So please, just give me something for the pain…
And I want you
Oh my god, I want you
To see me in this state
And I want you
Fill your sleep and haunt you
To see the mess you’ve made
You’ve made
And I want you
And all my dreams are no use
When I am wide awake
And I want to
Believe I haven’t lost you
It’s driving me insane
Insane…

I guess this could be the start or end of a love song. A desperate attempt at reaching out to someone you love and have lost and are desperate to have back in your life. I guess part of me relates to that part of the song on that level. The broken hearted side of me. The used and abused, left alone, and abandoned part of me.
But this isn’t that kind of love song for me. This song for me, tells a different kind of heartache. The heartache I so desperately feel for myself.
(Which is only exasperated by others.)
But the sadness I haven’t addressed is so deeply rooted in me its tragic really.
But this time it’s quite obviously different.

In short, I am really quite lucky to be alive and tell you this love story made up of hate and sadness.

Picture this, I do not have the children, I am relaxing at home one bottle, then another bottle of wine deep. I am talking to multiple friends about a wonder of different things and I just sit and sob. I cried solidly for around an hour. About everything. How my life was in shambles. How the darkness had overcome me, how I could not see any light and for me, in that very moment… Nothing could or would be able to save me.

So to give a little bit more background and context into everything, I have been living away from my safety blanket. Separated from my husband and love for around 4 months now. I took the kids and went. I had all but had enough then, and now I was unrecognisable as a person. I had been spiraling into a manic depression for a while but things really took a turn around 6 weeks ago. I was drinking a lot. Not around the kids, but as soon as they were at their Dad’s I would crack open the wine, beers, gin, cocktails or whatever I had. At one point before I went out for drinks with a friend, I even took two shots of sambuca because well, why the fuck not! I was getting myself into states, seeing friends going back to my flat and sobbing, screaming, dancing and singing at 11pm, 12pm, 1pm at night. Cleaning the flat till it was spotless and I kept on doing this while still ‘maintaining’ a ‘normal?’ or ‘stable?’ Becka who could go to work and look after her children. I mean of course there were consequences, I wasn’t sleeping very well at all and my friendships’ were struggling. I wasn’t really eating for substance, I would often skip dinner, especially on the weekend and I had started cutting myself again. Not horrendously badly and not for attention or to hurt myself even. It was to release the massive, crushing, all consuming energy I had running through my body. The cuts were never awful and their is minimal scarring. It was literally just to feel something real.

Then I would crash, the high and rush of all of this was too much. From the rapid and racing thoughts and the pressured speech the excitement of life and all it’s prospects seemed too much. I would cry alone for hours. cry myself to sleep. Cry in the toilet at work just sob. But I maintained that I was okay.

How can you say that you love someone you can’t tell is dying?
Stop, you’re losing me I can’t find a pulse My heart won’t start anymore…

My head was a shit show fucking mess. I had people messing with my head in all kinds of ways and I was messing with my head. I had been through an awful lot this year, from the separation, a horrendous unexpected pregnancy in May/June that resulted in an ectopic miscarriage which I feel I had very little support from the ones I needed it from and that can and never will be forgotten or forgiven.
To finding myself after becoming this new ‘free’ version of myself. I furnished a flat and did it all myself. I felt accomplished.
To go from not being the one who run the house really, the decisions anyways; what’s for dinner, how were going to budget for things, big money decisions being made right in front of me and never being given the option to voice my opinion. I had no voice. I was stuck on a merry-go round of shit and hate. I tried to be everything I could to everyone who needed me. But I was no one, no one important anyways. I was easily used and I was always up for the night out and taking it too far. I was a slow spiraling, ticking time bomb. It was only a matter of time before I exploded, I just wasn’t sure how I was going to go off.

Then it seemed it was just freedom that I needed. I needed and still need to establish who I am and be strong for myself. Setting up a home by myself for me and the children was and probably always will be one of my greatest achievements. I did it. No one else, of course I had help putting beds’ together and buying some things but ultimately I am running my life now.

So what the fuck is the problem Becka?!?! You chose this new life, you chose to abandon your marriage, your husband; sure he’s not perfect but he tried/tries his best, he kept a roof over your head, never told you about the money problems to protect you, he took control of food shopping and cooking so you could relax, he made the decisions and made the money he was protecting you all and looking after you, from yourself maybe?

