And if it weren't for you, would the stars be falling on our heads now?

Life is all about perception. The same thing could happen to two different people at the exact same time bit the way they perceive and react to it is what defines it.

I guess I used to have such a bad attitude to life. If something was to go wrong then I’d be down on myself like a ton of bricks; if something good happened I’d be under the impression that I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t consciously strive to see the negative all the time and focus on the bad things but I guess I got set in my ways, and it tears me apart that I see other people doing the same.

Over the past few months I’ve realised that taking a step back and re-evaluating is the key. Re-evaluating with more information, unbiased information; putting yourself in someone else’s shoes and realising that things are never as bad as they seem – they’re only as bad as you expect them to be. We all have schemas in place to help us to understand our lives and our situations, but a lot of these can be detrimental. I, personally, am definitely a victim of moulding things that happen to fit with how I feel about myself. But this is just not right.

The concept of rose-tinted glasses, however naive, can be really effective. Although, with glasses, there’s always the conscious motion of taking them on and off. What we all need is rose-tinted laser eye surgery – change our outlook on the world just a smidge to make the mountains seem less steep and the ocean more clear.

Of course, I feel a bit of a pretentious twat saying this, but I do so for a reason: if I can get down what I have learned and what I actually believe right now, I can come back when I’ve lost my way and get some perspective again. And, if this can help even one person to take a step back and be that little bit more positive day-to-day, then it’ll be worth it.

Since I started getting better I haven’t been able to write. It’s as if the words have finally ran out. They fall through my fingers and I don’t have the drive to grasp at them. It’s unfortunate that broken minds seem to work better. Maybe creativity seeps out of the cracks but now that they’ve been plastered then the words have no chance. Contentedness or creativity, I don’t want to have to choose.

Let’s be realistic, I wouldn’t backtrack through the footprints I’ve already made, I’m more serene – chemically or otherwise, no matter – than I’ve ever been. I’ve finally grasped the concepts of coping and awareness and getting out of my head was the best thing I’ve ever done, but sometimes I feel lost without the ability to express myself in some sort of intricate prose.

I used to have a self-penned narrative to my life, I’d constantly fashion it in my head to make my world seem a little more interesting; hyperbole, pathetic fallacy, rhythm, rhyme, it would bring a bit more meaning to the mess inside my head and worked to block out the default narrative of self-criticism and self-hatred and all other negative terms prefixed with ‘self-’. It’s just a bit lonely without that.

These days, medication makes me a bit, for lack of a better word, zombielike. The constant bubble wrap around me is wonderful at those times where I need it, but the popping sound gets a bit overwhelming when you want to ignore it completely. I suppose that’s good, though. Makes me safe. Makes me placid, tranquil. Makes me… okay.

Academic year 2009/10 – the strangest of my life.

I can’t think of one thing about me which remains the same since last summer. To be perfectly honest, I’m shocked and pleasantly surprised that I survived it. I fell in and out of love with the wrong person, lost my mind along the way, found someone who makes me smile the widest smile I’ve seen for a hell of a long time and throughout the whole of it I had the company of some of the best people in the world. And I wouldn’t change the last year for anything.

Amazingly, everything’s sunnier now. Seasons change, I’ve changed. Chemically smiling or naturally happy, who knows, but it’s one of the best feelings in the world.

One thing I’ve learned over the past year: things are never as bad as they seem. Thanks, guys, you’ve been incredible. Here’s to another year x

From behind teary eyes and with the orchestra of door slams of anger-infused yells playing around me, I decide to find solace in words and truth again, because – when living in a village – it’s the only place I can really express myself and hide from the warzone around me. My blog is my bunker.

So, on the 24th of March 2010 my brother finally admitted that he’s on drugs. What a fucking epiphany for everyone. I mean, it’s not as if we’ve known this for as long as we can remember, oh no, it’s definitely just fogged up his perfectly clear record…

I think it’s been at least 8 years that he’s been using cannabis. It’s led to countless times when he’s arrived back at the house, completely out of his head, loud, angry, aggressive and violent. I could never tell anyone about this, about how far he went, how terrified I was, because I was just a child, a naive, scared little child who didn’t understand drugs but did know that they made her brother try and hit her. So I kept this bottled in, and I guess it added to a large part of the mental illness which I’m being treated for today.

He used to steal from us to fund his habit. I saved up a lot of money for driving lessons from my wages and he stole the majority of that and never owned up to it, despite everyone in the house knowing full well that money doesn’t just disappear, that we didn’t live in a Hogwartsesque place where things can disapperate. He now has a job at Argos, which is definitely a big step up for a drug addict binge drinker who doesn’t have any qualifications. Yet, he spends all his wages and money he borrows from the family on drugs. And is in £800 of debt, and that’s the part we know about.

