Squirrel Tales

Nutty fiction, stories and erotica

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I’m better now. And I want to be famous.

So, I haven’t written here in long enough that it’s getting harder and harder to ping myself back in. I just don’t know what to write about now thing everything’s changed.

I have medicine – Lamotrigine/Lamictal – that has helped so much that I’m not the same person who wrote in this blog before. I haven’t had a serious issue with depression in over 9 months, I have a boyfriend, I got into University starting September, and I’ve done a little bit of work and I’m looking for something part time whilst I go to Uni.

I have some close friends, and I’ve successfully cut out all the bastards that I didn’t need pulling me down. I don’t drink anymore, except one every now and again, because I don’t like being drunk and out of control. I’m confident, and rarely have any trouble talking to people or dealing with conflict.

People come to me for help, and I enjoy helping them. I’m so much more comfortable in my own skin that the person I used to be is just a distant and unpleasant memory. I don’t like talking about her anymore, which probably has something to do with why I’ve found it difficult to get back to writing here.

I’ve still been writing – I’m currently working on a Mills & Boon style novel. No, not my usual style but I wanted a challenge. It’s at 25k ish atm, so over half way there. I also wrote a 40k Young Adult novel and that puts me at 3 and a half novels completed. It’s good.

I also have an idea for a short story that I want to write, so I shall maybe get around to that soon.

But, with my new found well-ness I’ve also had to sit and think seriously about what I want to do with my whole life. It’s as though I’ve blinked into existance as a 25 year old woman with nothing to show and nowhere to go. I decided that I wanted to stop pretending to be an engineer and get into where my heart really lies – prop and costume making. It’s where I go when I want to escape and I’ve made a little money out of making LARP weapons and props and shields and costume for people whilst I’ve had no other income.

I’m good at it. I know I am. It’s my passion, and I know I can do absolutely anything that I want to. Anything. I’m just able to think outside the box, problem solve, and I have a very good eye for proportion and colour. It comes naturally to me – and on top of that I’ve done a LOT of practise and learning over my life.

So I applied to do a BA at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland in Production Arts and Design. It’s everything I want. Majoring in props construction, minoring in costume design. I want to work on films and in theatres, I want to show the world how awesome I can make things.

I want to be famous. I’ve always wanted to be famous. Whether I get there because of my writing or because I can make awesome things for films and shows, I don’t really mind – as long as I get to keep doing both of them anyway.

My journey to famedome isn’t probably going to be quick, but I know I can get there. I need a list, though, of things that I can do to help myself along. I’m done with blindly trudging through my life, hoping for something bigger and better. I want to get there on my own.

I have applied to a couple of theatres around Glasgow to go and be involved in the Production side of their shows. I have an interview/audition on the 6th of August to be involved with a show of Aladdin.

I need to-

1. Make a professional website. Currently I have a facebook page, but I don’t feel very professional linking to it as it’s Facebook.

2. Involve myself with as many theatres and productions as I can get involved in to build up my portfolio/experience.

3. Cash in on any contacts I’ve made so far. I’ve asked one of my famous author-buddies if they’d like some props for their Book Festival Show. It’s in a month though, so I’d need to get a move on if he says yes.
I’ve also asked a friend who’s just graduated in script writing and film making to keep me in mind.
I’m also making a set of swords and shields for my Gym, who are running a Gladiator School.

4. Blog more!! One of my other blogs will probably become a dedicated business blog, to talk about methods of making things etc. I think this could give me a new blogging focus. Writing here, Crafting there.

5. Make something impressive and get a photoshoot with one of my friends who is a professional photographer. I started working on an Arcee (Transformers) outfit, but it fizzled out a while ago. I should try and start working on it again.

I’m sure there’s more thing I can do, but I think those are the important ones. For now, I have to go and work on the swords and shields for the gym, another amazing shield like my rose one and some daggers and swords. I also get to have some fun with papier mache in a little while! Something I haven’t done in a long time.

