Mental Health Friday #25

Mental Health Friday #25


Today’s story was sent in by Ian, touching briefly about his experience in Psych ward and there after,

It’s been a looong time since I was in hospital, the last time. Since then, thanks to government cuts, they’ve closed the psych ward where I had become so regular, I think that I could have earned airmiles from it. That makes me feel weird thinking about that. Places where we were, parts of our lives that no one knows about.

Sometimes I jokingly talk about my time “on ward” in small, self-deprecating anecdotes.
‘I didn’t get to take a phone inside, in my day’ or ‘If I had said that on the ward, they would drug me up’.

No one gets the humour.

There are still some songs that I cannot listen to, even after all of these years. Not that I don’t love them – but because they come balled up with feelings that I know I might not be able to slow down once they start rolling.

Psychosis, Manic Depression, Major Depression, Borderline, Morbid Ideation – these are terms that sometimes crop up on the radio, and every time they talk about them, it makes me want to groan. The people they talk about are either axe-murderers of somehow brilliantly gifted celebrities. I am neither.

Madness did not give me special insights into the world, it did not make me violent, and it did not make me quirky-and-brilliant(TM). It just made me broken, and stuck.

I still take medication, sometimes – although none of it ever seems to work. I take it as a precaution rather than a cure. God don’t let me become like that again, I pray.

And after it all, after my twenties thrown away – literally in the loony bin – where am I now? Am I better? Healed? I’m still stumbling and wondering what happened.

If you’d love to contribute and share your story on Mental health Friday, I’ld love to have you. Let’s join hands to talk about Mental illness and blur out the stigma associated with it. You can contact me on My email address:

Long ago-

Long ago-


It seems so long ago-
Since the cold outside,
Matched the cold within,
And the grey skies reflected,
The world I hid;
When the right words failed me,
my words disgraced me;
When the hurt I bore,
I dispensed,
To those who didn’t deserve it.

It seems like a century
Has passed, from the time
When the face in the mirror,
Was starved from its one source;
When the body I dwelled in,
I failed miserably;
When the soul inside was aching,
And the body- failing.

What seems like centuries
gone is but a few years;
And the cold outside,
Now feels foreign to my skin.
And my words have filters,
And my body now my temple..
What I though I wouldnt survive,
I lived to tell it’s story;

Mental Health Friday #11

Mental Health Friday #11


People with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) are often thought of as manipulative, self harming attention seekers. Their lives are a mess … they aren’t able to function like normal human beings. Nobody would ever give them a job …

But, in reality, we really aren’t like that.

I was diagnosed with BPD last year. On 4th July 2014 I received a copy of a letter sent to my GP.

“Amelia is a 20 year old university student who lives at home with her parents.

Diagnosis: Borderline Personality Disorder with mood instability, self harm, atypical eating disorder, low self esteem, dysfunctional interpersonal relationships, and feelings of emptiness. Her mood is dysthymic and varies frequently.”

A week later I received another letter discharging me from the care of the Mental Health Services. Apparently there was nothing they could do for me.

The bottom fell out of my world. How could a psychiatrist label my personality as disordered?! How could they ditch me a week later? I have spent the last year trying to understand this big, scary, stigmatised disorder.

BPD is completely different for everyone. There are nine symptoms, and to be diagnosed you must fit at least 5 … so there are lots and lots of different combinations! Every day I understand it a little more, and for me it is a disorder of extremes.

I completely love my diagnosis and completely hate it in equal measures. Half of my life is so dark that I can barely drag myself out of bed. The other half is bigger, brighter, and more beautiful than you can imagine.

I can flip between the two in a heartbeat. Everything is black or white. I love you or I hate you.

I self harm. I have attempted suicide. I dissociate. I panic. I am impulsive. I can get angry. I am terrified of being abandoned. I don’t really know who I am. I have periods of feeling nothing at all. Everything is very very intense.

But I am human.

Having BPD doesn’t stop me doing stuff that ‘normal’ people do. Most people who meet me would have no idea that I have ever seen a psychiatrist, let alone been stamped with a diagnosis.

Believe it or not, I have a job. And I am a manager! Last week I went to a fancy works-do, and although I was struggling on the inside, nobody pointed or laughed or realised that I was any different to anyone else. Next week I am meeting with the CEO of the business. Again, it will be hard for me, but I will get the job done just as well as anyone else. I can be the ultimate professional.

My GP was so shocked that I have a serious mental health condition and a full time job that she jumped up and declared that I must be cured! She was so over-joyed that she immediately cancelled all of my mental health referrals (the sight would have been quite amusing if I hadn’t been so furious!).

Having BPD does not make me weak, incapable, stupid, dangerous, or a liability.

So many medical professionals have seen my diagnosis and treated me like an injured puppy. A crazy injured puppy. They have looked at me with pity in their eyes.

I hate that. I am a human being. I am not crazy.

One of the most empowering and helpful things for me recently has been starting my blog. Suddenly a whole new world has been opened up to me. I am getting to chat to other people with BPD and am privileged enough to read their stories. I am able to speak out about my day-to -day issues in a community where I’m not being judged. Finally, I am beginning to understand that I’m not alone!