…And he says he doesn’t have a problem. He doesn’t need help. He’s fine the way he is.

But my family still have to keep picking up the pieces. And he’s 21, living at home, rent free, and doesn’t even fucking appreciate it.

I’m ashamed of him.

I wish I was back in Durham.

Since it’s Mental Health Awareness Week at Durham University I felt I should give an update on my own personal struggle with mental health issues.

I’ve been silent for many weeks. Whether that’s because I don’t feel I need to write or whether that’s because putting things into words makes everything just too concrete, I’m not sure, and not something I’m really going to ponder at length if I don’t really have to.

Occasionally, some mornings I will wake up and the sun will be shining. Not actually, because it’s Durham and that would probably tear a hole in the fabric of reality, but the sun that’s seeping through the cracks in my mind. It falls on things which haven’t be cleaned properly, illuminating grains of dust and greasy smears that are seemingly invisible until you become aware of them – like a child who falls over and grazes their knees, not a single tear until they see the blood… Some days I can see the mess and look past it, get out of bed, have a cup of tea and get on with my day. Others I just hide. The primary purpose of a duvet is to shut out the world.

Medication makes things a hell of a lot easier. I used to be scared of taking my pills. A little tablet can change the chemistry of my mind. Terrifying. I thought they’d change me, which is fundamentally what I wanted but not something I could really handle, but they don’t. No matter what people say about antidepressants, that you shouldn’t  take them, that they change you completely, that they flip a switch in your mind, what I can say is that they allow you to be a better you. They give you a push in the right direction and aid you in coping with the stuff you need to do to make yourself better.

There is such a stigma attached to mental illness. I feel a bit ridiculous stating that, because it’s obvious, and a lot needs to be done to correct this. People can be so scared to seek help because they don’t want to be branded as mental so they suffer in silence until it becomes too late. When I first saw the crisis team at the psychiatric hospital I fully expected them to have a massive red stamp which said ‘mental’ which would be stamped on your forehead when you arrive. Instead I met some lovely people, one of which told me ‘we’re all crazy here, there’s no need to worry’. And there wasn’t. A old man even proposed to me there, because I had hair like strawberries, which he helpfully informed me was the fruit with the seeds on the outside which tastes like strawberry.

It’s been about 4, 5 months, I can’t really remember, since I took the plunge and got some help with my depression. Tomorrow I have my CBT assessment with a Psychiatrist and I’m terrified, partially because it’s going to bring up a hell of a lot of shit, and partially because I worry that I won’t be classes as crazy enough! But, fundamentally, it will be fine, I will be fine, and it’s just another step up the ladder. Bring it on.

If anyone wants to chat about anything relating to this, just email me at c.f.stephenson@durham.ac.uk, I’m willing to help anyone out with any such issues

I am powerless to fix all the wrongs in the world. I’ve spent about 20 years of my life trying to mend them, fashioning plasters out of glitter and sequins and patching up the holes in life’s quilt with old hideous jumpers and woolly hats with bobbles.

But I can’t fix that cat with the poorly paw, or that lady I see every day on the bridge, looking over the side, with sadness in her eyes. My arms aren’t long enough to reach out to everyone, to control everything, so I took it out on myself.

Perhaps I had high expectations of myself, I don’t know. But when things would start to go wrong, I would crumble. I have never been a brick wall, strong enough to deal with the elements, I have always been a sand dune, with the more wind, the further away I felt from parts of me. I was spread thin. I wasn’t very good at this. So I’d hide. And I’d hurt.

I should be honest. I used to self-harm. And I am ashamed.

I guess I used to do it because it instilled in me a sense of achievement, I was in control. I would look at what I had done to myself, over and over, and I would be proud. It was the physical manifestation of the war within my brain.

I can finally admit that now that I am recovering. I need to face those demons and share them. No longer am I beating myself up over things which I can’t control, instead I am using my energy to make the people around me smile and the world a better place. I can finally say that I’m starting to feel happy. I’m seeing past the end of a week now. The world is no longer grey, it’s all the colours of my dreams. Mythical creatures hide in the clouds as they float through the brightest of blue skies. It’s spring for me, regardless of any amount of snow outside my window, and I’m going to do everything I can to enjoy it.

I am going to smile. And I implore you to do the same.

If there’s something that makes you happy, grab it. If it makes you happy, right this second, even if only for a moment, take it. Smile that smile for that moment, for it’s a moment longer than you could have done. And maybe, maybe this thing won’t be good for you in the future, but who knows about that? Who knows what opportunities could slip through our fingers as the seconds fall away?

