'I'm sick and I'm twisted. I'm broken, you can't fix it' - Billy Talent

It's been a while. I didn't think I would return but alas, I am here again. Here and writing this pointless blog about pointless crap that I need to stop giving a shit about. I need to move on with my life but I can't. I'm stuck here in this miserable cycle of self-loathing and self-indulgence and my brain just won't shut up.

A new flat in a new city where you know nobody is pretty lonely at the best of times but when you fear you may be going actually insane it becomes pretty intolerable. So, evidently I have been rather unhinged for quite some time but this feeling a little bit mad, as opposed to just really fucking fill-rooms-of-buckets-of-my-own-tears sad, is a new one and I don't even know what to think. Like, it's always been there I guess, lurking in the shadows waiting for the perfect moment to trip me up but why now? When things were going okay?

I HAVE DONE FUCKING EVERYTHING TO TRY TO PROVE TO MYSELF AND EVERYONE ELSE THAT I AM GOOD ENOUGH BUT IT WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH. I got a fucking first in my degree, I got my dream job and I grew a pair of balls and got a flat on my own in a city where I don't know anyone. I'm meant to be out there making friends and having the time of my life; sipping cocktails in swanky bars with my new posse, impressing colleagues with my knowledge of all things nursing at dinner parties, dating pretty girls and actually thinking about the future and settling down and all of the shit that comes with that. So why am I spending every minute of my free time in bed crying. Most of the time I don't even quite know why I'm crying but it just won't stop. And then there's all the other shit going on in my head that I don't even want to talk about because putting it down in black and white makes it so much more real.

God, I've said it before but, jesus fucking christ almighty, I really don't know if I can carry on with all this bollocks.

It's been a while since I have written anything on here and I don't seem to be capable of writing about every session at the moment but I continue to go each week and I'm trying my hardest to move things forward.

A couple of major things have happened that I haven't written about that I have a lot of feelings about. I will write about them specifically soon as they have kind of had a massive impact on everything. One big thing was telling my Dad about everything and the other was finally seeing the psychiatrist.

It's late and I need to try and sleep but I wanted to write a quick post. I will be back to my blog soon. Life is just kind of getting in the way at the moment.

So so drastically behind and everything in my head is a huge mess and grrrr! Taking things one day at a time at the moment. I feel like I'm on a constant roller-coaster of emotion and I just want it to stop round about now. I'm sick, sick, sick of really really not being okay, yet pretending that I am. Bleurgh. 3 hours sleep in the last 50+ really isn't helping matters either. Please brain, just switch off.

'I feel irrational, so confrontational, to tell the truth that I am getting away with murder. Is it impossible to never tell the truth? The reality is I'm getting away with murder' - Papa Roach

During the week between my sixth and seventh therapy session I had a dream completely different to any other's I have ever had. It made me feel hopeful and suggested that something within me had changed. It suggested that I was looking at my experiences differently and perhaps evidenced that I am further into the healing process than even I am able to currently realise.

The whole dream started off different... Normally the dreams start with me as a teenager in the place where I was abused but on this occasion I was the adult I am now and I was in my bed in my room at university. 

In the dream, the person who abused me came into the room and started his usual routine of groping my boobs whilst kissing my neck and rubbing himself through his trousers, picking up my hand and physically making me rub it for him until it was rock hard. The involuntary lifting of my hips as he pulls at my pyjama bottoms. All so real and all so current. I have to do what he says to lower the chances of him hurting me physically, he might anyway but at least I can say I always tried. There's part of me that knows I'm in a dream... Why is this happening? I'm safe here. He can't hurt me any more; he doesn't even know where I am! But still it continues and I can feel myself trying to wake up and it's all really weird and blurry and I'm somewhere half way between asleep and awake... 

Suddenly, my door bangs open and out of nowhere he's on top of me, trying to penetrate me. I know I'm fully back in the dream now but two of my closest friends are there, in their pyjamas, dragging him off me and screaming the place down. The neighbours bang on the wall telling them to shut up but they won't. My abuser is lying on the floor - he looks as though he is in excruciating pain. They kick him repeatedly, there's blood everywhere - up the walls, seeping through the carpet, oozing out under the door onto the landing. My friend isn't satisfied as she drags him to his feet, nailing his hands to the wardrobe with a mallet and huge 5 inch spikes. He's naked and humiliated and being made to suffer in the same way that he made me suffer for all those years. We find knives and carve words into him until he's sick in the same way that he used to physically hurt me until it made me puke. It's all a massive game. He looks like Jesus nailed to the cross only his sins will never be forgiven and he doesn't give a flying fuck about anybody else. His sneer has finally gone and it's been replaced by fear... I laugh at him as I plunge a knife deep into his chest.

It was at that point I woke up. I don't know what it symbolises but it felt fucking good.

'Oh yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it' - Rafiki, The Lion King

I felt much more comfortable attending my sixth therapy session. I knew what we were going to be talking about and I felt as though the planned topics for conversation would be beneficial.

Bernadette and I went through all the good week, bad week pleasantries before cracking straight on with the more deep and meaningful stuff. Having not kept a dream diary when she had asked me to I felt a little awkward in my desire to revisit this area, having still not completed the task. She asked me to describe my nightmares to her in more detail and I explained that they are basically replays of things that had happened when I was being abused. I provided more details but I feel as though the level of detail in my writing has perhaps exceeded already what I would deem to be acceptable and I don't feel as though graphic details in this context would be of benefit to anybody, particularly not me. I explained that in these dreams I was always the age I was then and where I was then. She asked me how I felt when I woke up and I explained how awful I so often feel, how I often wake up in a pool of sweat with tears streaming down my face, how my heart beats so fast that I feel as though it is about to pound out of my chest... I explained how difficult I find it to take those images out of my head and get back to sleep, which often leads to me feeling sleep deprived and helpless. 

I did however find it interesting to discuss how the nightmares help me to make sense of what happened to me. Often in the daytime, something will happen and I will experience flashbacks; I feel a crushing in my chest as though the beast is lying on top of me and I hear the moan he omits as he orgasms and I smell the smell that I could never shake from my nose and it so very much feels as though I am back there. These flashbacks only occur for a few seconds normally and I have become pretty good at hiding when they are happening. But the scary thing is, they happen for seemingly no identifiable reason. Obvious things happen that remind me of what happened or remind me of my abuser which can often make me feel uncomfortable e.g a car the same as his driving by, the smell of his aftershave, anybody sucking their teeth, sex with men generally, but these things don't perplex me as they are easily explainable and don't cause an intolerable level of distress. However, the more severe flashbacks are often unexplainable at the time but will sometimes be more identifiable following a nightmare. 

I have just realised that I'm really not explaining this very well. Let me provide an example. I was staying at a friend's house a while ago now and I noticed that the pillowcase was on the pillow inside out. The feeling, the horrible intense terrifying flashback feeling, swept over me and I had no idea why an inside out pillowcase had caused such an intense emotional reaction. That is, until a few weeks later, when I had one of my abuse nightmares and as I was being abused from behind, in my dream I was staring intently at the pillow, which low and behold had an inside out pillowcase on it. My nightmares so closely correlate to what happened to me in real life that I feel as though the triggers and the daytime flashbacks are helping me to fill in the sick sordid little details that deep down I want to know. I want to be able to feel as though I know the complete picture. Maybe in a weird sick little way, if the nightmares completely vanished, I would feel as though my past would never be complete? That sound's so fucking vile and disgusting and, as I discussed these feelings with Bernadette, I couldn't believe the words that were coming out of my mouth; it made me want to vomit. It sounds almost as though I enjoy reliving the abuse, which isn't the case at all, I just feel as though I need to know all of the details, all of the potential triggers, all the answers to all of the unanswered questions, I need to know the insignificant bits so that it all becomes easier to think about, easier to talk about, easier to process, easier to make normal and less life defining. Easier to accept that this stuff happened to me and that doesn't mean that it has to define who I am.

This lead on to another discussion about the guilt I feel... I feel so guilty about what I had just confessed and I don't even know why. I think it all stems back to my mother's idea that I 'enjoyed fucking her boyfriend'. I went on a humongous rant about how I have read on the internet about abuse victims who involuntarily orgasm whilst they are being abused, not because they are enjoying it in anyway, but because that is a bodies natural reaction to stimulation and how that had never once happened to me even though I was abused many many of times over several years thus proving that nothing that happened to me was enjoyable or natural and I NEVER FUCKING WANTED IT. It made sense in my head at the time; it felt crucial that Bernadette knew that I had never once been gratified by anything that happened to me. But then I felt bad because it sounded as though I was victim shaming girls who had experienced this. 

Bernadette suggested that we try a technique she was trained to use called the Rewind Technique. She explained that normal things that happen are processed as memories pretty quickly and disappear somewhere into the depths of your mind where they are accessible as and when you choose e.g if a friend says 'do you remember when...?' you'll be able to locate that memory in some detail but it's not always there in the forefront yet can easily be found, used and put away again. However, difficult and distressing memories are very difficult to file in a similar fashion and the brain almost acts as a pinball machine to ensure that these thoughts aren't allowed to be processed and always remain in the forefront. It makes sense really and she explained that this is closely related to the minds automatic function of protecting it's human from dangerous situations. She lost me a bit with all the science behind it as she was talking about neurons and pathways and all sorts of complicated stuff. I was tempted to look it all up to find out how it all works as soon as I got home but resisted and decided to go with it as a patient, as opposed to trying to look at it theoretically as a healthcare professional.

