Things look darker

So, I had my visit from the Psychiatric Intervention team.  Two lovely ladies who asked me a hundred questions and gave me absolutely no answers.  I don't blame them, but I came to realise that there is a lot of to-ing and fro-ing when dealing with mental health problems.  I've now come to realise that no-one can ever be certain what will or won't work.  Something that may have a positive effect on one person, could have the exact opposite with another.

At the end of a two hour session, where my emotions swung from one extreme to the other, it was decided that they could not offer me what I needed.  So guess what?  Back to Health in Mind!  And a whole new referral process.

This time my GP sent the referral and I waited patiently to hear from them.  After the proscribed two weeks, at the urging of a friend, I phoned them to find out where I stood.  It was explained that there had been a delay, but someone would get on to it as soon as they could.  This only served to reinforce my opinion that I wasn't really worth the bother.  

But other symptoms were now emerging.  Symptoms that really distressed me.  The initial one was shaking.  It is difficult to explain it to anyone who has never experienced it, but I will do my best.  It's more like trembling than shaking, but only down the right side of my body.  The feeling is almost as if something is quivering just under my skin.  But when I put my hand out, the shaking was actually visible.  The trembling comes and goes without any warning and I still have not been able to figure out how to stop it.

The next symptom to appear was what I have been told is called Hyper Arousal.  Not as sexual as it sounds.  What it means is that all of my senses are on constant alert.  An example of how this manifests is probably the most common way it is triggered in me.  I could be walking along quite calmly, round a corner and see someone in front of me.  I react as though the person has crept up on me and pounced on me.  Another common trigger is when someone touches me unexpectedly.  I ask you to try and imagine what it is like just trying to carry out a simple task like shopping, for me, an horrific experience of constant fright.

Than came the night terrors.  Not nightmares - night terrors.  The ones where you wake up in a total panic and the fear and trepidation carries through to the real world.  Generally I am being chased.  I can never see what is chasing me and it is always just behind me.  I know that if I turn to see what is behind me, I am finished.  It will have me.  This world is populated by people from my past and my present, in locations that I recognise, but aren't quite the same.  No-one is willing to help me - I am totally isolated.  The terror is just indescribably.

Of course, the night terrors then set off the next symptom.  Not consciously, but sub-consciously, I try to stay awake.  I realise I am doing it, but nothing I do seems to stop it.  Why would anyone want to go to sleep when they know what is waiting for them in that other world?  So the fatigue just slowly builds up until the darkness of sleep takes hold and the terror begins.  The longest I have managed to stay awake so far is 6 days and maybe that is what has contributed to the next symptom.

Flashbacks.  I am that little girl again, defenseless and frightened.  But in these flashbacks, I carry the knowledge of the adult me.  I am there, being sexually molested by Alex.  I can feel it, I can taste it, somehow I can even see it.  The fear is real.  The pain is real.  The smells are real.  I know I can stop him, but somehow, although I know how, I can't.  It is as though the adult me is trapped inside the little me, experiencing it all, but powerless to do anything about it.

So back to the GP I went.  Only to be diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  This is the point at which my anger at Alex truly began to emerge.  I was doing everything that I could do, getting help, talking about it, trying to deal with it, but still it wasn't enough!  And he was sitting, with his family around him, as supportive as ever, living the life of Riley!  How fair is that?  How could I turn the tables?  Did I have the strength to deal with this all?

Next Steps

Unfortunately, there is no way to go back in time and undo all the damage that has been done to me and those that I love, but at least I can try to go forward with a more positive outlook. 

I really wish that my parents were still alive to see the changes that are taking place in my life.  I have never blamed them for what happened to me – back in the 1970’s sexual abuse was not something that people were really aware of, so it was understandable that no-one would recognise the signs.  To everyone else, Alex was this lovely young man who could do no wrong and they had no way of knowing what a despicable animal he really was. 

I still haven’t forgiven him, nor am I sure that I ever will.  But I am trying to accept that what happened is in the past and I cannot change it.  All I can do is look ahead and not allow it to control my life and my decisions.

Easier said than done, I know.  I am absolutely certain that I have some very dark times ahead, but I also suspect that I might have the strength to make it through.  And if I don’t, it seems that I have a lot of friends who care enough to help me get through whatever comes my way. 

I need, of course, to learn to accept the help that is offered to me without that feeling of guilt that I am undeserving.

So next steps.  

My referral to Health in Mind eventually came through and I met with a lovely Mental Health worker at my doctors surgery.  Going in I knew that it was absolutely essential for me to be as honest as I could.  I do want to get better.  I do want to learn how to cope with what has happened to me and how it has affected my life.  I know that I have to find a way to forgive myself.  As strange as that sounds, I think that will be the hardest thing of all. 

So I sat through the assessment, doing my best not to hide the truth.  Maybe that wasn't such a good plan.  She picked up that I was still considering suicide.

