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Self harm

OCD

Me and My Bully

never feel ashamed of ‘the cards you have been dealt.

Will I ever be alone?
Imagine you are sat all alone in the park,
You look around and see daylight but in your head it’s still dark. A guy sits beside you and begins to shout in your ear,
He shouts and he screams words you don’t want to hear. Why is he now telling me to repeat things that I’ve done?
I try so hard to fight him but I perform and he’s won.
His voice slowly fades; once again I’m all alone, However now I’m a little scared to be in this world on my own. How can I speak out on this secret never shared?
For this story I have to tell no-one can ever be prepared.
I open my mouth to try and shout for help from my friends, But he comes back to sit beside me and his identity he defends. He tells me I’m crazy, I believe his flowing words,
I will never be alone and once again I feel the hurt.

(the above can be found on page 107 of ‘Me and My Bully’)

My book is titled ‘Me and My Bully’ and it offers an insight into my journey with ADHD, OCD and Self-harm.

I am a 30 year old female and I began treatment in 2008 at the beginning of my FE teaching career. I was frequently becoming overwhelmed with day to day life and at the time I was unaware that I had ADHD and OCD. When receiving support it was suggested that I put my thoughts onto paper as verbalising them was far too difficult; as a result writing became a much needed outlet. Over the years my conditions began spiralling downwards, the self-harm started and the worse things became the more I would write. Now, 7 years on, I have reached a point in my life where the conditions have become manageable, they still exist but at a level that is bearable… most of the time! Now, I wish to share my story in the hope that I can inspire others to dig deep, continue their fight and to never feel ashamed of ‘the cards they have been dealt.’

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Harm OCD, OCD, Relationship OCD, Religious OCD

Living With Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

I always knew I was different. I was a sensitive child. Some of my first memories consist of coming home from school and thinking about my day and all of the things I had done badly, incorrectly, or the ways in which I had failed to be the daughter my parents would love. As a result, every day without fail I would get a huge knot in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. The only way I figured out to make it stop was to accost my father as he came in the door from work and to blurt out to him all the things I had done during the day that were wrong, and then to ask for his forgiveness. I was 5. The pattern lasted for years.

I remember being a pre-teen. My mind was full of thoughts, most of which I was sure would damn me to hell. I prayed. I repeated my prayer each night, in the same order, the same number of times. My prayer saved me. My prayer protected my family from imminent harm.

My mother got sick. She went to the hospital and I was a mess. All I could think of was to write down all the things that happened each day and to recite them back to my mother when I was allowed to talk to her in the evenings. I remember with clarity writing “my brother threw a dirty sock at me.” I knew my lists were trivial and that my mother didn’t know what to do with my confessions but the pattern continued.

I didn’t like my parents. My father was a strict disciplinarian. Each second of my life was controlled. I was a puppet in my parent’s puppet show. I longed for control and eventually found it by cutting. By my teen years the battle in my head was raging on. I could not voice the things in my head for fear of rejection or condemnation, so to make my mental pain subside I would find razor blades or anything sharp and would cut to make the pain physical. Physical pain was much more feasible to me.

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