Off to be productive now,

Leah

disobedienceandgrace


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Disobedience and Grace – Erotica short fiction

disobedienceandgrace

Disobedience and Grace – By SquirreLeah

Grace knelt on the bed with her long black hair in ringlets falling across her bare shoulders. The black satin top hung low across her arms and chest, leaving more seen than unseen as she leant forward onto all fours. The bed was soft and she lay down sprawled across it, leaning closer to where Cora sat on the chaise lounge. Her matching bloomers were edged with red lace, and it tickled her thighs as she played with the little drawstring that secured them. Cora sat with a little smile on her lips, watching the movement of Grace’s fingers across the drawstring.

“Stop teasing,” Cora growled, crawling forward towards the bed, “and show me.”

“But, Cora!” Grace exhaled, dropping the drawstring. She pursed her lips into a small smile, trying her best to be calm, treating the whole affair with a sense of propriety. It was absurd, of course, to bring propriety into such a situation but learned behaviours were difficult to break.

“Yes! Come now, Grace, and let me see!”

Grace’s pouted lips broke into a wide smile though her dark eyes squeezed shut, her cheeks blushing red in the heat of the small bedroom, and perhaps embarrassment.

“Samuel will have my head if he ever finds out…” She continued, turning onto her back with her head hanging off the edge of the bed. “You know how precious he is about his workshop.”

She gave herself a moment to watch Cora, and from the upside down view she was every bit as breathtaking. Her auburn hair was far lighter than Grace’s and straight, fanning around her smooth and perfect. With only a white chemise down to her knees, her body seemed curvy but perfectly proportioned, her hips wide and waist so small sometimes Grace worried it would break. Grace’s gaze lingered at where the fabric curved across Cora’s chest,  so thin that the outlines of her nipples were shadows against the white.

“Stop stalling and show me.” Cora whispered, moving closer with each word until her hands gripped the edge of the bed and her face was directly above Grace’s. An auburn curtain circled around them, isolating Grace’s vision until Cora’s dark blue eyes were all that she could see. Her face was so close that Grace gulped, fighting the urge to reach up and touch the soft curve of Cora’s cheek.

“Alright. I’ll show you.”

Cora’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling in the low light of the oil lamps. “Good.” Cora lowered her head until Grace could feel her soft lips brush against hers. Her breath caught in her throat and for a moment she hoped.

But Cora pulled back, walking around the bed towards Grace’s bedside table. “Is it in here?”

The words made Grace’s heart quicken, a mix of embarrassment and desire. “Yes,” she whispered. “Bottom drawer.”

Grace watched Cora bend down, the curve of her buttocks silhouetted against the light from the lamp on the table. Though she couldn’t see, she heard the sound of the straps clicking against one another as they were lifted out from the drawer.

Cora giggled as she spun around, dropping the mass of leather and metal onto the bed in a little pile. “It’s heavier than I thought.”

Grace nodded, trying to blink away the apprehension. “It is hollowed steel, that’s why the leather straps had to be so strong,” she replied, then bit her lip. Cora’s eyes were focussed on the leather, her fingers reaching out to pick each strap up, trying to untangle it or make sense of what she was seeing.

With a gulp, Grace lifted herself up and crawled closer. “Would you like me to show you?” Her voice came out breathier than she’d intended. Cora nodded, her eyes finally showing something Grace could, perhaps hopefully, identify as lust or desire.

Two of the brown leather straps had small brass buckles, and the other two were continuous, looping around each other. “Stand up,” Grace commanded, finally dealing with something familiar and exact, something she knew how to deal with. Cora did as she was asked, but Grace paused, kneeling on the floor with the device held in her hands. “You’ll need to take this off,” Grace’s eyes flicked up from the hem of Cora’s chemise to her eyes.