Don't get me wrong.  I there is a huge difference between considering suicide and actually planning it.  For me suicide is my emergency escape route.  Like a security blanket.  It's nice to know that I have the option, all planned out and ready to go if I need it.  My options are open and I have a selection, depending on the situation.  Strangely enough, my plan also includes making sure that my choice will have the least effect on those that have to pick up the pieces.

I have actually had a friend who told me that my concern for the effects on others shows that I am not really suicidal.  How little people understand.  No offence to my friend, but considering other's feelings is an integral part of my personality.  I cannot help but believe that I am worthless and hand in hand with that goes the belief that I do not have the right to interfere with the lives of others.  And that also means the inconvenience caused to the emergency services who would have to deal with me.

This does not mean that I am not serious, it just means that although suicide is viewed as a selfish act a fact I cannot disprove, I see it as a way of relieving the stress of those who have to live and work with me.  Why should they have to live with any amount of concern over my welfare?  Can they not see that I am just a waste of time?

Of course, being honest about the fact that I am still researching the various methods of suicide and have not ruled out the possibility only resulted in the Mental Health worker referring me over to the Psychiatric Intervention Team.  Oh and that just helped me feel better!  Not!  Now I was wasting someone else's time.

But I accepted the referral.  If I was serious about trying to move on with my life, I had to accept any and all help that was offered.. 

Concerns

But things are never as simple as we expect, are they?  I didn't consider how slowly things move.  Not being financially flush, I am totally dependent on treatments through the NHS.  My first port of call was Health in Mind, a local NHS initiative that provides people who have mental issues with support.  


Supposedly, the Psych team from the hospital had sent a referral to Health in Mind and upon leaving the hospital, I was advised that I would be contacted within five working days.  Hah!!  If only!!  Five working days later, still nothing.  And did I do anything about it?  Of course not.  One of the hardest things about suffering from Depression is the inability to motivate yourself to do anything, even things that you know will help.  So I just waited.  After all, I knew that there were people out there who needed help far more than I did.  My low self-esteem has never allowed me to believe that I actually deserve anything other than a kick in the teeth.


I slowly spiraled downwards, inside feeling more and more worthless whilst trying to maintain the public face, portraying a woman on the road to recovery.  I had never found it so hard before, but there was something bubbling inside me.  I had reached the end of my tether and believe me, having failed a suicide attempt for something like me just makes it even worse.  Not only was I failure at life, but I was also a failure at death.


Oh yes, I knew exactly what people wanted to hear.  I was glad that I had failed.  I had seen first hand how hurt my family would be if I had died.  I believed that I could get better.  I had something to live for.  Blah, blah, blah.  Please!!  I still believe that my family would be better off if I was dead.  Yes, I know, they would be sad for a while, but there is no doubt in my mind that they would soon recover and without me to hinder them, they could get on with living happy and productive lives.  The only thing I have ever done to my family is hurt them, so how can I believe for even a minute that I have anything to offer them?


After coming out of hospital, I was off sick for a week.  My boss and my friend from work visited me, trying to support me and show that they cared.  The other Bella just took over, saying and doing all the right things.  The internet was my best friend.  I spent hours searching various websites to find the warning signs of a suicidal mentality.  I studied various online support groups to learn the right things to say and do.  And I became an expert.  I fooled them all.  And I was proud of it.  I still am.


I don't want people caring about me.  I don't want people coming up to me and asking if I am okay with that concerned look on their faces.  Couldn't they see that they were wasting their time on me?  I was an inconsequential waste of space who did not deserve even the air she breathed.


So I did what I thought would be the best thing.  I told everyone exactly what I had done and why.  Surely once they knew the truth, they would turn their backs on me?  If my own family thought I was a waste of space, people who knew me better than anyone else, then that was representative of what everyone else would think.  Added to this of course, was the fact that I don't like lying to people.  I am what I am and I did what I did.  And people deserved to know the facts about who and what I was.  Then they could stop wasting their time on me.


But it backfired.  My revelations have been received with almost universal concern and caring.  The only ones who turned on me were my family.  Not my sons, but pretty much everyone on my mother's side of the family.  Every one of them.  Eventually, even my own brother.  It's funny, but not so long before he had amazed me by being such a pillar of strength and support.  And I fell for it.  That is probably why when he did turn on me, it came as such a shock.  One of the people I had thought would always stand by me ... it only went to prove that I was worthless and nothing but trouble to those who cared about me.  


But back to my friends and work colleagues.  The messages came flowing in.  All supportive.  And they had two opposite effects on me and I can only explain it by using the two Bella's.  The one Bella was heartened.  Maybe there was hope that I could get through this.  But the other Bella was distraught.  How could I live with the fact that I was fooling these people into believing that I was worth even a minute of their time?  I was torn apart.  The two parts of me each pulling in their own direction, each opposite to the other.