Bernadette asked me to think of an incident that I had experienced which caused distress on a regular basis. Once I had decided upon an incident, she asked me to imagine that I was sitting on the back row in a cinema, nobody else was in the room. She then asked me to picture myself in a safe place before the incident occurred and then to play the scene out in my head although I was a spectator watching what was happening on the screen. It was critical that I watched myself within the scene rather than replaying what had happened to me as though it was happening to me. I had to tell her when the scene was finished and she asked me to watch myself returning to a safe place. She then asked me to imagine myself walking down the stairs of the cinema and into the screen where I should step back into myself. Then she told me to play the scene backwards in my head ultra fast but still including details as though it was being rewound. I took a few moments to do this before I returned to my safe place. Bernadette asked me to open my eyes and return to the session. I felt almost drunk, unsteady, strange. Bernadette reported that was normal and a sign that I had followed the procedure correctly and the memory was being stored away again, but this time in a better way.

She had anticipated that the emotion surrounding the incident may have been instantly relieved; it wasn't. She says we will discuss it next week to see if any of the emotion has dispersed and regardless of the outcome will try it again. I'm happy with this arrangement.

We then discussed in more depths my beliefs about my friends, and other people generally, perception of me. She asked me to go away and ask some close friend's three things that they like about me or that they feel are my qualities etc. She wouldn't tell me what we would do with these responses and I was instantly embarrassed by the prospect of asking for compliments. She said we wouldn't revisit this the following week but the week after that so I had time to collect some responses. I didn't know how I was going to go about it and the very idea filled me with dread...

Overall, a busy yet productive session. I was really starting to feel the difference.

I'm persistently frustrated with how far behind I am with this blog. Life just seems to be moving way too fast and a lot has happened and I'm trying to finish this bloody degree and I should not be prioritising dealing with the past right now but it's all that I can think about. Considering the amount of time I spend aimlessly surfing the internet I should be on top of it but sometimes I just can't be bothered with anything and just want to stare at lists of 'Things Every Girl Should Do In Her 20's' on Thought Catalog - does that make me a bad person who's not willing to do anything to support her own recovery?

Part of me really wants to just dump this blog right here, right now. I know I will instantly regret it. It's important to me to reflect upon what's happening to me and I often feel as though I can't just sit down with another person and tell them all of this in a calm, articulate and comprehensible manner. Damn, sometimes I can barely write in an order that makes much sense but at the end of the day I am doing this for myself, as something to look back on, maybe to even help others. So screw it, continue on I shall.

LIFE AIM: Blog to be up to date and assignment to be finished by Monday night. Realistic? I don't doubt myself for a second.

'I would like to turn in my skin and change it for a new epidermis. It feels as though I will never be able to rinse the sadness from my soul' Holly A Smith

So for the first time I wasn't dreading therapy at all and it was quite an unknown strange feeling... A sign that things were improving and progress was being made? I felt almost shy going back after finally opening up but once I was in there I was fine. Well, not fine, but as though I could continue to open up with some level of ease.

She said that she thought it would be beneficial to spend the session talking in more depth about the various events I had written on the piece of paper the week before and how they affect me now. I talked about the very gutteral pain that I experience 24/7 that feels like I am carrying a huge weight around inside me, I talked about the persistant nightmares, I talked about the flashbacks that happen during the day when random and unexplainable things send me into a panic stricken state of distress that are gradually increasing the further into therapy I get, I talked about the fear and the emotional pain and the physical pain and how it all just feels too much and I want it to vanish. I told her how paranoid and socially anxious I get and how most of the time I feel completely worthless and as though I don't deserve to be happy and how I feel guilty and fraudulent when anything good happens in my life. I briefly mentioned my sexuality and how I feel as though it has formed as a result of my past and how in some ways I am quite over sexualised and at times disinhibited.

Again, she thought there was too much to talk about in one session so we mainly talked about the physical pain I feel in my stomach. I spent my adolescent years being prodded and interrogated and sliced open by gastroentrologists and gynacologists looking for a physiological explaination for what is actually psychosomatic pain. I let them cut me and anally probe me and examine me intimately in the vane desperate hope that they would realise from how I looked physically that something was going on that was bad and that they could save me. I almost wanted them to find physical evidence of my torture so that I could come forward and disclose and nobody could possibly accuse me of lying and it wouldn't just be my word against his. I was already diagnosed with PCOS and endometriosis at this point so I knew what the pain related to these conditions felt like but this was, and continues to be, something else entirely. It was the first time I had ever admitted that I knew what the physical pain was.

She asked me to describe what the pain in my stomach would look like if it was extracted. I described it as a grotesque ball of thick black bile; a perfect picture of pain, destruction and death. She asked me how I thought I could go about changing the mass into something more manageable and less invasive. I had no idea and I don't think that she did either but at least she didn't ask me to draw it. She suggested that if I could possibly find a way to deal with the cause of the pain then it might reduce/ evaporate all by itself.

But, although it's not nice to carry this weight around with me, I see it as the punishment I deserve. I talked about how I still feel like everything that happened to me was my fault. I explained that, although I was young when Charlie abused me, I had a woman's body, I was fully developed, I was not a little girl; I had hair in all the wrong places and boobs and a monthly trickle of womanly blood that seeped out maliciously from between my legs (he liked it when that happened). I explained that when the abuse started, it was purely sexual and it was only once I started questioning outloud what was happening to me and fighting against it that the threats, manipulation, physical abuse and more extreme/ disgusting sexual acts commenced. If I had just accepted the initial stuff than maybe none of that would ever have happened, and there I am, back to blaming myself. I also told her that I felt as though by already self-harming I gave him some kind of subliminal permission to hurt me; I could hardly complain about another person hurting me when I was already hurting myself. Bernadette was brilliant in her response to this. Having never vocalised those thoughts to anybody before I expected her to shrug it off and think I was being ridiculous but she didn't... She really listened to what I was saying and acknowledged why I may feel that way. She did say all the cliched stuff about how regardless of my physical form I was still a child and he had a position of power over me, blah blah blah. But most importantly, she said with sincerity that it wasn't my fault. And it felt wonderful. Friends that have known about my past have told me this before but it somehow felt different coming from her, a virtual stranger, a specialist, an adult. Bernadette saying that simple statement made me feel as though she really had my back and that I could trust her with everything, completely difference from my confidence with any type of disclosure to my mother. Another memorable moment where I felt like change was possible.

We finished by identifying areas I might want to work on in the following session. I idetified that the daytime flashbacks and their relationship to the nightmares was something that I would like to explore. Having spoken about the hatred and guilt I feel towards my self in the context of self blame and never being good enough, I felt as though I would also like to explore these feelings further. She told me that it seemed odd that I had so many friends and so many people liked me when I had such a intense dislike of myself. It wasn't a statement but a question, I was stumped. I had no idea how to respond. She winked and said she might have a suggestion that she would put forward in my next session.

Overall, another positive session.

'I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone but though you're still with me, I've been alone all along' Evanescence

I thought about what Bernadette had said about my unwillingness to engage and my readiness to work through my difficult past a lot that week. I am ready for this. I have to be ready for this. Enough of my life has been engulfed by the effects of the abuse I endured and I don't want any more of it stolen away from me. I needed to sort myself out and make the most of this opportunity to have free counselling with a specialist; opportunities like that don't come along all that often what with the mental health budget cuts and the waiting lists and the way in which care is prioritised and the lack of specialist not for profit organisations - it felt like it was now or never and I couldn't let it be never. If I accepted never to even be an option I knew that I might as well go and throw myself under the nearest train - things couldn't carry on like this.

I was perhaps more apprehensive when arriving for my fourth session then I had been when arriving for my first session and even my initial assessment. It was weird. I thought Bernadette might confirm that I was beyond help and she didn't want to work with me any more, maybe the decision would be taken out of my hands. However, that was not the case. She asked me what I had decided and practically beamed when I acknowledged that I wasn't going to find it easy but I was ready to actually start talking and dealing with the past. She had a different demeanour that day, something had changed within me but there was also a definite difference in her too. Maybe she had received clinical supervision or something and was looking at my case with a fresh perspective? She seemed much more confident in her ability to help me and to actually work towards positive psychological change.

She asked me how I felt would be the best way to start. I explained that everything felt so tangled and interlinked that it felt impossible to articulate everything in any kind of comprehensible manner. We came up with the analogy that my brain was a huge tangled ball of string and in order to organise any small length of it, another length had to be pulled at and basically, for one part of the ball of string to be even slightly okay, the rest of the ball had to be too but it was a mess and couldn't all be dealt with in one go. I had no idea how long the ball of string even was or what may be found lurking in it's tangles and that terrified me.

Bernadette suggested that it may be a good idea to initially look at different events in my life as statements. She asked me to draw a timeline of my life with good things written on the top half in green and bad things written on the bottom half in red. At first this task felt simple and we sat in silence whilst I jotted down all of the things that immediately filled my head onto the huge sheet of paper she had provided. It was really strange to look at my life as a chronological set of events, it made it all look so simple.

