New Rules

This won’t be a particularly compelling post, but I just need to get some bits down.

This time last week I was in the middle of a mental breakdown. I wasn’t manic or psychotic, I was just so unbelievably fucking sad that it was unbearable. I hadn’t slept for 48 hours, and sleep (or lack thereof) really affects my mood. I had been up all of the previous night hallucinating, seeing all sorts of things – it made me upset and tired and I wanted to see my dad because I was scared and restless, so I went to meet him for some drinks.

Later that afternoon, a group of individuals who have been tormenting me for several months finally took it “too far.” I remember thinking, “Wow is this what it feels like for the poor kids who get bullied at school? Jesus, this is horrible, I have never been ganged up on like this before, I have never ever had so many people attacking me…” I was devastated at the way these people had treated me – I even believed some of them to be good friends of mine, but alas it has been proved otherwise.

Their actions damaged me in ways that I don’t think they expected. I collapsed in the street, out of shock, and when I came-to I was having a really nasty panic attack and couldn’t breathe. I had also cut my cheek open as I landed on my face when I passed out. The ambulance came, the paramedics wanted to take me to the inpatient unit at the mental health centre miles away – I refused and ran away. I went “home” and slit my wrists, I cut my arms up and shredded my legs (something which I have never done before, I only usually cut my arms). Then I did not sleep for 5 days. I was too scared to leave the house for 5 days. I tried and tried to get help but nobody answered the phones, nobody responded to my messages. I must admit though, my parents have actually been brilliant with this whole thing, and I am so grateful. But here I am, a week later, still alive and feeling a lot better.

But I’ve had a lot of time to think. And this is what I’ve realised:

I don’t want this life anymore. Something has to change.

I cannot worship alcohol anymore. I need to be brave and address my unhealthy attitudes towards drinking and drug-taking. My relationship with alcohol has got to change.


Above is the table in my brother’s room where I keep some things – look how many references to drinking there are, fucking hell, surely my whole life does not revolve around this poison?

More “rules” that I have come up with (notebook scribbles):

  • Think before you speak – stop talking like you’re a fishmonger’s wife in Billingsgate, or the missing Kray triplet, and stop speaking in Cockney rhyming slang and calling everyone a cunt. If you are in possession of a top-secret piece of information, DO NOT TELL IT TO ANYONE, even if they’re involved. If you hear gossip or rumours, do not play a part in spreading them any further. Watch your mouth, especially when drunk – you may not remember the nonsense you were spouting last night but other people do. You may mean things in jest but you will be misinterpreted, and you will get in trouble. Overall, keep your mouth shut unless you have something polite/interesting/clever/supportive to say.
  • Embrace natural beauty. Just because she’s had her lips done, doesn’t mean that you have to.
  • Get back to enjoying green spaces. London has so many parks and forests and fields, but you’re too scared to enjoy them like you used to because your anxiety and paranoia has gotten so bad. BE BRAVE: you will probably not get hustled, mugged, kidnapped, raped, or murdered.
  • Sort your budget out, silly! If you keep spunking money on other people, you will never save enough to achieve what you really want – financial planning needs to be done.
  • Find out about DBT/CBT/whateverT, mindfulness and yoga classes available on the NHS (or get PCT to fund it).
  • Stop being angry. This is not your fault. This is not God’s fault. This is not your parents’ fault. This is nobody’s fault. Stop being angry, you look so ugly when you’re angry. Learn to let go of all this built-up negativity – channel the anger and negativity into being productive and creative.
  • Don’t waste a single one of your numbered days. Achieve at least one thing every day, even if it’s tiny.


Be patient with yourself, and be patient with others. Nobody understands your illnesses or your behaviours: your mental health team don’t understand, your family doesn’t understand, your friends don’t understand, strangers don’t understand, YOU don’t understand. So, be patient. Ride the wave, and it will settle. The sea will be calm eventually – tidal waves always die. Do not get angry at yourself and those who fail to provide the help that you need. Just be patient – everything will fall into place.