Trying to move forward

Sadly, in the end, I told Hilda by text message!  In a fit of rage.  I know it was the wrong way to go about it, but after spending 33 years considering everyone else’s feelings and never my own, I took the selfish route.  

Isn’t it strange that the one thing she was accusing me of would directly affect her?  I’d had a massive argument with My middle son, an argument that was caused by Hilda.  I thought that I had lost him and that was something I just could not handle.  I wanted to punish Hilda and hurt her the way that she and her brother had been hurting me for the last 33 years.

I haven’t heard from her since I sent it.  As far as I know, neither have my sons.  I also have not heard from Alex.  And I am still justifying my actions by saying that he is the one who should be thinking of his family, not me.  

He did this, he is to blame and it’s time that he took some of the responsibility for what he did.  And if he is gutless enough not to do so, then so be it.  I am not willing to let him make me suffer any more.  I am not going to allow him to control me and my life any longer, even if he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.  I am working at wresting that control away from him and I don’t plan to give it back.

I have no idea what is in store for me.  I don’t know whether I will be able to cope with life from now on, but I do know that it isn’t going to be easy.  I’ve got a very long way to go.

I am still sleeping on my beanbag in my son’s lounge.  I don’t really have a home of my own, nor do I really have much of a plan.

But I have the knowledge that I have started to take the necessary steps to begin putting my life back together and on to the right track.  The realisation has dawned that I am always going to be two people, but I need to find a way to meld the two together into a united whole.

For now, I go from day to day, taking one step at a time, relying heavily on the people around me for support.  And for now, they don’t seem to mind.  I have two motto’s – the first is that I need to deal with today and let tomorrow take care of itself.

The other is something that a member of the Psych team at the hospital told me – a crisis is just an opportunity for a new beginning.  I had reached my crisis point and now needed to take the opportunity to start again.  To start afresh and deal with the issues that had been ruining my life.  

Starting to write

So I took the only route I could.  I started to tell them, one at a time, what had happened and was surprised by their reactions.  No-one judged me harshly.  I was only back at work for three hours a day, which allowed me time each day to try to get myself back together.  And it gave me the chance to start writing this book.

This book, which was originally just a means of getting it all out and maybe filling in the gaps in my memory.  As the days passed though, and the words came pouring out, something different became to take shape in my head.  Was there a chance that my story could be published?  And if it was, could there be the possibility that someone would pick it up, read it and see something of themselves in it?  

Maybe, just maybe, I could help someone else who had reached that point where they could no longer keep fighting what seems to be inevitable.  Could it maybe help someone suffering the way I had been – give them the strength to confront their demons and win?

Then, of course, more doubts set in.  How could I try to get my story published when so many people around me were unaware of the true me?  How would they react to discovering that I had been portraying myself as something that I wasn’t?  And how could I put my story out there if there was the remotest chance that it would hurt my Aunt and Uncle who had always been so good to me?

My best friend helped me a lot with this dilemma.  She never told me what to do, nor did she try to influence my choices.  But she was always a sane and caring voice at the end of the phone.  And I knew that I could trust her.  Maybe because I knew that she had nothing to gain by betraying me.  Or maybe because in my time of need she dropped everything and came straight to my side to support me.

She helped me to come to the realisation that I should not be the one worrying about the effects of any revelations on Alex’s family.  He was the guilty party, not me.  His family should be his concern, not mine.  

It just goes on and on

When I was released from hospital, I moved in with my boys.  Not only was it not a good idea for me to be on my own, but other problems with my flat precluded my return there.  My middle son took control of clearing out my flat and moving the things I would need into their home.  Not the ideal situation – sleeping on a beanbag in the boys lounge, but better than nothing.  And at least I had my sons near me.  I knew that one way or another, I had a long road ahead of me.

But I had also realised something else.  I had friends who cared about me.  It was really hard to accept, as I didn’t believe I deserved it.  There was still a feeling hanging over me that when they realised the truth about me, they would run away from me as fast as they could.  But there was another part of me that was aware that I was not a total waste of oxygen.  Conflicted just does not begin to describe how I felt.

I needed to make some major decisions, some really hard choices and I just was not sure that I could do it.  And I know I would not have been able to do it without the support of some very special friends.  Firstly, the friend who supported me when I came to the decision to report the sexual abuse to the Police.  Who went with me to the Police Station.  It’s funny, but I honestly expected the Police to be a lot less supportive.  There was no negativity and the officer who took my original statement remained detached and matter of fact, which was exactly what I needed.

Later, the two officers who came to take my full statement were also amazingly supportive and kind.  One of them, to his credit and my eternal surprise, actually stopped me at one point to tell me that he thought that what I was doing was incredibly brave!  Another boost that I needed.  Maybe, just maybe, I did not need to hide any longer.