Without hesitation the white cloth was dropped to the floor, exposing the flawless skin that Grace tried not to see. She arranged two of the leather loops in a figure of eight, motioning for Cora to step into them. She did so, her small toes curling around the hairs on the sheepskin rug. Cora was so confident, wearing her perfect curves with as much ease as she did clothed.

Grace unbuckled the other two straps and gripped the base of the long metal shaft as she edged the whole thing up Cora’s legs until they reached the top of her thighs. The steel phallus was fixed to a thick leather triangle, covering everything that Grace blushed to see, and as she worked to tighten the straps and buckle the sides her hands shook, brushing against the warmth of Cora’s skin.

On the back the straps met together, criss crossing together. A smaller triangle sat neatly in the space just above her buttocks, set with a small little wind-up key shaped painstakingly into an elaborate brass butterfly.

When it was secured Grace pulled herself back and stood up tall, admiring her creation. It was beautiful and shining, curving upwards from Cora’s pelvis proudly, never discreet. It was sensual, sexual and dangerous, completely eliminating any desire she’d ever had for a man. The straps holding it on were carved with a swirling pattern to hide the wires that fed around from the key to the front. It was such a proud moment and she took the time to admire it being worn by someone so incredibly beautiful that it seemed she would never be able to look away.

“Incredible.” Cora breathed, turning around to see the large oval mirror set into the wall behind her. She moved her hips around, looking at it from every angle, her eyes wide with wonder. Finally her fingers trailed down across her stomach to her hips, touching the leather straps and following them across her pelvis until they could run along the length of metal.

Grace gulped, her breasts heaving out of the silk top that clung loosely to her shoulders. “What do you think?” She asked, fearing to move lest she spill her emotions across the room.

“How does it work?” Cora asked, taking a step towards Grace. The movement was abrupt and unlike her. She was always ever so graceful. But no, it couldn’t be desire, could it? It couldn’t be passion causing her to lose herself the way Grace did every time they were together, could it?

Finally Grace willed herself to move closer, taking hold of Cora’s hips and turning her around to face away from her, towards the mirror again. She could see her hands pale against Cora’s skin, feel the heat between them for the brief moment until she had to let go. The little butterfly was sitting still, waiting for them.

“Are you ready?” Grace asked, her mouth close to Cora’s ear. A shiver ran down Cora’s spine and Grace felt it like electricity pulsing between them. Excitement and fear rode her mind as she gripped the key and began to turn.

A violent gasp from Cora made her fingers stop turning, her hand reaching to make sure that everything was alright. Had something gone wrong?

But when she spun around Cora’s eyes were wide, her hand reaching out to take Graces and place it between her breasts. Her lips parted as her chest heaved, a faint whirring sound coming from between their hips.  Cora’s whole body shuddered and she fell towards Grace, holding her hands to steady her. “Incredible,” she whispered. “I didn’t think…”

Grace couldn’t speak, seeing the shudders running through Cora’s body, her breasts swaying and back arching. More than anything she wanted Cora to kiss her, let her feel the intense pulsating around the steel too, as it was meant to be used – together.

The mechanism continued down further inside the leather, as Cora had discovered, and when Grace reached out and ran her finger down the shaft, it vibrated up her arm and forced more pressure downwards into Cora. Cora almost screamed, her hands reaching out to take Grace’s hips and pull them closer. But before Cora’s fingers found the little silk drawstring the springs inside the key ground to a halt and Cora fell still.

They watched each other silently, both out of breath and shaking.

Finally Cora smiled and Grace let out the breath she’d been holding. The first laugh brought more laughs, and once again the room seemed calm and relaxed. “Help me out of this, huh?” Cora smiled, her shaking fingers struggling to undo the buckles.

Grace nodded, and quickly slipped the straps down to the floor, careful not to look at what she was exposing of Cora.

“So,” she grinned, tucking all the straps back into the drawer. “What do you think?”

“I think we are going to be very, very rich.”


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The Ball – Trifextra

athena picture face

 

The first time I saw the ball it flew up high. Bark! I ran to it, mouth wide. Bark, bark! I was on it, caught it. Bark, bark. Woof!

