another blow to the chest.

Today, I went to the hospital about my back. This is an occurrence that has been familiar to me since I originally did the injury, and I am well-versed in waiting to see consultants, registrars or locums. I am familiar with the usual ‘touch your toes, how does that feel?’ routine, and I am mostly ok with it.

Today, I was discriminated against because my my mental health problems.

The Consultant decided, in his infinite wisdom, that because I have a lot of issues going on, I need to sort those out and then return to sort out my back. My objection that PTSD is a long-term illness was brushed aside. He was adamant that I needed to be discharged and then I should re-apply once I was ‘feeling better’.

Whose bright idea was this?! Is it hospital policy that you can only treat one thing at once?! I have a healed stress fracture and healed sprained facet joints, which STILL cause me problems! I can’t adequately describe how I felt as he bulldozed me into accepting a discharge from care, but I’m going to go with betrayed again.

It seems to me the NHS care nothing for people’s pain. I will not keep making the excuse for them that they are short-staffed (check out how many medical graduates there are each year) or that there are a lot of patients (pretty sure in other countries there are a lot of patients too, but it doesn’t seem to stop them getting seen a damn sight faster than I have been). I am sick of these excuses and quite frankly have lost patience. So what if there are a lot of patients? Re-organise so you see them faster and more easily, or hire another goddamn medic. I don’t see the issue.

I also don’t understand why an injury that I did BEFORE THE DEPRESSION now suddenly has an impact on my mental health problems WHICH ARE TOTALLY UNRELATED? What sort of BS is that? I told him that my back was the least of my problems right now, and instead of seeing it my way (which is I can fix this so easily it will be a piece of cake compared to what I live with every day), he saw it this way: you’re too self-absorbed to heal your back up, and I don’t know where to take your care. I give up. Fuck off you crazy bitch, I’m not treating you any longer.

He said to me at least three times that I had to get my ’emotional problems’ sorted out before the physical ones. It was so upsetting, so hurtful and so damaging to hear that again. I’ve already had enough of that from the stupid psychiatrist. (An aside- I rang up and asked not to see him again, so I don’t have to. Thank gods, I hate the fucking psychiatrist.) The consultant also had a student in with him, which made talking about my issues triggering. I didn’t even want to talk about my mental health issues, but the consultant seemed to think he had a right to talk to me about them. He also offered me a thing called a pain management course, which I wanted to go on, but he decided that he wouldn’t refer me because of ‘the state you’re in.’ What, so helping a girl with mental health issues get a worry off her mind is a bad thing?! Despite the fact that when I am doing something to help myself, I feel better?

When I left, I tried writing in my journal but it didn’t work. All I could think of was the fact that my mental health issues had cost me a valuable NHS service. I tried to stay there until I felt safe, but you guessed it- the dark passenger got in there first.

Their poison kept me occupied until I noticed that there were two people coming to sit nearby me, so I cleared off outside fast. Then, the voices started their tirade anew and it broke me.

“Stupid bitch, why do you always have to go and open your mouth?!”

God, you’re a whiny bitch aren’t you? It’s one fucking pity party after the next with you.”

There was more, but I don’t want to write it cause they just got more horrible and more venomous. I walked away from the hospital and ended up at a motorway junction.

“Now’s your chance, bitch. Jump.”

They all started yelling at me to jump. All three of them. They wouldn’t give up, and finally, I hopped over the hard shoulder and walked to the railings.

I stood there, wondering how it would feel to finally fall to Earth for the last time ever. The thought of bliss, darkness, and forgetting filled my head until it was all I could think about. I shuffled closer, and the voices were clamouring for me to take off my backpack and jump.

Then memories of my new puppy, my parents and sister, J and my friends flooded my head. I remembered J holding me close the first night we got together, and I pushed hard against the railings and swore at the dark passenger.

I crossed the road to the service station I could see, and finally called my mum. The dark passenger is, and was, furious that I didn’t jump, but my fantastic mum calmed me down and talked to me all the way onto the tube home.

I am moving away from London in two days and not coming back. It’s too much. I was on a fucking motorway bridge, listening to the dark passenger’s three poisonous voices and putting myself back to square one. I was in danger today and I am realising that I cannot keep exposing myself to London and thinking I will be ok. This place triggers me. The NHS here does not want to help me, either mentally or physically. I was raped here, and I see my ex everywhere as a result. The PTSD symptoms have been lessened somewhat during work but I still flinch if a man gets too close to me. I try not to show it, but it hits me as I leave work and panic attacks set in.

