Reader Submission: Lee

The following reader submission has been altered ever-so slightly to retain the privacy of the person, to whom this story belongs. Names have been changed. 

Please leave any comments/feedback for Lee, as it would mean a lot to him. 

Amy xx

Hi Guys.

I’m sitting here with my trusted pal, my dog, Bob, who is very old but loyal to me.

Having read your stories, I say to myself, “What the hell have I to moan about?”, but bear with me. I’m 46 and feel a total failure. I’ve always put myself out to help others… I don't even know were to start (so if I jump back and forth I’m sorry).

I had a very sad childhood; I never felt loved as a child from my mother and my dad just went along with whatever my mother said. I was abused by a neighbour, and I suppose that's where it started. I tried to tell my parents but they didn't believe me, instead, choosing to believe that the neighbour was an upstanding pillar of the community. So, I just kept it to myself saying I was wrong it was my fault and I was dirty.

I never really mixed as a kid after that, and I kept myself to myself. I was bullied in school so this affected my schooling and my grades. I left school at 15 after my group cert and got an apprenticeship as a Mechanic.

I met a girl and got engaged, and then married at 21 much to the disgust of my parents who believed she was from the wrong side of town. On the eve of my wedding I confided in my sister that I didn’t want to get married. She then said this to my mother and her reply was he has made his bed he may lie in it. Within a year the marriage was over (I couldn't take the beatings or abuse any longer) and I left the house and everything to her just to get out.

After several years thinking I’d never meet anyone again, I met this wonderful girl, we fell in love and after many hurdles we got married. Money was tight but we scrimped and saved. She pushed me (in a good way) to try and better myself and I did. I got a better job and worked my way up to a senior position (something I never believed I could do) and for 16 years and 3 wonderful kids later it was OK. During those 16 years I did notice the control issue by her but brushed it off.

After being the main provider for so many years, my father became ill with cancer he passed away after a very long battle on my birthday, my job became an issue (in the start of recession) I was approached by a major company and I jumped at this but after 6 months I couldn't take the pressure any longer and I broke down I had contemplated finishing it all (but I didn't because of my wife and kids) I walked out of my job and thought I'd get something else.

I went to my doctor and he gave me anti-depressants, after a while he upped dose and then again, and then he put me in touch with health care and the first thing they did was double his dosage, which had me like a zombie. I was introduced to a different doctor (by a friend!!!) who told me that the tablets I was on would kill me and so he set about getting me off them (this took about a year).

During this time he advised me to go and have some counselling which I did ( I found it very hard to open up, due to trust issues. After so many years of holding everything back from everyone, this time I was slowly getting better. My wife went off with the friend who had introduced me to the doctor. We went to marriage counselling and worked through this (as I thought) but after 18 months she told me she wanted a separation. Believe it or not this hit me out of the blue…even the counsellor was shocked. I continued with my counsellor but then out of the blue she said there was nothing more she could do for me.

Since then (2 years) I’ve been in limbo, I’m constantly told by my ex-wife that it was all my fault and this is wearing me down, I look at my kids and blame myself for everything (which is wrong but I still do). I've no idea what to do and don’t know where to turn to for help.

I’m sure I’ve missed some bits and I’m sorry, Thanks for taking the time to read this may be you can help maybe you can't but thanks anyway. I've no confidence in myself and don’t believe in myself and feel I'm letting my kids down so any advice would help.

This is for my kids.

Very let down with life

-Lee x

Do You Really Know Me, Really?

Hey guys,

First just let me quickly apologize for my absence last week, I was snowed under all weekend. I'm back now though, and hopefully you can forgive the gap I left in our posting two by two! Secondly, this following post is going to be a bit of a personal one, so as to balance out the POV's we have on here. Kayliegh has posted two absolutely brilliant blogs on here about eating disorders, today, and last Monday! Here is my personal ramblings on the topic...

Now.

Do you really know me? If you saw me on the street would you know that I used to starve myself on purpose? Would you be able to tell? I bet you wouldn't. I wouldn't be on for advertising the fact. But its the truth.

People in my life, all of whom know me pretty well, will know that I am a big fan of my food. As a kid, I was the only person I knew, of my age, who would willingly eat a salad. My mother has even told me the stories of when I was maybe four, sitting on her knee in a cafe with her friend, helping her eat a giant plate of salad. We used to share salads when we went shopping, I remember them vividly. One plate, two sets of forks.