Grr. I woke up.

Whine. There is no ball.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trifextra Flash Challenge:

We are asking for a 33-word response to the following snippet:

The first time I saw. . .

Here’s the catch: all of your 33 words must be one syllable each.  We’re going low-brow on your this week.  Or not.  Can you class it up under these restrictions?  Give us your best. To clarify, we are giving you 5 words.  We want another 33 from you, for a grand total of 38. Good luck! – See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.SvadNlJo.dpuf


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Minor Crash…

The happy/content/relieved feelings I’ve been having for the last few months finally crashed. I really, really hoped that I was properly better, and I guess since this minor hiccup (which I will continue to believe is all it is as long as it disappears fairly soon) isn’t so bad that might still be true. I knew it wasn’t going to be plain sailing forever.

I’ve so much to do. I’m making a really ambitious project for my University interview at the start of February. I’m running a LARP game on Saturday and haven’t written my plot yet. I have like 2 days to do everything for that, whils realising I don’t have enough time to make things. I can see everything whirring by me at a super fast pace but I’ve still got the flu and today has been a depressive day. I cried. I had to stay in bed till about 2 because I was just so energy-less. I sat and worked a little on the helmet that I was making (the helmet is just a tiny portion of the whole suit) and was quite happy when I finished it, but the amount I still have to do is obscene. I don’t know if it’s plausible to finish it in time.

And I get so nervous running LARP stuff still. Writing it is important, the longer I have the better I can make it. So why haven’t I started? I just sit and stare at the page but the brain fog takes away any thoughts I have that manage to focus. There aren’t any. Everything seems fuzzy and though I try to focus I’m finding it hard to even understand people when they speak today. Speaking myself is hard. Focussing thoughts into coherent plots is just near impossible.

So, I came over to my mums tonight because I was sad and being on my own was just making me more sad. I planned to do the plot writing here because I wouldn’t be able to make stuff without my tools and materials. But instead, I just couldn’t think. At all.

I watched some TV with my mum and her husband. Mostly I just lay hugging her. Nothing else made me feel content. That’s really sad, being 24 and needing cuddled by your mum so you don’t cry.

I still need to write the plot. I wanted to do more for the WIP500 and I wanted to enter some other flash fic stuff. But if I can’t do what I *have* to, then how can I justify doing things that are just for fun?

I’m going to put Your Highness (best movie ever, by the way) on TV and see if I can focus on the plot stuff. It’s based on Snow White and the Huntsman loosely, which is something I only realised after it started, but I like it. It gives me help with plotting to draw parallels with other things. I might try and get some pictures of the Arcee suit I’m making as I go along this time. Might inspire me, keep kicking me up the butt to actually do it.

But if this becomes a serious depressive episode I can pretty much kiss goodbye to going to University and probably feel awful after ruining the day at LARP by being unprepared and having a group of folk being disappointed in me. Nothing makes me more depressed than not living up to my own expectations.

Going to University is literally the only thing holding me together for now. It’s the one thing I have to look forward to and work for, as apparently I’ve become unemployable, and going self employed is a great idea, which will be made easier by doing the degree and getting some work experience with it. I don’t know that I could cope with being Self Employed and dealing with HMRC and all the tax stuff at the moment. Even when I’ve been happy I still feel fragile, like I’m not quite grown up enough to deal with all this. Bills, tax, money, house, car, money, jobless, benefits, doctors, money, failing. I’m not suited to being alive if I can’t deal with the stress of every day stuff.

 

I’m on the brink, though. I can still feel the excitement and the eagerness to get on and do things. It’s not gone. I just think the flu having stuck around for over a month now and the amount of stuff I have to do is giving me brain fog. And the fog is clouding the productivity settings in my brain. I really hope that it clears. I could do with a bit of enthusiasm and stuff right now.

