Lonely

Days on snow: 4

Actual days skiing: 1

Fuck me Canadas cold. I forget that every year. I also forget how lonely the first couple of days of the season are. The staffing is pretty sparse and I have the disadvantage of not living in staff accommodation.

Not to say I’m in isolation, it’s nice to see all the regulars from last year. I like where I’m living, it’s relatively close to town and it’s nice being in a family home. I got greeted off the bus with a cooked meal and a glass of wine. But it feels like life has just carried on without me while I’ve been away. Which of course it has, but it sort of feels like I’m having to break into all ready formed friendship groups.

The hill isn’t fully staffed yet, theres another 40 instructors to turn up and I’m pretty sure that the other departments need more staff too. I mean I haven’t even been in Canada a week yet. I’ve got to give myself time to settle in. And this is normal, just every year I choose to forget it. I remember feeling like this last year, and the year before that and the year before that. The people I was hanging out with at the end of last season I didn’t even meet until mid February. I’ve just got to be patient. It will happen.

T -1

Days until snow: 3

I can’t believe I’ve made it. I’m making it back to go skiing again. I’m getting on a plane tomorrow to go back to Canada. Truth be told I’m bricking it, but I’m always bricking it, every year. I think I’ll get on the plane. I might not, who knows, see what tomorrow brings.

But, as always, my brain needs something to freak out about. I’m worried about what people will think of me. A lot my friends from last year knew me as someone who was very ill. I did weird things. I’m so worried about what someone I was seeing last year will think of me. We where a good partnership, there was no expectations but I was horrible to him towards the end of the season. He coped amazing. He was so nice to me and looked after me.

We vaguely kept in touch over the summer, face timing while I was in Edinburgh, there was even talk of him coming to pick me up at the airport. We’re on good terms, weather it goes back to how it was or we’re just civil I don’t think I’m that bothered. I just don’t want him to think I am the person that I was at the end of last season. I wasn’t well, I really really wasn’t well. I probably wouldn’t have made it to this season if I hadn’t got help and there wasn’t someone to distract me with movies on my days off, like he did for me.

I owe a lot to a lot of people, who where totally passive in my life over the season but fundamentally kept me alive. My roommate was invaluable. For the first two weeks I lived alone, I got moved into a bigger room with a ticket scanner after asking the accommodations officer for a roommate. She was 19 and a bit of a mess. I don’t think she ate a fresh vegetable all season would consume huge amounts of peanut butter with a spoon when she’d come in high. But the mere presence of her being there stopped me from doing anything stupid. I never spoke about my mental health with her. Our relationship was pretty superficial, bonding over gossip and setting each other up with different boys on the hill. But it kept me alive. It stopped me crying myself to sleep. It reduced the urge to hang myself on the shower curtain rail.

Then there was there where the boys, I don’t know how I met them, probably just through word and mouth, but they where always there to eat a meal with me. I hated eating by myself (it’s something I’ve learn’t to love since the loony bin) and they where always there to sit and eat with me. Appeasing me with gossip and swapping songs and critiquing each others music taste. It just stopped the thoughts in my head for an hour or two. Although some of those relationships have turned a bit sour (mainly due to sex) they kept giving me reasons to live.

So I suppose its not the large gestures that save people, it’s the tiniest of things. It’s the normal things. It’s difficult to speak frankly and honestly about mental health and its difficult to hear. At least for me, the things that kept me going where the mundane. Even if it was just nipping up to use the microwave for 2 minutes or coming round after a night out to laugh about the antics the night before.

This year won’t be like last, I know that, I don’t expect to be. I just want there to be the mundane, even though I’ve been a lot more explicit about my mental health, it isn’t me. It’s just a side of me.

Dopesick

Days until start of the season: 8

I’ve worked so hard over this summer: antidepressants, one-to-one therapy, inpatient, day patient, psychiatrist, psychologists, yoga, running, art therapy, you name it, I’ve done it. And I feel better for it. I really do. Last season was rough. It’s not normal to be sitting in a cafe with a group of rowdy school kids and a best friends and think: “This is it, I’m ready to die now, I don’t want to be here any more”. Before considering plans to top myself that evening. Having a roommate truly saved me last year, not only because she was a bit of a laugh, but the complete lack of privacy meant I had no chance to give anything a try. Doesn’t stop me from knowing that the shower curtain rail in 358 was not particularly strong.

