Trigger Warning: this post will heavily focus on sexual violence trauma, particularly that of rape and spiking crimes and the aftermath. Please do a headspace check before reading this if this is possible to trigger you and take care of yourself if proceeding x

I’ve spoken in drips and drabs about what happened to me three years ago, but never in completion and never enough to make me feel like I truly told my side. The first post I made I referenced it as a sexual assault, because i still wasn’t ready to admit what really happened to me. It took me a good long few months to admit that and even at the start I thought it was rough and I was struggling but I was wrong. That was nothing. Right now I’m in the full throws of realising, remembering, thinking, overthinking every tiny detail of what happened, and even reliving it in graphic flashbacks and intrusive thoughts daily to the point of complete disassociation or meltdown. I’m waiting for therapy, but with waiting lists plus the fact I’m currently in intensive treatment for my personality disorder, that isn’t doable right now. So it’s just me, and my thoughts. And that can be a dangerous place. 

It really hit me when my psychiatrist told me at a medication review my diagnosis had been altered to include complex PTSD, and no one thought to inform me. I don’t even know who diagnosed this but it’s there. In black and white how affected my brain is by something that I thought I locked away for good 3 years ago. The three year anniversary back in July was also pretty rough. A notification for a Snapchat memory popped up and it was of a group photo of me and my friends from the day, and I completely broke down at work and disassociated and sobbed to a coworker about why it upset me so hard, I’d been fine all morning and by lunch I snapped and couldn’t take it anymore. All I could think and question was why now? Why did I have to deal with this now? As if I haven’t got enough in my tiny loud noisy annoying brain. I wished I’d never realised it. But also thought about how I probably always knew and it’s most likely had a bigger impact on me the last few years than I’m likely to ever realise, this backed up by my mental health team and my ISVA (independent sexual violence advisor) assigned to me at the time. 

Then the blows of the case being dropped came, and subsequently a month or two ago my case with the sexual violence services was closed and my ISVA unassigned to me and no longer in regular contact which I held so dear as my only person to speak about this with. Those were hard. Having to admit that’s it and it’s time to move on wasn’t easy and still isn’t. The lack of justice for victims of sexual violence is horrific and a topic for another day, but some days it really just hits me in the chest that I’m the one who has to suffer and he isn’t. That fucking sucks. I knew the case wouldn’t proceed very far, it had been three years and All I had was some meaningless Instagram messages and my word that it happened. But being told that there isn’t enough evidence to prove and sentence my attacker as a rapist when all I can do it think about that night on repeat, is hard. They tell you “it’s not that we don’t believe you!” But that’s exactly what it feels like. They tell you it’s to protect you from standing up in court and telling your story for it to be shut down with the lack of proof to convict, but it feels like they don’t even give you the chance to speak your peace. Because no there isn’t evidence, but I can tell you where we met, when we started speaking, details surrounding the vague and odd Instagram messages, screen shots of our texts to friends, conversations with friends had the next day of me not remembering what happened and brushing it off at the time. But that’s not what they need. It feels like they need you to have a photo or concrete evidence and how is that ever going to be possible for such an intimate crime? 

The fear that it’s caused in my everyday life I never expected. To have to rush into my car, keys tightly between my fingers and lock the doors instantly and then get my breath back because of how anxious it made me, to have my hands shake from how fast I try to lock and bolt my flat door panicked that someone has followed me up, to not be able to wear my ear defenders from the painful noise out and about because I’m scared I won’t hear someone approaching me, to freezing and feeling sick to my stomach when I see police officers or cars around me, to not being able to sleep without underwear or some sort of bottom half on in fear I’ll wake up without them. I’m terrified. So terrified. And it never stops because the violence towards women never stops, and it’s bullshit. The fact that I’m so very far from alone in my fears saddens me more than anything. I don’t even want to return to the city it happened which used to hold so many good memories, because now it holds a haunted poisoned one. 

Realising and recovering from trauma is never easy or have a set schedule. It’s taken me just under 3 years to acknowledge it even happened. It took me a month to report it to the police when I did. It took me a few months to even say the word rape and admit I’d been raped. And it took me 3.5 years after the event to start reliving it through flashbacks and constant intrusive thoughts on repeat of what happened. My brain making me watch it over and over until it can piece the picture back together. And obviously it never will. Because I never had those memories to begin with. They were never mine to recover, only his now. And to him they’re twisted and turned into a narrative that makes me feel sick to my stomach. Three and a half years later and my life feels like it’s falling apart all over again from something that’s so old. How can something feel that way? So old and yet so painfully fresh? 

Three years ago, i met a police officer working in my nearest city whilst at university on a dating app called tinder, who met up with me after a day of drinking with my friends for a birthday, after he had postponed us grabbing a drink all day long later and later. Three years ago I sat with him for that drink in a bar in Sheffield that no longer exists. Three years ago my memories of the day before I went to the toilet are clear, where I went, what I did, who was there, daft details like a woman recognising me as the girl she saw fall into a bush some hours earlier. But I came back from the toilet and finished that drink and everything after is in fragments. Three years ago that officer took me to his uni house he shared with four girls at the time, a walk I can only remember in hazy snippets. Three years ago that officer raped me as I drifted in and out of consciousness, in no fit state to consent, to argue or to fight back. I say officer, because as far as I’m aware he still wears that badge and title, and I wear the one of a survivor, but feeling a victim more and more everyday. 