Please, don’t let it become a full depressive episode. Please. Not until after the 4th of February. After that, I can deal with it for a bit. But until then, I really need to focus and be creative. I can’t do that with the black clouds and fog hiding me from everything creative.

 

Please?


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‘Messy Love’ – for Indies Unlimited

Prompt for IU Flash Fiction Challenge

Messy Love – By SquirreLeah
“What is it?” I asked the waiter. The table was scattered with many unfamiliar treats but the offending piece was a lump of opaque jelly on the end of my fork. It was slimy, juicy, and the smell wasn’t entirely unpleasant, just strong on the garlic.

“Does it matter, madame?” The waiter smiled, “Per’aps you should try it first? Just take a little bite.” Pushy. His thick French accent reminded me of where I was, stuck in France alone, far from my James.

“Snails, right?” The waiter just continued to smile, and I continued to choke. If they were so damn tasty why smother their smell? Should I eat it or not? Would it be daring and exciting or would I end up heaving across the delicately arranged food?

People around started to stare. They wanted to get to the table and I was blocking it. They muttered in French. Finally, with a shudder, I quickly threw it in my mouth and swallowed, managing to entirely bypass the taste or texture.  Almost immediately my throat clenched and I knew it was coming back, but before I could rush off I heard a shout.

“No!”

It was James rushing towards me. As he came close I gargled and sprayed watery goo all across the floor. The little blob fell with a flop onto the carpet.

I was more horrified when I saw a glistening spec of gold amongst the mess, a diamond ring.

James bit his lip. “Will you marry me?”

 

(250 words @DeviouSquirrel)

tattoophoenixrising


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Recovering from Bipolar – My 10 year Journey

Now, Bipolar isn’t something you can ever really ‘recover’ from, as such. It’s something that’s with you for life, however good or bad you are at managing your symptoms. What I really mean, I suppose is ‘regaining control of Bipolar’.

I feel like I’ve done it, but I suppose only time will tell if it’s a permanent thing or if I’m just having a pretty darned good ‘upswing’ that’s lasting months.

If you’ve read much of my blog you’ll know that I suffer from Bipolar, with its heavy burden of Depression and Anxiety mixed with manic attacks that, whilst enjoyable at the time occasionally, have been known to royally screw up your whole entire life.

In 2012 I’d graduated two years ago and failed to get a job. It was pretty bleak. Did an honours degree and when I came out of University really hoped I could be a well-paid and well-respected Civil Engineer. Not so, however. There weren’t any jobs going for someone who got a 2:2 degree. Sure, I’m proud that I achieved it, but I really hated every one of the four years it took. And that showed in my results. I’m just glad I didn’t get a Third!

But it was pretty upsetting that I’d slaved away for four years and came out with nothing at all. I moved to England on a whim to be with one boyfriend, and then ended up moving away and staying with another. Things were so bleak, constantly applying, hoping, job-seeking, falling into pits of self loathing. I’d try something new, but it wouldn’t last. I was too ‘upsy downy’ to focus on things and too depressed to really see a way out.

So when my dad’s company offered me a job to go and live in France, I took it. It was the best paid job I’ll probably ever get. House, car, swimming pool. The works. But it was in France. It didn’t take me long to realise that I hated being so isolated and forced to keep my own company every night. It didn’t work out, and when I came back the job didn’t last because, well, the job had been in France, they didn’t have work for me back home.

So I was again unemployed. Things happened that made my mental health fall so incredibly fast that I ended up manic and depressed so heavily that everything suffered. It was part of why I lost my job, and most entirely why I eventually lost my boyfriend too. But if only he could have waited a few more months.

