My tattoos and their meaning

I’ve wanted a tattoo since I was about 16/17 years old, however, back then I didn’t know what I wanted but I did know I wanted something that meant something to me. I didn’t actually get any tattoos until this year, and the reason for that was because I have a problem with self harm and in my head I thought ‘if I get a tattoo, what happens if I have an episode and cut over it? Ruin it?’. Worried by this thought, I delayed in getting one.

But at the beginning of this year, despite having self harm urges and acting upon these urges, I decided that I wanted to get my first tattoo because I wanted to give myself a permanent reminder of something deeply important. That brings us to tattoo number 1. The lotus flower with the three dots beneath it.

FullSizeRender I think I got this done in February of this year, but I can’t remember if that’s right. It was around that time, anyway. The lotus flower has always stood out to me for a variety of reasons, but the one main one being this: lotus flowers begin their journey beneath the murky water, and they grow there until they blossom above the water’s surface, blossoming into beautiful flowers that decorate the darkness of the water. I like to think of it whereby we are the lotus flower, and the murky, unclear water is our struggles and difficulties that we face in our lives, causing stress, discomfort, sadness and general negative feelings. However despite our surroundings, we continue to grow, and one day, we rise above it all and flourish in our most beautiful state, having fought the darkness and come out the other side.
The three dots represent my favourite quote from the Buddha. And that is this, “three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth”. Buddhism interests me greatly and I enjoy reading and researching about it, and this quote in particular made me think and resonated with me.
My second tattoo I got last month. This one in particular I adore. It was quite a spontaneous decision but the design itself is something I had been looking at for a while. This tattoo in particular, for me, is sort of a reminder. A reminder to stop, take a breath, close my eyes and remember that urges pass, the bad days pass, it all passes, I just need to hold on tight and ride it out. The flowers represent life, the hand is my grasp on life, and obviously the words ‘hold on’ mean just that! This tattoo helps me during the dark moments. The moments where all I want to do is self destruct. I’m really glad I got this tattoo done and already it’s stopped me from self harming a couple of times. Well, it’s helped me stop myself from self harming, which I think is a good thing.

Thank you for reading,


The Weight of Depression (TW)

I was diagnosed with depression when I was 12 years old. That was 9 years ago. A lot has happened since then, changes in medications, diagnoses, therapies, hospitalisations and so on. But one thing that has not changed, is the overpowering shadow of depression that stalks me. Sure, I handle it much better now, I cope with less self-destructive mechanisms and I think it’s fair to say I put up a stronger fight. Because whilst my psychosis has been the reason I’ve ended up in a lot of tricky situations that could have potentially killed me, depression is the one that actually intentionally tried to kill me. Depression put me in a place where death was the warmest, safest, most appealing of options and so I took measures to ensure my own demise. If you’d asked me, say, just over a year ago if I felt relieved, or lucky, that I am in fact still alive today, I wouldn’t have answered honestly. Today, however, I can truthfully tell you that I am happy that my suicide attempts did not work. Does that mean I’m all better? No, not fully. Not really. Because even though I’m now in a place where I’m not acting on suicidal thoughts, it doesn’t mean I don’t still get them every now and then. And I’m not trying to overlook that, because I recognise that is progress and I am proud of how far I have come. I am. What I’m saying is that, still, 9 years on, 9 years fighting, I still to this day will have hours, days, weeks, where depression is the solid anchor dragging me down into murky waters. Where depression is a bully on the school playground beating a child over and over despite them already being down.
To say depression is ‘heavy’ is an understatement. I’ve found that lately people are utilising the word depression as a daily adjective in their lives when really what they mean is sad, or down, or upset. “My favourite show got discontinued, I’m so depressed”. “I spent Friday night inside watching movies, my life’s so depressing”. And you know, I sit and a listen and nod, when really, what I want to say is this: “I woke up this morning with a feeling of disappointment and heartache because I didn’t die in my sleep, I’m so depressed.” Or, “I haven’t left my house in three days because even the thought of showering, getting dressed and going out makes me physically sick, my life’s so depressing”. There is a difference between being sad and being depressed. That’s the point I’m trying to make here. Depression is an illness. Depression is lonely and scary and ugly and often deadly.
You know, I’m someone who is genuinely stunned at the fact that there are people out there who don’t know what it feels like to actually want to die. There are people out there who have never got so emotional that they didn’t even contemplate dragging a blade over their skin. Because for me, I cannot fathom a life without those things plaguing my mind. And why? Because of depression.
Now obviously I’m not naive, I know depression impacts different people in different ways, this is just my experience of it all. However there are similarities in most cases of depression, such as the lack of energy, the consistent low mood, anger, lack of self care. It’s an all consuming darkness that is relentless.
This post is even quite difficult for me to write because as I’m typing I’m remembering the times where I truly was trapped in the pits of depression. And how utterly unbearably painful those times were. Times where I would physically and tightly wrap my arms around myself because my stomach was churning and twisting from emotional pain. Times where I would scream and cry for hours and hours because everything just hurt.
Depression will wrap it’s cold body around you and trap you in its embrace. It will make its way into your brain and manipulate your sense of self, your feelings, your actions. It’ll blind you from positivity keep you in the shadows. I became a shell of myself when my depression was at its worst. I felt like an empty vessel, not living, merely existing. It was numbing.

