My life… surprisingly it’s actually a very hard subject to write about – not because of what’s happened in it – but just because I really don’t know what to say.
Well I suppose I should start at the beginning:

I had a pretty happy young childhood, was a bubbly, confident, outgoing little girl – had more friends than I could count and made a whole load more where ever I went. During this time my home life was happy, I lived at home with my mum, my dad and my two brothers. We regularly saw the rest of my family (aunts, uncles and grandparents) and I was living a sheltered life. I guess things started to go wrong when I started school. I started to get verbal abuse from my peers about little things – like my hair, the fact that I was smarter than a lot of the others there, because I enjoyed going to school, because I’m a vegetarian. This carried on and on and I endured it, turned a deaf ear and pretended to not take any notice.

When I was about five, things at home started to go wrong; my dad changed, almost over night. I didn’t like the new him. I first noticed it on our annual holiday to the coast; he was drinking a lot more, not paying any attention to mum, or to his kids, he would go out and leave us in the caravan on our own, little things – but each one hurting a little. This carried on when we got home too, for about three years, getting progressively worse. I wouldn’t see him before he went to work; he locked himself in the front room when he got in. He went out for “walks” and not come home ‘til days later and shout at me if I ever asked to go along on one. He’d leave the house to go out to “business dinners” and come home late; I guess that’s when the voices started.

That Christmas, when I was five, my Nan (my mum’s mum) died. I never really got to know her – she was ill my whole life. I knew at the time I should’ve been sad, but I didn’t know why…

As time went on, my dad’s drunken state just seemed to get worse and worse, we’d find alcohol everywhere; crates of beer behind furniture, bottles of scotch behind the TV, vodka bottles by the dozen (possibly score) in the loft – all of which either empty or half empty. I never got hugs from my dad anymore, I didn’t want them – the alcohol on his breath scared me. We stopped going for our regular family visits. We were banished from our front room. At this time he’d never laid a finger on me though, just verbal abuse (more verbal abuse).

It didn’t really hurt, but to be hit like that by my own flesh and blood, my daddy, it hurt on the inside. And so my life continued like this, seeing even less of my dad, scared of him when I did. He would stay out later, spend more time away on “business trips” and we all knew what was really happening, even me, even one as young as eight years old.

The year I turned nine, there was no holiday to the coast, there were no family visits and, for the most part, there was no dad.
I can remember so clearly how it happened. The morning of Sunday 25th November 1995, I woke as usual, fairly early, and trudged downstairs. But everything was different, before I even saw anyone I knew something was wrong; dad was still in. I went into the kitchen to see my mum, standing crying, it had to be bad – she hardly ever cried. After asking her what was wrong, she replied “Go ask your Father!” It ran through my mind, I’d suspected but now I knew – he was having an affair, he was leaving. I walked into the front room to see him, my dad, packing his CDs into a bag. He was crying too, but I don’t know why. He picked me up and sat me on his lap and spoke to me as if I was stupid, explaining the situation – I just sat there crying. He’d been drinking that morning. After a very short time he’d packed his stuff into the car and driven away. That day I was sad, my family wasn’t a family anymore… everything was suddenly so different.

Christmas alone was scary that year; saw dad on Boxing Day… but you could’ve cut the air with a knife. After that I didn’t see him for ages, never went round his house – none of us wanted to see her his fancy woman. One of our oldest family friends.

Life carried on and a little while after my dad left, my Grandad got sick, they discovered he had bone cancer. I was watching him slowly die in front of me. No one even told me he was ill until the day we went to visit him in hospital. The year I turned eleven, on the 29th September 1997, my Grandad died. I was so sad when I found out I sat crying in my back garden, in the bitter cold, in my nightdress. His was the first funeral I ever had to go to. Four months later I had to go to my great Nan’s funeral.

Started Secondary school and by this time the verbal abuse, the bullying, was a lot worse… constantly getting into arguments, hiding from fights, cowering after being threatened and nothing was done. When I reached about twelve years old I started to get physically bullied. Nothing drastic, just being kicked about a little bit, but the threats scared me senseless… I was too terrified to walk home my usual route – started going a different way. I couldn’t tell anyone. One day it all got too much and I told mum, she had a word with my head of year, but it was too late, the damage was already done to me (inside more than out). It was then that the voices turned bad… taunting me – adding to the verbal abuse I got. It kept me awake, my insomnia started

As it had my whole life to this point – as school life got worse, home life got worse. All I ever seemed to do was get into arguments with everyone, my brothers, my friends, my mum and even by this time, my dad’s girlfriend.

