I feel hungover today, but it has nothing at all with the consumption of alcohol. It’s a hungover type feeling generated by a lot of post-mental health relapse analysis going on. **TW

I haven’t hidden how much my illness has taken hold lately. I have honestly described it all, day by day, week by week; but today I am re-evaluating the past weeks/months in light of some new information.

Had I realised this info sooner, lots could be different. An important speech could have been delivered for one….that is the biggie. That is what I feel most sad and regretful about. But many other things could have worked out better, and gone smoother. I would have suffered less, and not felt so terrible in my own skin (to the extent I wanted to climb out of it via humanities last tragedy- suicide.)


I did not attempt to take my own life…but I seriously thought about it. That’s me being honest. I thought about attempting lots and lots actually-such was the visceral intensity at times of that impulse to get away from what was bothering me, namely life.


But today I know better. Today I know my relapse had a great deal to do with the meds mix-up- a mistake which could have had very dangerous consequences. If you read my previous post (The meds do work), you’ll know that last night I realised that the tablets I’ve been taking for three weeks (since I last collected my prescription) were at half the usual dose.

Last night I assumed it was the human error of a tired and overworked medical receptionist, so felt annoyed, but forgiving, but today as new information has come to light I know it has a lot to do everything to do with my last appointment where I saw my ex-psychiatrist.

Followers and friends will know that the last appointment with that doctor did NOT go well, and resulted in a formal complaint being logged against her by me. So she was not my favourite person, but despite time moving on and on Friday last week me meeting a new psychiatrist, (who knew nothing about me and treated me like a fresh patient, which was refreshing), I still cannot move on from those difficult memories associated with that particular doc, as it is due to her that the dosage was changed on my repeat prescriptions. This is what I want to do to her….


I was informed by the medical receptionist, in a very confusing conversation, that the letter from my psychiatrist said 50mg on it, NOT 100mg, as it has been for some time. So the receptionists were just dispensing what it said on the letter.

I have no memory of telling her I wanted to reduce my dose, so the 50mg is a grave mistake (pun most def. intended).

Me being me, a bit dizzy and spaced out at the best of times, I didn’t check the tablets or packaging so only just realised they were the wrong ones last night. I will always ensure I check again in future, obvs!

What concerns me today, is that the letter was dated June, which is a long time ago….so how bloody long, I ask myself, have I been taking half of what I thought I was taking??!

It is probably even more than 3 weeks, and potentially a couple of months, or three even. NO WONDER I’VE BECOME EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE!!

I am so bloody upset to find this out. I am reviewing my deterioration and how I’ve struggled, and I feel such resentment knowing this was partly avoidable, had my meds not been reduced like this (without my knowledge).

I didn’t get a copy of the letter sent in June, so had no way of knowing the dosage had been changed on the official clinical notes. UGH. This is crap!

I have felt a mix of relief, and horrible frustration. I know I can’t change the past, and the important thing is I now realise the mistake and can return to my previous dose, but I think I’m allowed to feel a bit pissed off for a day or two, especially as it will take me a good while to readjust to 100mg, and then go up to 150mg, which was what I’d agreed with the new psychiatrist on Friday.

I feel like my suffering might not have happened, and my suicidality would not have been this bad, and I wouldn’t have self-harmed (I have self-harmed three times lately). :(

Medication is so important to the lives of people with mental health conditions. It may not work for everyone, and some opt not to take the chemical cure, seeing it as a quick fix, but this experience shows me that I personally definitely need medication in my system, as I become very unwell on less, as evidenced by how much I have become depressed and anxious.

Tonight I’m just offloading. I don’t have anything clever to say. I just feel subdued and sad and fed up.

It would be great if I could manage without meds, but that just isn’t possible for me. It is dangerous to reduce or to cut out in my case. I honestly believe if I didn’t take my meds I wouldn’t survive, literally. I need these life savers, at a dose that suits me, and if that is unbalanced, I become unbalanced, evidently.


The rebuild mission starts now. It will be gradual, but at least now I have hope, as I have a tangible explanation for what went so wrong lately, so I am no longer blaming myself and my illness and my trauma. I know it was the mucked up meds dose, all this time.


Tonight I will enjoy the fact I’m back on my proper dose now, so I know I will sleep well, unlike the insomnia of the withdrawal effects of late. And I might cut myself a huge slab of cake too. I need cheering up!



You can join in too, if you want a slice!




Tears are flowing as I type.

They have flowed all day.