But, with all that being said, it isn’t a life sentence. People recover from depression. And even those who don’t are able to find a place where they can live comfortably with their depression, like me, for example. I know my depression is still there. I’m on 2 different antidepressants currently. But I only get dragged into the darkness on rarer occasions. And even when I do get dragged back, I manage to keep the light in sight and can claw my way back to it. It may take a couple of days staying in bed, a couple of days not seeing anyone, but I always find my way back. Because depression is strong, but I am stronger. I’m going to say that again. Depression is strong, but I am stronger. And this goes out to anyone and everyone who is suffering from depression. I’d like you to read that statement. You may not believe it straight away, and that’s alright. I didn’t believe it at first either. But please, please trust me when I say there will come a day where you don’t just believe it, but you know it as fact, and that day will make all the pain and fighting worthwhile because you will see that you have a life that is worth living, and you are so, so capable of making it such an amazing life.

In August 2014 I lay in a hospital bed connected to monitors and IV drips truly believing I had finally done it. That I was going to die. I look back now and I feel thankful for the doctors for saving my life, I feel grateful that my body fought so hard for survival.
Because things may not be perfect still, but they’re much, much brighter than they used to be.

Hold on. Have hope. Keep fighting and stay strong. I promise you it will be worth it in the end, and if it feels like it isn’t worth it, then that means it is not the end yet. You will get there. Be kind to yourself, look after yourself and remind yourself that your illness is not as strong as you are.

Sorry if this was an intense post. I just really needed to get that all down.



Life after the psych ward

I was 16 years old when I was admitted to my first psychiatric hospital. The year was 2012 and I was roughly two weeks into my new sixth form, studying A-levels in English, History, French and Spanish. In the greater picture, I was early in my education adventure, ready to delve into the intricacies of the subjects I’d chosen; the subjects I was passionate about. However what I was failing to take care of was my mental health, which had been slowly deteriorating for a few months. I was 12 when first diagnosed with depression, and had been on an anti-depressants for a couple of years whilst waiting for treatment. I can’t remember if I was on any meds in 2012. Whether it was the stress of starting a new school, the stress of starting A-levels, or personal difficulties simply intensifying daily that pushed me to the breaking point, I do not know. All I know is that one night in September 2012 I self harmed on my face. Terrified, my mum took me to general hospital where she explained my self harm had been getting more frequent as of late, and on this particular evening I had made a cut to my face. After an assessment in general, I was admitted to an adolescent psychiatric ward, where I would essentially live in for the next six months of my life.

I won’t dwell on detail of life inside the hospital, as this is not what this post is about. But what I will say is it was tough. Incredibly tough. When I finally came home, I was obviously happy and excited, but I was also sad and a little scared. Because, even though my place at sixth form was still there if I wanted it, I’d have had to start in September of 2013, a year behind everyone I knew. I didn’t want to do that. So instead, I decided I would apply to do A-levels at college instead, which would also start in September 2013. Whilst at the time, waiting for September to come felt long and tedious, it did soon come round and I was off, ready to start fresh. I spent the next two years at college studying A-level History, Religious Studies/Philosophy and English Lit/Lang. I met some wonderful people and had a great time. My mental health was still relatively unstable, though, and there were a few incidents during those two years that resulted with me in general hospital for treatments, but not in the psych ward again, which I was thankful for.

