The definition of 'domestic abuse' is to be widened from March 2013 to include controlling behaviour, psychological intimidation and applied to victims under the age of 18. This will mean that acts of coercive control, such as preventing a partner from leaving the house, or preventing them from having access to a phone could lead to prosecutions.
Previously, the term has been open to too narrow an interpretation and this could be one of the reasons that perpetrators have been let off by Police and prosecutors, why so few cases end up in court, and indeed why young victims have felt powerless to report offences, or did not even realise that what they were being subjected to could be classed as abuse.
Domestic abuse has always been widely under-reported and its hoped that this legislative change will bring about greater confidence in the Police, and more victims coming forward to report the crimes against them.
I have been a victim of domestic abuse in two past relationships and did not report either partner. I felt it was my fault and didn't feel empowered enough to tell anyone about what was happening. I hope that steps such as this will lead to a higher reporting rate and many more convictions.
I also hope there can be better education for young men and women about what are unacceptable and abusive behaviours, so there isn't yet another generation of violent and manipulative abusers to come.
If you or anyone you know are experiencing any form of domestic abuse or violence please call the Police, and contact the National Domestic Violence Helpline, run jointly by Refuge and Women's Aid on:
Suffering from a breakdown or being diagnosed with a mental illness is down-at-the-bottom-of-the-well tough. Depressive feelings can feel as if they steal the essence of you. At least that's how I've felt during my depressive episodes, that all my potential, all of my intelligence counted for nothing because I was never well enough for long enough to harness them.
I've raged at myself, at my 'black dog', at the World for stealing my life from me, for making it impossible to function. But it hasn't gotten me anywhere. I can't change what has happened in my past. I can't change that I have suffered, and continue to suffer, with mental illness. So instead, I'm trying to come to terms with it, and in the process, accept it.
I haven't always had a name for my uninhibited highs or the crushing lows, indeed, I didn't have one until I was 25. Even then it wasn't quite right, but I accepted it without a second thought because a psychiatrist knew better than me, right? Wrong. It took another five years of ups and downs, being unmedicated because I was told that medication didn't really help people with BDP anyway. Accepting that meant another five years of my life were spent on an emotional roller coaster. Until, that is, I came screeching off the rails at a hundred miles an hour, crashing headfirst into a pit of darkness and despair. Again.
Being diagnosed with Bipolar affective disorder was great initially. I knew something more was going on, and I felt vindicated by both the diagnosis, and the psychiatrist who spent three hours thoroughly assessing me and talking to me like a human being, and not just another sick person.
But in my mixed state, both at the present time and in years past, I've had moments of denial; there's nothing wrong with ME, they're labelling me, they don't know me, I just need need to pull myself together, I'm NOT mentally ill. And the danger for me in those feelings is that, as has happened previously, I fall off the grid, go AWOL from psych appointments, CMHT meetings, therapy, I go hypomanic.
I'm realising now that acceptance of my condition does not constitute weakness, that in fact its something that might help stabilise me and help me recognise when I'm about to leap off the emotional cliff, that my feelings of despair, anger, denial are a part of my illness, not flaws in my character. It's going to be a long journey, I think, in fully accepting those things, and in completely accepting my condition, but its one I'm willing to take.
But, I also need to work on believing that accepting my diagnosis doesn't mean I'm labelled for life, that things have to always be shit because I'm bipolar. I don't have to always be on benefits, I don't always have to be skint, I don't always have to feel utterly unfulfilled and screwed up. That when I'm stable again, I can take responsibility for myself and have faith in my decisions, plans and dreams.
Having a cold glass of cider/wine/lager/g&t (delete/add as appropriate) on the five or so days of summer we've had is heavenly. Getting obliterated, not so much. So why can't we just say no, kids?
It's no secret that some people with enduring mental health problems self-medicate with drink and drugs. Sometimes we need a little something to take the edge off a bad day, but drinking on bad days can lead to bad things. Like overdoses: I was drunk before every one of mine. Because that's the thing, alcohol isn't a stimulant; it depresses brain function. One or two cheeky shandies, no probs. Binge drinking? Probs.