I was startled by the lack of positive memories and events I had put down from before the age of 8 when I experienced my first trauma. I had previously found it odd that some people could tell stories from their early childhood with such intricate detail whilst I could only provide details that I knew from photographs and what had been told to me by others. I expressed this concern to Bernadette and she said that this was entirely normal for people who had experienced trauma. She told me that I shouldn't think too much into it but warned me that as I deal with the shitty stuff, my mind will begin to process memories in a different way and it may alter what I can and can't remember about my childhood. I just hoped there wasn't anything else dark and twisted within my past waiting to come up and bite me on the ass.

We then briefly discussed each of the points that I had written down. She basically asked me to expand on what happened and how it affected me psychologically and behaviourally at the time. She stated that she deliberately wasn't asking me how the events were interlinked or how I feel they continue to affect me now as that was too much for one session and was something that she wanted to spend more time focussing on in future sessions.

I won't bore you with every little detail that we discussed because it's not overly interesting and it's not dissimilar to stuff that I have written about previously. However, it was interesting to discuss with Bernadette some of my experiences from after Kellie died. I explained that I used to see her at night and that it felt like very real experiences that all of my senses were involved with. I explained that she used to come and talk to me and that sometimes she was nice to me and told me that things weren't my fault and that other times she was mean to me and mad at me and said I was entirely to blame and told me to hurt myself to prove to her that I cared. I explained that I could see, hear, touch, smell and feel her - just as though she was alive and actually there. Bernadette said that it sounded as though what I had experienced for much of my childhood were hallucinations. I know all about hallucinatory experiences from my work so I don't know why I had never realised that was exactly what was happening to me for all this time. I guess deep down I knew that's what it was but I didn't want to accept that as it's often considered a symptom of psychotic type illnesses. Bernadette explained that although hallucinations do fall into that category, a high level of emotional trauma can also lead to short term hallucinatory symptoms; it was just a normal way for my brain to deal with very abnormal circumstances, although could it be considered short term? It felt difficult to recognise that for all that time it had been my own mind playing tricks on me, how could I have been so stupid? But then again, I was only a child whose life experiences far outweighed what she was emotionally mature enough to deal with. And I didn't intend to write this but I don't want to hold anything back so now that I know that, why is it the case that sometimes at night before I fall asleep I can still feel her snuggling up beside me; her scent, her touch, her whispers... Am I actually more severely mentally ill than I have ever even acknowledged? I've talked before about how that used to happen but I've never spoken about how sometimes it still does happen although definitely with less frequency and emotional intensity. Bernadette suggested that it's something I should ask the psychiatrist about when I finally see them... She obviously feels as though it might be relevant and suggestive to a lot of things.

I felt better for having told Bernadette about these experiences and was glad that she had taken me seriously, yet been able to make me rationalise and feel better about what I have, and continue to, experience. Maybe, just maybe, if I had been able to talk to Bernadette about that then I would be able to talk to her about other things that felt deeply scary, shameful and difficult too.

All in all, this session felt like a new start. I felt positive for the first time in months and was rather looking forward to my next session to see what would be discussed. I finally felt as though maybe I was getting somewhere... And maybe Bernadette wasn't quite so bad after all. I was actually beginning to trust her, and maybe starting to quite like her.

'So what if you can see the darkest side of me? No one will ever change the animal that I have become' Three Days Grace

So the next week I returned for my third session. Again, I was filled with dread. I would have rather been anywhere else but there. I bumped into the woman who had completed my initial assessment in the reception and she asked how it was going. I lied and told her that I felt I was benefiting from the sessions and that I liked Bernadette. I felt a stab in my chest as I contemplated how at ease she had made me feel in my initial assessment and I longed for her to wrap me up and tell me that we could bin off Bernadette and she would make me okay again. Of course that didn't happen. Rather, she invited me to a party that the organisation was having to raise funds. I agreed to consider it whilst I inwardly scoffed at the idea. Why the fuck would I want to go to a party with a load of raped women and the people who were all probably doing an equally crap job of trying to fix them? I didn't understand what was in the mind of the genius who came up with this idea. The woman said I could bring a friend and the temptation to ask if there was a prize for the person who was able to identify correctly who the victims of abuse were and who were just their friends. I instantly hated myself for even thinking like that.

And then there I was back in the teeny weeny therapy room with Bernadette. I hadn't kept a dream/nightmare diary and I hadn't bought in the letter that I had already written *for* my mother. I wasn't failing at counselling, I was failing to try to succeed at unpicking my past and righting myself. She didn't react to my obvious unwillingness to try.

She asked if there was anything specific that I wanted to discuss in that session and I said that there wasn't as a million topics to work on flew through my brain. She picked up where we had left off last week and I continued to be verbally abusive about my own mother.

When that subject dried up and I didn't have anything fresh to say on the matter she began to ask me about the relationships with other members of my family... And that's when she got the play dough out. It was brand new and perfect and she wanted me to model it into something that depicted my relationship with each immediate member of my family. I am the least artistic person on the entire planet and I felt asking me to mould shapes out of play dough was incredibly demeaning. I'm 21 fucking years old, not 3... I rebelliously took a chunk out of each play dough ball and smushed them together to represent myself. The dirty, damaged, imperfect one. I then rolled the remainder of the individual play dough colours into a single ball to represent each other family member. Clean, untouched, seemingly perfect. At least that's what my mother wants the world to see... Perfect little family where nothing bad ever happens. It was probably a hell of a lot more meaningful then I ever intended it to be. I felt stupid for going along with the game and making something representative out of fucking play dough. When I realised how stupid I had been I smushed all the play dough together and threw it at the table. The thwack of it landing echoed around the room.

We sat there in silence. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "I don't know what came over me." Bernadette said that there was no need for me to excuse my behaviour and it was this constant concern over displays of unacceptable behaviour and the desire to be socially acceptable that was stunting therapy. She explained that there was only so much she could do if I wasn't willing to engage. She asked me if I felt ready for therapy and I replied with honesty that I didn't know. It was nearing the end of the session so she asked me to go away and think about it and decide whether now was the right time. It wasn't a rejection, at least not on her behalf, but it felt like one.

I left the room not feeling entirely sure of what conclusion I would draw.

'It's not nice to think about your own daughter fucking your boyfriend'

I didn't want to go back after the previous week and as I rang the bell there was a huge part of me that just wanted to run away. At least I would be able to say I tried. 'It's fine. I'm okay. Counselling isn't for me. I can get through all of this on my own' but I knew that would be lies. It wasn't going to be easy but it was something that I needed to do.

So I spent another hour skirting around all the issues that I so desperately wanted to talk about in depth but couldn't quite bring myself to. I wanted her to be able to read my mind and know exactly what it was that I wanted to say and ask exactly the right questions to ensure that I opened up. She didn't so once again I didn't say very much at all initially.

The main topic of conversation that day was my rocky relationship with my mother. I told Bernadette that I was angry with my mum but I loved her and that nothing was my mother's fault. She questioned this and I got angry. How dare she be so accusing of my mother's ability to parent me and safeguard me adequately? After an angry rant I crumpled in tears as I realised that I wasn't fooling anyone. I told her a bit more about the anger directed towards my mother and how some of the things she said about the past made me feel like she blamed me entirely. The weekend prior to this session I had been to my Mum's and had awoken the morning after a huge row to hear her saying to my sister "I just don't think she understands - it's not nice to think and talk about the fact that you're own daughter was sleeping with you're boyfriend. I mean, they fucked for God's sake". NO MUM, I DID NOT 'SLEEP WITH' YOUR BOYFRIEND. I DID NOT 'FUCK' HIM. HE TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY THAT MADE ME HAPPY AND REPLACED IT WITH A FEELING OF DISGUST AND GUILT. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! Bernadette had hit the right buttons to send me off on a tangent, a highly fucking angry tangent. She tried to reign it in but I was off on one and slowly the anger once again became internalised. She suggested that I write a letter to my mother, even if I didn't wish to send it. I shrugged in agreement, not disclosing that the letter was already written and waiting within the pages of this blog. She asked if my mother had ever discussed police involvement and she seemed shocked with my answer that yes, she had and no, she wouldn't support me if I decided that was an avenue I wanted to take. We didn't really talk about anything else that day and I felt as though Bernadette had just stirred up a range of emotions that didn't need to be dragged off and in the process was making everything worse.

We touched briefly on the fact that my nightmares were horrendous and she suggested I keep a dream diary and bring it to the next session. I said that I would but knew that I wouldn't. I've been struggling with nightmares for years and have tried to write them down but it didn't help. There was also a part of me that realised that if she knew the details of my dreams she would be able to pertain the details of my abuse and consequently would realise exactly how fucked up I am.

As I left, the only thing on my mind was self harm. It took all of my power to not go and buy razorblades and hide in my room and rip myself to shreds. I needed to take the anger that I had internalised and externalise it again. I stomped home and spent some time throwing plates around the garden. It didn't help, if anything it made me even more angry. But I didn't self harm. I had arranged to meet up with a friend to go for a carvery later in the day so I text her to ask if I could go round earlier and as she was in agreement, I went round and smiled and nodded and said that counselling hadn't been great but that I was okay. Compliant, socially acceptable little me.

'Please don't believe me when I say that I'm okay. Look a little deeper for the words that I can't say. I'm too small to stand alone - I sure could use a friend. Help me learn to trust someone again' - Alan O'Day

Once again, I am so far behind with my blog :( So much has happened and so much has changed but I want to do this properly in chronological order so that I can look back and see my journey as it happened and as it was.