But still the fear stayed with me – that it would all come out and I would be judged and found wanting.  Despite the fact that everyone who I had come into contact with and that knew the whole story was supportive, I still could not believe that I deserved there kindness.  And of course, Alex’s total silence and Hilda’s judgement were weighing me down. 

I started wondering how people would react if they knew what I had tried to do.  When I returned to work, the eyes of my colleagues weighed heavily on me.  I felt like a total fraud.  How could I lie to these people, who I was supposed to admire?  But what could I do?  

On the one hand, I believed that the best thing would be to tell them all the truth, but on the other hand I didn’t think that I had the strength to handle their rejection.

Repercussions

My Manager took control of things on the work side, ensuring that my job would be secure for when I was able to return.  Working together with the friend who I'd discovered had called the ambulance, he put into place a system of support.  He visited me at the hospital, ensuring that I had everything I needed.  Not only did he focus on work issues, but also offered his help and support in any other area that we needed.  He had only told those who absolutely had to know, exactly what had transpired.  Others, who asked, were told I had taken some time off.

Before being released from hospital, I was referred for a Psych evaluation.  Hah!  As if I didn’t know what was wrong already.  I was a useless waste of space who did not deserve to live and was nothing but trouble.

 

The Psych team were yet again, lovely people.  My one hour appointment lasted for about three hours and during that time, I realised things that I had never seen before.  My view of myself, the wreck I had made of my marriage, the way I had behaved as a teenager, my quest for acceptance in late childhood – it could all be traced back to one thing.  To one action.  To one person.  Alex.

I don’t think I have ever hated anyone as much as I hated him at the moment that the realisation hit me!  Here I was, a total emotional wreck and there he was, sitting in his lovely home, with his wonderful life, still pulling my strings, even though he wasn’t aware he was doing it.

How on earth could I have allowed this to happen?  What kind of an idiot was I that I had spent all these years letting him control me?  And ironically, all these years his family had treated me as though I was the second-rate citizen.  

It was time I took control.  I knew exactly what the Psyche team needed to hear so that they would allow me to be released, so I obliged.  Of course I realised that I had made a mistake (not!).  No, I would not do something so stupid again (hah!  Stupid to fail!).  Yes, I wanted to get help so that I could get better (Oh please, nothing could help except to go back 33 years and change it all).

But I wanted to stop wasting the staff's time at the hospital, so I said whatever was expected of me.  I knew deep down inside that it would only be a matter of time before I figured out a foolproof way to die.  One that would cause the least distress to those who would have to clear up after me and one that I could be sure would work!

Reactions

We all muddled our way through and the drowsiness certainly helped. 

In a way I am glad that my memories of that day are so sparse and cloudy.   I honestly don’t think that I could have dealt with it all, whilst trying to get myself back on my feet.  There were still so many terrifying things in my life and a person can only handle so much.

My mindset was not exactly positive.  To add to all my other feelings – low self-esteem, low confidence, guilt, anger – now was added feeling like a failure.  I couldn’t even kill myself!  And now I had to sit in a ward with other people who were genuinely ill, hoping and praying that they did not find out why I was there.  How would that have made them feel?  There they were fighting for their lives, next to me who wanted to give up mine more than anything else.

And still everyone was so nice to me.  Why couldn’t they have been disapproving and angry?  That would have been so much easier to deal with.  And there was still more to come.  Hilda had spoken to my middle son and told him that to her, what I had done was totally selfish and she did not want to see or speak to me as she didn’t think she could be civil.  This was probably the reaction that I expected from everyone, but when I heard that this had been said to my son!!  How could she be so inconsiderate?  For that matter, selfish?  And she called me selfish?

There was my son trying to deal with what I had done, or at least tried to do, and she was using him to vent?  The sister of the man who had set off the chain of events and experiences that had led me here?  Unbelievable!

And my brother, who had always seemed to need someone else to take control, had stepped up to the mark and was providing my boys with the love and support that they needed.  I have always had a less than perfect relationship with him and my feelings towards him and his family have been pretty ambivalent.  But at the end of the day, when we really needed him, he was there for us and more importantly, there for my boys.  For that I will be forever grateful.

Quite a few people showed their true colours during the next couple of weeks.  And funnily enough, with the exception of Hilda, they were all beautiful colours indeed.  

Another Failure

I actually remember very little of what happened the next day.  Maybe this is a blessing in a way, because it gives me less to hold onto when I look back and start throwing recriminations at myself.  Why did I fail?  How useless was I that I could not even get this right?  But I do remember a few snippets.  It is as though I was taking short film clips of the day.

The first thing I remember is when I woke up at about seven the next morning.  Never before have I felt that sick.  My stomach felt like it was trying to fold itself into a very small box and the nausea was unbelievable.  I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening.  Surely I couldn’t still be alive?  What had I done wrong this time?  Maybe I needed to just tough it out.