I will not be silenced by you matthew. I will not be silenced of the crime you committed against me and refused to comment on when questioned. 

I will continue to speak and speak out on sexual violence and violence towards women and girls because these stories of women who didn’t get to come home will haunt me every time I hear them. I will speak out in the names of all those who never got to, for Sarah, Sabina, Sherrie, Emma, Klaudia, Patricia, Phyllis, Constanta, Egle,  Michelle, Beth, Julia, Gracie,  Ingrid, Maddie, and thousands more. One woman is murdered every 3 days in the UK by male violence. And I will never stop shouting about it.

Meg x

I’ve been wanting to get back on here and write out some more helpful and informational posts about being borderline, my journey to an autism diagnosis and sexual violence trauma, but honestly? I haven’t been able to find any words for a long time to even try and describe how I’m feeling and how I can possibly turn those emotions into anything helpful or positive. I often forget that despite this blog being mainly informative and helping others feel less alone, it’s also my personal outlet. It doesn’t have to be positive and rosy because let’s face it, life isn’t always like that. Me and so many others can testify how hard it can be at times and I think it’s just as important to highlight that. Yeah it’s great when celebs and influencers speak out about their struggles with their mental health, but it’s always in the recovery period they do that. When things are looking rosier again, it’s not as often we see people outwardly talk about the deep pits of depression whilst within them. 

But despite feeling, well, not my best, I’m also in that stage of recovery too. That’s the funny thing with borderline, you can feel absolutely rotten and lowest of lows, but still be doing better than you were and healing. You’ll have heard the phrase ‘healing is not linear’ many a time I’m sure, but for a disorder such as bpd, it’s the most truest of them all. Because our healing isn’t an upward process, it’s often an up, down, up a tiny bit, down a lot and then back up again journey as is natural with mood instability. I think that’s what I find the most difficult right now. I’m doing so much better, I haven’t had a relapse or notable incident in 7 months, I regularly communicate and meet with my CPNs and my psychiatrist and liaise with them when I need to, such as upping dosages or discussing new medication options, actually taking medication properly and strictly, using PRN meds when I need to, taking time out and communicating that to people around me, and yet when I hit that low once again, it all feels very pointless and worthless once again. Because if I can do all those things and still get stung by my depression and suicidal episodes, what’s the point? Should I just give up? How many times can I be knocked down and get back up again before I stand up broken and battered?

The lack of any emotional or object permanence in my mind and life has always been a hard one for me. If it’s not happening here and now, it doesn’t exist. So if I’m not happy and stable right now, I can’t even remember the last time I felt it, or imagine a world where it’s possible. My entire reality and perception of it is darkness and dread, like a black cloud slowly spreading its darkness and poison into every crevice of my brain and world, hanging heavy over me. And surprisingly enough? That shit is hard. But it can also have the opposite affect on me, in that when I come out of it (and I always do because here I am), I can’t even remember what caused it. It’s a mixture of lack of permanence and probably quite a lot of disassociating, but I don’t even recall the events of most of my crisis episodes and relapses, other than coming out of what I can only describe as a hazy dream and realising “oh, shit.” and opening my eyes to a hospital bed. Which I suppose is a positive, but can also be fucking terrifying. 

Imagine the worst, darkest moments of your life that at the time you know felt like the only true reality possible and you know felt so so real and harrowing, but at the same time, not even remember why, or how you got there in the end? It’s scary to say the least. Almost like being terrified of my own conscious and subconscious brain and what it is capable of leading me to, being terrified of my own thoughts and how fast they go from “I’m fine” to “I can’t do this anymore”. Because the depression episodes I can handle, I can handle a few long days spent sleeping and napping and crying and zombie walking around like a dark cloud. But what I can’t handle is the episodes where I go from depressed to utter crisis suicidal ideation manic depressed and I’m unreachable, unable to be reasoned with or rationalised, only capable of destroying everything in my way of what I think I want and need to make it stop. I’ve had people (my family, friends, exes, professionals) tell me the things I’ve done and said to them during these crisis episodes, and it’s horrific.  Think, watching a video of yourself absolutely and utterly black out drunk making a tit of yourself and then times that by a thousand and add a dash of sinister and darkness to it kind of horrific. Because I have no idea sometimes what I say and do. I’ve had entire conversations and phone calls and not remembered a single word of it, and those conversations are where I’ve said my worst most awful thoughts out loud to the people I love and hurt them in the process. 

It’s scary. But it’s my reality. And honestly? It’s what keeps me going. The look and the sound of my loved ones in person or at the end of the phone after these episodes and when I’ve come back round to some sense of reality and rational senses is heartbreaking. Watching your ex boyfriend sob as he retells you the night from his perspective and how scary it was watching me nearly leave in front of him, listening to your mum cry and tell you she can’t lose you and how much she loves you, seeing your niece and sister after and realising all you would be leaving behind in your wake. It haunts me and forever will. The pain and grief I have caused the people I love the most will always weigh heavy on me. Almost as heavy as the pain I feel that gets me to that point where I forget what I have and what I love. But it keeps me going, it reminds me why I’m doing this, why I’m trying, why I’m reaching out and why I keep going no matter how much I feel like I can’t take anymore. 

