The perils of black tie

It's probably become obvious that I struggle with looking the way that I do. In the past this has come out as serious bulimic episodes (the longest of which lasted seven years, does that still count as an 'episode')?

The state of play at the moment is that I am trying to deal with things as best I can. That means self-harm to stave off the worst, but it also means that with the black tie affair coming up at the end of term I have the usual chaos trying to find a dress - any dress - that will suit the purpose.

So that means, first challenge, it has to be up to a 38E bust. On the high street, that's a tall order (normally I find myself around a size 14 waist, 18-22 top, and most designers don't accommodate me). Then, I need long sleeves. And there are some pretty dresses around with sleeves, but they're almost all 3/4 length (i.e., not long enough) and the same goes for the boleros and shrugs around. Anyone would think it wasn't round about freezing point outside!

For the first time in years, I have managed to find a dress that fits the bill thanks to the wonders of Bravissimo. I first discovered their dresses last year and I love the fact that they make me feel, not slim, but at least somewhere smaller than Dumbo.

So here is a two-fold bid to the clothing industry (which I expect to have zero impact):
1) Could you consider accommodating different bust sizes?
2) Please, please, make long-sleeved tops that aren't plain or frumpy.

This is the idea, for reference:

Bravissimo - lifesavers

Some struggles

I perhaps over-use the word 'struggle' but most of the time that's how it feels. An up-hill-struggle from the moment I get out of bed in the morning. I do manage to do that - I make it to prayer nine out of ten weekdays at 7:30 - and I work my hardest to seem functional. As far as I know, none of the other students have any idea what goes on in my head, and although I haven't managed to control the self-harm in any meaningful way, I have hidden it from them.

The only problem has been the cleaning staff coming into my room. I suppose I didn't expect them to take any notice of my rubbish or whatever, but I must have done something to make it obvious because they took it to my tutor, who came to me.

I'm still reeling, feel like a teenager. It's been years since someone came to me and asked. And I feel terrible about it, but I think it keeps me safe in a funny sort of way and I need that right now.

Change of scene

Student at my university in academic dress (from Wikimedia)

I've moved from London to start a course at one of England's ancient universities. It's quite a change for me from being at one of the largest colleges of the University of London for several years. My college is really small, I think I have met all the students studying here over the last week, which is quite nice. Everyone seems to have a certain pride in the college as well as the university, and that is contagious.

One of the really interesting things for me is that the day is structured around a program of daily prayer and worship. If I want to, I can get up at 6:30 for meditation at 7, followed by Morning Prayer and Mass. I do have a faith, although it is pushed to the limit sometimes by the things that go on in my mind, and I am hoping that this structure will help me keep on top of things. It should help me to focus my mind on what really matters, as well as getting me up in the morning.

Having said that, I made the mistake of going to Mass this morning even though I wasn't feeling very well, and felt like a bit of an idiot because I sobbed my way through most of the service. It's somehow OK to do that at my home church, but I was very self-conscious today. Aside from the new environment and new people - none of whom know about the state of my mental health - the pews are arranged facing across the nave so that you feel like you're on display.

So there are some challenges coming up. As well as the course, I have to try to stay well enough to stay here and complete. The course is entirely assessed by exams, and I am a terrible exam candidate, so I have two terms to get over my nerves in that department, too. Then there is the fact that I am under a new PCT*, who can't offer me the care I had in London. After the struggle I had to go to just to see someone at my local mental health team regularly, it feels like it's going to be quite hard work for a bit. Whether I stay well enough to complete is, therefore, still anyone's guess. Wish me luck!

*Primary Care Trust, the regional NHS

Dreading going to work

I haven't dreaded work ever before; it's a new thing for me. I used to dread going to school so I remember the feelings. I used to get so worked up that mum would assume I was ill and keep me home, which at least kept it at bay for a couple of days. But I can't phone in sick today, I've been in a new job (at the same workplace) for less than a week. I can't afford to lose face.