When I saw my daddy today, he gave me this postcard. He said that someone gave it to him at the bus stop, but that he thinks that I need it more than he does. It says Walk in the light… and I believe that the smudged photo is of shoppers on Carnaby Street in the rain. I turned it over and it’s a card from the London International Christian Church. My father is an atheist. He has been reading the book about Borderline Personality Disorder that I gave him – I think he’s beginning to understand me a lot more, which is just amazing. But I think it’s also sad that he’s realising how messed up I really am, and now suggesting that I turn to religion to “be saved” as if it’s some last resort that I can’t knock ’til I’ve tried it. I know I must try anything and everything that might improve my life and tame my conditions.

But, as I realised this week while hiding indoors wallowing in my own misery and paranoia:

Nobody can save me but myself.





A Self-Portrait based on the Speculations of Strangers


Of course, I wasn’t the only one to notice her – we all did.

Men of all ages couldn’t keep their eyes on their broadsheets and were rather shifting in their seats to improve their chances of garnering her attention. Women cast judgmental looks in her direction, silently forming opinions on her attire and her face and the way she was sitting and the book she produced from her battered bag. Yet they too failed to disregard her, their jealousy and curiosity becoming more apparent with every sly glance in her direction. A group of schoolgirls were whispering about how they loved her nails, a guy put away his iPad in favour of staring at her reflection in the window, and I was sitting opposite her, almost dumbstruck, studying her, captivated.

But she did not notice me, she did not acknowledge a single one of us. As far as she was aware, she was the only person on the train. As far as she believed, she was the only person in the world.

Do Not Read This Post

Here are some things about today because nothing has happened but I have to write because I feel like I will not settle if I do not sit and write right now, so here goes.

I didn’t go to the pub today, and I didn’t have a drink. This is something of a miracle. I am pleased with myself but also kind of disbelieving – the past 48 hours that I have spent sober are probably not real. I might have made it up. Maybe I’ve been sober for a week, or a month, or a year. I don’t know.

My MRI scan was supposed to be tonight. The whole machine broke. They can’t fix it til Tuesday. I don’t care about this at all. NHS, funding, cuts, experts, Cameron’s Britain, Broken Britain, whatever, whenever, blah blah blah.

My uncle is moving out tomorrow – THANK FUCKING HEAVENS. I am so happy that he will be gone. And my brother will be home from university in a few days which makes me happy. Although I will be relegated back to sleeping on a towel on the floor. But my brother will be here so that’s fine and good.

I had 6 nosebleeds today – all of them were equally lovely, each one highly satisfying. It’s nice when your body chooses to remind you that you are still alive.


I have a lot to do on Monday and I’m nervous about it – I hope I get everything done, I have so many things to sort out thanks to multiple administrative cock-ups and the overall inefficiency of NHS. And I have my niece and nephew all day so it’s going to be tricky. I need to see my solicitor during the afternoon and I really hope that my little baby nephew doesn’t cry because then I’ll probably cry too and we’ll have to run away and I’ll have to wait a week to see the lawyer again and I don’t have time. Never enough time.

I am confused by NSK state – I just can’t comprehend it and it’s pissing me off, it’s like my brain won’t work – before (before what? before I fucked my brain with drugs and overdoses and astral projection and mind expansion?) I would’ve absolutely revelled in this NSK stuff, it would’ve been right up my alley. But now I am just scared and angry because I don’t understand it and I should understand it. Fuck.

Steven Gerrard’s send-off at Anfield made me cry. I don’t support Liverpool. I don’t particularly care about Gerrard’s departure. But the song “You’ll Never Walk Alone” always gives me shivers and makes me feel weird, so hearing thousands of people singing it at him, and his three daughters in matching outfits, and the whole bloody show made me cry. Quite a lot.

