The Gaps Between the Seconds.

I was not going to write anything very personal on here. Yet here we are. How could I not?

My friend passed away. I keep saying “passed away” because it sounds less horrible, but I hate those two words. She died. After years of struggling with Anorexia and BPD, she died.

I have never lost anyone really close to me. I keep being told how I am feeling is “normal”. Half the time I do not know what I am feeling, and banging on about me feels selfish. I am not the dead one. I am not her family. This is not about me.

And yet here I am making it all about me. The hardest reaction I have had to face is this feeling of “I wish it was me”. I hate myself for that. I know a lot of people feel like that when someone dies, but the reasons I feel it are probably not “normal”. I am conflicted between two parts of me; this one that wants to be gone too, and the other that thinks that surely this should make me want to fight harder than ever? And it does. I want to be here for all of the other people who I know who need me; I do not want anyone to ever feel alone. But I cannot make that part big enough right now.

I do have moments where I “forget” what has happened, but that in itself makes the guilt stronger, and when it hits me again, it feels worse than ever. It is like finding out all over again. My heart sinks, my stomach flips, my shoulders feel heavy and I run around those same thoughts again; maybe it isn’t true, it cannot be true. It is true.

I remember her in the time between. What is that? It is the seconds between the seconds. It is the quick pauses in a conversation where I was distracted but then it comes back. Time goes slow. I remember her when I wake up, I remember her when I listen to certain songs. I remember her when I am walking and the sun is setting, and another day is over.

I took a while to cry. The first time I really cried was when my mental health nurse came to see me. But I did have a two second cry the morning after I found out. A two second cry within those first days of utter numbness. I left the house that next morning, and I walked past another person. Maybe a man, I cannot remember. Two things crossed my mind. One, my friend is not alive. She is not walking down a street where she lives. She is not breathing like this man, she is not existing like this man. Two, the rest of the world is carrying on. Most of the world do not even know. I wanted to scream. I wanted everyone to know. I wanted everyone to be thinking of her. How can the world be carrying on when something like this has happened? But the truth is something like this happens every day, multiple times per day. People kill themselves, and they fade away into a statistic.

The people left behind are left with feelings that you cannot put into words, and as someone who has felt very similarly to my friend, trying to work out how you feel becomes even more complex.

She messaged me the day before, asking about my new job. I was struggling and I did not want to think about starting work, so I did not reply until the next day. I replied 43 minutes after she died. I cannot help but think that her message could have led to a conversation where I could have “saved” her. But then, maybe, if she could come back for five minutes, and she was given the choice of whether to do it again…maybe she would. And maybe we have to respect that, as much as nobody wants to say it.

But then again, maybe she would not. Maybe she would be sat at home right now with her two children and her husband, laughing.


Goodbye Student Life

I have started a new blog, and for a number of reasons.

My old URL was based on being a student, and as of Thursday my dissertation will be handed in, and as of the 29th Sept, I will no longer be a student. In January I will graduate with an MA!

However, this is not the only reason. A fresh start feels appropriate for lots of reasons. You know sometimes life feels like it is passing through stages? Well, I feel like I am entering a new one. I am moving into a new house this month, with new people (and a chihuahua!), all of my support is changing, and I am looking for a new job. I am joining a new gym, applying for new volunteering roles and I have been discharged from hospital.

I would not want to repeat the last few months, but I honestly think it was something that I had to go through. I feel actually better and actually different, as opposed to pretending so. I do not think I can go so far as saying I am glad I was sectioned onto a section 2, and then a 3, because well, ‘glad’ is not the word. I was definitely not glad at the time; I tried to get out by kicking the doors down at the 136 suite, absolutely convinced I was strong enough, ignoring their comments that it was never going to happen and that the door opened the other way. I was not ‘glad’. When they moved me to the section 3 I was not glad neither; I was put onto it, then moved straight to A&E for treatment on the day I was expecting total discharge. But…the time on the section 3 was the time when I actually began to get “properly” better. I wouldn’t take it back.

Any way, a new blog feels fitting.

I struggled to select a URL, selected this one, paid to have it for a year, and then panicked. ‘A Good Kinda Crazy’ suggests that there is a bad kind of crazy. I do not want to be suggesting that. And I know some people are very anti the use of words like ‘crazy’. I am not, but I still appreciate that some people are. For me I have always been described as weird and crazy. I have always been the hyper, silly, loud, chatty one. I have always been one for being a bit out there. For me being ‘crazy’ is a good thing. I feel like the ‘crazier’ I am, the more ‘me’ I am. I think that using words like ‘crazy’ and ‘mad’ can be problematic, depending on the context and intent, but I also think we put too much power into words. What we as a society learn to connote with certain words is the issue, rather than the words themselves.

Of course, I never want anyone to be offended by my use of language. Not for a second. We are all entitled to our own opinions and feelings around things, but despite the fact I have mental health problems, my use of the word ‘crazy’ has absolutely nothing to do with that. My ‘crazy’ is me being me; silly, sometimes lacking common sense, still being a child at heart, and just being happy. Being me.