But the truth is I'm not enjoying it any more. My role is to keep the displays neat, but there's so much time between my shifts (I only work 6 hours a day, not always when we're open, and the shop is open for 10.5 hours) that it's always a mess by the time I get back. I know I'm not the only one feeling the pressure but I get a lot of the heat from the shop manager, who expects me to have instant knowledge of the new department and new role and I'm finding it too hard. Not to mention that I'm working with people I hardly know. One of my new colleagues, in particular, is very difficult. She frequently follows me around (when the shop manager is having a go at someone else for once) and tells me the displays look "shit" or rebuilds something I spent hours on just as soon as my back is turned. Already I've spent more time than I should crying in the back room, I can't go on like this.

Trying to hold off the feelings

It's probably not the case, but it feels like my mood swings are getting worse. And they seem so much less justified than even a few days ago. I'm so confused. I'm losing some of my hours at work; I know that. I don't know how many yet and I don't know how I'll survive the pay cut. But then I got accepted to a good university for a good postgraduate course (which I'm not sure how to fund) and I'm trying to make that mean I have something to live for.

But the truth is that none of that matters when the aching starts. When there's that horrible empty pressure in my throat and my chest. When I end up sat at home writing lists of what I want people to know, to do, to have, if I don't get through it this time. Because it doesn't feel like I'm in control here. I try to be. I try so very hard to be. But I don't know how to beat it except by playing along. Lucid Iris, conscious Iris, smart Iris wants to see her friends again. But then there's this 'other me' that gets overpowering. And it gets to the point where I start to think that, actually, it's not like they don't have other friends. My Girl would find another girlfriend, The Boy has all his university friends and my family don't need this shit anyway. And what's the point of a place at university if I can't fund it?

And that's how the compromises start. How I end up taking risks or making plans. I tell myself I'll stave it off but 'just in case', I'll write a note or itemise my possessions. Or maybe I'll get as far as counting out my tri-cyclics, painkillers and other medications. Maybe I'll 'just' calculate the dosage of this or that I would need for my body weight. Maybe I'll 'just' try to strangle myself, or cut slightly closer to a visible blood vessel this time.

Maybe one day I'll go too far. That scares me, and right now I'm glad it does.

Here's 10p, call someone who cares...

Sometimes that's how it feels when people ask if you're ok and then say, "Oh. Well, you'll be ok. I guess if it gets too much you can call someone." You can just hear the unspoken end of the sentence "...else."

And what is all that, "if you feel suicidal, you can call the crisis team or go to A&E or whatever..." Yes, because showing up at A&E and telling them that you sort of maybe thought about taking an overdose and feel quite constantly like I want to die. Especially when I was ok last week. I'd either be laughed out of the place or committed. I don't know which scares me more.

How to lose friends and alienate people

The person in the world I feel closest to, other than Girlie, is The Boy. He's my best friend, and he's been so constant, such a support, and I'm going to lose him.

I've felt it for a while, but today it's been so clear. He can't keep having to pick me up when I crumble. And I crumble so easily ever since The A&E Incident. Today, he clearly didn't want to talk to me.

Then, I felt better after an appointment with the crisis team, so I worked really hard to get dressed up so I wouldn't disappoint by not showing up to some drinks he'd organised. But after I spent an hour psyching myself up to get out and putting my face and my clothes on but he didn't tell me where they were. I forced myself out to meet other people, after an hour of not getting hold of him, I had a panic attack half way to the bus stop...

So here I am. Friday night on my own. All dressed up, somewhere to go, and no way to get there.

I really hope I don't lose him.

Tonight I wrote my suicide note

Sort of. More of a post-suicide note. Not an explanation, more a 'just in case'. After last time, when I was so impulsive that the thought of a note just didn't occus, I want to leave something.

It's like a codicil, and an auto-eulogy. That is, the things I wish I could say and ask people to remember, as well as my favourite hymns, poems and Bible verses. It's so weird to see your life through your possessions, and although I'm an obsessive hoarder it seems I don't have enough things to give everyone something pertinent. But whatever happens, I hope it would all be used wisely. I just want Li'l Sis, Girlie, The Ex and The Boy to have the things that matter to me, as well as Mum and Dad.

