I’m scared

So last night/this morning I woke myself up because I was having a full on night terror involving me screaming and thrashing around in the bed.  The working theory is that this is good.  The unworking theory is that this is me almost being possessed by evil spirits so we’ll see how it goes tonight -_-


I’ve spent the whole day walking round feeling like I’ve been kicked in the solar plexus all night.  I don’t know what that’s about either.
What I do know is that I’m hiding from my job and everything to do with it.  I’m trying to make myself hold out until the other side of some days off I have booked but we’ll see -_-  I just want to go to the Drs and get signed off…




The good old NHS is definitely trying to finish me off!  See series of events:

June – Initial going to Dr, Dr suggests doing referral to therapy

June.2 – Do three referrals, each wanting me to go into exquisite detail about how I wanted to kill myself, what my plans were etc.  Their response: KTHNX we will contact you in a month for your phone assessment

July – A month on.  Asked to go through everything on the phone AGAIN, in detail AGAIN.  Left in a state, told to phone Samaritans because it will take 3 weeks for me to be seen

July.2 – Letter sent with everything I had said (including most of the horrible detail) sent out in the post to my house.  Again confirming it will take 3 weeks to be seen by anyone

2017-07-28 15.43.36-1.jpg


Gee thanks NHS.  This is really what I needed to read, unexpectedly on the way out the door while I’m trying to get on with my fucking life that you seem determined to remind me that I want to fucking end.


As is the theme of recent days… I GOT FUCKING PISSED OFF ABOUT IT



Especially because someone I know’s friend killed herself.  She was trying to get help.  The help never came.  Are we surprised?  I get so fucking angry.  It’s like.. if you just want us all to die and decrease the burden on the population then at least do what the Roman state did and give us the means to go out with dignity.  Otherwise, if you want people to live then HELP THEM.


Ranting aside…


Guy problems.  Because I am 100% a 16 year old girl and not someone who should be married with 5 kids already.


I apparently literally cannot handle being complimented.  My brain freezes up.  So I’m currently stuck in this world of ‘WTF do I do?!’ and ‘he is totally lying.  He is manipulating you’.  I get the impression he’s been like me… stuck with a lot of affection to give someone and not having an outlet for it.  The issue is that to me, my inner voice is processing it as being insincere and overwhelming.


I think what is most terrifying me is because I feel a genuine connection to this person.  We technically spent the weekend amongst friends and chatting and socialising etc so even though we’re going on a Date it’s still not like the internet where we’ve not met at all before.  I’m scared that this connection I feel is just my intense loneliness coming at me from another angle.  I feel like I’m trying to trick myself out of feeling miserable.  I just don’t want to end up in another shitty relationship but then the only way you find that out is to give it a go.


Oh and there is the usual of me being too fat and ugly to qualify being worthy of love… which I keep being told is untrue but I don’t feel that on the inside.






Times I have sought help for my life about my depression in the past 29 years of my life: 1

Number of people I have spoken to about how bad I feel that are friends/family: 2

Number of strangers I have had to talk to, in depth, about how suicidal I’ve been feeling and what I was planning on doing in the past week: 5


So my blood tests came back fine.  Absolutely fine.  100% green.

I was sat in the Dr’s office looking at the computer screen desperately trying to find the place where it said that it was my thyroid or I had diabetes or I was born without serotonin.  Nope.


So now I am in a surreal place where it is confirmed to me in 100% green writing that 100% of how I am feeling is to do with my brain, my past and whatever else may be going on for me that wasn’t tested for.  I just can’t comprehend it.  The other week, when I started off on this jolly escapade, I physically crawled out of bed.  I went to the Drs and cried because I was so, so physically exhausted.  Except it wasn’t physical.  My body was there doing everything it needed to, all the systems were functioning away without a problem… and yet…


I had to go back for a sick note to get this week off work, which I was dreading.  I couldn’t have gone back to work today.  I was woken up by the alarm I’d set for two hours later than  the time I’d normally be setting it to do the commute (in order to ring to try and run the appointment gauntlet).  I then went back to sleep, clocking up a fine total of 11.5 hours.  I then woke up again to try going to the Drs and standing in line in order to get an appointment for the afternoon and was successful.


The Dr looked about 14.  I’m not exactly 95 but oh god…


I did the thing where I made lots of jokes. I was asked (again) about whether I had suicidal thoughts etc etc.  I told the truth, I made my jokes.  He told me that I didn’t come across as being under any immediate threat.  On some levels this is true.  On many other levels this is fucking untrue and I wanted to scream.