I fought the nausea for as long as I could, but eventually I couldn’t hold it back anymore.  I rushed through to the bathroom and only just made it before I started vomiting.  The stomach cramps were like iron vices and the retching was strong.  Again, I could not figure out what I had done wrong.

After a few minutes, the vomiting subsided and I made my way back to my bedroom, where I think I passed out on the bed.  It must have been about half an hour later, that I was rushing to the bathroom again.  Had I miscalculated?  Had I taken the wrong tablets?  By this point I was distraught.  Not only could I not live my life right, but it seemed I could not die right either.  I felt like a complete failure.

Since the internet had given me the ‘recipe’, I decided to look again to try and find out where I had messed up.  And of course, I had missed something out.  Too much Paracetamol makes you nauseous, so as a method of suicide, an anti-emetic needs to be taken first!  In between rushing to the bathroom to relieve the nausea and cramps, and trying to find a way out of my situation on the internet, another half hour or so passed quickly.  I didn’t know what to do.  I wanted the suffering to be over – I wanted to die.  But I didn’t want to be this ill.  The stomach pains were incredible and my back and neck muscles were starting to ache.  I hated vomiting at the best of times, but this was truly frightening.

Then I have another gap, though I couldn't say how long.  I remember the paramedics arriving.  Then there is a great big gap and I was in the hospital.   Because I had already started vomiting, it was not necessary to pump out my stomach, but the doctor had set up a drip to try to protect my liver from further damage.  Despite the fact that my suffering was entirely self-inflicted, he also prescribed something to stop the nausea.  I felt like a total waste of space.  A fraud.

Here I was, having made myself ill, taking up the bed space that was needed by someone far more deserving than me.  The nurses and staff were absolutely phenomenal.  My heart was monitored, as was my liver function.  They were so kind and caring and I remember feeling so awful.  How could they be taking so much care of me when there were others out there who were genuinely in need of them.

Next, I was in the critical care unit.  I don't remember being taken there and there's very little else that I recall of the next few hours.  What sticks in my mind for some reason is that the unit was lovely and cool and I was hooked up to all sorts of machines and monitors, which I found really frightening.  Probably because I was in and out of consciousness, they explained very little to me about what was going on.  By this stage, I wanted to die more than ever - I truly did not feel worthy of all the help I was getting and felt guilty that I was costing the NHS so much.  When would they realise that I wasn't worth saving?  Couldn't they see that it would just be better to let me go?  

Around mid-afternoon, I woke up and I was in another unit and my son, brother and sister-in-law were allowed to come in to see me.  Everyone was subdued, as you would expect and I just didn’t know what to say. 

The thing is, I wasn’t sorry I had done it, only sorry that I had failed.  

How do you explain this to those closest to you, who so obviously care?  Especially when you know that you don’t deserve their love?

The nausea reared its ugly head again, and the consultant prescribed something to settle it down.  They ran more blood tests and as the level of paracetamol was still too high, another drip was set up to counteract it.  I was more aware of what was going on by this stage, though my mind was still a bit foggy.  It was then that I realised that I still wasn’t in the clear and there was a large part of me that hoped my system would just shut down.

But that wasn’t to be.  I had to face the fact that not only had I failed, but I now had to deal with the repercussions.  How do you explain to people the level of desperation you feel when you can see no other way than to take your own life?  Is there any way to explain that you do not deserve their love or caring?  That you are nothing but a dirty fraud?

The Final Step

So on Friday 16th July 2010, I got things ready for the final step.  I phoned my best friend for a chat, to ensure that she would not ring me later.  I apologised to my sons for my moods.  I got the letters ready to be emailed to the relevant recipients. 

Through the internet I had learned that the tablets were easier to absorb if they were crushed up and less likely to come back up.  I’d also found out that taking them with too much liquid could cause vomiting.  Additionally, if the tablets were crushed, they would be quicker to take and th body would absorb them faster, thereby reducing the risk of passing out before taking them all.  One site advised that it was important to have the tablets ready and out of their wrappers so that it was quicker and easier to take them.

So I laid out my collection, 140 tablets in all.  I crushed half of them and mixed the resultant powder into a small amount of fruit juice.  The balance of the tablets I removed from their wrappers and placed them ready beside my bed, together with the fruit juice cocktail and another glass of water.

I made sure that all my washing up had been done and that everything in my flat was in order, especially property belonging to the service.  I put my phone on silent so that I would not be disturbed.  I had already developed the habit of putting the phone on silent at work and had frequently forgotten to reactivate the sound afterwards, so no one would wonder about it.

And then I went out onto my balcony for one final look at the view.  I took my time and I suppose there was a part of me that was wondering if I was doing the right thing.  Maybe there was a part of me that hoped that someone would sense that something was wrong and come around to check that I was alright.  But I honestly believed that everyone would be better off, even happier without me around.