I don't know how or when I started skipping meals, but it certainly wasn't to be thin. I only say this because it will aid me getting my point across: I have been stick-thin since my puppy fat dropped off, around the age of 3 or 4. My family found it an unmitigated nightmare to get me clothes that fit. Being tall and thin as a child helps nobody, especially when the clothes are sold by age, rather than size!

I have never skipped a meal to aid in weight-loss, that much is true. I did so because I thought I deserved to be punished for the bad things I did, the bad person I was. If I had a fight with my boyfriend, I wouldn't eat til maybe, dinner the next day to punish myself for "being a shit person", as I rationalized it.

I hated myself for being weak (and to me being weak was my anxiety, my panic attacks, my constant battles with depression), for making people miserable, and so, I would deliberately skip meals to atone. I have lied to everyone at some point, maybe even you, the person reading this. "Yes, I had breakfast!" was the most common lie. Breakfast is the most important meal, so the old adage goes, but to me, it was the meal that I would deliberately skip, because it was easy to. When lunch came around, it was again, very easy to be really busy until the hunger went away.

At the worst of my self-inflicted punishment, I was working off maybe one slice of toast for a whole day, plus coffee or tea and my anti-depressant medication.

I ate alone, or I didn't eat at all. There was no middle ground. My family are well used to me disappearing with a plate of something to my room. It's never questioned. I can't abide eating with people, though. I make an exception when I'm out with people, but generally, if you pay attention, you may notice (at shoots, for example) that I will eat my lunch before everyone else, and then wander off to do something while everyone else is laying into their food.

In my head at the time, starving was the only way I could be punished for being the awful person that I felt I was. If I made someone feel bad, I would make myself feel ten times worse to, as I saw it, even things out.

Passing out in my back yard was the last straw, or the second to last, as you'll understand in a moment. I gave my mother the fright of her life, after I skipped two days worth of meals, on the third I got up to make something, because I felt ill and that was a warning sign, only to feel dizzy and go out for air. I don't remember anything after that until I was being rushed to the GP for an emergency appointment. It was brushed off as a drop in blood sugars. I had to have my blood pressure monitored every day for a week but nothing more. I went home and had a salad.

The next time I passed out, I did it in the kitchen, after another "punishment" session. I remember eating soup, sitting on my kitchen floor, when I came around. I think my mother was less fazed by the second collapse than the first because I wasn't hauled off to the GP, this time around. But two faints were enough to tell me to get my shit together. Mam was scared the first time. I was scared the second time.

Its only been in the past few months I've been eating properly again. It's been oddly tough, and I do slip into old ways on occasion, but mostly its been a conscious effort on my part. I still eat irregularly, but the irregularity is usually based off genuinely not feeling hungry at that moment. As someone who lied about food, day in, day out, I can admit right here that I was good at looking like I was eating, but when I was alone, I was doing everything possible to avoid food. These days, I make a mission of having food. If I do skip breakfast, I will pointedly eat a big lunch, and I love a good dinner now. Chris and I talk about this from time to time and he will usually be the voice of reason, my conscience on the outside.

To this day, I don't believe I have, or have had an eating disorder, though, I'm sure there are plenty who would disagree because I always try to eat alone. People may not even believe me when they read this as they may have seen me hoovering down a bowl of pasta, or chomping down a wrap.

I still eat alone.

Let me know if you have had any similar experiences, and if you have, have you overcome them? If you are struggling, I am here to talk to you.

All my love,
Amy
xo

Amys Story

“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” L.P Hartley

Everyone has a past. Its a universal truth that most of us are embarrassed or ashamed of what occurred in their past. Most people hate the pictures of when they had an awkward hippie phase, or maybe a horrible, ill thought-out haircut that took months upon months to grow out. In my more serious posts, I touched on bullying because of my hair colour and also on anxiety. 

I love blogging about beauty, don't get me wrong, but every so often I have to remember that this blog was created so I could have a place to write thing that would help me, and in turn help others. So I'm going to reclaim that for a while. 

Please remember that what follows is personal and maybe I shouldn't be sharing this, but someone out there will get solace from this, maybe. If I help one person, then it will be worth the anxious feelings that hitting that little orange "publish" button will bring.