I got the news last week that I could stop taking Citalopram. Finally. I’ve been hating the things for near enough 6 months. I’d been tapering off them for the last 4 weeks under observation while I was in the loony bin. There were no seeming withdrawal effects. Going cold turkey on the last 10mg though. My god. Citaloprams a cunt. Giving me one final fuck you. Imagine you’ve got the flu, then combine that with the worst hangover you’ve ever felt and do it all on a boat. That’s what it feels like.

I’m so excited to get back to my real life. It’s not long until I’ll be back on skis and I’m so proud of myself for getting this far to be able to do it. It seems a real kick in the nuts that this withdrawal sucks so much. If it carries on. I won’t be able to fly.

Speaking to my psychiatrist, he’s putting me back on to a liquid form so I can decrease the dosage slowly again. Hopefully reducing the side effects completely. I just want all this to be over now. Get through the next two weeks and get back on track.

An Open Letter to Independent Schools

 I am 22 years old and I am writing this from a private psychiatric hospital in the middle of London. 

There are many elements that contribute to the state of my mental health. It’s the age old concept of nature and nurture. But there is a common theme that I keep finding myself and others going back to in the repetitive and constant courses of therapy that I find myself in. At the age of 11, I went to a big private all-girls school. I didn’t pass the 11+, some see this as surprising as I am the daughter of a teacher. Some might think that it’s not surprising seeing as the 11+ eight years ago was a paper made up of bizarre verbal reasoning questions that didn’t seem to apply to any real life situations. 

 Due to my early life failure at the age of 10 I wasn’t eligible for the local grammar schools, with a parent that worked in the education sector and the other in a successful city job they made the decision to send me to the private school. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I also wanted to go. From the outside it was a shiny new school, where all the girls were perfect, blonde, well-rounded individuals who played sports at the weekends and achieved academically during the week. There were amazing facilities, a house system which seemed to solve the pastoral problem and a record number of A*s at GCSE and Oxbridge candidates. 

After getting through the entrance exams, a day of 11+ type papers, I found myself in the deep end at an extremely competitive and highly intense environment. I remember little to no sympathy for the fact that we were just 11/12 year olds straight out of primary school. There was an expectation that we would work hard, do our hour and a half of homework a night, read around the subject and spend our spare time competing in Lacrosse, so that the school could retain the national title for U12 Lacrosse. Lessons were constant berratings by different teachers, all insisting that their subject was the most important. 

Life continued like that for the next 6 years of my life, intense days of school from 8:30 until 4:30 with compulsory ‘voluntary’ clubs at lunch time. I achieved  what the school claims that it can get for you. I have an amazing set of GCSEs and an equally good set of A-Levels, but being in that environment for my formative teenage years was detrimental. 

The single sex education delayed my ability to mature emotionally. Being starved of the male part of the society only intensified the bizarre environment that independent schools nurture. With boys becoming mythical creatures, we only had what the environment told us boys would like. It was never mentioned that anything else apart from hetrosexual love could exist. There was very much a culture of fitting into the private school mould, or how else will you get into university and meet a rich man who can care for you for the rest of you life? Intelligent pretty girls, got intelligent pretty husbands, who made lots of money so you could have bread intelligent pretty children to go to private school. Writing it down makes it feel almost eugenics like. I didn’t wear a pair of trousers for the full 7 years I spent at the school. There simply wasn’t the options. I had a talent for design and would have  loved the opportunity to do resistant materials and woodwork. But that’s not a girls place. All a very outdated way of thinking, but it’s worked for the last 200 years, why not now? 

When I got to sixth form all of a sudden boys and girls where in same classes. Having had the last 5 years being conditioned into what boys wanted, it was bizarre to now share a space with them and interact with them daily. The boys had also spent 5 years in a similar environment, with the pressure and the expectations. But that was also 5 years of built up male testosterone but none of the social skills to go with it. They behaved appalling. There were numerous cases of unwanted sexaul behaviour from the boys to girls. But they were never told off, girls would either be reprimanded for wearing a black t-shirt bra underneath a white school shirt or the phrase “boys will be boys” was used as an excuse. This is unbelievable in a time some would call a “gender revolution”. 

