Sleepy ramblings...

Sometimes I'm not sure what's real. I can't always tell the difference between reality and a dream, from what I want to happen. I encase myself in this bubble of how I want things to be, I spend hours imagining my life. Asking myself what would have happened or what could've happened, what if I'd done this, what if I'd done that? 

But it gets torn down all too easily. Reality is a fickle thing, it changes all the time and sometimes I feel like I have no control over it because really, I don't. Things happen, terrible things happen but the world keeps turning, it doesn't stop no matter how much anyone wants it to.

Dreaming, however is dangerous. It allows you to wish for what could have been, what should have been and what you want. It allows you to put yourself in all these situations, some impossible, no matter how much people might argue differently. 

Is that a bad thing though? I don't think so. Without dreaming, there's no ambition, no drive to do anything. How would we wake up in the morning without it? Without a purpose? 

We all have days where we feel like that, where hope's faded and our luck's run out. I guess, all I know is that without dreaming, without being in my old world. I don't think I'd still be here. 

Mental Illness.

Sometimes, people don't notice until it's too late, until you're too far gone. Millions of people lose their life every year through suicide because they've been suffering in silence, because they've been too afraid to reach out. We live in a judgmental world, where very little is deemed as acceptable or 'normal'.

Mental illnesses are surrounded by stigma.

It’s difficult to explain. It’s not like having a broken leg, no one can see it and you don’t know when it’s going to heal. You start avoiding friends, spending more and more time on your own. The things you used to like, you don’t like anymore. Day by day, you lose grip of who you are, until it gets to the point where you don’t know who’s staring back at you when you look in the mirror. You don’t sleep anymore. You’re awake all night being taunted by the memories and the pain which refuses to fade. You feel like you’re drowning — completely consumed by darkness. You try everything to make it go away but nothing works. It’s always there, always at the back of your mind. You still smile though. No one notices your tired eyes or your pained expression, they only see the broken smile that twists at the corners of your mouth. How are you? "I’m fine", you say and no one questions it further.

But why? Why do people shun mental illness? Because they don't understand, that's why. It's not easy to understand, especially if you've never experienced it yourself or been around someone who does.

Right, now hands up if you've ever called someone a nutter or a loony. I think the majority of us have, haven't we?  Now, there's one thing you have to remember. There is almost always a reason for someone's behaviour, it might not be obvious but that's because people hide things and more often than not, when we talk to someone, even when we're friends with someone, we barely scratch the surface of who they really are.

That girl who's got a drink problem -- How do you know that she's not being abused at home?
That boy who self harms -- How do you know that he doesn't go home every night and cries himself to sleep because he doesn't think he's good enough?
That man you just called a nutter -- How do you know that she hasn't lost someone important to her?
That girl you just called fat -- How do you know she hasn't got an eating disorder?

YOU DON'T KNOW. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT GOES ON BEHIND CLOSED DOORS.

Why aren't we supporting them instead of mocking them?

People don't speak out, people don't talk about it. Being mentally ill is NOTHING to be ashamed of. Change that, be the person who's brave enough to reach out to someone in need, talk about it. Don't shun it or laugh because you don't understand.

Who are you now?

Have you ever just looked at a picture or in the mirror and felt a complete lack of identity? Like your mind doesn’t fit you anymore. You feel like a stranger to yourself and you can’t help but wonder if you were always like this.

It's difficult to explain, when you act one way one minute and the next, it's like it never happened. There's no consistency to you or your interests. You're reckless and do silly things, then when you look back, you have no idea why you did them. 

People label you. 'She's a looney' or 'she's crazy'. I'm not either, I'm ill and if you think I'm hard to cope with, how do you think I feel? Imagine how it would feel to have no idea who you are. There's no certainty of anything, you can't see the future because you can't even see who you are.

It's so fucking difficult and I can't explain it because no one does understands. No one can understand. Sure, you can relate maybe. But that's the thing, no one gets it, not unless it's happening to them. 

Part four of what the fuck do I put as the title?