FUCK, what is the problem? I often think about my life and how it has panned out and sure everyone goes through trials and trauma through their lives. But to put it bluntly and quite selfishly, I feel like I have had more than my fair share of it.

I suppose everyone thinks it all started when my Dad got sick and died, 12 years ago. But it was all deep rooted before that. Mum being an alcoholic most of my life was intense. No real sense of security and safety. Neither my Mum or Dad ever did anything to physically hurt me, but the mental trauma is undeniable. From having to lie to my Dad about how much Mum was drinking, or finding Mum’s hidden stash of Vodka and trying not to explode with rage because you knew inevitably this would kill her. To Dad not being there through the week to keep us in routine and together. I always wondered why my Dad liked routine so much, now as an adult and a parent myself I know it is so your children feel safe, so you feel safe because you know what is coming. It is a trauma response and the predictability of knowing every weekend would be the same was at the time insane, but now on reflection I know was my Dad trying to predict how it would all go. Until you threw into the mix Mum not drinking enough or trying to go cold turkey, and she would have a seizure in the middle of Folkestone high street, or on the kitchen floor, or in the car on the way back from shopping. Then things weren’t as easy. With Dad shutting down and Mum being unresponsive, I (we) guided ourselves in the dark.

My sister in essence brought me up alongside my Mum. Kay taught me what a period was and what I needed, she taught me about makeup and hair, how to cook pasta with a little bit of salt in the water and how to be safe and how to live. In my adult years, we joke, Kay is my PA. She runs my life; from ensuring my pre-paid prescription card is paid every month to making a spreadsheet of my outgoings, she will even check I have filled out paper work correctly or my emails make sense. We talk everyday. Without fail; multiple times a day. Facetiming, calls and texts all day everyday. We are very co-dependent on each other; I am dependent on her. Then later, with Mum getting really sick it was the cherry on top of not having parents to rely on anymore. No matter what the relationship you have with your parent(s) you cannot not deny being able to say you still have them is a blessing. Because I would give anything for my Mum to annoy me by turning up to my house and being a Mum or my Dad to phone me again just to have a chat…

So amongst all the chaos of Mum and Dad and growing up I was a teenager who was weird enough without adding to it. But of course, it had to be added to because life isn’t simple or easy is it. I was 11 years old for fucks sake and I took multiple overdoses, the last one very nearly killing me, until I was admitted to The Priory in Ticehurst, the adolescent unit for 6 long months. Here at the prime age of nearly 12, I was diagnosed with Type 1 Bipolar.

I have lived with this diagnosis for 20 years now. Riding the waves of mania, depression, suicidal thoughts and tendencies, hypomania, promiscuity, money problems, risky behavior’s and generally just living life on a teetering edge of one extreme to the other. I’m not ashamed of having Bipolar, but I do wish I didn’t and I often wonder why me? Is it a trauma response to things that happened when I was younger, is it more just a chemical imbalance that I was born with and no one could have predicted or stopped, is it hereditary, did I bring it on myself?
Who knows?!?

Bringing it back to the present now. I was going insane, I had all this freedom and I was using it anyways I wanted. Drinking, dancing, spending, laughing and crying. Everyone thought and figured my behaviour’s were a normal response to what was going on in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I was and I am; or at least can be a generally very happy, fun time girl! But things were changing in me. I can’t describe how it feels or put it down in words the euphoria you can feel if you just close your eyes and jump, not knowing where you are going to land or how long the fall will last. Because although it is inevitably a fall to the pits, the fall is like flying, like running on waves or clouds, like your favourite music constantly playing and you are singing in the show, like those butterflies never fading and everything is just fucking wonderful to be honest. Colours are brighter and touch feels softer and more intense. Feelings mean everything and my goodness you are feeling everything in 1000%.
It’s almost like life means something.

But you crash.

It was around 8.30pm, 1st December 2023. I’d had enough. Life, love and living was quite simply too much for me. As I previously said, I didn’t have the kids’ I had drunk the best part of two bottles of wine and I said fuck this. I took around 30 co-codamol, 16 paracetamol and ibuprofen, around another 30 sleeping pills and to throw in for good measure around 16 anti-psychotics. I wanted to die.