But those days aren’t everyday. Some days it’s easier than others, I wake up, I have plans and goals and a to do list as long as my arm and even sometimes a smile crops up or a happy thought or memory. This up and down rollercoaster of a journey into recovery isn’t easy. But there’s no alternative. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but eventually you realise it’s not going to just end, you’re not going to snap out of it like a bad dream, not without a shit tonne of therapy and probably a shit tonne more of prescribed drugs, and even more tears and sadness, and yep, some good days thrown in there. It’s a process, not a solution. Sometimes realising that is fucking hard. It’s not fair, it sucks, but wallowing and throwing myself on the floor and having a tantrum (and believe me I’ve done them, 23 and proud) won’t fix it either. 

To me, this is recovery. Being able to say you know what? Those last few days were fucking rough, but I made it through them, I probably made a few shit decisions here and there but I’m not perfect and I’m learning and I will just sort them out now, because right now is better, and that’s enough for me. Being able to take some PRN, get into bed with my purple lights on and a big hoodie and grab sully with his scented head and snuggle up under the duvet and the weighted blanket and tell myself “this isn’t forever, this will pass” as I cry and fall asleep, is recovery. It might not be brilliant, it might take more screams and cries than I’d like, but it’s a hell of a lot better than a 136 suite of a hospital bed that’s for sure. 

Recovery isn’t linear. It’s not a one way suits all. It’s YOUR journey and YOUR story to do and make yourself. We naturally put ourselves down in our day to day lives, but putting ourselves down on how we are healing and learning is ridiculous because, who the fuck cares how we do it? There’s no rules or procedures on getting better. Scream into the pillow, sit in the same unwashed unchanged pyjamas for 3 days and wallow, turn off your phone for the day, cry for what feels like eternity or eat a tub of ice cream. Do whatever the hell you need to get yourself through to the other side because you’re the only person that can do it. No one else is going to pull you through, so why on earth should we think about what someone else would do about it? 

Remind yourself every day or at minimum whenever you’re down of your achievements, the smallest are sometimes the most meaningful to us and that’s what’s important. Even if the only thing you can say is that you survived and you’re standing here right now, you should be so fucking proud. Because I know I am. 

Meg x

Two police officers have just left my flat, to deliver the news I’ve been dreading and yet anticipated. My rapist isn’t going to court. 

I feel like my world is shattered all over again. To know that a man who is a police officer and a person of a public job and a rapist, gets to walk free like nothing ever happened, is the most awful stab to the heart I’ve ever received. 

I knew going into the reporting process it wouldn’t be nice or easy, and the chances of court never mind conviction were slim. But to be dealt the blow for real is something else. It’s like the entire public system shoving it in my face that they don’t believe me, that it was my fault, and it’s not their problem. 

How is any woman or person supposed to feel safe in the justice system when justice is very rarely reached? Because I’m not the only person to have their case dismissed on lack of evidence, far from it. The fact that my word that this has happened to me and this is how I’m feeling and the fact that it’s crushing my entire world daily to deal with isn’t enough is heartbreaking - to be told there is lack of evidence for something I relive in my mind everyday is horrifying. Because the evidence is there. Embedded into my brain, poisoning all my memories and emotions. 

And now I have to move on with this. Move on from the fact that I tried. That I stood up and said this happened. And it made no difference whatsoever. That this man will most likely continue his career in the police force, whose going to sack an officer whose case is dropped after a mere few months of reporting? And this man may rape or assault again. I will always feel that if that happens, it will be my fault. Because I didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t report early enough. I didn’t fight back enough. 

In 9 months time I will hopefully be starting therapy to deal with these feelings and emotions surrounding the rape and hopefully improve my well being surrounding this. But right now I don’t know what to do. I feel empty and numb and sad and disheartened and everything in between. 

I hope one day this process will be easier for women and people. I hope one day justice will be reached more often and more successfully. I hope one day I will heal from this. And I hope one day the mere sight of a police officer won’t make me squirm and have to run away. I hope one day I will trust again. I hope one day I won’t feel like a failure or to blame. 

But for right now, I’m going to bury myself under the duvet and be sad about my loss of justice. Then I’ll get up and try again tomorrow, like we do everyday. Just not right now. 

Meg x

Rape is something that is often still seen as a taboo subject, despite it being a very sad common assault for far too many people. But when we do talk about rape, we talk about rape culture, the rape myths, that the blame is always the rapist, about consent, about stories of individuals harrowing experiences, but something we don’t talk about enough is what it feels like to live as a survivor of rape, dealing with the trauma of what happened to you. 

We don’t talk about how your life turns upside down from that moment onwards. Or even years later, when you finally unlock that box and accept what happened, and you go from a life led by blocking out the trauma for so long, to it spilling out everywhere and now it’s too late to do anything but pick up the pieces. Everything is different. Even when you deal with the trauma years down the line, it’s like it happened yesterday, and all of a sudden it consumes your life in a way you never imagined it could, changing every view and every perspective within you. 

I speak about the years later reference as that situational character is me. It took me 3 years to understand, accept and realise what happened to me, and in those 3 years I kept a tight lid on the locked box of that trauma in the back of my brain, not allowing myself to even peek inside, until a few months ago, when all the media we consume was surrounded in the anguish and sadness of the Sarah Everard case. And before I even knew I’d been looking over at the box, it exploded inside of my brain, smashing every possibility of locking it back away and tainting every corner of my brain with its poison. It’s been around three months since that box exploded, and though the dust has settled and the scene is calm, the walls are stained with the memories and the emotions, the events noted and spread around my brain like a disease developing too fast to even catch up to. And to be honest, it’s really, really hard. 