In highsight I suffered a nearly manic episode during my last years of A-levels. Being at school for the full day and then spending 3 hours a night doing maths homework over and over and over again. The pressure to be perfect was unbearable. I worked at weekends, never having a day off. There had to be value in everything I did, or what else could I put on my UCAS personal statement?  Reflecting and writing this down it all seems very unhealthy, but at the time it was considered a work ethic. There was competition amongst girls to see who could maintain the best social life and work the hardest. Who could be the one that all the boys fancied and still had the brains to back it up. The phrase “well-rounded individual” was thrown around almost every day of my education. The only thing that it taught me was how to be high-functioning with a mental health problem. 

Being an inpatient at a psychiatric ward, being surrounded by other individuals suffering with all sorts of mental health problems, being in numerous groups where all aspects of life are discussed its alarming the number of people from all different backgrounds and ages that talk about similar experiences. Highly intensity private school experiences in the twee middle class Britain. There are people here who are supposed to be doing their A-levels but  find themselves under section because they’d rather die than achieve the lofty heights that schools expect from them. There are people here who left school 15-20 years ago who still speak of the horrors and tourture that their education put them through. There are also people who have fond memories of their schools. Although, in my experience, they are few and far between. 

I only left school 4 years ago. I can’t imagine the pressure that’s put on girls now with Instagram. But I don’t think that’s the only factor in the environment that these kids are growing up with now. The fact that there is such a varied amount of people here of all ages and nationalities that have a similar story shows that today’s society isn’t only to blame. 

There are teenagers in here who are supposed to be taking their A-levels and enjoying being of drinking age but are instead crumbling under the pressure that schools put on them. The fact that this hospital has an overflow ward that fills up at the beginning of the school year and during exam season shows that this is a long standing epidemic. 

Mental health is becoming less stigmatised, anxiety and depression is talked about more freely.  We need to take some serious actions to support the children going through the private education system now. At no point should their grades contribute to their sense of self. What does it matter if they miss one piece of homework? Why does it matter if they didn’t go to uni? Why is there this expectation that the outside world won’t accept anything less than perfect?  Why is there no value in vocational skills? Why aren’t we all allowed to have one element in our life that makes us happy, regardless of achievement, race, height, weight etc etc? Why aren’t we valuable unless we achieve? 

I write this for all the parents and kids that are considering an elite private school. Please ignore the glitz and glam that private schools use to get you in. Their facilities are amazing and it’s easy to be dazzled by the number of students who get into Russell Group universities, but ask yourself at what cost? Although independent schools are registered charities, they are definitely for-profit organisations. My experience is that you, or your child is just a number. These old-fashioned institutions do not necessarily have you or your child’s best interests at heart. Reputation and image is a lot more important to them. 

I have no solution for this problem, just a story of warning. I remember an article coming out about the school being sued for being the root of anxiety and depression for an ex-student. The case was dropped because the person suing was told it would cause more harm to his mental health then good. While I’m not going to sue the school, I feel that I am not the only one with a story like this. There needs to be a change to the private educational system, more value put on a sense of self, and ultimately time for these age old institutions to acknowledge that the system that might have worked in the past may not anymore.

Shoe Laces and Cables

Days in the loony bin: 1

Days til snow: 29

I think I now have a relatively solid understanding of what it would be like to be in prison. I’m not saying that a psych ward is like a prison, in fact its very nice, therapy three times a day, yoga in the evening, a gym and hot meal three times a day. Other things are a little bit more like prison, like the daily urine samples for drugs tests. The next time I have to take a pregnancy test, it’s going to be a doddle.

As I’ve only been an inpatient for 24 hours I’m still considered high risk, and while I do have suicidal idealisations I wouldn’t ever act on them. This means that I get to have a nurse check on me every 15 minutes, my teenage self counted my parents coming into my room at night as an invasion of privacy, she wouldn’t have been able to cope with being checked on in the middle of the night every 15 mins. I think that this time period will increase with time. My personal belongings have been searched within an inch of its life. My phone and laptop charger have been confiscated, so has my belt but not my fucking shoe laces. I fully understand the need to confiscate things that you could potentially hang yourself or create a ligature with. It all makes sense. But why not the shoelaces. I mean its really frustrating having to constantly ask a nurse if you can charge your phone or laptop, I find myself watching more telly (which by the way is wall mounted and has a cable, perfect suicide trap) than running down the battery on my devices. I would much rather have my shoe laces taken away, making all my shoes slip on.

As much as I joke about all these things, I’m glad I’m in here, its really hard and difficult and emotional. But it needs to be done. For the first time in a while I feel positive about my future. If that’s what I feel like after just one day, I wonder what it’ll be like in week.

