It isn’t BPD if there was trauma there too. (TW- certain things described in the link may be triggering)

On Being Invisible in the Mental Health System

This article explains, better than I ever could, about why so many people who endure child sexual abuse (or adult) and then get labelled obstructive, bitter, attention-seeking or violent as a result. I am so pleased it’s not just me that thinks this attitude is wrong. All the other diagnoses this woman received damaged her too, but my theory on the BPD diagnosis being slapped on traumatised people just blames them seems to be supported here.

Please, seek a different diagnosis if there was trauma in your past and you have been labelled with something that doesn’t fit. PTSD is probably what it is- a healable brain injury which was NOT your fault. NO abuse is ever your fault.

Struggling through these dark times but dealing with it better now that I’m resting. So much support through various people commenting and liking my posts, and following me, not to mention all the love I’m receiving from my friends. Keep fighting all, I’m trying my best. I’ll try and post again with what’s been happening as soon as I can.


My Life as a Rape Joke

Huh, seems I am not the only one who was blamed by a psychiatrist for being raped. Apparently, telling rape victims it was their fault because their ‘personality disorder’ made them get raped is good practice now.
Psychiatrists should be ashamed that BPD is even a diagnosis. It’s revolting. What we all suffer is RTS/PTSD, or I was never with my ex boyfriend for six years of hell. Time to get rid of the misogynistic, archaic and untrue BPD label.

The Life and Works of Olive Seraphim

The rape joke is that
It happened the first time when i was five
and my mother said “never let this happen again!”

The rape joke is that
it happened again, another boy this time, at 14
in tears i told my mother again and she asked
“do you want me to talk to his dad?” and i’d hoped
she would ask
do i want to go to the police.
the rape joke is that i would’ve said no
but just wanted her to ask.

The rape joke is that I grew up hearing
“why do women let themselves be abused?”
and every time I thought “I would let a man
hurt me over and over again
just to hear ‘i love you’ at the end.”

The rape joke is that the universe heard me
and that’s exactly what I received. 
I was sixteen the first time. I said ‘stop’…

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Suicide is taking over my head again.

Yeah, I was doing better today and then this evening hit and I am drained. Drained and tired. I do feel weak, and I wonder which one of the pantheon is currently fucking with my life. It’s very strange- I’m tired, physically pretty exhausted, but I know that mentally I am on fire.

I self harmed in a small way two days ago. I took a pencil sharpener blade to my ankle. 8 fucking months of recovery down the drain, and although the cuts are in no way deep, they are definitely there. Real. Solid. Unlike me.

Why am I doing this loop of feeling again? I am permanently stuck here, these cycling thoughts trotting through my head in relentless torrents. Then, of course, there are the voices of the dark passenger, which is demanding I kill myself in May.

I have a puppy to look after. She is nearly six months old. I have J, who is stressed out but still with me and planning to see me in August. I have a family that loves me, I have friends that are proving they care by talking about the voices with me (thanks, Mr Robot. You’re a star,) and I have my gran and uncle from down south coming to visit soon. I have things planned for the future- a massage course in May (huh, fucking irony) and I want to get back to America as soon as I can.

Problem is, on evenings like this, every fucking one of these things is nothing to the dark passenger and its voices will shred each one to pieces. I am seriously worried that I am going to do something awful soon. I don’t want to end up in hospital again, where they tell you that they can’t help you and then shove a self-help leaflet at you or drugs that give you crippling headaches down your throat. Then they accuse you of being the reason your ex abused you, telling you that you will never get better, giving you a bullshit, outdated, chauvinistic “diagnosis” of BPD (remember, folks, it is PTSD misdiagnosed and should not even exist) and shove you into the “fucked-up crazy bitch” pile.

Next comes the promises of help. Ah, what, you mean the help I have been denied for A MOTHERFUCKING YEAR?! Try that on for size. I have fucking PTSD and it took you A FUCKING YEAR to diagnose this shit when I had been suspecting it back when I started this blog?!!

Then what about the Promazine? Yeah, that shit you told me was supposed to be a sedative? Balls, it’s a strong antipsychotic that would turn me into a fucking zombie. Worse, a zombie with a godawful headache cause of the stupid fucking Citalopram… No more drugs for me, thanks. I have stopped taking the Citalopram and I never even cashed in the prescription for the Promazine. No way. Stop trying to sedate me. I wanted help, not sedation.

The problem is that now I think it’s too late. I am really stuck in the PTSD patterns of waiting for the next blow and feeling unreal and detached. I permanently look for him in the street. I sleep and I dream of him. I try and pull myself up time and again and it all goes to shit because I can’t do it, because when I asked for help LAST FUCKING MAY I never got it. I have been waiting and waiting and basically now I am unfixable, and the voices are aware of that and love to let me know that I am broken forever.