No one told me how much I’d despise to even look at or say the word rape. Even looking at it sat there on my screen I feel dirty. I feel like I’ve used the worst swear word, like I’ve said the most offensive term known to man. But that’s the truth of it, and it might have taken my three years to grasp that, but at the end of the day, rape is rape. Growing up, rape was such a taboo word, it was this serious thing that you whispered when you said it, not daring to say it loud enough to be heard mentioning such a thing. I was taught the many rape myths that hinder my acceptance and recovery to this day, myths like I should have been able to fight them off, that I should have been smarter, known better than to end up in that situation, screamed out, even the myths down to knowing what happened was rape at the time. I grew up hearing the awful stories of other survivors, thinking “that will never be me, I’m a strong woman, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, I’d fight them off and scream for help. I’d report it straight away and get the justice I deserve” and to even remember that that’s how I thought about the possibility of being raped makes me cringe at the naivety. You can’t stop someone and fight someone off you when you’re unconscious. You can’t scream when you’re not awake. You can’t report a crime you didn’t understood had been committed. No one told me how everything I thought I knew and believed was wrong. 

No one told me how much I’d resent the fact I’m a survivor. A victim. How id feel ashamed and embarrassed to even utter those words about myself, how can I be a victim of a silent, unseen crime? I can’t be a victim, I wasn’t harmed or injured, I wasn’t violently attacked in the dark by a stranger, I wasn’t put into an unsafe situation against my will, I wasn’t even aware of what happened, so how can that make me a victim, when there are so many others who have it worse? No one told me how I’d feel this sense of gratefulness that my experience wasn’t violent or brutal in comparison with the ones I’ve heard all my life, and how I’d feel almost lucky I got the better of the two bad options. 

No one told me that the impostor syndrome I already felt everyday about my mental health would increase and make me feel constantly anxious that someone would catch me out, that I would be unveiled as a liar, that I was someone who misunderstood, that it was just a miscommunication. How everyday I’d think of a new detail and go over and over it in my head like a video stuck on loop, and analyse if I could have made it up, simply just a figment of my imagination that I believed to be true. No one told me I’d constantly re-watch the parts of that night I remember, hoping to see a glimpse of something that would validate my feelings, like the more I watched it the more real it would become and the more other people would be Believe me, that I’d constantly be looking for an out to this feeling of being a fraud. 

No one told me that I would come to loathe the pitying and sympathetic remarks that come with the retelling of the story. Practically shouting “but, it’s okay, I’m okay!” At someone before I’ve even finished telling them what happened, purely because I can’t stand to be seen as weak anymore than I already feel for being a victim. How I’d lie and say “oh it’s fine” or “well, these things happen” constantly, as if the more I said the words the more I’d believe in them myself. But then again, no one told me that on some days, I would crave that pity, that attention and validation that I should feel shit, that I should feel sorry for myself and that I’m not a bad person, and feel as though if I tell someone new that it happened, maybe I will finally accept it as the truth and move on in my head. That no matter what someone’s response is, mine will still be to shrug it off, and block out any form of emotion forming in me in order to be seen as strong and coping. 

No one told me how when it came to my mental health I always wanted people to know I had a disorder and I almost wanted people to see me upset and feel sorry for me to validate that yeah, I did have it rough and sometimes I need help and that’s okay. But when it came to discussing my rape, I wanted to be so cold and aloof about the situation that people would be impressed by how well I was coping, as if that would earn me the title of a rape survivor, because to survive, surely I need to be strong and unwavering in my response that it really is okay. That I needed to be fine with it straight away because, that’s how recovering and accepting it works right? You just move on? 

No one told me the nightmares I’d have every night, waking up screaming and crying after subconsciously watching myself be attacked again by faceless people or even people I knew. That id relive the memories I once suppressed so hard nearly everyday, and that some days would be so hard to deal with that I’d simply break down crying at random intervals, simply because my brain was too sad and too full of the awfulness to not just let it Out. 

No one told me how I’d fear every situation I’m in, if a stranger got too close my heart would pound, if it was dark and I was alone I’d be as quick as humanly possible to get out and back to safety. That I’d overthink every possibly outcome for every situation and reason with myself that I took every precaution possible should something awful happen to me. That I’d hold my keys with my car key sticking out like a weapon until my knuckles were white whenever I had to walk to or from my car in the dark. 

No one told me how I’d feel embarrassed or ashamed whenever it was brought up. Having to tell those close to me brought on the utmost shame and guilt I’ve ever felt. Because how can I have let this happen to myself and hurt my family? How can I have not told them sooner? All these questions that further the blame and guilt onto me, not even thinking for a second that the only person who should feel guilt and shame was my rapist. That he was the only person to blame for this, for all of this.

No one told me how I’d want to consume all the possible media on the subject of rape and sexual assault, hear other people’s stories, watch tv shows and films with it as the main story-line, as if the more I watched other people go through this and see their reactions, the more mine would be validated. Just to know that I wasn’t alone. That there was someone else feeling the same heartache as me and dealing with it in similar ways. And how sad that would make me too. 