The Funny Farm

It looks like next season might be in jeopardy. After the strop I threw at the beginning of month and walking out of my job half way through a shift I’m now happily unemployed. Admittedly, I think if anyone had been in that situation they would be too. Leaving things is something I’m good at, I rarely actually finishing things or saying goodbye. I didn’t do the last run of last season, instead I took the early bus down with the punters and cried for 2 hours while watching Greys Anatomy. There are countless jobs that I’ve never actually done the last days of, people I never actually said goodbye too. Just hundreds of open ends.

Even the last day of school I didn’t do in its entirety, I went late, Lasted half an hour and then left. Deleted all my school friends off social media and blocked all the forms of contact too. Ready to start completely afresh. Much like I start every job, friendless and commitment free, expecting the job to fulfil everything I need, socially and mentally. Every time I’m disappointed.

Even this year, going into my 4th season, some people I will know, some I won’t, but those I know won’t nessacerily be this years friends. Just because they live in the specific world of Marmot Basin winter season 18/19 and I don’t need them to tarnish this years version. Its kind of scary as well because last years people might know me too well. They’ll know my secrets and I won’t be able to build a new character for this year.

So after my tantrum I am wonderfully fun-employed. Not for the first time and definitely not the last. Although I’m slightly happier about it than last time. I’ve got a degree to study for, a trailer to build and fitness to improve. I’ve also got a hell of a lot of therapy to pay attention too.

After my second adventure to my psychiatrist and then a consult from my psychologist its been decided that maybe I would benefit from inpatient care. No one seems to have a clear grasp on what is actually wrong with me apart from the fact that I probably suffer from some sort of mood disorder. My drugs have been upped, not that I think they’re helping much.

So maybe my next post will be from the inside of the funny farm, or maybe less of a funny farm more of a middle class retreat for overachievers who don’t always achieve. It’s been described to me as an upgrade to a travel lodge in Marylebone full of people like me. I wouldn’t be sectioned, I would be allowed out, allowed to leave whenever I want. But it’s been suggested that I maybe postpone my season a month or so.

At the moment next season will go ahead as planned.

Although I’ve got no flight booked.

Unemployment

I went to the Psychiatrist, he said I’m depressed. I went to the Psychologist, she thinks I’m Bipolar. The conclusion is that no one really knows. I’ve been upped on the Citalopram to 30mg by the Psychiatrist with a plan for it to increase it further to 40mg. Apparently that’s considered the therapeutic dose.

Maybe the reason I hate the drugs so much is that I haven’t been taking enough of them. Maybe in the next two weeks things will start improving a bit. I’ve just resigned from my job.

According to the psychologist part of the reason I struggle with everything is because I push myself too hard with stuff. Theres no such thing as me just going to work, doing my job to the satisfactory level and then going home and getting on with the rest of my life. Even having a life outside of work. Instead I’ve just cancelled Saturday night plans because I stayed an extra hour at work and now I have to be there an hour early tomorrow. Between now and next Friday all my waking hours will be spent killing myself over a job I’ve left.

Maybe because I feel a little bit guilty. Disappointed in myself not to be there until the bitter end. Constantly feeling like I could’ve done a better job. Worked harder. Done better. Theres no real point. My boss never gives back positive feedback, I doubt this job will appear on my CV. I already have a barrage of references that will be a hundred times more valuable than this one.

I still hate myself for leaving. I know it’s a good thing. I’m worried about not having an income for a month even though I’m more than covered to get myself to Canada. I hate not working. Maybe a cocktail of unemployment and citalopram is what I need to get better.

Tomorrow

I got lost on the way home today. I drive the same route every day after work to the horse and back. I know it very well. I’ve been doing it for the last two summers I’ve been at home. But I got lost today. It was only when I saw signs for stoke mandeville hospital I realised that I wasn’t where I thought I was. I don’t remember any of the journey before that. I remember leaving the horse and then the next thing I knew I was seeing signs to a hospital. Apparently you can go to A&E if you’re suffering a mental health problem. They’ll probably section you.

I’m still not sleeping properly. Last night I ducked out of a wedding reception to try and get some sleep. I’d been on my feet all day in a busy food truck all day and hoped that the physical exhaustion would send me to sleep before my mind stopped me. It didn’t. I found myself driving around at 11pm, I don’t remember making that decision but it cleared my head a bit.