I can understand that all these medical professionals need to go through their processes.  I used to work for a big corporation.  I know a lot about paperwork and processes.  This does not mean however, that having to force myself to tell complete strangers about how much I want to die and then be told ‘you don’t want to die enough’ over and over does not help me.


So I have my sick note.  It says ‘low mood and stress’.  I asked for it not to say this because contrary to what I have been doing for the last week I don’t want to discuss my mental health with people.  I wanted a nice generic ‘virus’.  I suppose ‘low mood and stress’ is better than ‘admitted to coming home and lying face down on the floor in her hall’ or ‘is wondering whether this note is going to impact on the shotgun licence she is still considering applying for’.


I am now stressed about the note.  So I guess the note is correct about the stress part.


But on the plus side… 100% not diabetic.  So you know, swings and roundabouts

Grinning at the darkness

So there is apparently a thing called ‘smiling depression’.

I know this because my mom practically ran at me waving articles in my face, except this was on the internet so it didn’t happen exactly that way.

The jist of it is along the same lines as people who are anorexic but are really good at hiding it.  I am very good at hiding exactly how I feel.  I have been good at this for approximately 13 years.

I will occassionally not be very good at this.  Will self combust in the privacy of my own home and then will slowly glue the pieces back together again.


I don’t see it as smiling depression.  I see it as the title of this blog.  Smiling makes it sound benign.  Grinning instead makes me think of a rictus grin, a shit eating grin… one that someone has when they have a gun to their head and they’re told to smile.

I highly doubt that any of my smiling, during my ‘smiling depression’ time has been very convincing but then people don’t want to be convinced.  One of the many things you realise in life is that people, generally, are far too busy being buried in their own shit to notice anything actually going on with you.


You know that you are actually not making up your depression when you actually go to a counsellor and they look at the notes they’ve taken, raise their eyebrows and make a noise that translates as ‘hoo boy’.


You know that you are not actually a drama queen when you look at the events of your life, written down in chronological order on paper, and realise that these are not normal.  These are not things that happen to people.


You still feel like a drama queen because despite this you still have functioning limbs and a house and the fact you have a parent that is bothered enough to help you get counselling sessions rather than waiting 6 weeks for an initial NHS consultation.


NHS woman: Have you had suicidal thoughts

Me: Yes

NHS woman: What thoughts?

Me: I want to die.  This is all too much, I’m feeling too much

NHS woman: But what specific thoughts?  Have you made any plans

Me: Yes.  I’ve done a lot of research

NHS woman: You need to tell me the details please

Me: Well it seems like the best way to do things is to shoot yourself with a gun otherwise you’re basically involving other people in your misery and running the risk of brain damage which would be worse.  A shot gun would be best however to apply for a shotgun licence you have to go to the police station and have a good reason and my brain isn’t working well enough to come up with one.  I’d throw myself in front of a train but then some poor guy is going to have to squeegee me off the front of the window and then they’re going to have to ring up asking for counselling [I laugh.  She laughs]

NHS woman: So you haven’t tried to commit suicide

Me: No because I don’t have a shotgun


I am very good at making people laugh.  In the middle of discussing my thorough research into how best to kill myself I genuinely made her laugh.  I consider this is the equivalent of the professional anorexic being able to distract you from the fact they haven’t been eating.


I went through the exact same questionnaire twice.  I am asked to clinically rate my depression on levels of 1-3, 1-8.  I keep getting confused as to which end of the scale means what.


I jump through many hoops. I am a good performing circus dog.


I am told that there is a 6 week wait for an initial consultation.  I am told if I am in immediate danger of killing myself to ring Samaritans (to cry at someone down the phone who can do nothing), to go to my GP (ring at 8.30am, 1.30pm to enter an appointment lottery or sacrifice a black goat and pray to Baphomet for a time of your choosing) or ring the police.  Because I don’t already feel like the biggest drama queen in the world.


The problem with starting to try and deal with these issues is that I have been broken, over and over, and then been trying to glue myself back together in order to function.  To be strong.  To not be needy or weak.  The problem is that the pieces keep getting smaller each time they’re broken.  The glue isn’t very good at sticking just to glue.


I am tired.


I go to counselling.  The counsellor agrees I need counselling.  I go home and contemplate the fact I need to go to work in order to exist.  I try and start sticking the pieces of my joker/rictus/manic grinning mask back together.  It won’t work.