No one told me how the city that is the home of my attacker and also the place of the attack, the city I once loved and had so many great memories of would now be an entire red no-go zone, just the thought of walking around having to analyse every face I walked past and imagining scenarios of seeing him once again would fill me with dread and nausea.

Being a rape survivor is one of the hardest and toughest things I’ve ever had to go through with my mental health, and has shown me that despite being locked away for so long, has definitely shaped and influenced my decisions and actions over the last few years. I don’t believe that we all grow from our trauma, or that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. But I do believe we are all going through our own healing process in our own ways, and the best thing we can do for each other is empathize, listen and be present for one another. Understand and see the pain behind someone’s eyes no matter how hard they try to hide it, and be there for them anyway. 

If you need someone to speak to, please reach out. Here are some helplines available to check out 🖤

SHOUT - free 24/7 confidential text helpline, to access, Text SHOUT to 85258

Samaritans mental health support - 116123

The tomorrow project, suicide prevention sister charity to harmless  - tomorrow@harmless.org.uk.

Find your local Sexual Assault Referral Centre online and give them a call, they may have a helpline and have people on the phones to give advice 

Rape crisis helpline - 0808 802 9999

Victim support helpline - 08 08 16 89 111

Meg x

As you might be aware, May is always the official borderline personality disorder awareness month, which means I do try and make an extra effort to post more to my blog and do my part in raising awareness, and I will continue to do so, but bare with me if I’m not as on it as I might be! But I’m kicking it off today with a bit of a late night ramble from a night where I wasn’t feeling my best and needed to let off some steam and give you guys some truths about living with bpd. 

If you’ve just been diagnosed with bpd, or you have bpd and you’re wanting reassurance, this post might not be for you. If you have similar feelings with your bpd then maybe it is, to know someone else is just as frustrated, angry and fed up with it as you are, but if you’re not in that mindset, maybe skip this post. I try my best to be positive here on my blog, but I swore to be honest, I swore to be open and show the reality of a life with mental health issues and a life with bpd tagged to you, and this is the reality of it I’m afraid.

Sometimes, I can be rational, and stable, and see the good in life, and be happy, and other times, for what feels like majority of the time, I’m irrational, And I’m unstable, and I don’t see the good in life. It’s easy to say “well you take the rough with the smooth in life” when you haven’t got a disorder like this, because yes life naturally does have its ups and downs, but when those ups and downs are magnified by a thousand, and the ups feel like the best you’ll ever feel and the lows feel like earth shattering anguish, it’s not so easy to accept. Because the thing is, being bpd doesn’t mean I don’t live the same life as everyone else with good days and bad days, good news and bad news, it means I live that life AS WELL as the ups and downs of the disorder itself. I can have good days, where things go right in the world, I’m on time for work, the suns out, it’s my favourite song on the radio, and yet my brain is feeling the opposite. My brain is not having a good day, my brain doesn’t see the sun shining, or hear my favourite song, my brain sees that I’m alive and feeling the same bad feelings it did before. And then a few minutes or a few hours later, it’s good in my brain again, I recognise the sun on my skin and smile and I go about my day, and try and forget that in a few more hours this can all end and the cycle continues, day in, day out. 

I cannot simply just “be positive” or “embrace bad days” because my negatives and my bad days are not just things I can shrug off, they are things that happen and instantly the person in my head says “well, should probably just kill our selves really shouldn’t we”. Over anything, I can have a bad day at work and have this thought of “god I have to work for another 50 years this sucks” and instead of being like well I could change jobs, I could have done this differently at work, tomorrow could be different, my brain says death is an easier way out. And if you’re thinking ‘well that’s ridiculous to think that’ you’re right! And that’s how it infuriating it is to live with it too - because I know there are things I can change in my life, things I can do to improve my mood and my overall well-being, but do you think the person in my brain cares about ANY of that? The person in my brain wants immediate change and an immediate fix, and to them, that’s suicide. Every time, without fail. Which if you didn’t realise, is fucking exhausting. 

Sometimes I do feel cheated. I feel like I got the shit stick, the short straw, the joker card. And it’s hard not to when I start to ruminate about life and how’s it’s been in the past, the struggles I’ve had, the relationships I’ve lost, the breakdowns I’ve ensued, the pain I’ve caused my loved ones, and how none of that would have happened without my bpd, and how this will likely continue for a while. But then when I have these thoughts, I’m also consumed with guilt, for those that are wishing to have any life at all, for those with limited time on this earth, for those less fortunate, those who’d swap lives in a heartbeat and would likely think me ungrateful, and rightly so.  But when I make an attempt on my life, I wish people would know I’m not trying to throw away a life I’ve been given, to throw away everything I’ve done and everything those around me have done for me, I’m simply trying to end the pain that being alive is causing me every single day. 

I understand that’s a hard concept to grasp unless you’ve felt it. Many people also don’t understand euthanasia, and feel it’s wrong for us to ‘play god’ and decide what lives get to end and what is “too much to deal with” and what isn’t. But these people have likely never felt the pain that we feel daily, whether that’s physical pain from a visible illness, or the invisible mental torture those with ill mental health feel. In general people do tend to understand pain and suffering more in a physical aspect than they do mental, and it applies to everything from life to death and everything in between. But the same way those who want to be in charge of their own death and suffering because of a physical illness want to be able to do so, those of us suffering with our minds also want to do what we want to stop it too. It’s very hard to compare situations, but on a general basis this is how I like to think about it anyway. 