Long-term heavy drinking actually changes the chemistry and psychology of the brain, reducing its ability to deal with anxiety naturally. It depletes serotonin, meaning you feel more depressed and more likely to drink more in order to deal with the slump. And as if by magic, a vicious circle is created.
I was, at one time in my life, called an alcoholic by a therapist. She was a bitch, mind you. And there was no way she was getting me listed as a 'dual-diagnosis' patient (meaning you have a substance abuse problem alongside your mental health issues). I'm not in denial when I say I'm most definitely not an alcoholic. I would however admit to having had an emotional dependency on it at certain junctures when I was younger. My best friend and I both had shit going on at one time, and we turned to one another, and the bottle, for help. We'd get through 6, maybe even sometimes 8 bottles of the cheap 2 for £5 corner shop wines that tasted like vinegar and probably rotted your stomach in one sitting. And I'd do the same when out with my then boyfriend. Only, the more it happened, the more the cracks started to appear. Mainly these involved me getting sad, then angry, then sad again, and this boyfriend had to put up with an awful lot of shit from me when I'd had a skinful and was raging at the world, him, and myself.
A sure sign that your self-medicating is going too far is when you wake up, realise the night previous is a black hole, and have to text friends or call your fella and ask if you pissed anyone off or did anything outrageous when tanked up to your eyeballs. Memory loss, dear void, is bad.
Now, I don't drink like that anymore and haven't in years, but just recently there have been a spate of parties where everyone has been slugging it back, and in the process, I've woken up with a black hole again. Luckily I haven't been sleep walking in my nightdress through a hotel (this actually happened to me once) or starting world war three amongst my friends, but cringing and having to ask the F if I'd made a tit of myself brought back many an unpleasant and shame-inducing memory from years passed.
Moderation, dear void, moderation's what we need...
The quest for perfectionism is, for me, never-ending and exhausting. It used to be that I was a perfectionist over my studies at college, and later, university. I worked hard and for many hours on completing projects, performances, dissertations, presentations. Sure, I also went about it in a haphazard way because I also happen to be dyslexic. I became an old hand at pulling all-nighters to get my work in on time. My chaotic personality relished the pressure, the tiredness, how ridiculous it all was. A fabled occasion was when writing my university dissertation on post-modern feminism and the rise burlesque. Gathering all the information and doing all the interviewing had been fun, but actually sitting down to write the thing was another matter. I was staying at my parent's and basically sat up writing all night for three weeks. The day before I was due to hand it in, I worked from late morning until 5am of the big day, proofing, referencing, printing. I had an hours' sleep, then I was up, grabbed some toast and a shower and travelled in to London to hand it in. There are times when going a bit hypomanic is fantastic. This was one of them: I got a first in my degree and was awarded the Dean's prize for 'Outstanding Thesis'.
The last few years have been somewhat less enchanting: I've found throwing myself into work extremely difficult. Perhaps I've just never found what I wanted to do with my life. So, my perfectionist tendencies have instead been focused on my appearance. It started when I moved to London, where there is a definite pressure to look and dress a certain 'way'. This was especially true of the sectors I worked in: beauty and grooming journalism and PR. As a journo I was mingling with the fashion and grooming editors from the big magazines, all of whom were just endlessly glamorous, even in a simple blouse and jeans. I often felt out of place with them, dressed to the nines in chic designer get-ups, whilst I was busy trying to make my high street tat look passable. That said, on the whole that circle were lovely and welcomed me into the group. When I moved into PR (error), I was thrown into a pit of younger, cooler girls who I felt looked 10 times better than me and the feelings of inadequacy grew. Only, I started getting comments about how glamorous I was from different departments, how I always looked great. But was I really part of the fold? Did I fit in? Did I bollocks.