There never was a void. Then he came along, tore open a hole in her soul and plugged it with himself. When he wasn’t there she could feel herself leaking out; she wasn’t whole.

He became integral to her functionality, not that she was particularly aware. She just went along with it, enjoyed the ride.

Until the plug was pulled.

The hole tried to fill itself with anything it could find. Nothing would fit properly; nothing was the right shape. The void dragged awareness into itself; awareness is sharp. Awareness made the hole bigger as it sliced the sides. Now the founder of the void wouldn’t even fit properly anymore, a sense of self would still leak out through the gaps.

It didn’t stop her hoping for an encore.

So, I got to the end of the first term, honestly not something I really expected. It’s been a term of self discovery and self awareness, a barrage of downs: cycles of hitting the bottom and crawling my way back up again.

I mentioned in a previous entry about the stars illuminating my path, and now I want to refer to them specifically. It’s the least I can do. To be perfectly honest, I owe my life to these people; no hyperbole, nothing, just truth. I probably could and would have killed myself this term if doing it alone, but the help of my friends has kept me going.

Angharad Preston, Emily Moores, James Inman, looking after me with such selflessness and dedication when you knew it was hurting yourselves. It’s beyond admirable. You’re all superstars in my eyes, the brightest stars visible from beyond many galaxies.

Tim Fowler, going above and beyond anything I could have ever expected from a college tutor. I will remain relentless in my thanks to you. You threw me onto the first rung of that ladder and wouldn’t stop me from climbing. Thank you, so much.

My housemates, for dealing with me over the past 10 weeks, my breakdowns, my manic patches, my bruised arse, and without fail always being there. Thank you.

To Matt Hollander, Nic Boland-Hill, Jonny Knowles, Sarah Williams, Michael Karim, Aidan Chalk, Matt Sawer, Louise Peters, Steph Henderson, Helen Thornber, Sam Kelly, you have all been amazing; you’ve provided me with moments of clarity when the fog was just too dense.

My parents, for surprising me so much with their care, something I had definitely not anticipated.

To Ian Latham, Dr Walling, Dr Dellar, the Crisis Team, Dr Panke, Melissa, the rest of the University Counselling Service, Lee Mayan, the Community Mental Health Team, and even the department, the help given has been incredible, I can’t thank you all enough.

To friends from home who have reappeared since hearing my news, it means the world.

And to every single person who reads this blog, and to anyone who comments on it, thank you, so much.

I’m going to keep fighting, and it’s all because of you.

I’ve walked across lands, a journey characterised with exhaustion and awareness where naivety would have been preferable. I’m now at the shore. The sun is high in the sky, mocking me with his glee. He chased the clouds away in a bid for attention, now he’s alone with the vast blueness, a marriage of power and nothingness. Simplicity.

Days like these should bring the masses to the coastline. Today, emptiness. Loneliness. There were remains, signs of previous joy: shells embellishing castles of sand; half a windbreak jutting out of a dune; crushed cans of Stella piled up beside the blackened mess of a recent bonfire. I was alone, looking for my mind and for someone to tell me that it would all be fine, but there was nothing.

A surfboard rested by the water, being gently caressed by the tide. I knew I had to ride it.

The day was so still, the water so calm. Swimming out on this board would be easy. I knew I was deceiving myself, craving naivety once again.

The sky began to darken, the wind whipped the sand into my face. I could not go back, I had to go into the water. Assured that there must be dry land eventually, I set off.

The ocean was defined by its unpredictability. Crests and dips; sometimes I’ll ride them, sometimes I’ll end up with a face full of salt.

I am terrified about tomorrow*. Hell, I’m terrified about the future. I just want someone to hold me and assure me that everything is going to be okay, even though we’re both safe in the knowledge that it won’t be.

Hiding in lies to yourself and others just doesn’t work. I know this now. I’ve lied to myself for far too many years now. And it’s really quite simple to slip back into old ways, assuring myself that everything is fine when I’m clearly on the downward slope and fear that I’ll crash at any moment.

Medication’s helping. I’m more self-aware, I know when I’m falling and I need to take propranolol, or when I bump at the bottom and I need the diazepam. I’m having to treat this like a headache; take the paracetamol when it starts to hurt. But I still don’t understand why I want to be lied to, why I crave the deception.

Maybe one day soon I’ll understand. I’ll see the light. And it’ll be fucking bright.

*Tomorrow I see the Community Mental Health Team for the first time. I don’t just dread Thursdays, I don’t think.