I have now had 6 therapy sessions and things are starting to click into place but it took a while for me to get here. So, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start....

I had my first proper therapy session on the 20th March 2014 and it was a day like no other; it was horrendous.

The actual therapy itself wasn't too bad. I met my therapist Bernadette and my initial thought was bleurgh. I didn't feel an instant connection to her and she didn't make me want to blurt out every thought inside my head. I was very suspicious and didn't know if she would understand me or take me seriously. I think I would have been the same with any therapist I had been assigned to work with. My initial feelings had very little to do with her and a lot to do with my barriers and my reluctance to open up. I had been waiting for that appointment for so long but when it finally came I just couldn't find any words to sum up the answers to the brief introductory questions she asked... I felt as though I had failed already.

The main focus of the session was what it actually is that I want to achieve from therapy. The question is so simple but yet so hard. I DON'T KNOW. I told her that I wanted the impossible and that I want to be able to forget everything negative that has ever happened to me. I told her that I don't even know who I am as I was so young when I was abused that I feel as though the person I may have become, or was perhaps destined to become, has been distorted. I briefly explained the impact I feel as though my past currently has on my everyday life. I talked about wanting to hurt myself and constantly feeling as though I am worthless and inferior. I talked about the barriers that I am working on breaking down with my friends; I am a lot more open with my current friends that I have met since being at university then I ever have been with friends previously but yet there is so much I feel that I can't tell them and so much that I feel like I will never be able to say. It's not even necessarily about wanting people to know these things but it's just my inability to even broach certain topics or feel comfortable within myself to admit that I feel terrible so much of the time.

Once I started talking everything just seemed to spew out of me in an incoherent and inarticulate rant. Nice one me, great fucking first impression I made there. I think Bernadette was perplexed. It felt as though she didn't really know what to say or what questions to ask but in hindsight she was giving me the opportunity to open up to her and lead the conversation. By me talking about what I wanted to talk about I guess she could form a better picture of me and where I'm at with my life and where I'm at with my emotions. It didn't feel like that at the time though and I left the session in an inwardly targeted rage. WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT? It felt as though I'm so fucked up that even a therapist won't be able to help me.

I went straight to the pharmacy and bought a packet of razorblades. I couldn't have stopped myself even if I had wanted to. I felt really ungrounded and out of control. I knew before I even went that was what I would do afterwards and had deliberately avoided making plans with friends so that I could be on my own and hurt myself. Several people had tried to arrange to see me that evening as they knew that it would be a difficult day for me but I refused. I stated that I would want to be on my own so that I could process the session but I think everyone knew as well as I did that I was lying.

On the bus home I tried to stem the tears but they just kept flowing. Crying in public is something that I desperately try to avoid but there I was in the middle of a Thursday afternoon on a crowded bus with tears literally pouring down my face. I didn't even care... I needed to cry.

When I got home I sat on the back door step and had a cigarette as a means to try and calm myself down, to try and restore some sense of control, but it just didn't happen. I had an empty house and a packet of razorblades - it doesn't take a genius to work out that things weren't going to be ideal. I felt really unsafe as though something really bad was about to happen. In some ways my gut instinct that something bad was about to happen was correct... I wanted to hide from the world but what I couldn't see at that point was the only person who was out to hurt me that day was myself and I would have been a lot safer had I surrounded myself with people I can trust.

I went upstairs and literally barricaded myself into my room with furniture. I hid under my desk with my duvet and wept as I sliced 100 lines into my thigh. I counted as I went along to give me something to focus upon besides the emotional pain which didn't seem to be subsiding as the physical pain got more intense. I have never felt such raw emotion or such hopelessness. I was sat on the floor covered in my own blood in a trance like state feeling all of the feelings and getting no relief from something that I had always been able to rely on. The one thing that had always helped and always made me feel some sense of stability and normality hadn't done it's job. I felt betrayed. Stupid, I know, but why was this happening? Why was I such a failure? Why was I so far beyond help?

And that's when the pill packet caught my eye. It was so impulsive and it just kind of happened before I could do anything about it. Thankfully I only took twelve tablets before I snapped out of it. "What the fuck are you doing? You stupid evil little bitch. Why are you doing that?" I punched the wall and knew that I had to stop. The combination of pills I had in front of me at that point probably would have killed me should I have taken them all but ultimately that isn't what I want. Why would I let the bastard win? After all that I've been through and everything that's happened? I broke down into a ball of fresh sobs and called my best friend to come and deal with me. I didn't feel safe and I realised that I couldn't be on my own... I hated that I had to rely on somebody else to be there for me and see me in that state but I didn't feel as though I had any choice...

I scared myself that day and it made me question whether going back to therapy would be the right thing to do. Was something that was meant to help ultimately going to end up killing me? I was so confused.

'I began to feel like I was wearing a sign on my head that said FUCKED UP in big neon letters' Marya Hornbacher

Oh dear Mr Blog, I do seem to have neglected you rather frightfully recently. I didn't mean to abandon you, everything has been rather busy in my brain and I haven't really allowed myself to process everything that continues to happen to me. I think I am putting off the inevitable. This dealing with the past malarkey is actually sending me rather peculiar.

I guess I will start again from where I left off on this one....

So, after everything had gone to shit on the Saturday night, I spent the Sunday recoiling in horror and self pity in regards to the events of the previous evening. I sent a few texts promising that things would change and I would get sorted but they were very non committal. I knew at that point that I needed to do something but I wasn't entirely sure what. After feeling like everything had been taken out of my control when I was taken to the hospital I now felt as though the responsibility for controlling life had been torn up and rolled into little pellets of shit and shot back at me full force in a painful fashion. I felt as though I was drowning in my own metaphorical faeces and rather than helping me gather everything together so that I could move forward, the faecal explosion had left disgusting sediment everywhere. Once again, I felt like I really wanted to die.

Thankfully, I had the support of some amazing friends that day; the friend who picked me up from the hospital in the middle of the night looked after me for most of the next day by dragging me round town so she could buy an outfit for an interview whilst I was mopey and hungover, one of my housemates came home from his boyfriend's house to make sure I was okay when I rang him in tears and blubbed at him everything that had gone on, my other housemate who gave me the best hug ever when she returned from her weekend away. I may have had it slightly shitty in the past and whilst that effects me everyday, I am very fortunate in regards to the beautiful, wonderful friends that I have around me.

On Monday 17th March 2014, with the support of a friend, I began to collect some of the shit together and begin to organise it into a life plan of some description.

First call - the doctor's surgery. I was weary of this appointment. Whilst there has been information regarding my previous need for antidepressant medication on my notes for some time, nothing more sinister had ever been committed to record. It was time to face the music and admit that I wasn't coping and nothing was working to mask the past. I confessed everything and acknowledged that I needed to address the root cause of my declining state of mental health in order to ever be able to lay the past to rest and live a normal, functional life and react to events in a normal, functional way. The doctor was supportive and approachable and I felt as though he asked the right questions and listened carefully to my responses with respect; it was a lot easier to be open than I had initially expected.
I was expecting him to try and put me back on medication but when I explained that wasn't the path that I wanted to take, he agreed. He felt that the dose of Venlafaxine I had been prescribed previously was too high considering that it only made a slight improvement to my mood and insinuated that my depression seemed treatment resistant and unpredictable in its power. He felt as though the best way forward was to seek the opinion of a psychiatrist.
The words 'PTSD' type reaction/illness had been thrown about both in A+E and by other's since, and the doctor seemed to be making that same conclusion. I think I'm okay with that; the image that diagnosis would conjure for the majority is a normal human reaction to abnormal circumstances. PTSD seems as though it is a recoverable illness and it makes me feel hopeful that things can get better. I know that many of my behaviours and symptoms could be likened to those experienced by somebody with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder but I really don't want a diagnosis that is quite so condemning and quite so stigmatising. I guess it's wrong for me to speculate as to what the psychiatrist may diagnose but I'm hoping the former diagnose would be more applicable.
Although, as normal where my life is concerned, nothing is ever that simple. Should my doctor have made a standard referral this would have been received and reviewed within the team where I have just finished placement, somewhere I may consider wanting to apply for a nursing job in the future. I discussed the option of an out of area referral being made due to these exceptional circumstances, however the doctor felt that this may jeopardise the supportive resources that I would be able to access. My doctor agreed that he would speak to the psychiatrist directly to discuss the option of avoiding the nursing aspect of the referral and 'getting me in the back door'. This seemed acceptable to me although it still filled me with dread that my name would now appear on the shared drive and I would now be searchable on the database for psychiatric patients.
But all in all, I felt as though I was taking positive steps forward and making the correct decision in allowing the referral to be made. I agreed to go and see the doctor the following week to discuss the outcome of his discussion with the psychiatrist.