When I have been sleeping its been deep and disturbing. Not dreams as such, just waking up feeling horribly uncomfortable. It’s difficult to explain. Through out the day the same feeling revisits me throughout the day. Its really scary.

Sitting downstairs watching telly with my parents, half watching half chatting when the feeling thats been haunting me all day returned, I tried to use the telly to distract myself. It was an advert. It just said

“Suicide, 14th September”

Thats really really scary. Like something out of a horror movie.

I think its all just stressed. I’m really really tired. I hate my job, incredibly frustrated by the lack of professional management and trying to distract myself with another job in a food truck. Which is just exhausting me more. Kind of spiralling down a bit. Tomorrows D-day. Psychologist day. And fuck me it can’t come any quicker.

Sleep.

I slept for over 17 hours today. Thats the most I’ve slept in days. Last night I went to bed with head full of ideas, I drove home from the horse performing a stand-up routine I wrote at 2am. Theres a book next to my bed full of sketch ideas, mini sitcoms, hilariously dark (I hope anyway).

Today was my day off, I’m trying to keep myself busy so I’ve taken on another job. Extremely unhealthy and I shouldn’t have done it but here we are. Normally I finish work, drive to the horse, a good 30 mins away, spend an hour or two there, faffing about. Then I drive home, occasionally cook dinner and then go upstairs and write.

Write anything and everything. Most of it’s complete nonsense. More often its this kind of shit but it’s past the time as sleep ,until today, has been a bit elusive and difficult. When I have slept its been deep and disturbing. Citalopram gives me horrible and vivid nightmares. More often than not I’ll wake up crying or distressed, there’s been a couple of nights this week where I’ve got the dog in my bed because I don’t want to sleep alone.

I’m pretty sure that’s just a side effect of the anit-depressants. Although reading back some of the stuff I wrote three years ago it looks like I went through periods of insomnia then. I’m looking forward to coming off them. Mondays looming pretty quickly, I’m still nervous. It could be ADHD, it could not be, it could be bi-polar, it could not. It could be anything in the world and I have no idea.

It’s what makes me, me. I’m scared whatever it is that they’re going to try and take away my bizarre sleeping schedule and the ability to be the centre of attention and entertain a BBQs worth of people without having a single drop to drink. Or the fact I rehearse stand-up routines in the car and make my co-workers bend double with a combination of laughter and horror as I slag off the latest skinny white bitch customer behind their unsuspecting back. I’ve already written about how I don’t like the drugs because they numb me, I’m worried that if they get changed to different ones they’ll take away that spark completely and I’ll just be like everyone else.

I’d rather have no sleep and torture myself with highs and lows than be like everyone else.

Scared

22nd August

I’m really scared. Really really scared.

I don’t know if I’m unwell or if I’ll always be like this. They say there’s no such thing as normal but who’d have thought being crazy would be so torturous.

2nd of September is when I have the psychiatrists appointment. Who knows what he’ll come out with. In some ways I hope its something, in other ways not. If I have a label then at least I won’t know that I’m not just a self-absorbed narcissist who’s made this all up to make herself interesting. But if this is a real thing, not just a phase of depression or growing pains then will I have to live like this for the rest of my life.

If I have to live like this for the rest of my life do I want the rest of my life to be any longer.

I’ve never been an easy person to be around, all my life my mothers called me difficult. While I’m fully aware that my family love me, I can’t help feel that they would’ve preferred a slightly less high maintenance daughter. The sort that went quietly off to university rather than the one they found crying on the kitchen floor in her dressing gown at 8:30 in the morning. Everyone tried to be both sympathetic and get on with their morning routine.

As for friendships, I try not to communicate too much with them, if they decide they don’t need me in their life and drift away I can’t blame them. The series of “weird” behaviour I’ve displayed since my early teens would be enough to send anyone running.

The biggest thing is that I don’t want to be a burden. It’s not fair on anyone else. This is something of mine that is mine alone and theres no reason why anyone else should have to deal with my rollercoasters. I think that’s why I don’t pursue romantic relationships, it’s not fair. So many years of one night stands telling me that I’m lucky they tolerate me, kind of makes sense. I don’t believe love is unconditional.

Regardless, my life is on the brink of changing forever, which ever way that may be. An old one night stand recently got back in touch, he’s one of the only people that I know who is on a similar wave length to me. After having a relatively honest conversation he told me that killing yourself is “cheating and not fair”. I suppose those are words to live by.