I would miss everyone, of course, but right now it feels like my time here is coming to an end. It feels like time to say goodbye and tie up my loose ends.

Another day, another psychiatrist

One of the reasons that the people at UCH let me go on Saturday morning was that I had a long-standing appointment with a psychiatrist in Islington today. She was good, but seemed to be a little surprised that I only saw a psychiatric nurse and had no contact with a crisis team.

So, within two hours of being at work I had messages from the local crisis team and my GP arranging appointments. I guess it's a good thing but it looks like I'll be spending tomorrow with the crisis team and Thursday with my GP and I don't actually know how I'll square it with work...

A&E, AAU, DSH and other acronyms

So, last night I had a bit of a crisis. At about 9, I started taking paracetamol tablets. My housemate came home at about 9.15, so I couldn't carry on. I began to get scared, so I stuttered out what had happened and ended up going to our local hospital's A&E unit (Accident and Emergency; ER if you're American). I was seen by a triage nurse at 10:15pm, about 15 minutes after arriving. Triage didn't take long, and the nurse was actually lovely. She went through my medications, was pleased that I'd brought the boxes of paracetamol products I'd been taking, recorded doses, looked at my most recent cuts, etc. Exactly what I would have expected, and really quick. It was really reassuring that she wasn't difficult or judgemental, that would have hurt too much.

After about 3 hours of sitting in a very bright corridor, at about 1:30am (i.e. early this morning), a psych nurse came to speak to me. She asked me all the usual questions; what did I take? how much? how did I feel now? was I upset that I was interrupted, or relieved?, &c. I'll admit that I was less than honest about my motivations; I thought that if I said, "I sat down and calculated what out to be a dangerous dosage and had taken 75% of what I intended; I wasn't annoyed at being interrupted, just startled back to reality," that might well get me a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward. Besides which, she didn't tell me who she was until we'd gone into the consulting room, so my housemate was in the room.

After all the blood tests, at about 2am, I got taken (by The Most Patronising Nurse in the World, and in a wheelchair of all things) to the AAU (Acute Admissions Unit? not sure), where I proceeded to lie awake until 6am, being occasionally prodded by doctors and asked to repeat until I felt 2 inches high.

I was eventually, after breakfast, allowed to leave. It took a few hours to get my discharge papers and I've just got home.

Fail

So I thought the Plan for today would be enhanced by cutting myself, eating lots of chocolate and having several shots of vodka before work. Apparently not.

Epic fail. I felt sick, silly and fat at work. I have a cut that won't close (actually, I have 2, one on each arm) and that keep getting crap stuck in them and need constant cleaning. And I'm still not ok.

Sometimes I wonder...

Is it still worth fighting?

I got a referral for psychoanalytic psychotherapy through today and it pushed me back into a Black Dog day. I didn't exactly have a bad experience with psychoanalytic psychotherapy in the past, but I did invest four years in it and don't feel like the output's been worth it. After three hours a week for three and a half years, huge disruption to my education (possibly contributing to the fact I didn't get the result I wanted), I don't really feel like I've moved on. It's been eighteen months since my sessions ended and I'm back at square one.

Peaks and troughs

Peaks and troughs are normal; a regular feature of life for anyone suffering from a chronic illness. They are not unique to me, don't mark me out as special, as 'more' or 'less' ill than anyone else. But they hurt. Funnily enough, both the peaks and troughs hurt.

When I'm at a peak, I feel unstable. Maybe because I anticipate the trough? I honestly don't know. But I feel as though I don't deserve it. When I am happy, I wonder what I did to deserve to be. I very rarely get through one of these peaks without guilt. And it's the guilt that leads inevitably to a deep trough.