Second call - my personal tutor's office. Having to finally be honest with my personal tutor about how things have been for me was perhaps the most difficult conversation to have of all. My tutor was aware that I had issues with depression and self harm in my first year but as far as she was currently aware everything was good for me now and I had turned into a complying student who achieved extremely highly, both academically and in practical elements of the course. Admitting that I had deceived her was horrible but as everyone else has also been, she was wonderful and supportive. It was reassuring to hear that I wasn't going to be kicked off my training course as a result of my mental health - this has always been a massive fear of mine and the main factor that has hindered my honesty about all things being slightly crazy.
Previously, disclosing my state of mental had resulted in referrals to occupational health to ensure that my fitness to practice was not being jeopardised by my issues, however on this occasion, this was not even mentioned which was a humongous internal sigh of relief. Her main priority was ensuring that I had the support I needed to complete the course to the best of my ability. I finally felt as though everyone was singing from the same hymn sheet in terms of what I want and what I need. I NEED to complete this course and register as a mental health nurse. It has been my whole life for so long that I think if it weren't to happen it would actually be the end of me and I would have nothing to fight for. I know that I can be a slightly lackadaisical student at times, my priorities aren't always where they should be, but I have worked fucking hard to get where I am today and I have broken down barriers to get here. I have achieved more than I ever thought was possible which is why it is so important to me that I don't lose all of this right at the last hurdle.
My tutor understood that but reiterated that my health and well-being still has to come first. She explained that should I feel that I needed time out from lectures that was okay and if I needed extended deadlines for my upcoming assignments then that was okay too. I felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders and whilst I didn't intend to make use of the help she was making me aware of, it was good to know that these options were there as a last resort, a security blanket. All in all, it was a successful and positive tutorial which ended with me promising to stay in touch via email and see her regularly.

Third call - telephone communication with the sexual abuse counselling service. Earlier in the day I had text to inform the assessor woman that my mental health was deteriorating and provide her with a brief update of the weekends events. Shortly after returning home from the emotionally exhausting day of trying to get my life on track, she called. She had managed to find an available counsellor and I could start that Thursday. Bleurgh, I felt like I was literally going to chunder everywhere. I had been waiting for that moment for so long and now it was there I wanted to reverse time or pause life completely. But still, it was progress. Fucking buses, you wait and wait and wait and wait and then three turn up all at once. Why must it have to get to the stage where things are really bad for me to resort to asking for help and why must it get to this stage for people to take my mental health seriously and actually be proactive in their professional role? I'm a massive believer in prevention being better than cure but in this case I was definitely looking for a cure; something to heal me so that I can continue to survive.

I certainly went to bed marginally happier that night. I had done everything that I possibly could to get the professional support that I will need. My relationship with many of my friends was still completely obliterated but at least I could say I tried, genuinely fucking tried.

'How can I walk with a smile and get on with my day, when I deceived myself pretending it's all okay? I tried to hold it all together. I know the strings have worn away and now I'm all exposed' Katy B

The next incident I want to talk about happened on Saturday 15th March, the day after I returned to my university city from my week at home. Writing about this is particularly difficult because it was so significant to where I am at with life right now; it was certainly the catalyst, the final push, a wake up call. I don't know everything that happened or exactly what was said or the order of events because I was particularly intoxicated.

I went to the pub around the corner from my house with friends. It was early afternoon but sharing one bottle of wine quickly turned to several and as the alcohol poured I became less and less and less in control of my emotions. I was already emotionally edging having had a shitty and distressing week at home and adding alcohol to the whole mix was a particularly horrendous idea, especially when there was copious amounts of it.

I remember sitting on a swing in the play area of the pub with my friend and I remember that prior to that, some of the group conversations had been touching on dodgy territory but I can't remember quite at which point I completely lost it, or even the point at which I lost it slightly. I have no recollection of this but apparently I was deliberately and repeatedly banging my head on something solid and when my friend tried to stop me I punched her in the face. I vaguely remember words being exchanged. I was told that at this point I threatened to throw myself in the canal but I found out this week that wasn't the case and I was actually told by a very upset friend, who was at the end of her tether with me, to go and jump in the canal. Either way, I ran off, in the direction of the canal. I have no memory of this so I am not entirely sure if my plan was to jump in or whether I was simply taking the short cut home. I had abandoned (or perhaps had taken from me) my keys and my purse so there was no way I could get in.

I ended up at my neighbours house pouring my soul out to her. This particular neighbour is not without her own issues and also has pretty serious problems with alcohol. But she was amazing and she was there for me with absolutely zero judgement. Eventually I communicated with one of the friend's I had been with previously and they came to retrieve me. They had all been panicking and had been running up and down the canal trying to find me, terrified that I had jumped in. As I was leaving my neighbours house I called her an alcoholic in the street and she got mad with me.

I don't know what happened from there but I remember that nobody would give me my bag and when I did get my hands on it somebody had removed the razorblades that were within it. I remember desperately wanting to hurt myself, or at least be in the position whereby I had the tools to do it with. Batshit crazy, I know. I can't control myself when I'm like that and I turn into some kind of savage animal... I scare myself and I scare everyone around me.

My friends didn't know what to do and made a group decision to call for back up and the next thing I know I'm in my friend's room with paramedics and police officers. I have never experienced the combination of emotions all at one point that I experienced as I was talking to them. I was terrified about what was going to happen to me, I was disgusted with myself for wasting people's time and much needed resources, I saw my whole future crumble before my eyes, I felt betrayed by my friend's (how could they do that to me?), I felt angry too, but somewhere, amongst all the negative emotion, I felt a small sense of relief. I was being taken seriously. I felt as though everything was being taken out of my hands but in some ways that was reassuring; I am always irrational when dealing with my own mental health so for somebody else to deal with it may mean that my best interests are actually being addressed, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time.

I eventually agreed that they could take me to hospital for a psychiatric assessment as long as they didn't take me to the local hospital where I work and took me to the one in the nearest city; they were happy for this to happen and could understand why I was so adamant that this should be the case. I didn't want to go in for an assessment but I knew that had I not agreed it was likely that I would be taken there forcefully and I didn't want that to happen. That would not only have been even more terrifying but also potentially career destroying and as I was intoxicated it would have been likely that I would have ended up in a police cell as opposed to a psychiatric facility.

I walked out of my friends bedroom to find everybody waiting to find out what the outcome was. My friends have told me since that the look that I gave them was a mixture of wanting to murder them all and feeling utterly betrayed by them. Although I think those thoughts were probably in my head amongst all of the other shit, my main feeling at that point was fear. A friend that hadn't been drinking with us, but whom lived at the house where I was and had been involved in the decision to make the call, came in the ambulance with me to the hospital.

I barely spoke in the ambulance. I didn't know what to say to anybody and the whole situation seemed horrendously nonsensical and ridiculous. I tried to digest some of the events that had occurred and began to make a plan of action as to what I should say when I was assessed.

When we arrived at the hospital we sat in the waiting room. My fury had began to grow and I behaved like a bit of a twat. When I saw the triage nurse it was evident that there wasn't much she could do for me so I mocked her and told her that she could take my blood pressure. My friend was far from impressed but at that point I felt as though everyone else was to blame for me being there. I suppose I was trying to come across badly so that the triage nurse would persuade the psych team to come down quicker and I could go home. It worked and it wasn't long before I was seen.

The psychiatric nurse asked me to do an alcohol breathalyser test to ensure I was sober enough for the assessment. Those things are really fucking hard and I couldn't blow for long enough but I managed to persuade the guy to continue with his assessment without a result; otherwise I would have just been left to sober up and I wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible. I probably wasn't all that sober but that's not really relevant. Initially, I didn't feel able to directly answer some of the questions and I wasn't overly willing to engage but he was a good nurse and slowly but surely I began to open up to him. The assessment seemed to go on for hours but in reality it was probably only about half an hour and then he concluded that the most sensible option would be for me to go home and follow up with my GP. I knew that the hospital visit would be a waste of time but perhaps it was the kick up the arse I needed.

It was still the middle of the night and we were stranded far from home. Our other friend's who we had left at home were still over the limit and therefore unable to drive to collect us. Thankfully another friend agreed to retrieve us and she then offered that I could stay at hers. I didn't want to stay with the friends whom I had been with when everything had kicked off but everybody was in agreement that they weren't going to let me go home on my own. I couldn't face the others at that point and I seriously doubt that they would have wanted me about. I had to go back in the house to collect my keys but apparently all I provided in terms of reassurance as to my wellbeing was another venomous stare.

The following Monday I went about making some steps to get myself sorted...

'Runaway train, never going back. Wrong way on a one way track. Seems I should be getting somewhere. Somehow I'm neither here nor there' Soul Asylum

It's been over a week and I still haven't posted... More and more things keep happening which I need to post about so this is just the first of a (hopefully) fairly rapid string of posts detailing what's been going on for me. I'm still very confused and don't really know how to feel or what to do about anything so please bare with me if I seem a bit emotionless, factual, rambly and/or constantly contradictory.

