I woke up with a violent start in the A&E ward, for something like the third or fourth time. My head swam and ached with excruciating ferocity as I gingerly turned it to glance down at my right arm. I took in the ugly sight with indifference. IV inserted in crook of arm to re-hydrate after excessive alcohol consumption – check. Stabbing pain along both arms from wrist to elbow – check. Ugly, red, weeping lacerations held together with the usual ensemble of sutures, glue, and steri-strips – check. A quick lift of the unsightly cotton hospital gown I was swathed in confirmed the same situation on my upper thighs. The general feeling of dread, despair, and nausea – check. I struggled to recall the night before, which I assumed began in a relatively convivial fashion and somehow ended with the overpowering resolution that the only reasonable thing to do was to take a razor blade to my limbs frenetically. I supposed I had hoped to escape the horror within my mind, even temporarily. I couldn’t say for sure, as the memories were a blur of loud music, confusion, and blood. A brief flash of lying down in an ambulance, being wheeled along a white, sterilised corridor. My mother’s face. Police in my living room. I leaned back and sighed; I knew the drill. A practitioner from Psychology would come and “assess” me, and by this I mean determine if I was likely to commit suicide within the next ten minutes. The obvious reply would be no, at which point a form would be signed and a harassed and underpaid nurse would send me on my way. Almost on cue, a lady with a clipboard entered the room and introduced herself. I was experiencing something resembling mania by this time and answered her questions a mile a minute, my eyes darting rapidly from left to right and my hands unable to keep still. I wish I could remember her name; it was this woman who saw how unwell I really was and referred me to the community mental health team, which began a journey of healing that will last the rest of my life. I was 22 years old.

My name is Ellie and I’m 33. I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder following the above period of my life. Although I now believe the diagnosis to be lazy and inaccurate, the access it granted me to treatments and therapies to assist in emotional regulation was invaluable. Over ten years on and technically on the other side of treatment and in “recovery”, my difficult mind touches my life in any number of ways every day. The above paragraph, while perhaps grim and shocking to some readers, highlights a point when things could have gone one of two ways – had they gone down the other path I likely would not be here writing this now. I thank God every single day for that. It is an open statement of a very real and ugly side of poor mental health, as well as the worsening state of the NHS and its resources for mental health.

Documenting my own experiences with mental illness openly and frankly is only a side motive for starting this blog. Following a decade of deep-diving into philosophy and religion, as well as gaining a degree in Psychology, my main intention here is to explore advice, coping strategies, and the connections between mental wellbeing and every aspect of life. I can’t promise any profound epiphanies or ground-breaking ideas, but I did bring back something from the other side of the border between reality and the land where lead balls bounce and 1+1 makes 5 – resilience. And a relentless sense of humour.

[This post can also be found on the “About” page]