Time to focus on healing, and time to focus on getting what is best for me. Right now, all I want to do is collapse into bed, but I can’t because my friend Z has a friend coming to stay tonight, and I don’t feel safe enough to stay in the same bed as her. What happens if I have a panic attack or flashback if I wake up and find a strange person next to me? I’m sleeping on the couch cushions on the floor tonight.

Tomorrow? I’m ringing the hospital back and letting them know they are NOT getting away with that. I will be treated with respect, and I will be seen and not discharged. Good luck trying to get me to back down.


Manipulative? Ugh, please, YOU are the manipulative one, Mr Shrink.

I’m once again researching BPD/EUPD and I am once again filled with disgust about it. It is nothing but an ugly sham.

The website I gleaned the link below from purports to be ‘helpful’ to BPD/EUPD sufferers, and the link is supposed to be to get people to ‘think twice’ about calling someone with BPD/EUPD ‘manipulative’ or ‘demanding’. Unfortunately, it’s worded in such a way that it just reinforces these preconceptions.

Take, for instance, this:


Dictionary definition: “To manage or influence skillfully, esp. in an unfair manner: to manipulate people’s feelings”

This is a very harsh comment to make about someone that is using the best skills they have available. Try to imagine what someone with a personality disorder has gone through, and then think about what extremes you would go to protect yourself. Isn’t it true that life is a fight for survival or would it be seen that way through the eyes of someone with a personality disorder?

Now hold it right there, folks. This is cleverly written. I think I was taken in at first glance- I thought that there was another medical professional out there willing to think. Now I’ve re-read it, that isn’t the case. The words ‘the best skills they have available’ makes out that a BPD/EUPD sufferer is literally incapable of normal interaction at all. Moreover, it’s still saying in a roundabout way that sufferers are actually manipulative. Apparently it’s because ‘we are lacking in skills to function normally’.

I call bullshit on that one.

I have said many times I don’t believe it should be recognised as a disorder, but to actually go as far as to say that one of the ‘symptoms’ of this ‘personality disorder’ is manipulation actually blows my mind. To say that if you have suffered so badly from abuse, the only tool left to you is manipulation is utterly demeaning.

I was raped. I was emotionally and sexually abused. I was laughed at, humiliated publicly, and, to cap it all off, I was manipulated.

Now I’m intimate with the horrors of emotional blackmail, so you would think I might be the least bit capable of recognising it in myself. Guess what, shrink- manipulation is a zero here. I have asked countless friends and family members to tell me if I am, and they have said no, not at all. I haven’t seen its ugly claws in me, and I know I would lose so many friends if I really was manipulative. Bullshit.

So I will keep demanding that this archaic, misogynistic diagnosis is ended. It seems to me the epitome of manipulation for a shrink to convince everyone who knows you that you are a horrible bitch who brought this on yourself for having a “disordered personality”. Isn’t that true manipulation?

It feels to me how I used to feel with the ex- like no-one would believe me, like I was a crazy bitch, a drama queen, and I needed to keep my mouth shut.

All you other BPD/EUPD girls out there, I believe you. You are not this label, and you are not manipulative. This label should not have been given to you, and it should not exist.

Come join me in defiance. It’s a really good feeling.

(PS: Sista, I’m talking to you too. I believe you have PTSD, like me. We’re in this together. x)

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.

Diagnosis? Yeah right.

Today was D day. You know, something I had been dreading and looking forward to in equal measure. I have finally had a label slapped on me, and I am SO FUCKING ANGRY right now.

Apparently, I could have ‘Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder’, which is, yes, you’ve guessed it, Borderline Personality Disorder.

Only, the Psychiatrist failed to tell me I apparently have BPD.

Apparently, ‘the label doesn’t matter, just finding out what works for you matters.’

Right now I am so angry I feel sick. Right now I want to scream. What is the POINT in explaining that I need HELP when all that happens is I am given a generalised diagnosis which is given to a lot of young women who also need HELP? What is the fucking point in telling him my ex RAPED ME, ABUSED ME emotionally and then tried to get me back if he wasn’t prepared to think about how that might fit into the picture?!

I’m so fucking done with this shit. I don’t see him again til March. In that time, hopefully Psychology will be in touch with me and my newly-perscribed antipsychotics will be working. That is, if they will.

I am ready to throw in the fucking towel with the NHS. I would accept this label if I believed it fit me. It fucking doesn’t. I don’t have unstable relationships with my family. I don’t have an eating disorder. I don’t get into physical fights or snap at people uncontrollably. I most CERTAINLY don’t use self-harm to get attention, as SEVERAL clinical websites have tried to tell me. Christ, I am so angry.