I desperately want the stigma that comes with BPD to be broken down. I want it to be accepted that people can have a serious mental illness, and really struggle with it, but that doesn’t make them any less of a person. We aren’t all crazy dangerous monsters.

Today’s contributor is Amelia who blogs at . She blogs about surviving the diagnosis of Borderline personality disorder one day at a time.

If you’d love to contribute and share your story on Mental health Friday, I’ld love to have you. Let’s join hands to talk about Mental illness and blur out the stigma associated with it. You can contact me on My email address: . For more information, visit  this post.


Fighting Spirit-

Fighting Spirit-


You see that face in the mirror,
With the raccoon eyes,
Trudging through life,
In a blur;
She hosts a soul with enough fire ,
To set the land ablaze;
A Heart with enough love,
To spray onto others
And still have more;

That face in the mirror,
Who looks like she can’t take
Anything- anymore,
Still has fight within her;
All she needs is a little love,
From the face staring back at her;

The soul within,
Might be tired-
But it is not yet done.

The truth I keep hidden-

The truth I keep hidden-


There’s a truth I keep hidden,
Known to me and my Lord;
Of the demons residing,
In the cracks of my soul.

There’s a battle inside of me,
And at times, I gain losses;
I could share with my friend,
I could share… but I don’t.

There’s a truth I keep hidden,
Of how close I have gotten-
At the brink of giving up,
But I couldn’t take the leap.

The earth wasn’t done with me,
I felt at the last minute;
I looked to the sky and whispered,
Lord please shower on me.

I thought I was weak;
I thought me a coward;
Now I know living when,
My world is hell makes me strongest.




She knows what it’s like,
To be terrified
Of the face looking back,
To want to run,
But there’s no where to hide;
The world too small,
To keep them at bay,
The haunting thoughts…
She knows what it’s like,
To put in words,
Feelings you can’t decipher;
To write down rhymes,
At dusk with the moon
The tears streaming down.

She knows what it’s like,
To shrivel back,
At the touch of a hand;
To build a wall,
Around one’s brokenness;
To live a life,
Barely surviving;
She knows what’s it’s like,
To feel alone,
With a crowd all around;
To search for hope,
At the Brink of desperation
And that’s the reason,
She won’t let you go.
She knows what’s it’s like
And vows you won’t,
have to surf it alone.

the above image is courtesy of Juniorgman.tumblr




He was drowning,
And she noticed,
Little scars across his wrist;
And she pulled him,
Every morning,
One more day, to hope to live;
He was drowning,
And she saved him,
Or at least she thought she did;
But with each pull,
He sunk deeper,
like a heavy load on sea.

He was drowning,
And she watched,
His light dim before her eyes.
And she realized,
The reason,
Her will alone wouldn’t suffice.
She couldn’t,
Save a person,
Determined his world was doomed.
She couldn’t rescue,
A drowning soul,
Till he lifts his body too.

He was drowning,
And instead she,
Held his hand amidst the waves;
He was drowning,
And she didn’t urge
Him, to kick against the waves.
He was drowning ,
And all she said-
It is going to be okay.
He was drowning,
And she held his hand,
Amidst the rising waves;
It is still okay.

A while ago, I wa nominated by Prakash Hegade and Nimmi to do a challenge. The task is to write a
Paragraph/phrase/one-liner/poem/story/haiku/photograph/anything-else which ends with the #ItsStillOkay and marks a perfect.

image courtesy:

She could barely-

She could barely-


She didn’t share the words
of her heart,
With the world;
It wasn’t a pretty place to be.
She could barley –
With the battle
Going on within her,
How could they?
She lived with the words
In her mind-
An incessant battleground;
But, still,
She could stand,
Even if barley;
She had a pulse,
Even if rapid;
It was all she could bring
That day;
It was enough,
She prayed…


The ones in glass houses-

The ones in glass houses-


I can scream and I can shout, what difference would it make to-
the ones at the top, who believe the world is their game-
and they live with their crowns, reveling in people’s misery-
and they shut their glass doors, to the voices of masses crippling.

And I try and I’ll try, little difference it makes to those-
whose hearts have been numbed, by vices a long time ago.
And my words, flutter past, their ears like empty promises-
and they think, their silence, over time will diminish my spirit.

One by one the rest may fall to the ground,
but I implant my feet in the soil of the land-
and the silence thrown by the ones wearing crowns,
only help to make my resolve grow stronger.
And the glass doors shut to our pleading cries,
will one day crumble from the strength of our voices-
and with that I go to sleep every night-
and I wonder, I ponder how you sleep at night.

I will scream and I will shout, I believe it will make a difference-
and if not, then I’ll die trying, knowing I did my sole best.
‘Cause I know, it’s not time to worry yet,
and my lungs aren’t saturated-
you can sleep tonight while my tears hole the ground,
they remind me my heart hasn’t numbed from your acts.
And the glass doors that shelter you will come to crack,
awaiting that is what keeps my feet on the ground.
And indeed, that day will arrive.