On Saturday 8th March I went out for a friend's birthday... I got drunk and got myself into a situation whereby I became unattached from my purse, maybe it was stolen or maybe I lost it? I rang my mum so that she could cancel my debit card and proceeded to burst into tears on the phone. She knew that something was up so I jumped in a taxi (very kindly paid for by a friend) and screamed down the phone at her about how shit my life is at the moment. I told her that I wanted to die. She then spent another night of her life driving a 120 mile round trip to retrieve her state of a daughter. I threw my life into a suitcase and swore to myself that I would never return to my university city. When Mum arrived I couldn't speak to her, I couldn't even look at her. The journey was spent in silence as I sobbed quietly whilst staring straight ahead. When we got home I sat on the wall in the garden and cried as I smoked, my Mum came and sat beside me and I just held her as though I would never let her go. I don't care if you think your Mum/Dad/Dog gives the best cuddles, you're wrong; my Mum gives the best cuddles in the world. The only problem with my Mum's cuddles is that they force honesty which lead to the next 3 hours being filled with cups of tea and very sobering conversation. I told her how I feel about absolutely everything that's ever happened to me, I told her how I feel towards her as a direct result of the past, I told her the full extent of the abuse that I endured at the hands of her 'lover'... Needless to say, it was very emotional for both of us. She apologised to me for the first time ever and confirmed that she had no idea what was happening to me. That was kind of a big deal as there was always a part of me that suspected that she knew what I was going through but didn't intervene due to some desire to protect the bastard, or perhaps, more realistically, protect herself from the bastard. It was great to talk about everything but in other ways it highlighted how selfish she actually is; she kept asking me who I had told about the abuse and when I told her that I was having counselling she was pleased because 'it can't get out in the open because of confidentiality'. I swore to her that I hadn't told my friends much at all, I lied to her but I don't want her to think that I'm shaming the family; my Mum is a proud woman and she would hate me if she knew that I spoke about it with friends and even if she knew that I write this blog. Even if the worst happened and I ended up dead I wouldn't want anybody to tell my Mum that they know what I went through. She has pretty much said, in not as many words, that she wouldn't support me if I decided to go to the police.
The next day was weird. There wasn't any alcohol in my system and it was almost as though everything that had been said the night before was instantly forgotten. However, my Mum did decide that she should speak to my sister to find out if she had also been a victim at the hands of the bastard. She confirmed that although he had tried to touch her, she had been much stronger than I and hadn't allowed him to abuse her. I have very mixed feelings about this because I feel as though I should also have stopped the abuse from happening. I'm angry, jealous, hurt, confused and happy all at the same time. For me there has always been a big question mark over my sister's asexuality and I have always wondered if it may have been the result of years of the same abuse which I endured. I am happy that she hasn't had to go through all of the shit and I'm jealous that I didn't have that inner strength to take control of the situation and stop bad things happening to me. Maybe everything was all my fault? Maybe I do deserve everything that happened to me? If I didn't stop what was happening did that mean that I wanted it to happen? I'm angry that she didn't suffer when I did which makes me confused because I love my sister and I would never want anything bad to happen to her. I guess there's no 'Handbook on how to Emotionally Deal with Being the Abused Sibling' - somebody should definitely write one because it would be extremely helpful right now.
I spent the next week at home and it was obvious my Mum was scared shitless of what I might do next. She hid everything sharp and the paracetamol suddenly disappeared from it's normal convenient location. She stalked me around the house and requested that I didn't shut the door to my bedroom or lock the bathroom door when I was in there. I don't know what she thought I might do. I have explained to her so many times that such actions will not prevent me from hurting myself but are just more likely to lead me to self harm in a much more unsafe way. She won't listen. She's known about my self harming tendencies for nearly 10 years and has never done anything to help her to understand, why would she suddenly change her mindset and want to be supportive, why would she want to understand something that's so fucked up.
All in all it was a difficult week. I don't feel as though anything was resolved during that time and maybe, in a really bizarre way, it made things worse. It certainly seemed to be what stimulated everything very rapidly getting very out of control.... I returned to university on the 13th March only for things to get serious and messy on the 14th but I'm tired and want to not be writing about that right now so I will save that wonderful installment for tomorrow.

There is so much I need to write about that it will be impossible to cover it all in one sitting... The last two and a half weeks have been the most turbulent of my life, possibly the most scary as well. But I'm finally starting to get the help that I need... I wish that everything hadn't needed to become so damaged in order for me to get that help.

I've been to places both emotionally and physically that I would have rather avoided at any cost, I've permanently damaged friendships with people that I love and appreciate more than anyone in the world, I've entered the world of secondary psychiatric services which could potentially damage my career... but I've also realised that there are a lot more people who want to support me than I ever imagined. I have never been able to face the truth and fully accept that I need help but now, I have had to.

I'm going to write about the events in chronological order, even if perhaps this isn't how I would necessarily prioritise their significance. I'm just a bit anal like that. Bare with me as there is an awful lot that I want to say so I'm just playing catch up at the moment.

'You need to talk to your mum'

Dear Mum,

There’s so many things that I want to talk to you about but I can’t. They always say it’s therapeutic to write letters that you’re never going to send, just as a way of getting things off your chest and I feel like this is one of those occasions.

I know over the years I have sent you letters as a way to tell you things and it seems to have worked for us. A couple of years ago you showed me the one that I wrote to you when I was about 7 to say sorry for calling you a twat; I had heard it at school and thought that it meant the same as twit. I have no idea why you kept it but it’s hilarious and I’m glad that you did.

I guess the first important letter I sent you was when I told you that I was gay, like I somehow thought that you didn’t already know. I remember being on the bus with my friends when I got your text saying that you weren’t surprised and as long as I was happy and loved you didn’t care. I remember bursting into tears; it meant the world. But for some reason, I still didn’t come home for 3 days, or let you know where I was. Which perhaps on a subconscious level brings me onto my next point.

The thing is Mummy, I wasn’t happy as I told you in the next letter that I sent you not long after the first. That was when I thought I was going mad. I didn’t tell you why I was going mad and I should have. The thing is, you never actually asked what was wrong and it wasn’t something I could just announce. You tried to get me help but I guess I wasn’t ready. I must have been awful to live with. I remember you telling me once that you were scared of me and that I made you feel like a prisoner in your own home. You never knew when I was going to be aggressive (throwing shoes and crockery at you from the top of the stairs seemed to be my forte) and you never knew when I was going to cut myself again or try and take an overdose. But you never stopped loving me even when to everybody else I was unlovable.

I remember sitting at the dining room table at 3am making a collage of a rainbow with food on your favourite table cloth. I remember hearing you on the stairs and thinking that you would be angry. When you came in there was food everywhere; spaghetti hoops, mustard powder, potato peelings… It was absolutely ridiculous and I remember looking at you and sobbing because I couldn’t think of what to make the purple layer out of; you went to pick some damsons off the tree in the garden for me. I never thanked you for that but it’s all those little things that make you so amazing.

The week I started university was a week like no other. I thought I was free of you and I didn’t appreciate just quite how much I needed you; how I still need you. Things were okay for the first few days and then I decided to tell you what had happened; what he’d done. That week is all a massive blur but I remember walking out of a party, buying a bottle of vodka and a packet of razorblades and going to sit on a bridge over the river. I had every intention of ending my own life; I thought my plan was fool proof – if I drank the vodka and then cut myself really badly and jumped into the river there would be no way I would survive. I would be too drunk and in too much pain from the cuts to swim and I would drown… At that point, that was exactly what I wanted. But then you phoned. I nearly threw my phone into the river but I could see you in my mind’s eye, sitting in the house where I grew up and I had to speak to you. I told you where I was and what I was about to do and you came to get me… You drove 150 miles in the middle of the night to make me feel better. You took me home and I slept in your bed and didn’t let go of you all night. I’m a bastard to sleep with; I know I grunt, I know I snore, I know I wriggle but you didn’t mind, you were glad that I was there and you were glad that I was safe.

You kept me safe that night but the truth is there have been so many nights where you haven’t. You always tell me that you are a light sleeper so the why the fuck did you not know what was going on? Maybe you did know and you were as scared of him as I was… I feel really fucking angry with you sometimes and I think you know that but neither of us really knows how to address the issue. You’ve never been very good at coping with my mental health and always manage to turn it around to be about you and how you feel. You need to stop doing that because it is entirely counterproductive and makes me feel even worse. You don’t understand why I cut myself; you always insinuate that it’s shameful. I remember when we were arguing when I was 15; it was probably over something minor and ridiculous as it normally was but I told you that I wasn’t surprised that dad left and that living with you was unbearable. You responded by telling me to go and cut my arms open like I always do when things don’t go my way. Even to this day it makes me sick when I think about you saying those words and I don’t think I will ever forget that argument; the way you said what you said, the pure venom in your voice, and the childishness of your retort.

You always talk about self-harm as though it’s something that children do and that they mature out of it. You don’t think I hurt myself anymore, now that I am an adult you think that I must have established better coping techniques. You’re wrong. Self-harming is as much of an issue for me now as it ever was, and although the frequency and severity has decreased, I use it to address issues that nobody sane would ever describe as childish and immature. I guess it’s a really hard concept to accept if it’s something you have never experienced but I just wish you had tried a little harder to understand rather than freaking out and making it a shameful secret that I wasn’t allowed to discuss with anybody outside of the house. You were so worried about what other people may think of you as a mother that you failed to notice my real ‘shameful secret’ that was being formed in front of your eyes. And even though you now know about the real shameful secret you still won’t address it – you never involved the police, you never told him that you know what he did, you never checked to see if he did the same things to Holly, we never ever talk about it. It’s buried. Along with everything else shit that’s ever happened in our family. Why are you all so bad at supporting each other? Why don’t we talk to each other? Why do we have to hide everything? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SCARED OF? Mum, maybe it’s you that needs to grow the fuck up and face the truth. SHIT HAPPENS.

