Time flies

It has just occurred to me that in 6 months time I will be 26 and officially into my mid to late twenties. I'm feeling pretty cheated. I'm fairly certain that somewhere along the line I was lead to believe that your early twenties were supposed to be the best years of your life. When all the fun, excitement and laughter happened.

I've missed it all. If you click "read more" you can read a less-than-interesting summary of my early twenties that I had to write out in order to recall what had happens to my life! I've made it a smaller font so anyone reading can skip to the end - it's not particularly interesting reading the ramblings of a tired, confused and slightly intoxicated woman facing the prospect of a wasted life!

20 - I seem to recall that on my 20th birthday I met the (then) Prime Minister, Tony Blair. I was in Barbados. I was working part-time in a pub, having dropped out of the 2nd year of uni earlier in the year because I was struggling with depression. I returned to uni in the autumn and lasted all of 6 weeks or so, before getting scarily close to suicide & quitting uni once and for all. I started a relationship with a guy I'd met through the music scene. At this point I'd moved so often between home and uni no single GP really had a hold on me. I'd seen my GP at uni when I was in my 1st year and was prescribed anti-depressants. I'd also seen a counsellor (Uni GP's have so many more services to access!). But because of all the moving it didn't last long. Once I finally moved home, I saw the local CMHT. That didn't really go anywhere and I didn't understand that point of it back then. I wasn't that interested in knowing what was wrong with me or how to make it stop, I was ignorant to the whole mental health thing.


21 - My 21st birthday was actually pretty good. It was a house party. There were bands, friends & drinking. There was still some of "me" left in this body that looks like me and I remember feeling like "myself". It's got to be one of the last times I felt real. I had some private therapy at this point; I think my mum was scared for me and referred me to a lovely therapist. But I didn't know what was going on and struggled with it. Sometime during my 21st year I moved away from "home" to be with the aforementioned boyfriend. The therapy had to end as I moved away. At that point I'd already cheated on him a number of times and probably realised that I didn't love him all that much. But he kept me from being on my own and part of a social circle I adored. I'd given up much of my life when I moved to uni and I gave up a hell of a lot more when I left; I was clinging onto the only social circle I had left. I started a job in his neck of the woods, firstly forced to live on a camp-bed in my best friends living/bedroom in London (it was an awesome few months!) before moving in with his parents and then into a shared place with him.


22 - I spent my 22nd birthday on a plane returning from Chicago. The boyfriend had won us a trip to the Warped Tour. The trip was amazing. But at that point we'd been living together for a while and it wasn't working out, whilst the trip was brilliant it was strained because of our crap relationship. I was in the early and severe grips of bulimia. I felt totally alone. I remember for Christmas that year, even though our relationship was basically over, I got him a present I knew he'd love. I felt so good picking it out, finding that perfect gift for someone just so I could feel good about giving it, even though there was no real sentiment behind it. Shortly after Christmas I moved out of our shared house to live with a colleague. We never formally broke up, neither of us was brave enough to do it. I was binging & purging every day at that point and it was all I thought about. I sought help, I was referred to an eating disorder clinic but they took little interest, I don't know if I lied or misled them, or was honest and wasn't as sick as I thought, but it went no further than an ECG and a brief chat.  No-one was interested but a lovely lady at the CMHT took me under her wing, even though I didn't really fit the critera for a CMHT client. I recall talking to her about suicide and my preferred method. I'd been looking at pro-sucide websites at that point and felt utterly hopeless. I think she saw that in me. Sometime during this year I finally switched from SSRI's to my mirtazipine, which I've been on ever since.


23 - I think I spent the weekend of my 23rd birthday moving back home to my parents. I left my job the Friday, moved out of my workmates house on the Saturday (by that point so alienated from her I left whilst she was out shopping and simply left a brief note) and walked into a casual job on the Monday. I'd been seeing my now-boyfriend most weekends when I'd been driving the 180mile return journey home to escape and when I moved home it became more serious after about 6 weeks. But those first 6 weeks or so were messy and it took a stern talking-to from my mother to shake me out of a depression and stop being an idiot. I'm ashamed of those 6 weeks. But then I'm ashamed of a lot of what I've written (or rather have left unwritten) in this post. By the later part of that year my boyfriend had pretty much moved in with my & my family. Love. I started my job mid-way through my 23rd year. I don't love my job, but I need it and I was so grateful when I got it. I love working. My bulimia had pretty much fizzled out during this year. I mainly put that down to being in a situation where it wasn't an option. My house was never quiet and it couldn't have been hidden. The self-harm could though.


24 - I have no idea what I did for my 24th birthday. I imagine it was something drug + alcohol-fuelled with the boyfriends' friends. By this point I was pretty close to them, before I started withdrawing from everyone. We moved into our little house in autumn. That winter was one of the lowest points in my life. I guess the upheaval of having a new home took it's toll. I became controlling, abusive. I was self-harming & had made friends again with bulimia. I became emotionally engrossed with another man, I needed an outlet for all my crazy and he was gentle, kind, understanding and that made me feel good about myself. The arguments with my boyfriend became more and more hysterical and violent and neither of us were coping very well because we love each other so damn much and couldn't understand what was going on. We split up briefly, for a week or so. That could've been it, it certainly felt like my life was over. I thought about it every moment of every day. But I couldn't end it like that; on someone else's terms, out of spite and hurt. I couldn't do that to him. My family were on holiday at this point and I was so alone. I kept working though. After a week I couldn't take it any longer and we somehow started to make things better. I got counselling through MIND which helped a bit, with the issues I was facing then, but the moment she told me that our time was limited I shut-down & didn't want to do it anymore. Things have been better since then though. Not perfect, but lots better.


25 - Again, I don't recall what I did for my 25th birthday. A big milestone and yet I don't seem to have anything to show for it.  I'd become pretty withdrawn from our friends here by that point. I feel so alone, so alien to everyone else that trying to sit in a room and pretend to be normal is too difficult. I hate it. And I can't stand to do something that makes me feel so alien as it depresses me and makes me feel crazy. My GP re-referred me to a different CMHT after the MIND counselling ended (I'm on the border of boroughs and because of my work am deemed suitable to be seen by other areas). This time I wasn't letting the opportunity slip by. For some time I'd been trying to figure out what was wrong with me and had settled on the possibility of BPD. That's the angle I've been working. (I know the fact I'm "working" that angle shows a degree of manipulation on my part, but fuck it. I've been feeling like shit for too long to faff about). I now have so little to do with "our" friends I often feel like my boyfriend and I live separate lives. Every time something goes a little wrong I wonder what I'm doing here, if this is the life I'm supposed to be leading. I wonder where I'm supposed to fit in.

So that has been my early twenties. I am looking back and finding so little happiness and contentment. Is this all life has to offer? I feel so fucking cheated. These were supposed to be the best years of my life and they've been fucking taken from me by some dark, hidden secret inside that refuses to go away. I can't help but wonder if it's my fault? Or if I've done something to deserve this? Have I just been a drama queen, spending too much time worrying, over-analysing and fretting the little things, that I've allowed life to skip past. Tapping me on my shoulder as it goes by and sticking it's tongue out - YOU CAN'T CATCH ME, you can't have me.

What's the point?