I suppose the only remotely nice memory, if you can call it that is the time I got my head stuck in a cat flap. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? Pfft. That fucking cat had it out for me from the start. So, like usual I was pottering around with my dolls, for once trying to behave myself when this big, fluffy black and white beast decided to cross paths with me. My arch enemy, Betsey the cat. Personally, I think it was entirely unfair for her to not let me use her tail as a feather boa for my barbies. I can just remember engaging in a glaring match with her. Her green eyes locked onto mine. Then, when I was least expecting it, she made a run for it out of the door. “Oh no she didn't.” I was adamant that she wouldn't get away from me this time, so I pursued her, trying to climb through this little hole in the front door. I desperately tried to grab on to her but my valiant attempt had failed. The cat was half way across the garden and I...Well I was fucking stuck to put it bluntly.

Part three of what the fuck do I put as the title?

Yeah, you read it right, not only am I crackers, I couldn't stop a pig in an alley either. At least my co-ordination's in sync with my mind. Always look on the bright side of life. Bollocks. I can't be the only one who wants to punch someone in the face when they say that? It's like “Yeah you sit there and preach to me, try living my life.” I've just realised in the middle of this sentence that you have absolutely no idea what I'm ranting about. Not to worry, we'll get to the good bit soon. This book or story or whatever it is, will probably be as all over the place as my head is. There's gonna be bad days, a lot of them actually. The good days don't come as often as I'd like but hey, beggars can't be choosers. It's all about getting through the bad days that counts. So I suppose in a fashion, I'm gonna be writing about how to get through hell and giving you an idea on how to as well. Although, vodka and cigarettes can only do so much. Shush, I can't promote them.

Part two of what the fuck do I put as the title?

At the age of four, I was absolutely positive that the only thing consistent in my life was the horrendous block fringe I had and the fact that there would always be bloody gaps in it. Like my fringe, there was lots of gaps in my life too. You can tell straight off I'm not all there, I mean who the hell relates their life to a fringe? But anyway, back to the story at hand. I tend to go off subject a lot, just a warning. So like every other kid in England at the age of four, I started school. I hated it. I never wanted to leave my mum, I'd cling on to her for dear life but she still always used to leave me there. “You've got to go to school, Hannah. I'll pick you up later.” Like hell I was gonna stay there and leave her on her own. I always found a way to get sent home early. I'd either wind myself up that much that I'd puke everywhere or I'd fall over a chair on purpose. In hindsight, it probably wasn't on purpose. I've always had the co-ordination of a one legged man on LSD.

Part one of what the fuck do I put as the title?

Hi, my name's Hannah and in a nutshell, I'm a fuck up. My life mainly consists of cigarettes, vodka and a whole lot of complaining.

I was born kicking and screaming and according to my mum; I never stopped. I was forever in trouble and almost always classed as a disgrace. Which is ironic, considering my name. I was a tiny little thing with big brown eyes, I looked as though butter wouldn't melt. Oh, what a shock it was to everyone when I decided to have a tantrum. The spawn of Satan was something I got called a lot, not surprising though, considering I was like something possessed. It wasn't normal, I've always known that much. I'd fly into fits of rage for no apparent reason, I was angry at the world at the age of three. You're probably thinking I was the child from hell right now, from an outsiders point of view, I was. What no one realised was that I was living in hell.

They called me Margaret Thatcher as a child, I was the three year old with an opinion. I was one of those bratty, obnoxious kids; you know the ones who lay on the floor screaming in the supermarket? Yeah, that was me. I used to do it regularly actually, I'd take my shoes off and launch them at whoever was in close range, my socks would be next. I'd lay on the floor and pull my dress over my head, shouting and swearing until I got what I wanted. I don't think I was ever sure of what I wanted, though. It was never for the toys or the sweets, it was more for the attention and boy, didn't I get it. I can still remember my parents shouting and pinching the bridges of their noses, hiding their faces in embarrassment. “What the bloody hell is wrong with her now?” Was usually the first question, then I'd be yanked up off the floor, marched out of the shop and put in the car. My mother despaired of me and my father resented me. “Why can't she be more like her brother?” I asked myself the same question a lot of the time. Why couldn't I be more like him?