When I was 18 or 19, I went to see Paramore in The 02 with my boyfriend at the time. Everything was going amazingly and we were after making friends with some people from Northern Ireland in the queue. We got in and were standing around in the crowd surrounded by around 10,000 people. I was in front of Himself, and I don't really remember what preceded my breakdown but I have been told that I turned my head to look around and I was in tears. I snapped back into the world around me then and I started to freak out. I remember it vividly, painfully. I started to freak out and He had to push me out of the crowd as I hyperventilated, cried and screamed. I was having my very first panic attack. I couldn't control it and for that very reason I was terrified. What was happening to me??? I was brought to a Medic and all I remember was being asked had I taken drugs. No way. Never have, never will. I was taken into a medical room and made to sit down as they attempted to bring me out of my panic. They gave me water and asked me questions. I answered them all in a pretty harrowed, hiccuping voice, from what I remember. Then they gave us seated tickets to get me away from the crowd and let me go out to the ushers when I was able to be up and functioning properly. 

That was the start of two or three awful years for me. I went downhill rapidly after that, sometimes having up to two panics a week, which would vary from mild shaking and quietness, to full blown screaming and hysterical crying. All of these panics were accompanied by thoughts that the world around me was falling asunder, that I was losing control of myself and my life. I hated myself for being weak. There was an awful couple of weeks during the following summer, where I was really low, and I just didn't know how to reach out, or who to reach out to. As if that wasn't bad enough, I was being made to feel awful by others because I didn't know how to cope with my own feelings. It was Hell. 

My relationship ended the following February/March and I was surprisingly fine with it for about a week. Then I crumbled even further. Now while I say that, I in no way blame him, nor was it the definitive reason for my further demise. This was when I started to think really dark thoughts. I was listening to a lot of really depressing music which now when I think back on it, was glamorizing self-harm and suicide. Now while I have to just plainly state that I have never ever physically harmed myself, I can fully admit that wallowing in my dark, depressive states was mental harm. I was always listening to music that dealt with death, suicide, blades, alcohol, and a lot of negative imagery. I was hurting myself indirectly. I can admit that now, but back then, I was spiralling and could not see it. While I can understand the mentality and the place you have to be in to want to take it out on yourself, in order to have physical pain to focus on rather than the mental anguish, I just could never understand the action. Its a big jump from theory to practice.

I met Chris not too long after my previous relationship, having known him for a while just as casual hello's, as he's a close friend of my Ex. He doesn't know this (but I believe he reads my blog) but I thought he was the instant fixer. He made me feel beautiful, he made me laugh, life was looking up. But I was fooling myself. Things with Chris were getting more and more serious and I was so happy with Chris, but I was getting worse to a certain point. I would cry on the bus home because I didn't want to be alone. I was aware of how much better I felt when I spent time with people, but you have to go home sometime, and its in those moments you see the difference. I still didn't know who to reach out to or how to do it. Many nights were spent crying and feeling like I was coming apart from the inside out. I would spend hours on MSN and Facebook Chat to Chris and my best friend Aine talking. Aine (I love you, you ass kicking bitch!) gave me plenty of pep talks when I opened up. I told her about feeling so low I thought about suicide. She went ballistic. I cried and cried, typing away to beat the band, and for a while I would feel better. Time was rapidly passing. Chris spent many a night talking to me over video chat and IM, helping me to muddle through my feelings. It helped, and I love both Aine and Chris for helping me. 

We went to Kerry for a week during the summer of 2011, and as is the case when 11 people in their late teens go off on a holiday of boozing and debauchery, there was drama. It's not my drama to talk about but it really set me back. Ho hum, that's just life I suppose.

Through Chris I met another amazing friend (and I love you too for the record!), Kayliegh. She and I weren't close at first, but we had common ground in our struggles and we played a lot of cards together in Kerry, and when Chris went off to Donegal and Spain for a month two summers ago, we leaned on each other a lot. I hadn't got my boyfriend and she hadn't got her best friend. We literally talked every day. Somewhere in there we formed a firm friendship that I am grateful everyday for! I don't remember who persuaded me to, but I eventually went to see my GP and told her about my panics. She was not helpful in the slightest. I was advised to buy a self help book and see how I fared with that. I read it. It did not help me. So I went back and suddenly there was a new GP in her place who was amazing! She referred me to a Psychiatrist. I was bricking it and it did take about 2 months for him to get to see me, but it was the first step to recovery. I had thought day in, day out about dying up until I went to see my doctor. Now I was getting in control. 

When I went to see the Psychiatrist, Dr Paul, I was terrified. Was I being silly? Maybe I was over-thinking my problems? Did I even have problems??? Time to man-up, as they say! So in I went, answered a myriad of questions about my family and my relationships, my life, what was happening in my life, and how I had learned to cope with my panic attacks. I answered every single question with blunt honesty, and after 90 minutes in Dr Pauls office, I was given a basic diagnosis. Anxious Avoidance Personality Disorder. What a sigh of relief I breathed! I had a problem, it had a name, I could work on it. I was asked to come back to see a Clinical Psychologist. She was amazing. Like a lifelong friend, I just opened up to her and spilled all of the worries and hurt out. She took notes, told me she'd see me again and work on getting me a space in an Anxiety Support Group. I was thrilled. Things were looking up. 