Excessive tearfulness is one symptom of depression. I demonstrate many others.

I scare so easily too, and right now I am scared ALL THE TIME.

I admit it. This shit hole of a current existance is depression.

I am used to low mood, but the low mood usually lifts and my moods are variable and mercurial and I enjoy the ups and well as the downs. Lately my mood has not been variable. My mood has been stuck, in a bad place.

Someone please hold me hand until this passes. I need to make my way out of this alive.

Today I spent a considerable time contemplating an overdose, to the extent I told my husband of my (sketchy) plan.

To anyone who has not lived with serious mental illness, and BPD/PTSD, you will not understand me for saying I was considering this, and there is a likelihood you will negatively judge me for this. But it is not my job as a blogger to explain every damn detail of my symptomology and cope with the added prejudice of society.

So suspend your judgement, please.


Stay positive? I am clinically depressed. Depression is an illness. I am currently very poorly with this add-on illness to my usual illnesses.

I have traits of BPD, the memory intrusions of PTSD, and right now, I am also majorly depressed.

I sat in the psychiatrist re-assessment appointment yesterday and I wondered how he couldn’t tell how depressed I was. Sure I was there, sporting a face full of makeup and smart clothing. I was smiling and laughing when it was appropriate to do so. I was highly intelligent, so he told me, and very finely tuned, aware of others and also my own internal states. The veneer was polished, my introspective abilities and ability to articulate myself emotionally was well developed, and I suspect he was very much taken in by that.

I am going to increase my dosage of my meds and he agreed that, but despite my ability to articulate myself fairly clearly I don’t know if I fully got across to him just how desperate I currently feel- in fact, I know I didn’t. Too concentrated I was on explaining my whole psychiatric history and ticking all the ‘good patient’ boxes, that I neglected to tell him about the extent of my current suicidality and hopelessness.

There was no time for me to explain my pain. My pain was put on the shelf, while he did his psychiatric thing.

I pressed my body as far back in the chair as it would go as time went on, to escape the incessant questioning and probing onslaught from him.

I said to him, “You must stop talking. Every single word you are saying is hurting my mind!”

So he shut up.

I silenced him, because the noise in my mind was deafening. But I couldn’t tell him that, as I was just trying to find some silence so I could become grounded once again.

The voices in my head were competing with his voice, as well as the inner commentary going on that originated from me and only me. His extra added noise was too noisy.

It is LOUD inside my mind, so to have questions repeatedly fired at me felt like someone throwing fireworks straight at my face, over and over.

My psychologist sat in the room to relax me. My difficulty with psychiatrists is well documented, as if my ability to make complaints. I need comforting presences there to soothe me. I also need people who are semi-objective and detached to provide some perspective when my emotional reasoning threatens to cloud my judgement and perceptions.

I got a doctor to shut up. Go me! I got a doctor to accept they are not perfect and sometime make mistakes. Go me! He even went and made me a coffee, just the way I like it, so I could sip it for the remainder of the mental health encounter to calm down so I could leave the appointment in a reasonably ok state. Go me.

That was good service from a NHS psychiatrist. I was impressed.

But I let him down I guess because I held a lot back. I held it all back, because of the pressure of being psychiatrically evaluated. We were unable to complete the full assessment due to me becoming overloaded and mentally shut down, so I will see him once more.

What I’ve done today is let it all out, every last drop of repressed emotion I have been harbouring yesterday and every other day.

It was released in my plentiful tears.

I have cried and cried and cried, and then cried some more.

I have cried alone. I have cried with my husband. I have cried in the arms of my children.

I had to tell them all that I have become poorly again with depression and that hopefully the increased tablets will help me to feel more like myself again soon and that I will get all the help I need from the doctor and my therapist.

The gorgeous creatures, (otherwise known as my children) know I had a disappointment yesterday. [I was knocked back for an important charity role I’d been interviewed for and really wanted to get.] Knock backs hurt. Knock backs make you question everything about yourself, or at least that’s the effect they have on me. Knock backs make me feel inferior, like I’ve missed the mark. Knock backs threaten my psyche and self esteem and muddy my shine.

I was born with a thin emotional skin. The personality factory had evidently run out of thick skins whenever it was that I was allocated mine.

I was maybe born during a national thick skin shortage?

The emotional skin I have is CRAP. I am highly sensitive.

Having skin as translucent and fragile as mine means knocks feel like dramatic body blows.

I’m out for the count. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10.