I thought the session went well. I thought I was listened to. I thought I was getting somewhere. The fact that he DIDN’T FUCKING TELL ME that EPD IS BPD blows my mind. Clearly I am fucking back to square one.

I wasn’t angry like this an hour ago, but since then I’ve done my research and I am so so angry for not having been listened to AGAIN. That’s what I feel. “Oh, she doesn’t fit happily into one diagnosis so let’s shove her in this box and hope she fits.” AGAIN.

WHEN am I going to get practical HELP for this?!?! J, my mum, my auntie, my dad and sister have all helped me FAR FUCKING MORE than any bloody psych. My friends have helped me. All these amazing people I know have held me when I cried, believed me when I told them about the rape, dried my tears, reassured me, taken me out when I needed it… the list goes on. They have HELPED me PRACTICALLY.

The NHS? I can see now I’m being bullshitted to again. I would be more content to accept this “diagnosis” if any of the mental health professionals actually KNEW what was involved in BPD, instead of taking wild and often derogatory guesses. I think it’s another way of saying to all of us diagnosed with this, “Shut up, you know you’re crazy, and nothing you say is true.”

Well I have had enough of that with my ex, thanks. If I am going to be treated this way by the NHS then there is nothing you can say to me that will change my mind. Screw you. I want out of the system if all that is going to happen is that I am treated as a stupid, silly little girl AGAIN by people who are promising to help me.

There isn’t a word for how I feel right now, but I think BETRAYED is the closest I can get to.

Sorry for all the swearing and the rant, but I am so angry and I have no clue what to do with it.

A change.

Well, I’ve taken a big step and moved back to the big smoke. I was terrified of the train journey, but I ended up talking to a really nice man who made me remember that there are some decent men out there who don’t see women as prey. I met my friend Z and her husband N at the station, and they helped me with my luggage on the way back to the flat.

They’ve been amazing, and I can’t thank them enough. They have made the journey back much much easier, and I have found their flat a lovely, welcoming place.

Z knows all about the voices, and so does N. So yesterday, when we were out with some of their friends, the male voice decided to take that moment where I was alone to come and talk to me. He said that the scars on my arm were just the beginning, and one day I would cut those veins and die. He said that I was just avoiding the truth and I would be dead on the 17th of December.

I was standing alone in the bathroom of the pub, shouting for him to fuck off. I left as soon as I felt calm enough and made my way back to the table where Z was sitting with the rest of the group.

The voices told me not to tell her what had just happened. They told me I’d be sorry if I did. They said that I was going to die and I was going to carry their plan through no matter what. As an act of defiance, I leant over and asked Z if we could step outside, which she knows is my way of saying ‘stuff is bad, I need help.’

Once standing in the square, where the nice cold air hit my face and forced me to take deep breaths, I told her what he had said. She was amazing, and listened, and told me she believes that the voices were put in my head by my ex also.

Z is a Christian, but of that awesome variety who genuinely cares about others and doesn’t let the bigotry of the Church affect them. She also believes that alongside her god, there are the forces of evil, and she has said to me she’s dealt with bad things like my voices before. As I was explaining to her what he had said, all three voices chipped in and said that she was getting bored of my shit, like everyone else.

I reflexively swore at them then apologised to her, and she asked me if I minded her ‘getting all Christian for a moment.’ She also knows about my feelings on religion, and has always respected them. I said she could go ahead- and she delivered a blistering attack on them, telling them where to stick it. She told them in the name of her god to leave me alone, and not to dare to talk to me.

Well, whatever she believes, the voices did not like being confronted like that. They buggered off and left me with a quiet head for the rest of the evening, and I was able to go back in the pub and behave normally again, and have a good laugh with N, Z and their friends.

She is the second person to be able to shut them up entirely. J is the only other person who can knock them on the head and get the dark passenger to shift. I am amazed and pleased that I know someone else who can help get rid of them for me when I am having problems doing it myself.

The other great piece of news is that FINALLY the psychiatrist has agreed to see me on the 9th of December. I rang the office to ask if they had an appointment for me, and I think that my pleas for help have finally been recognised. The receptionist sat there with the diary and made an appointment for me on the phone, and I am feeling a little better to know that at long last I might actually get a diagnosis on this thing I have. Maybe, finally, I might actually get some medication that will work and that will shut the stupid voices up for good.

Wish me luck- so far  I’ve had to cope with the Tube, strange men, and a horrible moment where I was positive I had seen my ex- thank the gods, it turned out not to be him. I am trying to re-start my life, and so far it’s working. J is busy finishing off his album at the minute, and I am so proud of him for still being there for me whilst he’s working so hard.