Then I went through to my bedroom, where everything was laid out ready and waiting.  I started taking handfuls of tablets with the ‘cocktail’.  Once the cocktail ran out, I used the water.  And I finally cried.  Not so much because I did not want to die, but because I wished that there was someone out there who loved and cared about me.  But I knew that this would never be possible.  Why would anyone in their right mind care about someone like me?  I didn’t deserve it, so how could I expect it.

One hundred and forty tablets later, I realised that I needed my parents with me, so I got their photographs and placed them beside my bed.  And I just lay on my side, waiting for sleep to claim me and after that, oblivion.  Still I cried.  I cannot explain what it feels like to believe that there is not one person on earth who cares whether you live or die.  The word loneliness just doesn’t cover it.  I cried for the girl I could have been, if only Alex had not decided to destroy my life 33 years ago.

Spiraling downwards

Then other things began to go wrong.  The funding for my position was called into question due to budget cuts and my bosses were concerned.  Work colleagues kept on trying to reassure me that I would be okay.  But I did not want them to worry about me.  Couldn’t they see that I wasn’t worth it?  Didn’t they know that it was only a matter of time before it came out that they had all been fooled and I was in fact useless? 

My landlord was granted a court order to take possession of my flat.  And the date set was before the date I had selected to end it all.  My sons kindly offered to let me move in with them until I could sort out an alternative.  Now I was hurting my boys!  This just wasn’t on.  I had to do something.  I couldn’t allow my mess to affect anyone else’s lives.  But what could I do?

I don’t know why, but I started to take it out on those that I cared about the most – my boys.  I started arguing with them over silly things, to a point where it was affecting their lives.  It was time to act.

Planning

With everything else that was going on this was the one thing that I did not want to hear.  At no point in the past had I been that angry at Alex.  I finally realised that he had done this to me.  It was all his fault.  What he had done to me had set in motion a chain of events that I was powerless to halt.  My life was a total wreck and there he was, sitting pretty with a wonderful family, his parents still in his life, a successful career, nice home, everything.  And I had nothing!  If this was the way the rest of my life was going to be, what was the point in carrying on? 

The idea of ending my life started to take shape in my mind.  My suffering would be over and the rest of my family would be able to get on with their lives without me to drag them down.  Because that was all I was to them, just a burden.  No-one really cared one way or the other whether I lived or died and they would not be overly upset by my death.  And even if they were, they would get over it soon enough and be able to carry on living happy and successful lives.

So I planned it out carefully.  I went to the doctor and told him I was suffering from severe back pain.  I had suffered with this before and I knew that there was no way he could verify what I said.  I was right and he prescribed a good supply of anti-inflammatory/painkilling tablets.  I stocked up on a large quantity of Diclofenac, Ibuprofen, Co-codamal and Paracetamol.  I then returned to the doctor, this time telling him about not being able to sleep.  This was true, but I had another plan for the tablets.  I looked at suicide websites on the internet to find out what would be sufficient quantities to be successful and doubled it. 

I looked at the calendar and selected a date – 30^th July.  It needed to be a Friday night, because no one would miss me until Sunday lunchtime, at which point it would be too late.  I started drafting up final letters for the people I cared about and of course, one for Alex. 

At work, I tried to get things set up so that someone could step in and take over without too much difficulty.  I cancelled my car insurance, let the tax run out and the MOT too.  I started to tidy up my flat, getting everything into order so that it would be easy to clear. 

I still kept the happy face on.  I did not want to worry anyone.  That was something that was reserved for people who mattered.   And naturally, I didn’t matter.

As the weeks passed things fell into place and I was getting really good at saying all the right things at the right time.  I was proud of the fact that no one suspected anything.  Just how I wanted it.

Back to Depression

At first, it seemed that I was right.  I revelled in the idea that I could make it without the medication and that I wasn’t a total failure.  But after a couple of months I noticed symptoms of the depression re-emerging.  I was having trouble sleeping again.  My levels of motivation for everything except my work dropped.  I could not seem to get interested in anything.  And I was avoiding things that I did not like doing.  There is nothing like burying your head in the sand when you don’t want to deal with something.

In March 2010 I took my boys to South Africa on holiday – a holiday of a lifetime with no expense spared and the word ‘no’ left behind in England.  I was sure that this would turn me around and stop my slide back into Depression.  We had an absolutely fantastic time and I convinced myself that I felt better.  We spent a month travelling the country, from one end to the other, meeting family, experiencing all kinds of new things and seeing a part of the world that was familiar to my boys, but not clearly remembered. 

When we returned to England however, I resorted to my head in the sand behaviour.  While we were on holiday my rent had failed to come out of my account and my landlord was going ballistic.  Within a week of the payment having failed he had served a ‘Notice to Quit’ on me.  I called him and tried to explain what had happened, but he was not listening.  His terms were – pay a year’s rent up front or get out in June!