Stuck in my mind.

Deafened by the din that only I can hear.

The only clarity I have is that I have realised how depressed I truly am.

It is getting to the point where I have two choices. Hurt myself, as an outer expression of my inner pain, or fight for my life and my future.

I am still deciding.

Just let me lie here a while. I need to seek some silence to calm me.

There is no shame in tears as they are only washing me clean.

I want to find clean.

I need quiet.

In silence I hope I will find the answers I will seek.

Please someone- just mute the noise.


This song is what I’ve listened to on repeat over and over. I’ve lost myself in it…a beautiful song. X


This is a bare my soul post; written to my estranged family, straight from my sad and hurting heart. There’s stuff I need to release…. here it is.

“There’s so much I want to tell you. I don’t know if you already know it though.

Have you found my blog yet, I wonder? Have you sussed out what I’m doing? Has the penny dropped that the family I write about on ‘into the blue’ is YOU? All of you.

Do you know I raise money for local mental health services? (because I’m ill myself, and you made me so.) Do you know I’m a media volunteer for Mind? (because I’m mentally unwell, and you made me so). Do you know I attended parliament? (to raise awareness of the mental illness that your actions directly led me to develop.) Do you know I told my mental health story on the regional news? (The mental health story that wouldn’t even exist as a story, had you not created it.) Do you know that yesterday I attended an interview for a victim support charity? To hopefully join the board of trustees on the basis that I’m a victim myself, of crimes you  commited (yet completely deny happening.) Do you know I contributed to a policy document? about the importance of parents being educated about the potential grooming of their children by abusers, in response to you having groomed and abused me yourself? Do you know I was driven to study for those two psychology degrees in the first place, because I was trying to gain the self-knowledge and objective psychological knowledge necessary to understand you all?

Do you understand the impact you have had on my life and how it’s worked out?

Do you understand the way you made me suffer?

Do you believe me when you heard about my suicide attempts and psychiatric hospital/A&E admissions? Do you hold yourself accountable for placing me in a situation that felt inescapable in it’s pain? Or do you still just dismiss me as being a liar?

Don’t you get, that everything I have done since my breakdown, has been in response to dealing with the inner shit storm that you yourselves created? Can you wrap your heads around that fact? Or do you dismiss it as fictional?

My vocation in life is to support people who are vulnerable, and the only reason I have for going in that direction is your skill at raising someone this vulnerable, and this wounded; someone who is hurting this much.  Someone just like me.

You created my vulnerability, and my way out of my vulnerability is assisting other vulnerable people so we can be vulnerable together, and then empower each other to become less vulnerable together.

You hurt me, but instead of retaliating and becoming someone who in turn hurts others, I try and heal them. My intention is to do good, and the fact that has come from you having treated me with such hatred and selfishness and evil is remarkable.

You could have turned me into a heartless bitch. You could have turned me into someone who barely functions and who abuses substances just to numb the pain.

You could have led to my suicide.

But I’m breathing, just.

I’m surviving, just.

I’m driving my life forwards (to the best of my capability, despite my PTSD, dissociative symptoms, and BPD mood instability always fighting to gain the upper hand.)

I’m impressing people. I’m having an impact. I am not letting myself be forgotten. I’m not letting you win, although sometimes my illness defeats me for a while and I fall metaphorically to the floor.

I have a long way to go, but at least I have fucking started.

Nothing has changed for you. You are still in your bubble of denial and subterfuge.

Why am I travelling this single minded path of mental health and victim advocacy? It isn’t an easy path. This isn’t regular work. It is challenging because it involves talking about sensitive subjects, and I have to manage my illness alongside it.

Instead, you are just travelling along the path of least resistance, as though nothing has happened.

Has my absence from your life created any difficulty for you at all? Has life been harder without me in it?  Or has my retreat only made things easier? enabling you to keep the pretence going that there is nothing to see, that you have done no wrong, and that life moves on.

My life is moving on, but extremely fucking slowly.

Three steps forward, two steps back.

Attending the trustee interview yesterday made me think of you, not that any questions were asked that related to you, but just because all three people in that room knew that the sole reason I was there is because of my history of abuse- the abuse you perpetrated and covered up and flatly denied. That is what means I can advocate for victims, because I am one!

Who sleeps better at night? Me? With my nightmares and traumatic intrusions, but sound morals and peace of mind that I’m a good person.  Or you? With your lack of moral compass but inter-familial walls of protection.

I have protection too. Alone I am not.