I hate the way I think at the moment. I miss the me I was when I was with J in America. I loved the feeling of freedom from my PTSD bullshit.

Now I just have a life that I can’t control. I am broken and limping on towards a finish line that doesn’t exist, tattered heart and lungs rotting and dripping from my open chest cavity to the ground. I don’t have a choice.

I probably will die in May. It’s looking likely that I will do it. I tied a fucking ligature round my neck the other day. I am tired of life.

I am sorry I am throwing you away, J. I can’t tell you how I feel because programming and the dark passenger gag me, shutting my mouth so tight I can only let out the blandest of sentences. I am a wreck, and I wish I wasn’t, so then maybe I could care for you better. I can’t even say those three words because my ex fucked them up for me. How could I have loved my ex when he manipulated me into it? How could he have loved me if he raped me?

The answer is he never did, and the other sad fact of this is that I should tell you, J, how much I do L word you. I do. I have since I saw your face in Florida for the first time. Problem is, I am broken and I am breaking more, and one day I will collapse.

Apparently that day will come in May.

I don’t want to die, but how can I live with all this shit stacked against me? PTSD is a demon.

No Quarter. I am on the move.

I have a few things to talk about, a couple of things to get off my chest. Today seems like a good day- I’m back in London, missing J enormously, and my family, but overall I am feeling ok. Balanced. Happy. At long bloody last!

The journey back here was pretty good- I travelled down with a friend. She drove, I chatted at her from what felt like the wrong side of the car (apparently, I’m too used to American cars now!). I spent the first half of the journey trying to explain to CK what my depression, PTSD (finally, I got told that part of what I have is PTSD, after I don’t know HOW long telling mental health professionals that was what it was) and voice-hearing experiences were all like. She’s a kind, sweet girl, is CK, and she listened well and asked questions.

Before I came back to London, I had the appointment with the psychotherapist that I was dreading. I am now so scarred by psychiatrists and fucking assessments that I was sure this would be another put-down: “Get back in your place, crazy bitch. You’ve already got a diagnosis (lies), why the hell do you need or want help?”

Actually, it turned out to be a little different.

I brought my mum with me- she of the awesomely strong backbone- in case I needed her to back me up. I wanted to get across that my personality is NOT fucking disordered, that I NEED help for the trauma I have suffered, and that I am really quite desperate to get better and not worse.

The receptionist gave me the same bloody forms to fill out, and I filled them back out again with impatience. Seriously, I had done this so many times I was bloody sick to death of the sight of the stupid fucking forms. Mum looked over my shoulder until I got to the difficult bits, and then I turned so my back was to her. She stroked my back and said she was sorry, she was just being nosey. I didn’t mind, it’s just hard to write about voices that want you dead with the mother who still sees you as her baby watching.

When I gave in the forms and was called in, the psychotherapist said to my mum that we would only be half an hour, to which mum said that she would rather come in with me. So with a little bit of further argument, we all went in.

At this point the psychotherapist, M, explained that if therapy was to work for me, I would really have to see her alone. I was still like an abused dog at this point, distrustful and ready to snap, so I told her I understood that but my mum was there to tell M that I truly did need therapy, and to be my backup in case I wasn’t believed. M was shocked, I think, beneath her professional demeanour, by how determined both my mother and I were about me getting help. Also, I think the fact that I told her that so far, I didn’t feel helped or believed must have been a bit of a blow to the gut for her. It’s true, though. J is shocked by how little help I have received, as was his good friend.

We came to an agreement- I would stay alone, and M would listen to me. Mum left, and I felt alone, skeptical, and desperate.

M and I didn’t really talk about the symptoms I was experiencing too much- she wanted to know why I wanted therapy. Why the fuck do they ask these questions of someone who has been asking for therapy for months is beyond me. I did tell her, like I have told many other mental health professionals, that I am desperate for help because I cannot manage my distress. I cannot live life searching the street for a tall, broad-shouldered man with curly hair. I do not want to wake up screaming from my nightmares any longer, nor do I want to lie awake in bed and pray that eventually, I will be able to sleep without seeing images of the assault/s (yeah, I’ve deduced that every time I didn’t want to but I was too frightened to say no was the same) flooding my mind.

I told her how frightened of strange men I am, how much fear floods me if I think I have seen him in the street. I told her how the voices will still tell me I am making this up, and I told her how I hear three of them.

I think I’ve been listened to, because M finally told me she was putting me on the waiting list for therapy. She challenged some of my thought processes, too- the mark of a good therapist, I feel, especially if thee thought processes are irrational or frightening. She told me I would have to be back in my hometown for therapy, and that I might have to wait up to four months for therapy.

So far, so good, ish. At least now I have a chance to heal properly, with help from a professional. I wanted this, and I finally have it.