In the meantime, I couldn't get through a weekend with Chris without breaking down somehow, into hysterical tears and spilling my guts. One weekend I told him about how low I had been feeling. I felt like the worst failure in the world. What kind of person was I to be attempting to have a serious relationship with someone?? I obviously didn't deserve to be loved. I was unlovable. I was awful. Maybe I should just die and stop bothering everyone with my stupid head problems. I didn't know what to do. Things felt like they were going from bad to worse. Somehow, Chris took it all on board, and continued to persevere in helping me get through. It wasn't the worst thing I had told him. Imagine your other half telling you they had thought long and hard about how to kill themselves and feel as little pain as possible. I did that. Imagine seeing your other half in hysterical tears telling you they want to die. I also did that. I was put on medication after medication, until I found the one that fit. Then I stayed on that for a year, and slowly things picked up. The tablets were doing their job, thankfully, and I was slowly learning to be happy. 

I came off those tablets a year ago, or so. I just forgot to take them and slowly I was off them. I was terrified of what Dr Paul was going to say during our next session, but he was fine with it. He reminded me that medicating was only going to do half of the work, and I had to step up and do the other half. Time to be strong. After being told I could stay off the tablets, I was pretty scared. Was I going to come crashing down? Would I cope OK? Having recently been diganosed also with Generalised Anxiety Disorte, now only time would tell. I would still talk to Kayliegh, I would still have my arse kicked by Aine, I would still cry over stupid things, but I knew I had to be a big bold 20 year old and be brave. 

For the first few months after I got discharged from Dr Paul's Mental Health Clinic, I was still really liable to slip and wallow in my own self pity. That wasn't helping but this time I knew it. I decided that I was going to help myself be happy. I was going to kick all my bad habits and that was just the way it was going to be. I would be Amy 2.0 if it was to kill me. I deleted people off Facebook who I knew weren't good for me, and I forged new, wonderful friendships! I even cut all of my purple hair off and embraced my ginger self! It was hard, and every day I wanted to give up, but I am absolutely not a quitter and life is there to be lived, so I was going to live it, and fuck anyone who said I was doing it wrong!! 

I can't remember the last time I wallowed. I especially can't remember the last time I panicked. I started this blog and suddenly I was feeling like this amazing, fabulous Super-Amy! I had an outlet for my negative energy, and it had the scope to help someone else. I was going to do what made me happy, and that was just the way it was going to be. If anyone said anything negative, suddenly I was able to deal with their comments. I had been budding during the months prior to this, but now I was in full bloom. 

Amy from 3 years ago is so far removed from who I am now, and I couldn't be more happy, or proud of who I have become. I know now that I was damaging myself, I was making my own life miserable, and in doing so, making other people miserable and hurting them. I felt like shit, all the time, and that wasn't okay. I want to say that during my year of rising out of the darkness, there have been setbacks, hurdles I've had thrown out in front of me. My ex told me he lied about loving me and led me on. I knew for a long time that our relationship was toxic, that we were bad for each other, though, I know because he told me once I'd be unattractive with my natural hair color. The only one who was unattractive in that exchange was him, with his manipulating words. My friends have told me about their problems which I was too blind to see myself and its made me feel like a failure, as a friend. But life moves on and all you can do if grow and mature. At the age of 21, I have more knowledge of my own strength that many don't attain til their 40's. 

This might not have been the most coherent post, but the misery of that time in my life mushes it all together in to one big black, tear-stained blob. I can't thank Chris, Kayliegh, Aine, and all the rest of my friends enough for helping me get through. I absolutely love every single one of you more than you will ever, EVER know! 

If this post helps one person, then it will have been worth it. While I'm not proud of my past, I'm proud that I came through it. I'm proud of what I learned, and in some ways, I'm grateful for the experiences I had, because they shaped me. I'm the  new and improved, confident, brave Amy, and that is definitely something I'm grateful for. If you find yourself in the dark, please remember what Dumbledore once said...

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” Albus Dumbledore (Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban, J.K Rowling)

I hope you mined some kind of wisdom from my demented, probably overly honest ramble. 

All my Love,

Amy,

xoxo