When I was first diagnosed with bpd, I was relieved, I’d be wanting this official diagnosis for around 3/4 years, and waited for it to finally be given to me, to validate every feeling I’d had for a long time about my mental health. I felt as though I could finally step into my bpd shoes and start getting better and dealing with it, and if anything, my health was a million miles away from where it is now, at 23. It’s been five years since I’ve been diagnosed, and I’ve gone from bad to good to worse to alright to terrible and everything in between in that time. It’s been exhausting. I’ve lost friendships, I’ve lost relationships, I’ve learned a million and one things about myself, good and bad, I’ve hurt people, and I’ve been hurt. And if anything at the five year mark, I still feel sadness and anguish that I’m one of the million others branded with this disorder. It’s hard not to when you try and look up any sort of research of information about bpd, you’re met with articles on the negatives of bpd, with google question drop downs about “can people with bpd feel love” and “are people with bpd manipulative” if you don’t believe me, go search for it. Over the years the negatives have filtered out and the actual scientific research pages have started appearing at the top more, but the frequently searched for questions about what we are like as people stays the same. And it breaks my heart every single time. 

Because I am not my disorder, but there are parts of me that stem from that disorder. I am still human, I can still be good and bad and make choices and do the right or wrong thing like anyone else. Except that when I do good or bad things, it’s usually rationalised with “because of bpd”. If I cause an argument or I say something mean, it’s “part of my bpd to be angry and lash out”, if I am bad to someone or manipulative it’s “bpd manipulation techniques” or if I’m kind and caring it’s “my bpd that gives me empathy” or if I show an interest in art or animals it’s “bpd interests in creativity and good with animals”. And yet I am still told “you’re not your diagnosis”, if I’m not, then why is everything I do always related to my diagnosis? Why can’t I say something mean simply because I’m being a dickhead? Or be good at art because I am a creative person? Even in friendships and relationships, if I cause an argument and refuse to listen it can be met with “you do this all the time” and told it’s something I should get therapy for for my bpd, rather than something I can work on myself and as a couple. It can be easy to feel like a scape goat for relationships breaking down or problems, because I have a disorder infamous for causing issues in relationships and how I communicate and relate with others. 

Which in itself is hard to swallow. You’re often told by professionals how your diagnosis doesn’t change who you are, it doesn’t change you as a person, it doesn’t mean you can’t have relationships and feel love, and it doesn’t mean you can’t thrive and live a happy life. Yet why is everything I’ve experienced, the very opposite? Every relationship I’ve had has broken down because of some aspect of my bpd. Whether it’s that I’m too much to cope with, or my wildly unpredictable stability levels, or that I don’t communicate well, or that someone simply doesn’t want to educate themselves on bpd and how they can help me. And I don’t need help or to rely on a loved one, but in a relationship especially one where you are living together or spending a lot of time together, I am going to need support, and I am going to need extra adjustments, just like someone with a physical impairment would do. You wouldn’t turn to someone in a wheelchair and say “sorry I’m not going to push you around in your chair because you should be independent and you shouldn’t rely on me because you have an illness”, so why is it acceptable to say to those with a mental illness? And this isn’t just a relationship issue, but something I find issues with in every aspect of my life. I struggle with work and my jobs, because I disclose my disorder and what it means and what that might affect for work, I am often treated differently. Not always in a bad way sure, and sometimes these measures are meant to be supportive ones and just assessing the risks, but it can feel like you’re being watched and observed for it. If I get upset at work I’m asked “have I taken my meds” or “is this the start of an episode” rather than me just having a cry at work like everyone else does. 

All this when you sit and think about it late at night does take its toll. I do feel sad about the life I would have liked to have had, or the life I think I’d have had if I didn’t have bpd and it didn’t affect me in my relationships and work etc. I think about how I do struggle to find work that’s accommodating to someone who needs extra support and a bit of lenience in terms of sick days, and something that fits around my irregular stability patterns and episodes of instability, and I do think about how my relationships are affected by my bpd, not just in terms of how I react to situations or how I feel about certain situations but just in general sometimes, like the fact that some people are ignorant to mental illness and don’t want to date someone with a long term, irregular and erratic illness that means they can lash out, or have days where they don’t get out of bed, or don’t speak, or don’t understand simple things or take things to extremes and feel abandoned or unloved by simple, harmless actions by them. Because if I think about it, would I want that? Would I want to date someone who would need my support and extra reassurance and love? I don’t know. 

This isn’t always romantic relationships either, in friendships I can feel like such a burden. And find myself distancing myself from people, and isolating myself to avoid being abandoned or being hurt. Having bpd means that the slightest things said or done can make me feel abandoned, unloved, and send me spiralling into a deep depression and a very dark place. I’ve attempted suicide after a small argument with people many a time, because I can’t see a way out of feeling this way. Which sometimes is the core of the problem, it’s not that it’s happened, it’s that something small has made me feel so insecure and so much in despair that I think how ridiculous the illness is and simply feel like I can’t do it anymore. I can’t wake up and be sent spiralling by something so ridiculous anymore, it’s exhausting. 