Now I'm living back home its highlighted what a neurotic mess London, in part, turned me into. I stress for an hour over which top to put on with my jeans: does it look fashion-forward? Does it flatter me? Is it making me look fat? Emphasising my thunder thighs? And where might I be previewing said outfit? A walk to the shops to pick up some milk and cereal. Tragic.
And the joke about it is, no one, unless they know me very well would have any idea that I put myself through this exhausting regime every day. That I have to look just so. That my make-up has to be perfect, and my hair too, except its dry and shit and never looks it. That sometimes I'll go through the whole routine, and then feel so ashamed of myself, of how disgusting I think I look, that I don't even bother leaving the house at all because I can't bear any eyes on me.
Not that I think people are going to take time out of their busy schedules to stop and stare at me, because its not about wanting to look gorgeous, this perfectionism thing. Its about feeling vile. Its about crippling self-loathing. It's about a rock-bottom lack of self-confidence.
It's a prison I want to break out of. I'm tired of this bondage.
You might have heard bits and pieces about 'back the bill' or seen plenty of #backthebill hashtags over the last week. If you're none the wiser it's a parliamentary bill on mental health discrimination proposed by Gavin Barwell, MP for Croydon.
The purpose of the bill is to remove legal barriers that contribute to stigmatised views of mental health problems and in a wider context, send a message that discrimination won't be tolerated. It's supported by the Royal College of Psychiatrists and mental health charities Rethink Mental Illness and Mind. The bill, if passed into law, will
Amend the Juries Act (1974), removing powers which potentially block 'mentally disordered persons' from sitting on a jury
Remove powers from The Companies (model articles) Regulations 2008 which state a person may be removed from a position as director of a private or public company 'by reason of their mental health'
Repeal section 141 of the Mental Health Act (1983) under which an MP will automatically lose their seat if sectioned under the Mental Health Act for more than six months
This bill was read and debated in the House of Commons today, and following overwhelming support, was successfully passed and will now go on to the committee stage, before returning to the Commons for a final vote early in the New Year.
Of course, this bill doesn't tackle all areas or methods of mental health discrimination, but the fact it has had such support from both parliament and the general public alike means steps are being made in the right direction. But its sad, isn't it, when you consider that most people wouldn't know that these barriers even exist for those of us suffering with mental ill health. We're faced with laws so antiquated they are hard to even fathom. Whilst this should have happened eons ago, the fact that they are being so justly challenged, and hopefully bulldozed, is a reason to be optimistic today.
The conversation about mental illness is gathering pace. That makes some people very uncomfortable still, but we all need to contribute to the momentum of this conversation, educate the haters and turn them into people who understand. One in four of us will suffer some kind of mental ill health in our lifetime, so you can't run and you can't hide, you can't pretend it doesn't happen. People with mental illnesses have just that, an illness. There cannot be one rule for the physically ill, or indeed the physically disabled, and another for those of us on the mental illness and disability spectrum. Whilst that exists, discrimination exists.
I wonder if anyone of you with mental illnesses haven't been discriminated against in one form or another? Sadly, it is still rife, we are still seen as different, odd, mental. We are the last taboo.
Actions, like this bill, give me at least some hope when I'm at home feeling otherwise completely hopeless. I hope that all this means that one day, the discrimination I've faced won't happen to anyone else. One time, years ago, I was arrested: I had been assaulted in an unprovoked attack by a girl in a corridor by the toilets at a pub. I phoned the Police myself. No one else was there to witness it so it was a case of she said/she said, and I also, after being asked a set of questions, disclosed my mental illness: we were both carted off to the station. When I was there, I asked for a doctor to see me, both because of my cuts and bruises, but also because I was taking daily medication at the time and needed some the next morning. I also asked that my social worker therapist, who I was due to see the following morning, be contacted and told where I was. After eventually being released after 18 hours for doing absolutely nothing other than be attacked, and having to keep begging for my meds, I left the station, got straight on my phone and found out the Police had never bothered to call my therapist.