Today I went back through my blog. This is always risky for emotional people such as myself, but I needed to collate all of my posts from April-May-June of last year, as material for my novel. Jesus Christ, I was so fucking sad. I was hurting so much and pretending to be so strong and trying so fucking hard to keep it together. Reliving how sad I was this time last year has, surprise surprise, made me sad. I feel sad for myself, sad that I felt that way. I do not pity myself, not at all. I am not feeling sorry for my old self. I am merely sad that I was so sad. Does that make sense?

Tiny dead hamsters have started appearing in my dreams again – ugh, I will explain this another time.

I have run out of quetiapine. So I have no “nighttime sedative anti-psycho” meds for tonight and Sunday night. I will hopefully get more on Monday. I stole 2 zopiclone tabs from my daddy’s cupboard. I know. I know. I am stupid. But it’s only 2 – one for tonight, one for tomorrow. I will not get addicted again. I will not take any more. It’s just so I can sleep – Christ, I have not slept for a year, all I want to do is sleep. The thought of a zopiclone-induced sleep makes my eyes tear up – I am so excited to sleep. Zopiclone dreams, aaaahhhhh. Just fucking knock me out, little zop. I will wake up some time tomorrow and my uncle will be gone and it will be Sunday and I will stay out of the pubs and I will not drink and I will just be.

I have suddenly realised that I am heading towards a manic state. I cannot get manic, not tonight, not now. What goes up must come down. I have too much to do to be flying off the handle and crashing and burning and drowning and flying and laughing and dying. I don’t have time for this. Never enough time. Fuck. Breathe.

Zopiclone dreams, lovely. xx


And so it seems that I am your favourite pair of jeans
I live in all the pockets, I am stitched into the seams
You may try to wash me away but I will stay,
remaining in the lining of your Levi’s
with my sad, mad eyes
and my silent screams
and fragments of our wildest dreams.


Mood: 4 out of 10 – I am merely existing today. I am making no contribution to the world nor enhancing my life in any way. I just am. I have not left the house, I have not left this room, I have not left this bed.



WatchingClouds of Sils Maria (2014), despite Brian Viner calling it a ‘pretentious psycho-drama.’

Listening to: my mother arguing with her brother. The birds. The trains. One of the guys who works in the pub across the road is chucking empty bottles into the bottle bank – the sound is at once comforting and terrifying. I want to be at the pub. I do not want to be at the pub. I want a large glass of wine and a cigarette and a quick shag. I do not want a large glass of wine, or a cigarette, or a quick shag. I want everything. I want nothing.

Drinking: water, water, water – no alcohol. Day one of sobriety. I do not know for how long I intend to keep this up. Thinking about my alcoholism is too difficult to deal with right now. I will probably return to being a fucking alchy by tomorrow. Or even tonight – Jack Daniels is staring at me from across the room.

Eating: Fish n chips n mushy peas, because it’s Fish Friday and I feel like following a Great British tradition.

Smoking: One single JPS silver.

Buying: Nothing at all. I am too scared to check my bank account. I have spent an incredible amount of money this week. I cannot spend any money for a while now.

Trying: desperately hard to understand, to forgive, to forget, to forget everything.

Giving: myself pitying looks when I catch my reflection in the mirror and see what a fucking mess I am.

Worrying: about how to stay out of the pub, all of the pubs, all of the time. Also worrying about how I’m going to take all of my piercings out for my MRI scan tomorrow – some of the metal has been in for years, I don’t think I can take some of them out. Oh well, if I can’t take them out I suppose the machine will rip them out for me.

Loving: you, always. And also Juliette Binoche.


When I look out across the city, on these tipsy evenings where I am so filled with anger and tarnished by hurt, when I am clinging on to the last stroke of optimism and the final straw of hope, I see the London skyline and only one word springs to mind: despair.


