kind of in shock at that. I’d begun to build up the idea that healthcare professionals saw w

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. 

January I feel like I always start the year saying it will be different this time. I’ll do more, I’ll work harder, I’ll try new things. But it rarely happens, does it? Nevertheless, I’m going to do the same thing this January as I have every year since I was about 12. I’m going to set myself goals for the year, not resolutions, because let’s face it, I have nothing to resolve, I’m practically perfect in every way. (Do I have to give credit to Mary Poppins there?) So here goes. This is my list of goals for this year. -Blog post at least once a month -Complete my first book -Walk my dog once a week -Trust my instincts -Eat well I tweeted this and pinned it to the top of my profile so I couldn’t forget, and surprisingly it’s working. Is it because it’s only 16 days into the year when I’m writing this? Is it because the year began on a Monday and this pleases me beyond words? Is it because I’ve entered the year in what I believe is my ‘beginning of the year hypoma