Moving on from the appointment and its fantastic outcome, I had the most amazing time in America. I know I’ve already written about this before, but I have a head flooded with memories of the calmest, safest three weeks I have lived since becoming depressed again. Certain turns of phrase will have me laughing out loud, certain songs make me shiver or smile or just feel safe. J sent me lots of silly e-cards on Valentines Day, featuring our favourite serial killer, Dexter. Seeing those made me forget the horrible Valentines Day argument with my ex and remember instead the cosy, warm nights we both spent on the couch, curled up together and munching through season after season of the series.

I loved it so much out there that I am already £70 up towards my goal of going back there asap. I have already done two shifts since arriving back in London, and my social anxiety whilst working is minimal because I am so focussed on what I have to do.

So, a mixed bag… but in all, there is a reason I am feeling positive, and that reason is that I can finally stop grasping at straws and reach for my life again.

Success, persistence, and a huge thank you to you all.

Guess who woke up with her boxing gloves on today?

I decided to ring the psychiatrist back and explain how sad and angry I was. Luckily, I got through on the second ring to the consultant’s secretary.

“Hi, I’m just ringing because I’ve recently been to an appointment here and I’ve been thinking about it a lot…”

The secretary was lovely. She listened carefully to my concerns about my diagnosis, the time between appointments, and my desire to get an appointment with the psychologist. She was polite and understanding, and immediately took my number so she could talk to the consultant and then ring me back. She asked me if I had been referred to secondary care psychology, and I said that I had. She assured me she would get back to me as soon as she could.

That in itself was pretty good, so I gave myself a tick for being assertive and arguing my corner. I had a nice rest of my day: my dog is really sick now but he is so up for cuddles still, and I managed to get him to eat something today. I talked through the whole situation with my mum, who is of the firm opinion that I just need talk therapy, and she always has been.

I went out with my mum and sister to the dance school my mum owns, and Ive had a great time teaching the children here. They’re bright and hopeful and innocent, and it makes me so happy to teach such uncomplicated souls. I feel protective over them, and as a result I only ever raise my voice to them if they need it. I am determined that in their dancing lives they should feel capable and not knocked down. I want these children to have good self esteem and good self confidence, something which the voices have tried to drive out of me.

I was in the middle of explaining a point of technique when my phone went off. I ran to check what the number was, and was surprised to find that it was listed as private. Hope welled in me- perhaps this was the psychiatrist! I asked my mum to quickly take over for me, and she did so as I left the room to answer the phone.

It was the lovely secretary again. She had talked to the consultant and he had agreed to take over my care. He agreed that it was too long in between appointments to leave me, and I would be sent a letter detailing when I would be seen. Also, she had asked about the progress of the psychology and it turned out that my letter had been dictated today, to be sent on Monday. I should hear back from them within two weeks.

Apparently, if you ask politely but firmly, and insist you need something different, people are inclined to listen.

I am so proud of myself for doing this, and so grateful to all of you here, my parents and sister, and of course J, for all your support, advice, sympathy, encouragement and help. You are truly a crisis team all by yourselves, and I want each one of you who reads my blog to feel proud of yourselves too. Without your backing, I would be so much less than I am today.

The voices are pathetic at the minute. I think they are scared of all of us.

They’d better be.

It’s time to listen to me.

I have learned several things from yesterday’s upset:
a) that you guys on here are great. You were all here when I needed you most, giving me help and support, and practical advice.
b) that EUPD/BPD is probably the wrong diagnosis, but given time with my therapist, it will hopefully change,
c) that J is incredible. Really and truly, he is amazing. I was in floods on the phone to him last night, and as usual he had me calmer just by hearing that wonderful voice of his,
d) that I still get to change psychiatrists, even after this one being the second one I didn’t get on with.

I’m still upset today. The criteria for EUPD/BPD are so unfair and derogatory. I can’t believe the medical profession still considers this a legitimate personality disorder. I am inclined to think it’s a diagnosis given to whoever doesn’t quite fit the bill, as I’ve previously said, and I feel so awful for anyone else “diagnosed” with this bullshit. I feel all the diagnosis does it trick women into believing every bad thing ever said about them- “you’re unstable, you’re crazy, you’re a selfish bitch, you have no clue what you’re doing in life and you will NEVER get better.”

Medical/psychiatric doctors are behind THIS!? They actually believe in that?!?! Dear gods, no wonder EUPD/BPD women kill themselves frequently! Imagine being told you will NEVER be listened to because of something a fool once wrote on a piece of paper about you. You would want to die too.

Not me, however. I won’t accept this, and I will get a proper diagnosis.

It’s time to listen to me now. I’ll be speaking for anyone who has been lumped into this fallacy with me- you are not alone, and I am going to try and help you.