I don’t believe that the buildings house despair but, rather, it is the sky above this city that hangs so fucking heavy with despair that it smothers us. I am being smothered by despair – not necessarily my own despair, the despair that I harbour about being alive and being so sick in the head and existing against my will. No. I am smothered by the despair of every person who has ever loved and lost, who has ever questioned humanity, who has ever dreaded waking up, who has ever wanted to quit life because ‘what’s the fucking point?’, who has been bullied and tortured, who has hated themselves. I inhale your pain and it burns my lungs. But I know that this suffocation is only a fraction of the despair that you feel. You are brave and I am proud of you. Someone else in this city, some other beautiful and damaged soul, is inhaling my despair tonight. And I am inhaling yours.

I have been thinking about the word ‘slot’ because I had to book a ‘slot’ at the sexual health clinic to get my contraceptive injection done tomorrow, and the word ‘slot’ makes me feel absolutely fucking sick. What a horrible word. ‘Slot.’ I never want to use that word again in my life. It disgusts me. I am repulsed by this word.


Mood: 5 out of 10 – feeling very indifferent today, don’t really care about anything, totally lethargic and “meh” about life.

Reading: Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children


Watching: The Affair

Listening to: Banks

Drinking: orange juice and pints of water

Eating: Neapolitan ice-cream

Smoking: Mayfair smooth

Buying: Tickets to see Bob Dylan in October with daddy – so we both have something to stay alive for and something to look forward to.

Trying: to stay out of trouble and stay out of the pub.

Giving: zero fucks.

Worrying: about being homeless again in three weeks time.

Loving: you, always.



from the Greek word εὔνοια, meaning “well mind” or “beautiful thinking.”

In rhetoric, eunoia is the goodwill a speaker cultivates between himself and his audience, a condition of receptivity.

Eunoia is the shortest English word containing all five main vowelgraphemes.

It is also a rarely used medical term referring to a state of normal mental health.


I received this eunoia necklace in the post this morning from Dixi – I want to wear pretty much all of the jewellery they make, it’s all so unique and exactly the type of style that I wear every day. Dixi marketed this necklace as, “the perfect piece for those who want to spread the beauty of positive and healthy thinking. Say goodbye to negativity and embrace Eunoia.” I really like its simplicity although the chain is too short for my liking so I’ll have to attach it to a long chain over the weekend.

Nevertheless, the message is beautifully clear and very important to me. I hope that my writing reaches its audience, and that my readers are receptive to my work. Plus, my brain continues to house largely negative thoughts despite my attempts to stop them – I can only pray for a peaceful mind.

So here’s to beautiful thinking and a well mind *chinks champagne glass* After all, Lord only knows how exhausting it is for me to feel all of these complex feelings and contradictory thoughts all of the time – I am so tired and I want to get better but barely have the energy to do so. Relapse is so much easier than recovery.

[You can << Shop Dixi >> here.]


This is my life, at the moment (subject to sudden and unexpected change, of course):

  • I had lots of blood tests this week because something is wrong with me and nobody is quite sure what. However, all the test results are normal. This makes me want to laugh but also cry, because I am no closer to knowing what’s causing my shakes and sweats than I was before.
  • After waiting for way too long, I finally saw the neurologist. I failed a lot of the reflex/reaction tests. He asked me to touch my nose with my right index finger – I missed, and touched my cheek, and laughed in disbelief. Professor GD did not laugh.
  • Professor GD is “concerned.” So I have to go for an MRI scan on my brain. I am annoyed at this because I recently re-pierced my ears and nose, and am not looking forward to taking 22 fiddly little studs and hoops out. Sigh.