I know a lot of people say they wouldn’t change themselves and wouldn’t get rid of their illness if they could, and I have times when my diagnosis was questioned and I have felt upset and like my identity was being questioned, but honestly? I would get rid of bpd in a heartbeat if I could. For everyone. It’s hard, it’s annoying and it’s fucking tiring. And if you also have bpd and got this far through my hissy fit - you are so fucking strong and amazing for dealing with this shit every day. 

I promise tomorrow I will try and see the sun shining and see the good in the life I’ve been given. But right now I’m tired, my face is tear stained and all I’ve have the energy left for is to sleep it off.

Meg x

Many people believe that autism is a scale from 1-10. From not autistic, to very autistic. When in fact it is much more like this, a colour spectrum wheel. Autism is a spectrum disorder, which doesn’t mean that you can be a little or a lot autistic, but rather that there are multiple levels and spectrums to autism in varying areas of life. Such as anxiety, social interactions, noise sensitivity, depression etc. This is why most autistics much prefer the visuals of a spectrum wheel, where you can see the varying levels of an individuals traits. 

For me, I appear very much a neurotypical on the outside, very “normal” on a day to day basis. I get up, get ready and go to work where I communicate, I laugh I joke and I go about my day. But there are also days where I don’t get up, or I don’t speak, or I don’t laugh, I don’t understand and I feel incredibly sad and confused about the world. 

I am usually always very sensitive to noises, especially bangs that I’m not expecting, fire and car alarms are very distressing to me. It makes me jump and twitch as it pierces through my ears and brain and I can’t soothe until it stops. If I’m particularly sensitive or having a bad day, even someone speaking to me is painful and hard, my brain cannot process the communication aspect and instead only hears unnecessary noises that cause me distress. Repetitive noises like the beeping at shop checkouts are a bad one for me, I find with every beep my anxiety rises until I’m ready to run for the exit. I tend to wear ear defenders or my earphones when I’m in a store, I find that it helps me think clearer and be less distressed. People don’t tend to realise that it’s not just that loud noises are bad for us, but more that we are very sensitive to all noise. For example, when someone is speaking to me, I can find it very hard to concentrate on what they are saying and listening to what they want me to do or say in return, as whilst I’m listening, I can also hear other people talking, and background noises like birds outside or cars driving past or the noise of a light switch or a computer low hum, and it’s hard to zone all of that out and focus on processing the persons voice and processing what they need me to do or say. Which means a lot of the time, I will ask people to repeat the last part of the instruction, or repeat my interpretation of the instruction so that I know I’m correct. And if multiple people are trying to talk to me or in the same room it is actual torture for my brain, I can’t focus on one conversation so I zone in on snippets from both and end up extremely confused. I’m also quite hypersensitive when it comes to light too, not so much as noise, but certain lights hurt my eyes a lot, and cause me to strain. I find cool toned lights very difficult, and much prefer warm, homely tones for me to concentrate. Sometimes if I’m having a bad day just a bright sunny day is too much and causes me headaches and painful vision. 

Next is stimming, this is something that most autistic people do to self soothe in distress or even without noticing. For me, I stim by using my fidget ring which spins around in general anxious environments where I’m trying to hide my discomfort. But the more anxious and distressed I am the worse my stims become, for a complete sensory meltdown I am often sat on the floor, shaking my hands in the air or tapping the floor or my head, and I make noises that I find soothing, which are like low humming noises or random outbursts of crying/distress noises which I can’t really explain other than me going “aaaaa” in different levels and tones. I do more subtle stims too, like shaking my legs/feet, tapping or whistling, humming the same song. For me, the humming and sucking in of air and tapping are my most obvious stims, and usually signal that I’m struggling or in sensory overload. But some days I don’t need to stim or I do very subtle ones out of habit and unconsciously, and when they’re noticed or picked up on I will stop and usually settle or do something else, the one I get told I do a lot is scratching my skin, or stroking my skin. If people sit near me they notice that I’m always fidgeting and stroking my neck, collarbone area which I usually don’t even realise I’m doing but it soothes me without me realising. 

Socially, I am quite developed and almost confident and it’s rare for me to openly struggle to socialise, I’ve become a master of masking my autism in order to communicate, mainly because the jobs I’ve done have always made it necessary for me. I’ve always said if I never worked in retail I would probably have a lot more social anxiety than I do now - which is hard to believe some days. For example, most days I can approach people, known or strangers and have a conversation or ask for help, have a laugh and a joke, be sarcastic and funny and socialise at ease. But when I am distressed or struggling, I tend to develop a small stutter, in which my brain is struggling to keep up with my thoughts and anxieties and isn’t exactly sure what I want to say yet. This happens a lot with my sister who I usually contact if I’m becoming distressed in the community like doing my food shop, if she’s with me she will tell me to point at the stuff I want rather than trying to explain because it’s almost like the words just won’t come out. This is the same as when I am in burnout mode - which I will touch on later. But even though I may seem to be able to communicate normally, the processes my brain has to endure to do this are very complex and hard to explain to others. I’ve always felt like I had these unwritten social rules I was meant to follow from a young age, which I now realise was me masking and picking these up from watching other people communicate and from when I’ve gone wrong. These social rules are things that I go through like a morning check list not to do whenever I speak to someone, such as remember to look them in the eye, ask questions to show interest in them, don’t interrupt or speak over them, nod along or laugh to show you’re listening, use body language and facial expressions to show you’re listening to them etc. Every time I have a conversation I’m thinking of all of these rules, whilst simultaneously trying to zone out background noise and concentrate on their words and processing the instructions correctly.