It can’t have been easy for you. Single mum of two little girls, one of whom is so intent on destroying herself and everyone around her that you fear for both of your safety. I know that you tried to get me locked up. I read the emails that you sent and the information that you printed off about detaining children. I read the criteria and I noticed how you had carefully highlighted and annotated the information to make me look like some kind of a monster. Bollocks to you. Do you know why I never got detained mum? It certainly wasn’t because I wasn’t ill enough because at that point I was absolutely fucking bonkers. No, it’s because you didn’t want anybody to know that we weren’t fucking perfect after all. You’re a coward mum but I’ve known that for a long time. No self-respecting woman allows the father of her children to throw an iron at them and then beg them to come back when they do a midnight flit. You don’t even know I know about all of that. Well, guess what, even as a fucking 8 year old I was more perceptive then you were as the stupid middle aged woman that you turned out to be.

I didn’t want this letter to turn into a stream of abuse, calling you out for every mistake that you’ve ever made in your life. I just kind of wish that you were more able to acknowledge your mistakes and fix them. When I was a very little girl you could make everything better but then I realised that actually the world is an incredibly shit place and you are completely powerless within the system, just like everybody else. Your hugs still help though. I wish I could have one right now. I just want to hold you and never let go. Even though I’m 4 inches taller than you and twice as wide you still seem able to envelope me in affection and take away all of the pain.

I love you so much and you’re my best friend, I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. I need you to know that I forgive you. You’re my favouritest ever but don’t tell the others ;)

I love you to the moon and back,

Your lost, lonely, terrified little girl

'Help. I have done it again. I have been here many times before. Hurt myself again today. And the worst part is there's no-one else to blame' - Sia

It had been building up inside of me for a while. I couldn't deal with everything and I needed some kind of release. I had become obsessed with cutting myself; it was at the back of my mind all the time and it was interfering with my everyday life. I tried to fight it, I really fucking tried but the voice in my head telling me that it would make me feel better just wouldn't go away.

I caved in. I know that makes me such a weak fucking person but I just couldn't help myself.... It wasn't impulsive, it was very deliberate. I went to the pharmacy to buy a packet of blades and as I went to pay for them I felt relief. I was in control... I am so in control of my own body that it's up to me if I want to slash it. People seem to think that self harm is a side effect of being out of control but they are wrong. I may not have much power in life but I have the power to decide what happens to my body. I didn't used to have that power when I was being abused but now I do have it and nobody can take it away from me again.

As soon as I got home that day (Tuesday), I ran up the stairs to do the only thing that I could think of that would numb my emotional pain. Initially, I tried to do very small and very superficial cuts and although it helped it just wasn't quite what I needed. I felt angry with the world for putting me in a place where I had no control and no power. I felt alone. The cuts became slightly bigger and slightly deeper but that was okay, I didn't mind, it made my pain feel real. Physical pain is a lot easier to accept and control than emotional pain.

I wish I could say that it didn't help but I can't. For over as hour I felt relief. For over an hour I was actually distracted as I cut myself and then stemmed the bleeding. For over an hour I 'cared' for myself.

Of course, the shit didn't stay hidden for long. Emotionally I was back in the same place as I had been before I cut myself within a few hours. I wanted to do it again but I didn't then and I still haven't but that's certainly not to say that I won't.

I am able to acknowledge that things are getting worse. My heads a mess and now my skin is a mess too. I contacted the lady who did my initial assessment at the counselling service first thing on Wednesday morning to explain that I was struggling. She left me a voicemail later that day to say she couldn't get through but she would try again later. I heard nothing throughout the rest of Wednesday, I heard nothing throughout Thursday, I heard nothing throughout Friday and I've heard nothing today.

What's the fucking point in any of this?

'The more I thought, connecting the events in my life, the more my heart collapsed' - Jay Asher, Thirteen Reasons Why

It's now been two weeks since my assessment. It's been fourteen days since I had to sit with a stranger and recount everything shit that's happened in my life. It's been three hundred and thirty six hours since I realised that my world was in tatter's and putting it back together again was going to be hard work. My head still hasn't stopped spinning.

I thought that the initial pain of having to talk about things would wear off quickly but it hasn't. My thoughts are just getting deeper and darker; my brain feels as though it's about to explode. I keep getting flashbacks to things that I had buried - those things were buried for a reason. I haven't slept properly since and all I can do at night is cry... I feel hopeless, I feel helpless, I feel as though I am done.

There is just so many things about myself and my life and the world that I just don't understand. I feel stupid and naive; I should have everything sorted by now. I hate myself. I can't remember the last time I genuinely smiled or the last time I genuinely laughed. I feel as though I have gone into autopilot, barely surviving each day, yet still functioning. I'm forcing myself to behave like a normal human being and I am managing to hide that I am seriously preoccupied and that there are currently some extremely damaging thoughts going through my head.

I have so much work to do for university and I just can't focus on anything. I feel like I'm drowning and I can't tell anyone what it's like because that would mean explaining the whole situation. I wish I knew when my counselling is going to commence so at least I would have some kind of goal to reach; to just survive and keep myself safe until then. I think I can keep myself safe but it's getting harder to do so by the day.

I need a cuddle.

'You're laughing but you're hiding, God I know that trick too well... You forget that I've been you and now I'm just the shell' - P!nk

Dear 13 year old me,

Firstly, please take that fucking Lonsdale hoody off, put down that spliff and stop necking that Lambrini. It may not feel like it right now but you are just a baby and you don't need to be getting involved in that stuff... And to put it nicely, you look like a bit of a twat. I know that you're trying to impress the ones that at this point you would call your friends but they're not going to stick around when things get bad... You'll go through lots of friends and, in the end, none of them will accept you for who you are. But wait until you're about 16 and things will get better; you will find some friends who love you dearly and will do anything to help you and they will remain your friends for years to come. You'll fuck them over more than once but rather than losing them, this will strengthen your bonds and the amount of friends that you have will grow.

You still believe that when you're alone at night, Kelly comes to see you; you can see her, hear her, smell her and hold her; this is a massive comfort at times but please try to distinguish that this is all in your head... She's not there, she's dead and actually, you are quite unwell. She doesn't hate you, she never has, and she doesn't feel like everything that happened was your fault. She's not going to hurt you if you don't hurt yourself. Again, this is all in your head and only goes to prove just how young and naive you are. You feel guilty for everything that happened and you shouldn't. You will still feel like that at times when you are my age but you will also come to realise that there was nothing that you could have done to change the situation and there is only one person to blame for everything that happened and that's the monster that hurt you both so very badly in the first place.

But the truth is sweetheart, you're on your own at night less and less nowadays. The second vile monster in your life is often there hurting you. You think you should tell Mummy what is going on, and you're right, you should. But I can tell you now that you won't; not until the abuse is long over and you're living away from home for the first time. You'll have other opportunities to tell other adults what is happening to you but you never will. You're a strong, brave girl and eventually the shit will stop; eventually you make it stop, I won't ruin the surprise for you but you will be amazed by your own courage and to this day I am immensely proud of you. Please just know that, although it goes on for a long time yet, Charlie can't continue hurting you forever and he doesn't have any power over you. He's a weak, evil man and that isn't your fault... You never did anything to deserve this.

You're relationship with Mummy won't always be the best. You'll run away from home on more than one occasion and there will be times when you're physically aggressive towards her. You won't fully understand where these outbursts come from but it is only normal for you to behave in the way that you do; your young brain can't handle everything that's happened to you, everything that continues to happen to you. You will feel ashamed of the way that you treat Mum and you will always regret some of the things that you will say or do.

You'll long to live with Dad but eventually you will realise that Mum is your best friend and cares for you in ways that Dad never will. Saying that, Dad's generosity will surprise you at times; when you slice your arms up badly he will pay for you to have laser surgery to make the scars better and he will pay for you to have a whole new Summer wardrobe made up of cool clothes with long sleeves. But even now, you know what Daddy's like, he thinks he can buy our love and, just maybe, in some ways he might be right :p Take everything from him that you can little one because you won't be Daddy's little girl forever, Daddy will push you into the background and make you feel unwanted, Chris will take priority as the son he never had. That might feel like a horrible thing to have to accept but you will get used to it and almost come to see him as a bit of a joke. You will meet people whose Dad is much worse than ours and you will feel grateful that he stuck around.

You've already started getting into trouble at school and this is only going to escalate. You haven't been suspended yet but this will start to happen regularly any day now. You will be told that your behaviour will stop you from having a successful future but every bodies lying; don't listen to them. Some of the things that you will do are really stupid and I'm angry with you for ever considering them. Other things are really funny; it will be taken seriously at the time but I promise you will look back on these times and laugh. The 'access unit' is a place where you have only been a couple of times but you will spend more and more time there as you get older. You will learn that even 'bad kids' can be loved and appreciated and although you don't quite fit in there they will appreciate you for all your differences. You will never do anything really bad and they will never permanently exclude you, no matter how often they threaten to! Oh, and you will never get arrested either :P You will get some good qualifications but it is the stuff that you get in outside of school that will really make the difference!