  • 3 weeks ago, my uncle arrived from Poland. He has no money, no qualifications and cannot speak English. He wants to live the stereotypical immigrant dream, become a labourer and rent a flat. I don’t know how I feel about this – I can see Nigel Farage shaking his head at me. I had not seen or spoken to my uncle for over 10 years and now suddenly I am living with him at my mother’s flat. This obviously makes me extremely nervous, as I cannot live with people. Even in my 2nd year of uni when I lived with my friends, I struggled massively and ended up having a breakdown because I couldn’t cope with other people. I get scared of having to talk to him. I get scared that he will judge what I cook for dinner. I get scared that he might accidentally come in the bathroom when I’m in there. The sound of him coughing and walking about makes me feel sick with nerves. He stays indoors all day, watching upwards of 16 hours of tv a day. Because he’s home all day, I cannot smoke – this obviously increases my anxieties. I feel bad for him, but I also wish he would go away. I am largely hiding in my brother’s room – sometimes I’m too scared to leave the room to get water or food or use the bathroom, so I just hide and look out of the window at all the fields and the city and think about dying. I’m very uncomfortable with this situation – because I know that my uncle is a good, sweet man who causes no problems at all and doesn’t interfere with me, but I’m just scared in general because he’s really a stranger to me. So because I’m scared and desperately need a cigarette, I keep skiving off to the pub…

  • I usually eat at the pub now because I’m too scared to use the kitchen at my mother’s. And because I dread going “home” I’ve reverted back to crawling from one pub to another, causing trouble, taking drugs and drinking too much. I hate it. I hate it. I wish I never started drinking again – but then, of course, I have no desire to quit. It’s easier for me to just hide in the pub and get pissed up, then sneak in when mother and uncle are asleep. I don’t really know what to do about my alcoholism anymore – as soon as I start to think about quitting, the monster comes back and says, “Oh shut up and have another jar.” And so that’s what I do.
  • My parents don’t know what to do with me – I want to run away to Paris but they told me not to because they know I will die there. Plus they can’t afford the arrangements to get my body back from Paris, so it would be selfish of me to do that. But then they can see how unhappy I am here, how I am just constantly sick. They don’t know what to do. But really, I’m not their problem. I am my own problem. They can’t afford to send me to The Priory but apparently my care-team are “working on it.” I just don’t care. A bed is waiting for me on the inpatient psychiatric unit but, as I told C and LC, the sandwiches that they serve on that ward are bad enough to make anyone suicidal.

  • My nephew is 2. He broke my heart on Friday – he said, “I’m sad. I was crying.” I said, “Baby, why were you crying?! Don’t be sad!!” He said, “I am sad. Daddy’s gone. He’s in a house but not mummy’s house.” This broke my heart. We [the family] thought that he would be too young to understand that his parents are living separate lives and in the process of divorcing. I told him that Daddy is at work and that he can see his Daddy whenever he wants, that all he has to do is ask. God, I love that kid more than anything. He knows that Daddy is gone but he doesn’t yet understand that he is my whole world and my reason for being. I hope one day he grasps just how important he is to me.
  • That Horrible Guy and the 40 year old Lady had their baby, a little girl. I saw him sitting in the gutter outside Maternity, smoking a cigarette, head in his hands, looking like his world had fallen apart. I laughed. I wished his Lady congratulations, and sent him my condolences since his life as he knows it is now over. I told him he can’t spend his money on raving and drugs and trainers and new phones anymore – every penny that he gets for the next 18 years must go to her. Then I told him I was off to the pub and he looked like he wanted to kill me because he was clearly gasping for a pint hahaha.

  • Someone was killed outside my dad’s flat this morning. The whole road is cordoned off as a crime scene and it’s packed with Old Bill and paramedics, so I’m not allowed in to see dad at the moment. I pray that it is nobody I know.
  • I’ve been struggling with reading and writing. But I’m working on a piece which I’ll publish on here as soon as it’s all come together. I want to thank my followers and readers for sticking by me and reading my older work – you’ve waited so patiently for new work but I promise it is on its way. You’re all wonderful and I can’t thank you enough. Much Love from London – where the streets are not paved with gold, but paved with blood, unsuccessful scratchcards and condom wrappers. X

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