Fingers crossed and two magpies, ey?


Apparently, PTSD sufferers experience nightmares. I had been wondering for a while whether I have PTSD along with whatever else I have, and I’ve written about that before.

Now I’m fucking positive.

Last night, I had a nightmare that’s still on my mind now.

I dreamt I was being the bigger man again, like I always was, and trying to patch it up with me and my ex-boyfriend. I was attempting to be friends with him again and he had agreed. I dreamt I’d gone to visit him in his flat, the one he said was perfect for us both, and I was trying to be friendly and not act as if we were still together. He was the opposite: talking about how he thought we should be together again, that it hasn’t been quite right since I left, that he never really meant to let me go like he did. He then told me he wanted to marry me, and that I should say yes and we should start talking about arrangements, and that I could just move straight in with him and it would all be fine. He was repulsively close to me, and kept touching my arms, grabbing my hands, kissing me. I kept turning my head away from him, trying not to let him kiss me, trying to move away.

Eventually I just took a huge step back from him and told him I had met someone in the States that I cared about more than anything, and if he wasn’t prepared to be friends we would have to part the ways.

Well, after that he went crazy.

He turned from being kind and caring and sensitive to violently angry and contemptful. How dare I think of anyone but him! I was a complete slut for going and hooking up with some arrogant prick in America, and how dare I shame him and his family by coming here to beg for friendship he didn’t think I deserved. How could I even look him in the eye!? What a bitch I was!

He started throwing things, not at me but at the walls, and pacing around. He yelled in my face. I argued straight back with him that my new boyfriend wasn’t an arrogant prick, he was all the amazing things a boyfriend should be- completely unlike my ex. He shouted back that I was a complete whore, going over there and putting myself out for him.

I started grabbing my stuff and trying to get out, and he was yelling at me and calling me a slut over and over again as I headed for the door.

Mum woke me up, and I literally thought I was still trying to escape him, and that he was nearby, insulting me and J and making me feel terrified and small again.

This is the impact the sorry fucker has had on my psyche. I hate him so much for it.

One of the other nightmares I have had about he and I was when I dreamt I was living with him, his mother and stepfather, his grandparents and sister. He was being his usual abusive self, and I had decided I had had enough. I told him we were over as a couple and I was moving out, and the whole family apart from his sister started laughing at my scars, belittling my mental illness, and tormenting me. They made it nearly impossible for me to pack, I was crying so much, and I had to put my belongings in a taxi and let the driver take them to my parents’ house whilst I walked my dog the long way home. For some reason, he was in the dream too, only he had also been living at my ex-boyfriend’s house. It was getting dark, and I was concerned for my dog because he’s old and pavement walks hurt his back legs.

After that one, I woke up in tears.

I re-live my assault in my dreams too, and they get more and more graphic. The last one had me being picked from a line of girls to be the victim of a serial killer- he was supposed to choose one girl to kill and another to assault. Lucky me, I ended up with both. I woke up as the knife was plunged into my chest.


I still haven’t heard a thing from the psychiatrist. I think they don’t care. I suspect this evaluation is not happening quickly enough because I’m not a screaming lunatic on a street corner.

Be careful what you with for, mate. I am attempting to re-start my dance career, giving it one last go, and if moving back to the Company proves a trigger, then that may be exactly what you get.

Especially if I keep having these fucking nightmares.

No rest.

Today is yet another bad day. The voices hate me. I am sick of waiting for the psychiatrist. I am sick of trying to drag this diseased carcass through another abuse-filled day. I hate the inner contents of my head.

The voices were merciless today. They told me that I have no one to rely on, that nobody cares and that I am going to have to make another attempt on my life. I have argued with them, fought them, yelled at them and ignored them, and for what? Literally another earful of abuse.

Someone called me a slut today. The voices loved that. Some unknown commenter trying to insult my boyfriend said one of my trigger words, and I am at 5% on my moodscope score… Not much needed to push me the fuck over the edge.

Why am I such a loser? Why can I not be normal? Why can I not have a brain that works properly?

I think the psychiatrist doesn’t give a flying fuck about me, considering that it has now been TWO FUCKING WEEKS  with no communication save what I have begged out of them. Monday, I had to cope with a whole goddamn day of dissociation. Today, and a couple of days ago, voices and flashbacks. I want an end, and if I don’t get one soon I am terrified that I will listen to my stupid auditory hallucinations and go for another attempt.

Really, at this point I am out of fucking options.