I started to pay off the arrears, but still he would not back down.  After talking with a friend and taking into consideration the fact that my landlord was holding a deposit equivalent to three months rent, I decided to wait and see what would happen.  Still, he refused to withdraw the ‘Notice to Quit’.

My mood spiralled ever downward.  There was now no way I could not be aware that the depression was back, but in my head I believed that if I did not deal with it, then it couldn’t be real.  So I soldiered on.  

But in May I eventually gave in and returned to the Doctor.  He confirmed that the depression had indeed returned.  And he suggested that there was a strong chance that I would be fighting it on and off for the rest of my life.

Recovery?

The trip to South Africa in April 2009 was really good for me and represented a turning point.  During the trip I managed to come to terms with the loss of my parents and the great gaping hole that it had left in my life.  Seeing so many of my father's family certainly helped.  They are wonderful, caring people and when I was with them I felt like I belonged and again felt part of a family.

I started to question whether maybe I wasn’t as worthless as I had thought, but deep down inside I knew that I had been right all along.

I put on a happy, smiling face and came across as this confident and totally together person.  The act was helped along by the genuine passion that I had for my work.  How could anything be as amazing as helping people for a living?  Who knows, maybe I had even been involved in saving someone’s life. 

And I began to wait for the tap on my shoulder that would be my bosses discovering that I was a fake.

Upon my return to England, I threw myself back into my work.  And I began to wait for the tap on my shoulder that would be my bosses discovering that I was a fake.

Friendships at work blossomed, but I was still of the belief that people could not really like me because in truth they didn’t even know the real me.  And if they had a chance to get to know the real me, they would run a mile.  So my sense of isolation grew further.

I hid behind my work in many ways and it took over my life.  Nothing else was as important.  Slowly but surely my act became more and more real to me and I started to believe that I was feeling better.  That I was getting over the depression.  By November that year, I was totally convinced that I had won the battle and took myself off the anti-depressants.

Things start to look up

As time passed by, more and more responsibility was given to me within my section.  When internal funding ran out for my position, a successful bid was made to a local partnership, enabling the service to keep me on. 

I became more and more involved in the job and it provided me with a feeling of having achieved something.  The depression seemed to fade, but what I didn’t know was that a combination of the effect of the medication and the enjoyment of my job was merely masking it. 

There was a part of me, I think, that realised this was the truth, but there was another part that wanted to be able to stand up on my own without the medication.

My brother and I had inherited some money and I took the opportunity to make some changes in my life.  I moved into a flat of my own, furnishing it with only things that I really liked.  My home was beautiful.  My rent was paid up six months in advance.  I treated my sons and ensured that they were taken care of too.

It looked as though finally my life was on the right track.  My life was full and busy.  There was so much going on that I rarely had time to really stop and think.  And I felt that my past was finally behind me.  The only thing that still bothered me was the way that I had lost my father - so quickly with no warning.  I could not come to terms with the fact that he had seemed to be getting over the loss of my mother and it was just so unfair that he should be struck down.

So, I booked the trip to South Africa that I had been planning with him.  

The plan was to travel to all the places that he and my mother had loved, as well as to visit my father’s family.  I hoped that this would give me an opportunity to share in their memories and to finally let go of them.  

Life was good, I had so much to be grateful for and yet the depression still lurked just below the surface.

Returning to work

My aunt and uncle were not well either.  I believed that the only way I could deal with what had happened was to confront Alex, who had moved to Australia with his wife and their family.  But how could I destroy my whole family and subject my aunt and uncle to such a distressing situation?  I wasn’t worth it.

Eventually, I resorted to registering with a temping agency.  I was no great catch and surely any work, even part time, would be better than nothing?  Boy was that move a good decision, one of the few I have ever made.

I was placed with the Fire Service on a four day contract.  My job was to answer the phones when the other ladies were out of the office.  Not exactly challenging, but considering where I was mentally, ideal.  

But I was bored out of my mind.

As a result of my constantly asking if there was any other work I could do to help out, a senior manager asked if I would be willing to sort out his new office.  The previous occupant had departed the organisation, leaving a great deal of old paperwork and documents.  I would be required to go through everything, figuring out what would still be useful and what wouldn’t.  The hope was that I could turn the office into something approaching habitable.

I attacked the job with relish and within one day, I completed the task.  He was impressed and got to talking to me about my work background, experience and skills.  Out of that four day contract came an offer of a three month contract, with a possible additional three months.  I jumped at the opportunity.

 

The post was to coordinate a large multi-agency presentation in secondary schools throughout our county.  The challenge was huge and exactly what I needed.  And as the work involved a form of safety education, I got to help people into the bargain. 

I started work near the end of 2008 and immediately immersed myself in the job.  There was so much to do and not a lot of time to get everything in place.  It was right up my street and suited my personality exactly.  I was doing something that would ultimately make a difference in people’s lives and was working under pressure which allowed me to bury my problems.