Going to Kenya will be one of the best things you ever do; the trip will be awesome and more than anything it will raise your confidence and self esteem which will eventually lead to you being able to escape from your abuser. It will give you itchy feet and you will get involved in loads of voluntary work... I know you won't believe me right now but you will end up winning local and national awards for your commitment to your voluntary work with children with disabilities and all the activist stuff you do after attending the Global Student Forum and even for your poetry, which may I add, at this point has a lot to be desired :P And all of these things will put you in good stead to get an amazing part time job at 17.... You will be the only 17 year old I have ever met who gets paid £15 an hour for doing something that they love. And then honey, you will get a place on the course you want to, find the girl of your dreams (yes babe, I did say girl! I know you're pretty confused at the moment but you will suss that one out pretty quickly) and everything will go amazingly and you will live happily ever after.

If only it was that simple! Sorry to have to tell you this but life is going to be hard. You will meet somebody absolutely amazing when you are 16 but you will break each others hearts two years later and there will be a lot of heart break throughout the relationship too. She will teach you a lot about life (some of which you will wish you didn't have to know) but she will make you resilient and make you see that nobody has it easy. Enjoy it whilst it lasts. She will teach you how to be comfortable in your own skin and she will fill you with hope. She will also teach you a lot about intimacy and how to have a safe and enjoyable sex life which is something I know you can't even consider right now.

Over the next few years you will continue to have awful sexual encounters with random people to try and find some kind of validation. Isn't what Monster 1 and Monster 2 have done enough? You will feel like the only way to feel wanted is by sleeping with people who don't actually give a damn about you and there will be a lot of them. But eventually this will even out and you will realise that it isn't necessary to behave in this way.

I've probably said enough now; if there was any chance that you could actually read this I would have ruined all the surprises (good and bad). I wish I could say that I love you but I don't; I'm working on it and I like you a little more than I used to.

See you later alligator,
21 year old you

I don't know whether I should have posted what I posted last night/ this morning. I was drunk and I wanted to say stuff but I always said that I wouldn't disclose details of the abuse on my blog. I guess what I wrote last night wasn't very articulate and didn't really talk about my feelings; there is so much more that I want to say and I will do at some point.

I'm in two minds as to whether to delete my previous post. Are those details necessary? Will knowing what happened to me change my friends' perception of me? Sometimes less is more and it might be better to allow people to make their own assumptions. But I've done it now; it's there in front of me in black and white and when I read it back it doesn't feel as though I am talking about myself. I can see from the view count that it has already been seen by some people and I can't delete what has happened to me from my mind and talking about the details is all part of the therapy process so meh, I think I'm going to leave it where it is.

"The walls start breathing, my minds unweaving, maybe it's best you leave me alone" - The All American Rejects

So, I guess there are a few people out there anticipating a blog post to let you know all about my assessment. Words cannot describe how it went. In some ways it was the best thing that ever happened to me but in other ways, it was the worst. I am writing this blog post at 6.30am following a night out and whilst I appreciate that it may not be the best time to write this, there is no way I am sleeping until it's done.

I arrived twenty minutes early and I sat there in this little waiting room until I was collected. It was horrendous. You all know the old cliché where your mind is telling you one thing and your heart is telling you another; that's exactly how it was. My mind was telling me to run for my life and never look back; my mind was telling me that confronting the past was the ugliest and most evil thing that I could do. My heart was telling me that I needed to get all of this pain out there; my heart was telling me that if I didn't do this soon then I would slowly be eaten alive from the outside in. I have been dealing with constant pain and secrecy since I was eight years old; 13 years is far too long to have to keep things bottled inside.

I stayed and I waited until the nice little therapist lady came to collect me... 

She wasn't what I expected her to be. Considering that I work in mental health that statement is absolutely ludicrous. What should I have been expecting? I guess I was expecting a middle aged 'Mummy' in a cuddly cardigan who would wrap me up and tell me that everything would be okay. This woman was the complete opposite of my perception. She was young and dressed in trendy clothing and she didn't look like the nurturing type at all. To put it simply... she was amazing.

She took me down to a tiny weeny box room and offered me a drink before leaving me alone to go and get the dreaded paperwork; she even asked me if it was okay for her to shut the door of the room whilst she was gone. Many people may not understand the importance of such a gesture, and whilst it is not something I have a particular issue with, it shows that she understands, and takes into careful consideration,  things that people who have been sexually abused find difficult.

The start of the assessment was easy. Name? Address? Date of birth? Town where you grew up? And it was made even easier by the fact that it was not necessary to maintain eye contact as all the while she was looking at her sheet of A4. Perfect. But of course, it couldn't remain that easy. I was there for a purpose and we both knew that. It wasn't long before the difficult questions began.

'Tell me about the abuse that you have encountered.' It was at this point that I had to explain that I had encountered two entirely different types of abuse by different men and at a different age. It made sense to address the abuse in chronological order.

I explained that as an 8 year old I had been sexually assaulted by a friend's family friend. I explained that I was 8 and she was 12 and the perpetrator had demanded that 'the little one' should perform oral sex on him. I explained that my friend had rebelled and insisted that he could do anything to her as long as he didn't lay a finger on me. I explained that I then learnt what sex was by watching my friend being brutally raped. I explained that the perpetrator wasn't happy with the initial agreement and forced me to perform oral sex on him regardless. I explained that six days later I went round to my friend's house to be told that my friend was playing in the shed. I explained that upon entering the shed I found my friend hanging from the ceiling with a noose around her neck and no sign of any life within her. I explained how no amount of tears could bring her back.... I explained that she was dead and it was all my fault. I explained that I still feel as though it is all my fault. I should have just given the man oral sex and that would've been the end of the matter. I would still have ran home and brushed my teeth harder than anyone ever has; I would still be in a position right to this day where I cry twice a day whilst brushing my teeth but maybe, just maybe, she would still be alive. 

The counsellor listened to me and displayed an amazing level of empathy... Sympathy fucking sucks and nobody wants to be sympathised with but this lady just listened to me and stated that what I had been through was horrendous and agreed that I had a right to hurt. There was always a part of me that thought I should hurt; everything was my fault and I should be dead too. She was the first person to confirm that this wasn't the case.

I then went on to talk about my second abuser; my mum's ex boyfriend. I explained that it started off small and developed into something massive. I explained that after he started digitally abusing me I chose to lose my penetrative virginity to somebody else in order to prevent my abuser stripping me of that. I explained that he abused me in every way that somebody could possibly abuse another. I explained that he digitally, orally, vaginally and anally raped me. I explained that when I didn't comply to his demands he cut my thighs with knives and ripped my pubic hair out and put heated objects inside of me. I explained that he threatened that should I tell my mother he would skin her alive. I explained that he skinned a small part of my body to explain that he wasn't making threats that he wouldn't follow through with. I explained that I was terrified of him. I explained that I let him abuse me for 2 years and 347 days. I explained that I knew everything that he had ever done to me from the journals I religiously kept through that time. I explained that eventually I gave my mother an ultimatum, based on the fact that 'I didn't like hime'; me or him? Fortunately, she chose me. I explained how I first told my Mum the truth in my first week of university having run away from a party to find myself on the tallest bridge in the town with a packet of razorblades and a bottle of vodka.

The councillor listened and from what I could tell, she did not judge. She believed everything that I said and she acted as though she actively cared about me. She explained that I was legible for counselling through the service and she explained that she already knew who my counsellor would be having listened to my needs. She even went as far as to state that she wished she still counselled people individually as she would have loved to work with me; I wish that this was the case also as I felt a real connection to her and I can't even imagine having to say again to somebody else what I said the first time round. 

She is arranging for me to have 1 to 1 counselling and she is also arranging for me to attend a therapy group. I'm not quite sure which I am most nervous for. I have always been quite confident working in groups but this is something else entirely! We finished the session by exchanging numbers and her promising she would keep in touch with progress.
But, for me, this was not the end of the assessment. I walked out of the building and sat on the curb and wept. I then went home and wept some more. I then went to a friends house and, in true me style, I bottled up all of my emotion and barely shed a tear. I then went home and cried for eleven hours solid. Was it good positive crying? That's what one friend asked me and perhaps it was, it was crying for a reason as opposed to normal when I cry for no reason what so ever.
I then went out tonight (only because I had gig tickets). I then took the hetero I went gigging with gaying afterwards. I thought I was okay; it seemed that I was coping really well but it seems that I wasn't afterall. I can't deal with having told somebody all the things I spoke about yesterday. I just can't and I can't explain why either.
I'm rambling and crying as I write and probably just need to go to sleep... so I'm going to leave it at that and write some more tomorrow. Is life looking up? At the moment I feel like slashing myself to death or jumping out of a 30 storey building but I won't do these things and it's probably natural considering everything. I don't know anything any more. 

I just read this and burst into tears; it was almost like this was written to me at a time when I so desperately need this comfort... I don't think I have ever read anything that has struck such a chord; something that I can 100% relate to. It's fully confirmed that what I am doing is the right path....

"You need help to better understand yourself and the way your past has affected you today, so you can be the person you were born to be, not the person you were forced to be. Many people feel like they are walking around with a mask on to protect themselves or others. They feel they need to be brave, show no emotions, keep it inside. They try to use coping mechanisms to deal with their pain…drugs, alcohol, eating disorders, sex, self-harm, whatever seems to work. But that doesn’t fix it. It just causes you more problems. Your trauma has caused you to turn to these coping mechanisms to help you survive the pain you are trying to hide from. But you don’t need to go on abusing yourself. You have been through enough! It is possible to heal. But the hard fact is that you have to work towards it.You can’t just try to push it away and forget. It doesn’t work like that. Until you face the past it will continue to control you."