Because you see, when I had to come home from France due to mental health issues, I realised finally, after 14 years of struggling with my moods, and being promiscuous, and self harming, and self-imploding every time something bad happened, that I needed help to get better. It wasn’t an easy realisation, because it meant admitting to my parents that I was sick. That came with a whole load of other problems, from the father being blamed for taking me off my epilepsy medication when I was 14 (which was when my issues with depression and mania started – I’ll get back to that), to mother suggesting that it was all down to her bad parenting. They blamed themselves (and I suppose, honestly, I blamed them a little too) for not responding to my pleas for help. I’d even sat down and written them a long letter when I was about 15, detailing how I hated myself and wanted to hurt myself all the time. They didn’t even speak to me about it.

My mum found out that I was raped by my boyfriend at 15, told my dad. We had an altercation, and dad had to lift her up to stop her from hurting him. But afterwards, after the shouting and the screaming at me, they did nothing. There was no discussion. No suggestion of talking about it, or therapy. It was brushed under the proverbial carpet like everything else.

Was it really any wonder, then, that it eventually spiralled out of control? Not really, I suppose, to me at least.

But eventually, when it came out, it wasn’t really me that had to deal with it, it was them. Mum had to stop telling me to pull my socks up and get up at seven and just go for a run because it’d set me up for the day. Dad had to realise that a hot chocolate before bed wouldn’t cure my nightmare-instigated insomnia. They had to both realise that what was wrong was a real illness, and that they wouldn’t suggest positive thinking to cure a broken leg or cancer. But living on my own was a bit of a curse by then, because they didn’t see it. They didn’t see it when I was angry, hitting walls until I bled or throwing plates or phones around. They didn’t hear me wailing when I was so filled with sadness about the fact that I was alive, begging my boyfriend to let me kill myself. They didn’t see the cuts on my legs or watch as I stayed up until 7am painting, only to decide that I needed to buy £££ worth of materials, or vow to do X project for one person, Y project for another and so on and so forth until eventually I’d crash and realise I couldn’t honour my commitments and that I had no money left to feed the dog or pay the bills. Then they didn’t have to pick up the pieces when I realised afterwards what I’d done. It was an evil cycle that only broke when I decided to call my mum one night at 2am when I was having a horrendous attack of manic/depression. I don’t say one or the other there, because my main issue was mixed episodes.

That’s where I’m horrifically sad and can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, where I want to die and be done with it all – but instead of being lethargic and mopey, I’m angry and aggressive. Instead of wallowing, I want to batter myself to death on windows.

When mum finally saw it, she understood. That wasn’t to say it was easy from then on because it definitely wasn’t, but it was one hurdle overcome.

My dad has a complete distrust of doctors and medicines. The other parental hurdle I had to overcome was with his constant assurance that medicines wouldn’t be the answer, that I needed to try vitamin supplements, or ‘changing my outlook’. When the doctors would suggest something, he would say they were wrong. If I go back to what I said about the epilepsy medicine when I was 14 – I’d had a seizure aged 8. The doctors put me on Epilim for it, and said I should be on it for life, to be sure and safe. My dad, however, didn’t agree that I needed it at all. He worried what it would mean for me looking for jobs, getting a driving license etc when I was older. All valid points.

But against the doctor’s recommendations, he took me off the drug when I was 14. He didn’t just stop it or anything, they whittled it down slowly. It was fine, I didn’t have any more seizures.

He/we didn’t understand at that point that there could be something always there, always  lurking, that no matter how ‘well’ I seemed, I still had to keep taking it. Now, whether the bipolar has anything to do with the epilepsy I really don’t know, but as it’s an anti-epilepsy medication I’m on just now for the Bipolar – Lamotrigine – it would make sense that the reason I only noticed my Bipolar at 14 was because I wasn’t on the Epilim anymore. Following so far?

I can’t help but feel angry at this, though. What if he just hadn’t meddled with what the doctors said? What if he just let me stay on it? Sure, I might not have a driving license or a car right now, but is it actually possible to be worse off than I am currently? I’ve burnt bridges with two completely different sets of friends in two different countries. I’ve lost my job and my boyfriend and ended up a shell of what I should have been, with almost nothing to show for the last 10 years.