 Sometimes I seem rude or disinterested when people are speaking to me or finished speaking, as I don’t tend to react quickly because I’m still processing what they have said to me and what it is I need to do in response, so I have an almost delayed reaction to people speaking to me sometimes. Like if someone asks me to pass them something, I tend to stare at them for a second or two longer than I should do before I realise and locate what they want, or even I say “what, the diary?” To ensure I heard it right. Socialising causes a lot of anxiety because of all this, and because I fear getting it wrong or what will happen or what people will think if I mess up or I don’t follow a rule or there is a new rule I didn’t know in this situation. I tend to replay many conversations I’ve had at night or when my mind isn’t active in something and go over the details such as their response or facial expression and try and figure out whether or not they were annoyed or think I’m stupid by the way they reacted. This can cause me to avoid people a lot because I have come to the conclusion they think I am stupid and dislike me because of a facial response that I probably made up in my anxious brain. Because of all these cogs that whir around in my brain when I’m trying to socialise “normally”, it often causes me autistic burnout. 

Autistic burnout is essentially complete mental and physical exhaustion, where the body and mind cannot withstand anymore of the day and just cannot function. For me, this is usually after a day at work, or a day spent with friends and family who I don’t see often, or a day where I’ve met new people, or had a stressful experience such as shopping. Because I am a female with autism, it means that in order to look “normal” I mask a lot throughout the day (I will explain this further next) which causes me to just be totally exhausted and burnout completely. For me a burnout usually is me crying randomly, unable to speak or communicate my needs, becoming very sensory dependant - so I need soft blankets/toys, low stimulus environment like a dark quiet room, and something mindless to soothe me, for me I like to scroll through Twitter or social media’s and look at images or memes, rather than reading anything long winded. When I can, I usually just sleep off my burnout or have a long nap, but sometimes this isn’t doable so I have to just take some time in a low stimulus environment to reset my brain and recover myself. This usually means I have to unmask so can be difficult in situations like work or out in the community, which means I tend to hold it off as long as possible and then the burnout can be even worse and longer to recover from. 

Okay so masking. Masking is essentially mimicking other peoples behaviours in order to fit in and appear more “normal” and socially acceptable. This is more common in autistic women and girls but can be seen in all genders too. This is a skill that most people learn at young ages, not just those that are autistic, we learn that behaviours are not acceptable either by doing them or seeing other people do them, and we learn not to do this, such as biting or hitting people in anger, so we stop. In autistic people, this means that when we realise people don’t like the things we do because we are autistic, we mask them. It’s essentially like pretending to be normal in order for you to not be treated differently or thought of as different. I don’t really mask in front of my immediate family, but I do in front of grandparents or my friends until it becomes too much and I have to unmask. I don’t mask at all in the community alone because if flapping my hands and stuttering or humming helps me feel safe and sane then I will continue to do so because I am autistic. Whereas at work, I mask all day because I have to. I work with children with challenging behaviours in a children’s home, which means that if I was to display my distressed autistic traits all day, this would cause problems with the children I work with and with my coworkers and I would essentially seem like I am not capable or able to do my job. This can be difficult as it means that when noises or environments are too stressful, I have to use a lot of mental strength and energy to hide this fact and put the children in my care before my needs. It also means that I have to put on a different mask of funny work Megan, who is sarcastic and jokes around because that is the Megan that people like and relate to, rather than the anxious, stimming and very socially awkward Megan I am most of the time. Now we all have different faces that we put on in the morning, the strong confident faces, the work faces and the supportive faces even when we don’t feel it. But for autistic people, masking is much more than this. I mask everyday in little ways, I force myself to make eye contact so people don’t think I’m rude, I hold and bite my tongue on topics where I am extremely passionate and interested in as I tend to bubble over and get too excited and into it, I pretend to understand people and what they say when I don’t really, or I laugh at jokes that I don’t understand, I do jobs that I don’t understand why I have to do because asking would make it obvious I don’t get it, I pretend to be interested in other peoples lives and comments even though I really don’t care but this is rude to admit. It can be tiresome and another reason for autistic burnout, or sometimes I have to unmask as it is becoming too hard and painful to carry on so. If I feel comfortable around someone I may begin to unmask slowly, sometimes I don’t even realise, but I may start to stim more around them or admit that I am a bit distressed or allow my face to show I am struggling rather than continuing to laugh and smile. 

There are probably a million other ways in which my autism affects me, from the little things like I don’t do simple everyday tasks because I find it illogical and stupid to do them, down to I physically cannot be in certain situations because it is impossible for me to function. But these are just some of the main ones that many people may not even realise I and many other autistics go through on a daily basis. 

Between 29th March and 1st April it is actually autism awareness week so I will be trying to do a few more autism posts but as I continue through my diagnosis process and through life as an autistic I will continue to write posts as I go along! 

Meg x

The last week or two has been horrifically sad for many, the endless stories of women’s experiences with sexual abuse, violence and assault to prove there is no set scenario, person or place for an assault to take place has truly hit hard and home for many of us. And the response of the not all men brigade truly angering and disgusting as ever.