a thought

I’m Rubin Blue and I’m ill.
 That’s the first time I’ve ever said that ‘out loud’ so to speak. Since a life changing over the last years, my life has been in a steady decline – my mental health has spiraled downward so rapidly that it has at times made me dizzy thinking about it. Yes, it has got better, thanks to classmates, some lecturers, and my new family.
It started gradually; depression and anxiety taking a grip on my life and slowly tightening the screws until I snapped. It became harder and harder to get out of the house, panic attacks were becoming as commonplace as breathing and my ability to look after myself tapered off completely. I missed my only “Insane” buddy, Mark Potts, who was my anchor and I was his.
I was lucky. My GP was rubbish,  Mental health NHS even worse, but the Samaritans and spoken word nights helped, until the bullying started, the remarks about my poetry being like “Group Therapy”, then the paranoia. So I quit.
Self-harm became a larger part of my life than I could have ever have imagined. A  previously alien concept to me, it completely took over my life. The need to hurt myself was overwhelming to the point where I was completely out of control. I became a frequent visitor to boiling hot baths, hitting myself in the head and cutting. Because of bullies, those who thought they “knew better” I became a wreck.
 My biggest critic, discriminator and stumbling block to recovery is still myself. On the whole, my experiences with talking to others about my mental health have been positive, yet the demon that is the mental illness is forever chirping in my ear.
I lost my ability to write poetry, I let friendships slide away with the paranoia of “Am i too flirty”, “Are they laughing at me?”. I have begun expressing myself through writing and art and I was hopeful for the eventual journey towards self-acceptance and the ensuing improvements to my mental health. Acceptance of myself and my illness  was my eventual goal and I hoped to talk about my experiences will help  someone, somewhere along
But I lost faith in myself, second think everything I do. Think it is because of me, people did not come to my wedding or my daughter was abused. I tell people of my life but then think “They think it is bullshit”. I take it personally Mark Potts died, Mark Smith died and killed someone. Why? because my voices say so. I have no friends I can trust because of my illness and it cuts like a knife I am 51 but my mind says 21. I realize how “creepy” it seems that I get on with younger people than those of my age.
 But with the cessation of one issue, another one raises its’ head.  One I have yet to admit to people and I do not hide it, is that fact I hear voices and know who the voices belong to. I have been asked many  times, ‘do you hear voices?’, ‘do you see things?’, and I have always answered vehemently ‘no’ in the past. Yet this has now changed. Is it that the thoughts have grown in substance so much that they have now become voices? Or is it a new thing?
Either way, it is a frightening experience and one that I am still struggling to come to terms with. To an extent, the voices are controlling my actions at the moment. It is almost like an auditory version of the proverbial devil on your shoulder, making it impossible to share my fears with anyone at the moment because a few weeks ago I was bluntly asked “Will the voices in your head affect my lectures?”. I swapped courses, but the voices got worse since then and I am losing faith in myself, my writing and.... well if anybody really is my friend or just smiling at the freak show I am??
 Things have changed and they are improving. I’m slowly getting back into Sunderland university. My Lecturers and fellow students have been fantastic and the support of those who know me, both online and in real life has been a vital lifeline.
I am awaiting a start date for DBT (dialectical behavior therapy)  and writing therapy  next semester, a passion of mine and I am also on regular medication, although I am  still awaiting the stabilizing effects of this, some days  and yet my local community mental health  team are rubbish, my new CNP is either in Ibiza or sick My relationship with myself  is also improving, albeit slowly.
This is the beginning of a new blog to help me, but to help you understand me.