My alternative Bella was accepted without question and everyone believed that I was this confident, strong and capable woman.  Whenever there was a lull in my workload, I was quick to offer my assistance to members of other teams within my department.  If there is one thing I hate, it is having nothing to do.  So this further perpetuated the false impression.

New start?

This was the first time I seriously considered taking my life.  

Surely everyone would be better off without me?  No-one would really miss me and no-one would be particularly upset by my passing.  I planned it all out and started to get things into place, but I did not have the courage to take the final step.  I constantly told myself that I did not deserve to live, but I couldn’t do anything about it.  I felt even worse for being a coward.

I couldn’t save my parents, I was not there to protect my children when they needed me.  What was I good for?  Nothing, that’s what.

My mood spiralled further and further downward, whilst I maintained the public face.  I became even better at portraying the other Bella and everyone was taken in by the deception.  I shut myself away, stopped paying bills, didn’t open my post, in fact I hardly ventured out of the house.  As the year passed me by, I became more and more depressed and drew closer and closer to the precipice that threatened my very existence.

I can’t really remember what made me go to the doctor, but I remember it had something to do with my middle son’s interference.  He pushed me into it.  It was a good thing he did.  I was diagnosed with Depression and prescribed with the appropriate anti-depressants.  Within a couple of weeks, I was starting to pull back from the abyss only to be met by the horror of what I had allowed to happen.  

My rent was so far in arrears, I had no hope of sorting it out.  All the bills were unpaid and there was just no solution in sight.

Enter Zimbabwe Rhodesians Worldwide Assistance Fund again.  Although they could not assist me with my debts, they paid for the boys and me to move to a new flat in Eastbourne, paying our deposit and moving costs.  A new year, a new home and a new start.  My mood improved and I felt that I was finally on the road to recovery.  It didn’t occur to me that until I dealt with the issues at the root of my depression, it would just keep coming back and knocking me off kilter again.

My job hunting was not going well and only one of the boys was working, despite the fact that they had all left school.  What kind of mother was I that I couldn’t look after myself, let alone raise my sons properly?

The medication helped to a certain extent, but the truth of the matter was that I needed to get to the source of the depression.  But I couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with it.

Lower and lower

I turned to my father to distract myself from my own problems.  

Whilst I was staying with him in May, a friend of my son’s phoned me to let me know that my son had fallen from a window the day before and was in hospital with a broken leg.  I rushed home, blaming myself yet again for not having been there to protect my child. 

The leg was severely broken – in fact smashed would be a better description and surgery followed to attach plates and pins to his crushed tibia and fibula.  We were warned that it would take a long time for such a serious injury to heal and in the end it took more than a year.

Between looking after my son and trying to help my father, my personal issues were boxed up yet again.  It took a lot of coaxing to get my father back to normal again and we started to plan a dream trip.  

The idea was to travel to South Africa so that my father could visit his family there and we could have some time together to come to terms with the loss of my mother.

But no sooner did we manage to get him smiling again and he was struck down with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.  His fight with the disease only lasted two weeks and ended in June.

And the depression hit me full force.  Everything came flooding back.  

Nobody needed me anymore.  My parents were both gone and my sons were all grown up.  I was just a worthless waste of space who was nothing but trouble.  Nobody deserved to be saddled with me.  In public, I put on a happy face, telling everyone that I was fine.  In private I was just a shell filled with pain.

Six months of hell

Then began what I call my six months of hell.  We lost my mother at the beginning of 2007.  My father was devastated.  In fact, we were all shocked at how hard he took it.  He seemed to lose the will to live and withdrew into himself. 

I put myself forward again and travelled frequently between my home and his, working all day, then spending the evenings taking care of my father’s needs.  I immersed myself in his life and again, it shielded me from my own misery.

Then in March he rang me, very upset.  I had been on my way to bank the stores takings from the day before, but dropped everything to go and be with my father.  Stupidly, instead of locking the money back into the safe, I hid it in my bedroom, intending to deposit it the next day.

I rushed to my father’s side and in amongst all the upset, I completely forgot about the money.  I stayed with my father for a couple of days and helped him to reach a slightly better place, before returning home in the early hours of the next morning.

When I went to get the money to take it to be deposited, I discovered that some of it was missing.  I had no idea what I should do.  I had failed in my duty by not securing the money, so how did I now explain to my bosses what I had done.  I decided instead to stall until pay day, replace the money and deposit it.  That way no one would be any the wiser.

Little did I know that the finance department would pick up the fact that the money had not been deposited and would start questioning where it had gone.  The day before payday, I could no longer handle the pressure.  I phoned up my manager and confessed to what I had done.  I was suspended immediately, and dismissed two weeks later.  I didn’t even bother to try and defend myself, despite the fact I had caught the culprit and the majority of the money had been returned.