I’m smart. No, really! I am. I got the best grades in my whole Highschool in 5th year. But I haven’t been able to use it. I haven’t been able to focus it. Because I’ve been sick since I was 14. That’s 10 years that I’ve wasted.

So, when I’d finally broken down this barrier with my dad and got him to understand that no matter how well I ever get from Bipolar, it would be something that’s with me for life, it still wasn’t over yet.

The thing you’d expect would be the most important thing for getting better would be the actual doctors, right? I’d been to previous doctors since the age of 16 for mental health issues but they only ever gave me some anti-depressants for a few months, which obviously didn’t work and in some circumstances made me worse. I gave up after that for a long time.  But when I came back from France I first saw the GP and asked for a referral (in the UK – It started first in France, but the language barrier was unreal) at the very beginning of January 2013. It took until March to see the psychiatrist. He changed practises after one session. I went through two appointments about 3 months apart with an airy fairy silly little girl pretending to be a doctor (a student, ugh, she was just… ugh) who I felt made me far more angry and upset going in than she ever helped me with. Repeatedly prescribing a drug that didn’t help but made me zombie, suggesting psychology, “They’ll get back to you within six months”, and generally being useless.

It took about 4 more months to get to see a proper doctor, and it only happened by incessant nagging and asking (in a loud, emotion filled voice) ‘Do I have to actually attempt suicide before you’ll give me any serious help? Huh? Do I?!’ on three separate occasions. Eventually, he saw me for two half hour appointments, where he spoke over me and didn’t let me finish talking after asking questions. He was rude and I thought he’d just be like the others. None of the previous drugs helped, and some made it worse. I ended up in a three week long full-blown manic  episode that ruined a lot of what I had going for me.

But, bloody hell, the psychiatrist actually pulled through. On the third meeting he suggested Lamotrigine, with a backup chosen if it didn’t work out for me. I tried it. In the process of switching that’s when the now ex-boyfriend gave up on me. What was supposed to be a ‘time to get ourselves sorted’ turned in to him getting a new girlfriend and letting me read about it on facebook.  (Yeah, really considerate, huh?)

The really funny thing was though, just a few weeks after he announced it, I was better. I don’t mean that I’d had help controlling my depression or that my moods were a bit more stable. I mean that I feel like a completely 100% different person.

When I finally felt the effects of it I had a moment (or rather lots of moments) of clarity. I had been ruled by something else for the last 10 years and it hadn’t actually been me at all. As though possessed, I’d rampaged through life as a walking self-destruct button, ruining everything I touched. Suddenly, though, I understood myself. I was back to being that innocent 14 year old who’d never done anything wrong in her life. Never had sex and never wanted to, until she was married. Wanted to do really good in school so she could get a good job and a stable life. Just could not comprehend why anyone would ever have sex unless they wanted a baby – that was just too dangerous, right?

How did she become a promiscuous monster who drank too much, fucked too much and broke enough friendships that it’s surprising I have any friends at all anymore? How did that little innocent girl put herself in so many terrifying situations as to come to completely disrespect herself because of the actions she allowed others to take towards her on so many occasions as to make it obvious she deserved no better? (Yes, okay, rape victim blaming is horrific, but I’m blaming myself so leave me alone…) So how did it happen? Well, Bipolar, that’s how.

I don’t like the same things as I used to. The bipolar me wanted to be risqué, to go to BDSM events and have men tie me up and use me. I like being in control of myself and my body now. I don’t like the idea of people touching me like that at all anymore. I don’t like being drunk – it takes away my control and my inhibitions. I like those inhibitions, they make me not do things I’ll regret.

The really big thing that’s changed, though, is that I could never be by myself before. I was always in a relationship or desperate to get back into one. In France I couldn’t stand being on my own, always had to be talking to someone, even paid a fortune to have the ex boyfriend shipped across to live with me before I decided I couldn’t cope living there. I stayed on my own in England for a while, but paid hundreds of pounds in petrol so that I could spend every day with friends an hour away. I just hated myself so much that my own company was repulsive.