But perhaps the worst discrimination was at the hands of my last employer, a major international marketing and PR agency. During my time there (6 months) I worked ridiculously long hours, was under major pressure, and that coupled with some pretty horrible stuff going on in my personal life, triggered a cycle of depression. Initially I was given a week off to deal with things, which I was grateful for, but upon returning it was clear I was struggling and they were unhappy with me. After another few weeks I had a total nervous breakdown (are they even called that anymore?!) and was signed off by my GP. I contacted my boss with this information. At the time I was on a 6 month contract which prior to being signed off was in the process of being extended, and a new role had been developed for me. I was informed by HR, not my cowardly boss, that I was surplus to requirements and they were ending my contract there. They used other excuses, but basically, I was fired because I was mentally ill. Thanks for that.
I try not to dwell on that shit, life really is a bit too short to stay angry too long, but I just don't want other people to go through the same. So I'm backing the bill, and hope you will too.
And FYI, I've already done jury service. They can't catch me. Suckers.
Anxiety is a pretty complex issue to talk about because it effects people in different ways, for different reasons or because of different events. But when did that ever stop me?
The anxiety I'm talking about right now is the one that makes me obsessive about the way I look, and by 'I' I mean 'every part of my body'. It is probably at the root of many of my ishoos it carves that deep. Now I know there might be a few eyes going glazed and a few fingers clicking off my page thinking "not some miserable cow moaning on about the way she looks". Well if you really want to go, then go. But this shit is real, and I don't have to apologise for it.
My whole life, my weight has yo-yoed. Things went and got serious when I was in my late teens, and I started starving myself both as a way to manage the pain I felt at being persecuted at school, and as way to prove to them and me that I wasn't a 'fatty'. I might add at this point that I've never been fat, at my worst I've been approaching the top part of normal weight parameters for my (very tall) height. But I developed a devastating hate-hate relationship with my body that is still with me, all those years later.
So first came the starving, the eating tiny meals at best, taking naps after school instead of having to fulfil the call of my desperate stomach pangs. Still I was bullied. I guess they thought I was now a freak for being such a rake? Starvation is a commitment though, trust. I couldn't stick to it, it was too painful both physically and mentally. I moved on to throwing up for a living. The Big B was great for a while as it meant I could still enjoy all the things I loved, food, loads of booze, but I could just chuck up all the crap and get it out after I'd enjoyed it. It felt like the perfect solution and I was proud of myself for managing my 'diet' so well. In reality, I was a delusional mess, and only halted when one night out with the girls, a friend cornered me after my fifth visit to the loo. Sure, I had been drinking a bit, but not enough to make me that sick, "what's going on" she demanded. And suddenly the thrill was gone, my secret had been found out. I felt vile, dirty, that's it, it had been my dirty little secret all along. It was shattered, I was shattered.
Beating being both A & B left me with very little, except to crash diet and feel distraught. I exercised like a beast for periods of time, and couch potatoed the rest. There was no equilibrium, no consistency. There is also a definite correlation between my weight and my bipolar disorder: when I'm high I'm 'skinny' and when I'm low, I'm 'fat'. I'm having a fat moment right now. Fuck.
I write this to you after having been in town with my Mum. For 'a laugh' (those things always turn out bad), we decided to pop to a bridal shop to try on a couple of gowns. I either couldn't get them over my hips, or they were three sizes too big for my boobs, or they were just plain foul. I got to thinking, "oh I definitely need to drop a few pounds before I do this again!". And then I came home, with a full-fat coke and some fizzy, jelly, snake things that I've polished off whilst I been typing. Turns out that right now, I'm in the over eaters club. Can someone please stop this fucking merry-go-round?
For me, the anxiety about how I look governs a massive part of my time, and life in general. It stops me from doing things, wearing half my wardrobe is out as half of it doesn't fit me. The kindly bridal shop woman told me not to loose much weight because the dresses I like need that "bit of curve" I've got going on now. I threw up in my mouth a little at that one...
The truth of this outwardly indulgent post is this: it doesn't matter how much weight I lose or gain, until I face up to my anxiety demons, none of it will ever be good enough, I'll never, ever be happy, or believe the good press about me.
