Content warning: this blog contains talk of suicide, suicide attempts and suicide methods.
On 5/9/19 in the early morning I nearly died.
I was alone except for a small teddy I have had all my life. Slumped on my bathroom floor,
I awoke from my unconsciousness, confused and dazed.
The long sleeved t shirt tied around my neck and my position on the floor, made me realise exactly what had happened.
But for about 30 minutes I couldn’t remember anything before falling unconscious.
Then my memories flooded back.
I remember the notes I had written on my phone and the websites I had saved for humanist funeral contacts and links to bio degradable coffins.
This was serious, this was planned, this was meant to be it.
Yet here I am writing about it.
This isn’t one of those stories where someone attempts suicide and then everyone rallies around them and then they get the therapy and help they need and go into recovery.
This isn’t the 1st suicide attempt.
It’s not the 2nd or 3rd either.
Not even the 10th. I’ve lost count now of the number.
The number of times I’ve spent days in hospital on drips trying to save my liver, from the paracetamol I’d shovelled down my throat, (fun fact – after so many paracetamol ODs, I now can’t take paracetamol tablets and have to take it in liquid form. Paracetamol tablets trigger my PTSD).
And yes some were more cries for help than serious ‘I want to die’ attempts.
But the ‘I want to die’ attempts are far more than even those closest to me realise.
And yet it would seem I am shit at dying.
So as I stated, this isn’t like those films where everyone suddenly rallies around and I receive top notch therapy with no waiting list and then am in recovery one year later.
This is a very different story.
I have been hospitalised in psychiatric wards several times. I have been under various sections of the Mental Health Act several times. I have been under the Crisis Team many times, seen more psychiatrists than I care to remember and been prescribed medication after medication. I’ve also been through various therapies.
Some things have helped a little.
The medication I am currently on is the best of a bad bunch. Five psych drugs and I’m still trying to kill myself and yep like I said best of a bad bunch.
My current anti psychotic actually does reduce my psychosis. And my mood stabiliser has stopped me having full blown manic episodes in 1.5 years.
The other meds I take because I’m prescribed them. Are they doing anything? I’m unsure, but pretty certain they aren’t.
Therapy to this date has never helped me.
Some therapy the NHS has pushed me through has been downright traumatic to me.
In August 2016 I went to be assessed for NHS therapy by a service named ‘The Complex Cases Team.’ I had to have four assessment sessions and then I was deemed ‘too complex.’
I kid you not, The Complex Cases Team deemed me too complex for them!
And just like that, the NHS couldn’t offer me therapy.
Me, someone diagnosed with multiple mental illnesses, of which several, the primary treatment is various therapy, was left and abandoned by NHS therapy. Nothing new to me, but it seemed the Complex Cases Team was the final team I had met and that was it.
I am also autistic and have Severe Tourette’s Syndrome. I am a full time manual wheelchair user and a part time AAC user. I also have Irlen syndrome and sleep apnea.
I am in an extremely long arduous battle with the council for me to have care hours that meet my needs. I currently have some, but it’s not enough.
My disabilities combined mean that there’s a lot of things I just can’t do. There’s also some things I can do with some form of assistance from someone.
I am often left for days at a time sleeping and living in the same clothes, day after day eating slices of cheese and a cereal bar for breakfast, lunch and dinner, because I don’t have the care hours to cover my basic needs.
I go days without a shower and only get a maximum of 3 showers a week, although it’s more likely 1 or 2.
I eat an actual meal maybe 2 times a week, 3 if I am lucky.
I get to socialise rarely because hours are used on hospital appointments and blood tests.
I can’t go back to university currently and study history, a subject that I love, because I don’t have the care hours spare.
I am being left to rot by the council.
Left to rot mentally and left to rot physically. So is my flat where I live.
My partner came this weekend and found a quiche with maggots in it, because I don’t have the sufficient number of care hours to always keep my flat habitable.
A lot of the reasons I need care hours are due to my mental illnesses, a lot are also due to my autism and my Tourette’s, which causes me to be physically disabled.
But regardless of the reason, I, a disabled person, am being left to rot away behind closed doors because services are not meeting my care needs.
No wonder I’m fucking suicidal.
I am severely mentally ill and I’ve had social workers tell me to just give up fighting for more hours because it’s not going to happen.
While they let me rot away.
I am meant to be grateful for what I receive, even though what I have does not meet my needs.
Is this how they justify such poor lack of care?
On world mental health day I just fucking wish there were the services and support and care for all mentally ill people to be able to get the help and support they need.
I wish that I had the support I require.
Some say I deserve more support, which to me says I’m worthy as a human.
I don’t feel worthy as a human.
But I do wish I could play wheelchair basketball, and study history, and shower everyday, eat meals everyday and do basic things, which every human deserves to be able to do. I just need some assistance with them.
So if you wanted an inspirational porn story, this isn’t one.
However, it’s my story. My excruciatingly painful reality. And it’s a reality for so many others.
I feel I am merely existing, rather than actually living.