Is it sad that I’ve been in relationships for the last 9 years just because I didn’t like my own company enough? Pretty much. But what about now? I love being me. I love myself. I love being by myself. I don’t want to be tied to someone who, chances are, will break my heart because I’m only really with them due to a belief that ‘I MUST NOT BE SINGLE’. Don’t get me wrong, I want to eventually marry some handsome man and have a baby and a house with a picket fence, but whoever thought you could find someone to love you when you hate yourself?

I was looking for someone without knowing myself. How could I possibly know what I wanted if I didn’t know the person who was searching? Why be in relationships just to get away from yourself. That’s sad and a little pathetic. And unfair.

I’ve decided to go back to University to do prop and costume making (I hope I get in! Wish me luck!) because I finally know what I want to do. I’m not a 9-5 office worker sort of person. I’m creative and fun, I like to be immersed and to show off my leet skillz. I want to be elbow deep in paint and glue, my mind buzzing with creative thoughts. I want to be a writer and by goodness! How my writing has changed! I want to write happy, fun things, and stop focussing on the dark stuff all the time. You can only appreciate the good things when you can also appreciate the bad, but the opposite is also true.

I wish I had a time machine so that I could send this note back to the 14 year old me who’d just came off Epilim. I could tell her to keep taking it, or when the symptoms started to show she could force the issue knowing that it wasn’t just ‘in her mind’, but that it was really real and it was something that would potentially ruin her life if it wasn’t kept in check.

If… If… If…

But I can’t change the past. I just hope I might be able to change some opinions, and to truly make up for what I’ve missed myself. If you have bipolar – realise that you CAN find a drug that will help. It’ll take years, maybe. Countless different ineffective drugs, some of which will make you worse. But it can be done, and to feel the way I’ve felt the last few months, I assure you that it is completely, 100% worth it.

Realise that it’s for life. I missed one dose the other day because I stayed at my mum’s house without taking them with me. Within about a few hours of missing it I was all out of sorts. I cried, I was ‘antsy’ – upset and ill at ease. I didn’t know what to do and I felt the creeping breath of suicidal thoughts up my neck. In the morning, when I took the next dose, however, I realised why I’d felt that way. Bipolar doesn’t go away. If you get something that works for you, please just stick to it. Go with what your doctor says and don’t assume that since you’re ‘better’ you can stop taking the drugs. With depression sometimes it’s good enough that the anti-depressants give you the time to sort things out and that works for some folk. But Bipolar depression is not just depression.

If you know in yourself that you’re ‘different’ or when you read things like this it makes you wonder if you could have it too, there’s no harm in seeing your doctor. Don’t let it get to the stage where 10 years on you’ve ruined your life three times over and face starting at the very bottom rung of the ladder again. Ask. If the help you get isn’t enough for you, ask again. If they don’t listen to you, find someone who will. If they won’t help you, find someone else. Keep asking, keep pushing and don’t stop trying because you aren’t as important to them as you are to yourself and you just can’t trust them to care as much as you do. It would be nice if you could but… It is your responsibility to help yourself get better. That doesn’t mean you should do it all on your own, but just keep in mind that you’re worth it. You’re worth every minute that you can manage to spend nagging a doctor to get you an appointment. You’re worth the angry  phone calls when the doctors won’t listen to you, or take three months to get back to you when they promised three weeks.

In the end, it really can work out. I promise. But only if you try. There’ll be times when it all goes to hell for me again, I’m sure. But the fact that there’s something out there that’s been able to make such a difference to my life already gives me hope. Even if things go wrong again, I’ll always know that it’s possible to get better. It doesn’t have to be a dark shadow over my whole life anymore. Brief rain showers I can cope with if I know the sunlight will be out again soon.

Most importantly, though, keep fighting. You’re worth it.

Leah xxx

tattoophoenixrising

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