I’m bored of myself. Bored of my [empty] self. Bored of what I write.

I am really sorry my blog posts lately have been so uninspiring in tone. I feel actively and most passionately mundane, supressed, deflated, dull, pedestrian and un-shining.

The last time I was inspired was yesterday, which seems both not long ago while simultaneously VERY fucking long ago.

On Tuesday I wrote my piece for the local paper about mental health. I felt inspired then. I also felt proud yesterday when the charity CEO asked for my permission to share what I’d written with the team and when my social media idea was launched on world mental health day. But today, all that pride and gratefulness and positive feeling has drained away, and this is sadly the way it seems to go.

I cannot grasp hold of those amazing euphoric warm fuzzy feelings that I get and keep them.

They slip like sand through the hourglass with the passage of time…and not very much time elapses, usually.


Emptiness is my ‘usual’.

I am feeling acutely aware of my unmet emotional needs just lately. I know why this is. It’s since the whole Facebook saga where I caught a glimpse of photos of a family wedding that I remained uninvited to and left out of.


I saw evidence of their life going on, and I wondered why mine was not. That has made the inner emotional emptiness absolutely un-ignorable (I’m hoping that’s an actual word?!).


Long-term therapy is what I need to get anything close to “well”, but as I can’t afford to pay for a therapist privately, I am reliant on my NHS psychologist not dropping me off her caseload too soon.

I said to her that therapy is okay and great and all that, but it is nothing like as nice as the warm fuzzy feeing that comes from having an attentive family; people who are there to stay and to love and support you as long as you need them. My therapist cannot maintain what she does for the rest of my life. She is here for a period of time that she will never ever tell me the proposed length of. I cannot know that I have a few more months, or a few more years or any kind of estimate. She simply refuses to do this.

She claims that I will not always need her, and I will naturally want to break away from her when the time comes. I tell her that is BOLLOCKS and will surely NEVER happen! I just can’t see it. I can’t envisage EVER feeling that her addition in my life is unnecessary or counterproductive or counter-therapeutic.

I am uncomfortably attached to a pretend mother figure who isn’t really my mum and never will be! and I know she isn’t really my mum, and she knows she isn’t really my mum, and we just basically play a weird dance of pretending that she is re-parenting me and teaching me psychological life lesson stuffs, and I go to the office weekly and have a good old cathartic cry, and then miss her inbetween so email her as I want to tell her psychologically relevant stuff that she MUST know that second, and then she finds me bloody intrusive and annoying (I would imagine) as I am eating into her time, and I know I’m eating into her time so feel awful and stupid and pathetic and demanding and fucking guilty, and then she knows and I know that the whole fucking shambolic mess of pretences and client-therapist exchanges would never be happening if I’d have had a less shit childhood, and at the end of the day it is all BOLLOCKS, but bollocks that if I didn’t have would cause me to become very fucking unwell, which is hard to imagine really isn’t it? as even with therapy and shit I am still fucking miserable and recurrently suicidal and fighting off impulses to do totes dangerous things like jump out of windows and carve into my skin with blades and swallow more tablets than I should be swallowing….and I really should be stopping this grammatically poor and overly LONG sentence NOW.

And breathe.


I’m sick of having a empty space in my empty self.

I want to feel full.

Food doesn’t do it.

Booze doesn’t either.

Or sex.

Or Netflix on demand.

Or beach walks.

Or candle lit evenings with hubby.

Or meditation.

Or shopping.

Or writing.

Or drawing.

Or cleaning.

Or bleeding.

Or talking therapy.

Or coffee with good friends.

Or reading.

Or learning.

Or music.

Or nature.

Or hugs.


Or praise.

Or reassurance.

Or expressions of love.

The only thing I’m full up with, is my own inner emptiness.

I am crammed full with emptiness, and weighed down by the weight of my (empty) self.






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 ©


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.










What I sent to my therapist just now….I’m publishing it, because when I email my therapist I feel more comfortable expressing my vulnerability than I seem to on my blog. With her I can lay it all out. It’s a release. I found this because it helps me in the moment.

Also this is my official blog reintroduction to my renamed blog ‘Into the Blue’.

Trigger warning- This is a #no filter letter. **Refers to self-harm and suicidal ideation.

“I’m feeling the need to email you again, probably because I’m feeling vulnerable.

I would be speaking right now if I had gone to London. I’d be there speaking and schmoozing and being all media-ish. But I’m not there, I’m here – where I always am. Limited. Resentful. Sad. Aching. At home. Deep psychological stuff is going down, and I feel horribly alone, (like I almost always do).

The days are ok as I can stay in my bubble, but the evenings are hard. Darkness is threatening. Next week is the full moon. Autumn is here. I feel cold inside, matching the cooler temperatures of the air.

Enough waffling bollocks. Why am I emailing you? What’s wrong? Why am I so threatened? Why can’t I cope alone? Why am I such a grown up underdeveloped child? I feel like I’m heading for a breakdown  (how many times do I say that! I feel like this almost ALL the time). Something is in the air, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.

The inner panic is quietly building. 

I’ve been trying to explain to the kids about why I can’t do the speech, and they are asking why I always change things last minute and change so much. It made me sad. I want to be stable and not chaotic and stormy and unpredictable. 

I am tired of feeling desperate and fighting self harm urges. Suicidal ideation is always there, even if occupying a small space in the very corner of my mind. 

Living with the constant thought of dying is pretty ‘conflicting’ I’d say. 

My death wish is strong currently because I feel so despondent. I know I’ve had successes, but there are more disappointments, hurts, and failures than I’m comfortable tolerating. Dealing with the difficulties feels fairly beyond me.

You said to have hope, but it’s draining away and not in constant supply….like a bathtub where new water is getting added but the plug isn’t in, so the draining action offsets the new water being added. 

Yesterday I was emotionally flooded. Today I’m dry and empty.

I have thoughts about suicide being beautiful, more than life. Most people would say I’m glamorising suicide. I say instead it is people who glamorise living. 

I’ve changed my blog and revamped it all. It isn’t ‘Summer Starts to Shine’ anymore, because all this self-imposed pressure to shine makes me feel like a miserable fucked up failure. It’s now ‘Into the Blue’. That’s where I’m escaping…hopefully out of the black, into the blue, with no further pressure to shine. It’s darker and more mysterious, like a deep ocean.  

I don’t know where I’m headed, but I know I can’t stay where I am. So I have to bust some moves….. I just haven’t worked out what they are yet. 

That’s me. Stream of consciousness. The younger dissociated parts of me are quiet for now. Right now it’s just me in here. That’s maybe why I feel so empty? I guess I just miss the company.”