So, it’s now summer of 2015 and A-levels have finished and we’re waiting on results, to see if we got into the universities we wanted. I’d applied to uni, and was very excited at the prospect of moving out, moving away, and really beginning my life. Results day came and I was relieved to find out I’d gotten the grades I needed to study Philosophy at my first choice uni. Brilliant. Once again September came round and I’d packed up all my things, and we left to move me in to student halls. I think, in hindsight, where I went wrong was that I had been ignoring my mental health, suppressing the darkness inside me because I was so afraid of going backwards, I just couldn’t afford to let it so much as cross my mind. So I wore this mask; put on a brave face and began to tackle the world.

My university experience lasted 6 months. It took 6 months, multiple relapses, endless breakdowns and missed lectures for me to contact my hometown best friend, telling her things were not okay. She came up to see me, and I showed her a letter I had written. A letter written with brutal honesty about where I was at mentally, and what was going on. She read it, cried, and told me that we would be getting the next train back home because I needed to tell my parents this.

I was nervous to go back home with bad news. Angry that my mental health was yet again getting in the way of me doing what I wanted. My parents were very understanding and arranged an emergency GP appointment. The GP contacted the crisis team, who were to come out the day after. The stress of everything going on evidently got too much for me, as the night before the crisis team were due to visit, I had a psychotic episode and ended up in general hospital, again. However this time I found out that once I’d been medically treated, I wouldn’t be going home. I’d be going to another psychiatric hospital. This happened in late January 2016, and I was admitted to the psych ward early February 2016. If I had to sum up how I felt about this in one word, it would be ‘devastated’. I had just managed to move away, become independent, and in my eyes it seemed like suddenly it was all taken away from me. However when I look back on it, I can see that actually I had been going down a dark slope for a while, slowly getting worse and worse, more unwell. I spent around 2 months in this hospital, and coming home this time was hard. Life after the psych ward this time was hard. Because I wasn’t going back to uni, I was moving back in with my parents. I was hundreds of miles away from my uni friends, who I had been used to seeing every day. I felt alone, depressed, angry and lost. My dad took a few months off of work to help me get back on my feet, to encourage me to not just spend all day in bed which is what I wanted to do. I didn’t know what to do with myself, where I wanted my life to go, what I wanted to do. I decided returning to university was off the table because I needed to really focus on getting better, to finally prioritise my mental health. I had been referred to a therapy called DBT and received a place on this course. The course lasts 1 year with two sessions weekly, one individual session with you and your therapist, and one group session.

This is what my life consisted of for the next 9 months. I went to therapy, I spent time with family, I tried to learn German (emphasis on the ‘tried’), I saw my best friend, and I met up with the girls from therapy group. It wasn’t where I thought I’d be at this point, but it was somewhere I was learning to get along with. Life outside the psych hospital was finally looking more positive.

In April 2017 an incident happened where I ended up in a…tricky situation. I’d been off my meds for a couple of days, but also I hadn’t been taking them regularly for a few weeks. The episode happened early April and police were involved. I was taken for a psychiatric assessment and was once again placed in the psych ward. I was upset by this, because I thought things were mostly getting better. However I wasn’t as scared as prior times, as I knew roughly what to expect. I spent just over two months in hospital and was discharged into a different community team. Upon discharge, I was also placed at a day hospital where I would go for 4 weeks, to help ease me back in to ‘normal life’, and receive support from staff etc. And that really brings me here to today. It’s July 2017, I’ve finished day hospital and I’m back at home in the early stages of building my life back up.

One way I feel I can describe it is like this: Imagine spending time and effort into building a grand sandcastle, only for a large wave to come and wash it down, ruin it, so that once the wave has passed, you have to start building from the beginning again. This is what it feels like, to me, when put in the psych hospital. I felt as though it was this awful thing coming along and ruining my hard work. I do see now that it was important for me to be there, not only for my own safety, but to get properly diagnosed, get medication sorted out etc.

Since being out of hospital this year, I’ve already decided I want to return to college in 2018 to do a make up artistry course. I’m ready to start looking for voluntary work in order to build my confidence back up until I’m ready to get back into paid work. And I’m seeing my best friend on the regular, and planning to meet up with more people too.

The point I’ve been attempting to make in this post, is that there IS a life outside of hospital. No matter how hard and painful your journey is, there is always a ray of sunlight somewhere and you can get back on track. It may not be where you initially planned on being, but it is what you make of it and it has all the potential to be a great thing.

Mental illness is very real, very scary, and life altering. But it does not have to define you. It does not have to rule over your life. YOU rule over your life.

Here’s to living.