I have my husband/best friend. I have two precious children that love me. You cannot benefit from their love. You are excluded from that because you made yourselves unwelcome here. I have a wide circle of friends too who are like my new family. I appreciate them so much….. They genuinely care, and want to see me do well and feel content. And then there is my therapist. She wants my recovery and helps so much. They are my gifts and my replacements for you.

You have each other, but you are empty, I would imagine?

I’m empty too, but maybe that’s just the inevitable wounding effect of what’s happened in my life to date.

I caught myself wrestling with some difficult thoughts earlier when I took my morning walk along the sandy beach.  “What if I never get better? What if I end up taking my life at some point? How much longer can I really go on for, living like this?”.

That’s what you did to me.

You have made me not want to be me.”😔

SummerSHINES ©


Another email sent to my therapist- published to provide insight into the mind of someone who is emotionally poorly/in a suicidal and desperate state. So often things like this aren’t published, because of their rawness, and our fear that we will trigger or upset people who read it, but this is mental illness, for me, in the raw. TW**


“I feel clingy because I’m overwhelmed by my feelings, and I feel I need you, because they are too big for me to deal with alone.

I hate feeling I need you. Absolutely hate it. It’s a horrible feeling- a toxic sticky need.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through today. I honestly don’t know. I’m so daunted by the prospect of another day, feeling as I feel.

I want to cut my arms up. They are tingling all the time. My head feels inflated and my eyes are droopy.

I’m lying in a dark room alone (literally), and that’s a perfect metaphor for what living when you want to die is like.

I think I might end up doing something before long and taking some hurtful action. I want to today, except I don’t want to (for hubby’s sake). The need to act is getting stronger.

Do I ring the crisis team? Will they read out that pathetic WRAP plan that apparently I wrote? I cannot connect with what was written by that person who was me and now isn’t me. I don’t recognise her and who the hell she is, or was.

He will be taking the girls out to the fun fair, and doesn’t want me in a state when he gets back. But he will be gone hours, so the temptation is strong.

He says he’s taking the pills with him, and I’m too stupid to have had the foresight to hide some back for myself sooner. I’m so fucking THICK! I’m too dissociated to plan the action “quietly go and get stash” and walk there because walking is an effort and my brain is barely engaged. This is what I’m like all the time lately. Early onset dementia- trauma the cause.

I feel like that woman in the horror film who was bed ridden and bashed up her own legs with a mallet in frustration.

I can’t even plan my own demise effectively.

I was reading in a clinical psychology textbook yesterday all about suicide and parasuicide and self harm and the differences, and questions to ask to assess risk. It had a table with questions to probe different aspects of how a patient feels, and I was trying to answer the questions for myself, but just got confused because being my own psychologist is hard.

I don’t have access to lethal means, nor do I have a plan of everything to the last detail, because as I’ve already described my brain is absolutely fucked.

I knew today was a possibility, that something might happen with **** going out for several hours but I didn’t get tablets squirreled away yesterday which surely is evidence that I don’t truly want to make a suicide attempt? But I feel suicidal in my state of mind, and also unbalanced and longing to feel completely and utterly out of it and out of this.

I am confused, because the kids and **** don’t want me to do anything suicidal-esque, and I don’t either, in the sense that I don’t want to let them down, and I promised **** I wouldn’t. But if I’m not suicidal, why am I emailing you this email?

The psych. textbook said parasuicide and self harm is to elicit caring responses from clinicians, without genuine suicidal intent, which makes it sound incredibly manipulative doesn’t it. But I don’t think I’m wilfully manipulating anyone. I think I’m genuinely saying “please help me”; because living with a death wish and cravings to hurt my body and dull my brain with meds is very fucking uncomfortable- a painful way to live.

I think if I ring the crisis team saying I feel like this, but without having planned a stash of tablets ready, they will just laugh at me for wasting their time when there are people in “genuine mental health crisis”.

Apparently, according to the textbook, superficial cutting of wrists is attention seeking. Well, I’ve done that before, but didn’t feel I was seeking attention. I was doing it as a damage limitation strategy to satisfy my craving to hurt myself before it escalated.

I hate how people like me are perceived and how it feels to be unwell, but clever enough to realise that not everyone will be sympathetic and judgement free.

If I want to take a mallet to my legs and bash them in, or jump out of a window, or wander to the train track, or drown myself, or take hundreds of pills, but instead make some little cuts (that quickly heal) but are enough to make me feel sufficiently damaged and wounded on the outside, to partially reflect what’s going on on the inside, shouldn’t I be applauded for successfully de-scaling the damage?