The troughs are different. There is still guilt. Intense, crushing guilt. The guilt this time is centred on knowing that I don't deserve to feel so bad. I'm not that ill, I know that. It's not that bad for me. But that doesn't stop the pain. It doesn't stop the crushing pain, or the dull ache in my chest. The one that makes me feel suicidal. Makes me cut my arms, collect pain killers, wonder how much vodka it would realistically take...

The funny thing is, I never go through with it. I haven't seriously attempted to kill myself since I was 22, but it still hurts. It's like an obsession, the same every time. You just think about it constantly, and one day you feel like you're not scared any more. Like you might as well try, because the worst that can happen is that you die, and it's no more unknown and scary than the reality of continuing alone in a world that doesn't want you.

Who supports the supporter?

I'm really struggling now. I have been for ages but it hurts today. That sickening, crushing pain under your rib cage; the one that gets behind your eyes so that you want to cry. I haven't got out of bed all day, or even got dressed, although I've managed to eat a bowl of Frosties and a pack of Penguin biscuits.

It's this awful despairing feeling that I can never describe. I know it's 'Depression', everyone tells me that, but I hate how all-consuming it is.

I haven't been sick or cut myself for a while but the urge is very much there. I found myself wondering about gong to get a few packets of pills from my local high street earlier 'just in case'.

I don't know what to do. I don't know why I think writing it here will help. It hasn't, really, but I don't have anyone to talk to. My friends are struggling enough without me adding to it.

Looking the way I do

I don't think I'll ever get used to looking how I do. To being a bit flabby, and to my multicoloured stripy arms. I'll never get used to being shouted at in the street for being overweight. I'll never get used to the way people stare when I wear a t-shirt. I don't think I'll ever learn how to answer the questions.

And yet, I can't stop doing the very things that make me overweight and that caused the scars. I'm trying very hard to stop and haven't done it for a while but that doesn't mean I don't want to...

A letter to my sixteen-year-old self

The context of this post is that I read Stephen Fry's letter to himself, aged 16, in the Guardian earlier this year. It's a response to the letter he wrote at that age to his older self, published in Moab is my Washpot. The Guardian readers' responses were great, and now there has been an anthology published, Dear Me. I have tried a number of times to write this letter and here it is. 


Dear Iris,

It is the end of 2009, and I am 23. That is, you are 23. For you, it is the end of 2002. I remember that as a pretty rough year. You attempted suicide 6 months ago, and it terrified you. But know that you do survive.

Oh, Iris, it's so hard to think of how miserable you are right now. The end of your first term of 6th form and you're hurting over the prefect elections, you think you'll never be able to be comfortable with your sexuality, and you cry yourself to sleep. You're not alone, you are struggling right now because you don't know other gay teenagers. I'm so sorry you can't, but I can't help you with that. I know that you're confused because you thought your depression was behind you; I remember the red leather diary in which you wrote that it was a clean start away from depression. Well, I want to be honest with you. Depression, for you, is part of your life. After years of thinking it'll get better with every passing year you will eventually realise that no amount of landmarks (starting uni, turning 21, having a relationship, graduating...) will cure you. You just need to learn to cope.

And Iris, please find another way to cope. Listen to all the people who tell you how much you will regret the scars, please try to stop cutting yourself. We both know it does nothing for you, and if you don't stop now it'll be almost impossible. If you can find it in you, when you do manage to stop in a few months, please don't start making yourself sick. You don't know what it will do to yourself - not to mention the people you care about - to support you through years of self-harm and bulimia. Try talking to your therapist (I know you think she's useless, but she's your support right now) about the fact you comfort-eat. You know it's a form of disordered eating, give other people the credit that they will believe you.

There is so much joy and fun ahead of you. I know you can't see it, and it sounds like I'm just trotting out the same tired clichés as everyone else, but that's because everyone else is very wise!

When you get to university, you will find your niche. You're going to have so much fun meeting new people and revelling in the joy of genuine friendship. You will find a church that accepts you, you won't compromise your faith. When you find that church it will change your life.