I have spoken with a few people this week and some get it, some are completely dismissive and don’t care and others are genuinely distraught and hurting. But all I can say is nothing was stopping me. It is so amazing that everyone is here and rallying beside me now and I know I have so many people that do love and adore me, they have literally said no less to me.
But in those 20 minutes of taking those pills, I did not see it.
I couldn’t see that I am worthy of living.
I truly hope no one who reads this ever has to feel the things I did or anything similar because it is exhausting. Fighting everyday to be okay. And that is the bare minimum that people accept from you. To hold down a permanent job, to watch, care and look after 2 young children successfully trying not to fuck them up too badly. Maintaining friendships, relationships and myself. Some days I don’t want to get out of bed, to the point where I actually have to talk myself into it, like minute by minute what and how I am going to do this thing we called living.
I know, I am not the only person in the world that feels like this, I know I am not the only person who struggles, don’t we all? For sure we do, some of us just can’t cope with it all.

I am one of those people that struggles.

I struggle a lot that night. Thank goodness for the saving grace of Ash recognising I was in a bad way and rushing to my flat. Of course, it wasn’t that simple though.
nb; I was not making it easy for him to come and save my life.
I made sure I had double locked the door and he had no way of getting in. I was unresponsive at best and unable to answer the phone or door. The fire brigade were called and they were banging down my door and I was in and out of consciousness and the lasting memory I have of that night was I thought about my babies. Caleb and Penelope; remember the kids I didn’t want to fuck up too much, well guess what Becka, you are making it really hard to not let that happen.
Something that always resides in my mind is what my sister has told me; Penelope especially is so young still, she wont even remember you if you’re not here anymore Bec…
That thought amongst the adrenaline I imagine gave me some sort of energy and capacity to crawl to the door and open it.

The next 24 hours are a blur.

I only took these photo’s to remind myself of the state I was in.
I in very short words, nearly died.
I remember coming round at one point and tried to rip out the cannula and the catheter I had in place and the Doctor and nurses’ somewhat restraining me telling me to calm down that I was in hospital and quite frankly lucky to be alive, so I needed to let them do their jobs and stop doing what I was doing.
Panic soon set in that I was going to get into trouble. Trouble?! Can you believe it. I mean people were of course going to be concerned and treating me appropriately but suicide is not a punishable offence.
The only person who is able to punish me, is me.

With all of that being said, I have had a lot of involvement from external services. I am seeking help and support through the community mental health team, my GP and Psychiatrist Doctor. But I am not in trouble. Why was that my reaction? I’ll tell you, because there is so much shame and shade around suicide and mental health in general. Of course a lot is a lack of understanding but understanding goes hand in hand with the choice to try and understand.
Which entails the ability to empathise and sympathise where appropriate.

I am learning the hard way that the world and some of the people in it can be cruel beyond belief. Not see how damaging their actions are to you. Maybe I am too sensitive, I definitely do overthink almost everything, I am paranoid and my sanity is often in question. So I ask ‘you’, why on earth would you make someone who already feels all the above and more feelings you perhaps cant comprehend, feel even worse and leave them more confused and upset then started.

Bob Marley once said:
“The biggest coward of a man is to awaken the love of a woman
without the intention of loving her back.”

I believe this whole heartedly about life in general. I should be so unapologetically me and not be ashamed of who I am or how I am as a person. I feel everything so much, much like the mania I was describing earlier, I cannot help it. So when I am hurting I am really hurting, when I am angry I get really cut up about the disrespect and when I love, when I do let those guards down I love with all my heart and soul.

I more than anyone want me to be okay. Better than okay, be stable and happy. Full of life, love and happiness.
I always say this but healing and recovery is not linear. It is a battle, a daily, hourly even battle to be okay enough to survive. So I ask you from the pits of me to be kind always. You never ever know the battle someone is facing, with themselves or others.

“The consequences of our actions are always so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed.”
Albus Dumbledore, The Prisoner of Azkaban

Music as always gets me through, some people really do not understand how I feel like it literally hears me and sings, screams even, exactly how I am feeling. The songs getting me through all of this at the moment or just that are good and worth a listen to are:
Noah Kahan – Please
Noah Kahan – Sink
Bastille – Hope for the future
Teddy Swims – Flame

Being Becka x