I’m not challenging you personally, but as it was a textbook for clinical psychologists it concerns me, making me wonder how you/mental health services in general perceive me and others like me.

Not that it matters I guess.

Maybe I’m just trying to distract myself from my own desperation today.

I’m desperate, and this state of mind really fucking hurts.

I have my interview tomorrow. I emailed her saying I’d had a family upset but would be attending because this is important to me, but I have no idea how I’ll be interview ready, going by where I’m at right now today.

What a huge mess life is.

Hate this life. No clue how to cope with my feelings.

I desperately need therapy on Tuesday. How will I last out till then? With an interview inbetween now and then, and the need to impress? My mask will need to be firmly glued on if I’m to have any hope of landing that role.


Life is excruciating right now.”


Did you feel the desperation dripping through the cracks there? This illness is so painful. I cannot articulate how much I despise it. Today there is no living well, only living, and that in itself is impossibly difficult.





TW- **suicidal themes.
Living, for me, is all about dying. I cannot separate out thoughts of living from thoughts of dying. It’s just how I seem to be wired.


This morning the seascape was perfect. Blue sky and sunshine burning through the hazy clouds. Today is the first time the blueness of the sky has been visually detectable as the coastal fret (sea mist) has obscured my clarity, both figuratively and literally. The breeze was blowing in from sea straight towards me, the lone figure walking her dogs on the sand. It was a pleasant breeze, refreshing, but not enough to require the administering of anti freeze. The waves were foamy and the ocean was gently roaring in it’s white noisy way. For once the beach was quiet. Tourist levels are starting to diminish. I am very much looking forward to having the place back to myself. Living where I do, there is something beautiful about the winter, because the people go back to where they’re from and Northumberland becomes a place I really can enjoy.

There is nowhere better if you ask me, especially in the north east, than Northumberland in winter.

The coldness and barrenness of a Northumberland winter allows me to repair myself. There is little need to speak to people, because there are so few people. That’s how I like it.

As a friend said on the phone the other day, Northumberland is the perfect place for a peaceful life, but I am agitating the natural peace by travelling down to London and Newcastle all the time in my effort to make it big.

Fuck big. Right now, I want small.

Right now I want narrow and dark and safe and snug.

I want NO bloody PRESSURE.

I want simplicity.

I want the autumn to end and the winter to begin, so I can do the necessary repair job I need to do on me and my soul and psyche.

Social media makes me want to vomit sometimes. The toxin levels build up and I begin to feel nauseous. Consumerism is another sickness inducing irritant. I rarely buy anything. My husband does all the buying. He puts the petrol in the car, does the Aldi shops, buys knick knacks for me and the girls and the dogs, and occasionally even himself. But I stay in my hidey hole of a home and I tread the sandy beaches and I gaze at the sand dunes and  I do laundry and wash dishes and message friends and organise clutter so it looks less cluttered and I get sucked into TV dramas and I think, ‘what the fuck is all this about?’ What the ACTUAL FUCK!

Why are we here?

Why am I here?

What am I doing?

Why am I mindlessly living?- is it an ok and acceptable thing to do, just because mostly everyone else is doing it too?

If I’m so fucking happy then why do I gaze out into the waves this morning and want to walk right into them and not stop walking? I have tried that before. I got scared. I walked back to shore. I thought my children needed me. I checked into hospital. But I am seriously incapable of looking out to the waves of costal Northumberland, without imagining my body being washed back to shore. Absolutely incapable.

I think of dying every day.

Doesn’t everybody???


Is it really “just me”??

I’ve lived while dreaming of dying as long as I can remember! My autobiography starts with a chapter about my first suicide attempt. I was a pre-schooler! I didn’t label it a  suicide attempt, because I didn’t know what suicide was, or that suicidal is what wishing to be crushed under the wheels of a fast moving lorry was.

I wanted to do it (dying) even then.

I still want to do it (dying) now.

This morning I wanted to walk into those waves. I really did. I OFTEN do.

How can I continue to LIVE like this??

Is this what LIVING is? Wishing you were DYING?

When you wish upon a star, makes no difference what age you are, this is all I’ve ever known, transport me to heaven on suicide’s throne.


Foamy waves- take me in- is suicide human’s greatest sin?


Can’t write anymore- feel too sad- wanna die. It’s because of dad.