I want to tell you to stay away from the people that will break your heart - some friends, some lovers or potential lovers - but I can't. The fact is, those people facilitated the transition from you to me. I am a stronger person than you are because I have learned how to survive hurt. But you know what, Iris? You're pretty strong right now.

One more thing, your friendships won't last forever. That's not your fault. But do me a favour? If you think someone is a bit of a bastard who lets people down, then remember that when they let you down. Remember that it's not about you, whatever you may think. Don't let other people dictate your worth, know that you are a child of God.

I don't want to say too much, but I hope these words have brought you some comfort. You do survive, and you will do well.

God bless you, sweetheart. Look after yourself.

What self harm is (and isn't)

One of the more obvious effects of my mental health difficulties is that I self-harm by cutting myself. I have done this since my early teens, for almost ten years now, and the cuts have increased in severity over time. I use the term self-harm to describe this particular behaviour. I know some people find it too vague, "self-harm" could mean any one of a number of things, but it's a term I'm comfortable with.

I believe that self-harm is an addiction. I believe that the reason the wounds get deeper is because, like any other addiction, you begin to need more over time. But I also believe there are some basic fallacies in the world that I want to correct. These are things that have been said either in self-help books, on websites and by well-meaning people to me.

1. "I don't understand. Of course it hurts, isn't it meant to hurt?"
Yes and no. At the time, the endorphin rush and the relief are caused by the pain and the sight of the wound. But the subsequent pain as the wound heals is not an intended consequence, and does make people miserable.


2. "They call themselves 'cutters'."
I honestly read that on the back of a book that was designed to support families and friends of people who self-injure. I have never heard anyone I know (and I know a lot) who self-harms to call themself a 'cutter'. It's a vile term, implying that we have some kind of tribal identity. The reality is that there isn't really a 'we'. Sure, sometimes friends turn to each other for support, sometimes discovering that another friend self-harms can trigger a person to start, but we are not a clan. We do not have a name. We are not 'cutters'.

3. "Your scars are beautiful."
Um, no they're not. I regret them, but they are a part of who I am. Do not assume that I did this for vanity, or to get sexual attention.

4. "Self-harm is just attention seeking behaviour."
Again, it's not. Self-harm is not about getting other people to see the wounds. In fact, most people who self-harm are deeply ashamed of their wounds. We don't display them. If someone trusts you enough to let you see their wounds or their scars, you should respect that. 

What's in a name?

Why 'Running Iris'? I gave the title of this blog a lot of thought and eventually named it after my favourite statue.

The so-called Running Iris is a statue from the west pediment of the Parthenon in Athens. She is currently in the British Museum with the other Parthenon Marbles. I fell in love with her immediately. Something about the lines of the drapery, characteristic of the Classical period in the 5th century BC.

In her brokenness, she is beautiful. She has lost her head and face, the things that should create her character, but we still see who she is. She is a messenger, moving on the wind so fast that her thin dress clings to her legs. But we can't see her emotion. Is she running toward, or away? In context, we can see her running toward the birth of Athena Parthenos (the Maiden Athena), in whose honour the complex was named. But in isolation, she could be anyone, anywhere. She could be me.

Interestingly from an archaeological and art historical point of view, she was also the focus of the British Museum's new imaging technique this year that for the first time has found evidence of paint (Egyptian blue) on her belt. It's exciting because we knew - hypothetically - how brightly coloured the temple was from evidence on contemporary sculpture.

Running Iris, the British Museum
Photo, (c) Iris 2009

I suddenly remembered, when I was thinking about this at work the other day, that Iris is also the name of a Goo Goo Dolls song that meant a lot to me as a teenager.

I know this is corny, it really is, but I loved it;

I don't want the world to see me,
'Cos I don't think that they'd understand.
When everything's made to be broken,
I just want you to know who I am.

So that's who I am, Iris. Running, hiding from the world, because I don't think that they'd understand. Maybe they won't, so I'll use this name for now. Something to hide behind.