I was so alone and desolate, upset about everything. One night I was desperate after getting into a fight with both of my brothers, my mum backing them up, everyone turned against me, I ran to my room for sanctuary. I locked the door and without thinking, picked up a pair of scissors and raked them across my leg. It bled. The first time I self-harmed. It was a very strange thing for me to do; I’d never heard of SH, I’d never seen it in films, I never read about it, it just seemed such a natural thing to do. I’ve regretted it ever since though. I can remember the first feeling of the blood running down my leg, a thirteen year old girl, I sat and I laughed – I felt so care free that I sat and laughed at my bleeding leg.
My SH was never a real problem to start with, it was a very small part of my existence, few and far between cuts that helped me cope. I even managed to stop for quite a long time. Until it happened.

I think the biggest thing that I’ve ever had to cope with, was what happened with Naomi. Now fourteen years old, two months before my fifteenth birthday. On Tuesday 17th April 2001, Naomi and another of my friends came over to borrow a swimming costume, Naomi was on this health-trip thing with her mum and suddenly really into sports; swimming, badminton, etc. But this time, as her mum couldn’t go, she was taking a friend.
They started off on their journey to the pool, on foot. And one stupid, little mistake by Nome cost her her life, she didn’t look before she crossed the road… she was hit, head first, by a car travelling 29mph. They say speed kills, kill your speed – 30mph limit, the difference between life and death, it’s all untrue! 29 killed her!
Nome lay bleeding from the head in the road ‘til the ambulance got there. She was taken to hospital, my other friend treated for shock. From Tuesday night until Friday afternoon we were kept waiting - hanging on to every hope that she might live… being told that she had died, then she was going to be ok and then that she had died again. In the space of three days my friend must have died at least four times to me. When Friday afternoon came round, I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept for days, hadn’t eaten for days, hadn’t stopped crying for days – I was all out of tears. My eyes stung so much and I hurt so much inside that tears just weren’t enough any more.
I watched out the window, as a man walked up the path, a man I knew: my friends dad. I stood up like a zombie and walked into the hallway – I hadn’t heard the bell ring but my mum was already opening the door. I could hear them talking in the background of my mind but all I really remember was “The machine was breathing for her, she wasn’t in there, they decided to turn it off” I cried again and I was so overwhelmed with despair I just laid down in the living room and didn’t want to move.

The days that came after were so hard, tried to be brave for my friends… had to tell some of them what had happened, they didn’t have a clue. One of them had just come home from holiday… it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Going back to school was hell and even in my situation I wasn’t allowed a break from the torment of my peers. I was constantly being criticised because “I wasn’t crying for my dead friend” – I couldn’t cry, tears wouldn’t have helped me.

Life was hard, didn’t want to do anything. My SH was started again, with scissors again at first, moved over to a kitchen knife, then razor blade. It got deeper. The voices got worse. I started seeing the images, flashes in my head. I got more and more unhappy.

GCSEs came and went, left school and started college. I think leaving school was the final straw, my life suddenly felt like it was bolting on ahead of me – inside I’m still a frightened little girl, hiding under the covers. Everything suddenly collapsed inside of me and my depression got worse, SH got worse, more scars (including on my knuckles from punching walls), constant crying, developed a mild eating disorder.

Finally at the current age of sixteen I had enough courage (thanks to much support from friends on and offline) to tell my mum about my problems and to go and see the doctor. I was diagnosed with depression on Friday 15th November 2002, put on Cipramil (anti-depressant) and am trying to get a grip. I keep slipping though. The little things mount up on top of me and it’s so hard to keep going…

I was referred to a Psychiatrist by my doctor... well I went and had to sit through the worst two and a half hours of "recovery"! He asked me some of the most personal questions anyone could ask and he belittled my Self harming, saying that a "Mature person wouldn't do such a thing!" He has also decided that I have Annorexia, I know I have problems with food - but that never occuered to me - it's scary that my life reeled so out of control without my noticing! I have been put on Seroxat (anti-depressant) now and am trying not to give up...

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