There are any number of things in life that peeps will use the words "....makes me want to kill myself" for. It could be a hideous haircut that you'll spend the next millennium growing back out, a song played on repeat that gets on your last nerve but you can't help singing along to, one so annoyingly catchy that it burrows into your brain ready to be reactivated at the merest bar of that song playing. It could be...
or even worse...
and it gets worse...WAY WORSE....
Yep, they're definitely up there with Chinese water torture in the 'death is preferable' camp.
So, after that light-hearted musical interlude, its time to talk about the real ish that makes a person want to die. Deep, for sure, but I'm all about educating, dear void.
Did you know that on the 10th it was World Suicide Prevention Day? No, honest, its not one of those 'world donut day' or 'national greige nail varnish week' press stunts set up to bribe us consumer whores into buying yet more Useless Shit. No, WSPD is all about recognising that people have suicidal thoughts and tendencies, making them aware they are not alone, there is hope, and there is help.
Suicides aren't inevitable. And changing the stigma around them will challenge this very notion. People can be bought back from the very edge, from the point of no return, but it takes a multi-agency approach to do so: coordination between the Government, voluntary groups, public services, the private sector and most definitely from the grass roots at community level.
I have made three suicidal attempts on my life. The fact I am still here is based on several factors: appropriate help from community mental health teams, my family and fiance, the ambulance service, several A&E departments in the UK, and the Samaritans. Let me tell you that it was with a crushing relief I came through each of my overdoses: waking up in a hospital bed, whilst filled with guilt and anxiety, was the very best outcome each and every time. The sad truth is that, aside from very deliberate and violent suicides, like a colleague of mine who hung himself at home in his stairwell, and a friend of the family who drowned himself in a river, many people taking overdoses (a very common method of both intentional and unintentional suicide) are performing, in their eyes, an almighty cry for help. But the danger of popping a cart-load of anything and everything in your medicine cabinet and thinking the docs will be able to pick up the pieces after you've spent a few hours raging at yourself, is that it might not happen. The docs will only arrive if you're sober enough, or for that matter, conscious enough, to call for them. Or you'll be counting on a friend or partner arriving home to come to your aide. If they don't come, or they come too late, then its curtains. The end. And they get to find you.
Now, this is heavy shit, but I promise anyone reading this who is feeling like the rest of the world and their entire family will be better off without them and is storing up meds or syphoning away ropes or wires to use as ligatures: you will leave a black hole if you pass in that way. Your loved ones will forever wonder why, question if there were things they missed, steps they could've taken to keep you safe. They definitely won't feel better off without you.
If you're feeling alone or stuck in a situation where you feel there is no escape and that death is favourable, you're wrong. There is always some way out that doesn't put you six feet under. If you have no one to talk to then talk to the Samaritans (they saved my life) or talk to me, email me, let off steam, I'll help you with your options.
A cliched and cheesy affirmation that, if you really think about the words, is a great healer:
'This too shall pass'
Sit alone with that sentence, repeat it, consider it and put off your other plans a while. Nothing stays the same forever, nothing at all.
If you are in need of help or are having suicidal thoughts please use the following contacts, write them down, keep them in your phone or taped to your mirror:
A&E: your local A&E department can be found here by inputting your postcode. All A&E depts in the UK should have a duty worker available if your need help with depressive thoughts and suicidal urges - please use them!
999 - dial this number if you are in the process of planning or acting out suicidal behaviours. They will blue-light to get to you ASAP
Call your friends, even though you might not want to talk to anyone
Call your family, even though you might not want to talk to anyone
email me on njimmn@gmail.com - I'll point you in the right direction if there's no one else you can trust.
Finally, please check out the Samaritians' great video 'U can cope' promoting the World Suicide Prevention Day ethos and exploring the stories of people who were close to taking their own lives, and their journeys back from the edge. Hopefully this'll be less irritating than Justin Timberlake's hair:
