So a few years back...
... I went what the diplomatic among us might call a little bit peculiar. I got quite depressed, and then quite paranoid, and then I started to hallucinate more or less constantly. I was under the care of a couple of doctors at this point, but I wasn't taking the medication. I ground it up and dissolved it in water to see if it would kill a pot plant. I'm not totally sure about the reasoning behind that part.

I kept on with uni and didn't really talk about the fact that I was batshit crazy. I could have long conversations with my family while dead people laughed and laughed, and I never mentioned it. I felt like the only thing worse than living this would be telling anyone about it.

Where this story becomes relevant was a few months after my first psychotic break. I woke up one morning and the depression was utterly gone. I had the energy and will to get out of bed, which was a change. I also knew that god was giving me a message, and I had tasks to complete. These were somewhat arbitrary tasks, like alphabetising my cds and and hoovering the flat, but the last thing on the list was killing myself.

I was totally okay with the whole thing. In fact I was utterly euphoric the whole morning. I can remember just about everything up to the point when I had to get down to business, as it were. And then there's a gap. The fixture that I was hanging myself from came off, and I sort of woke up on the floor, clicking back on into awareness.

And good lord, the whole place was covered in blood. The bedsheets, my clothes, my face and hair. There was blood on the walls and floor and ceiling. The desk was covered in the scalpels that I had presumably been plunging into my arms in a carefree manner.
It took a few minutes before I realised the blood was actually coming from me, and that was because I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. If you've never seen your own face with blood smeared all over it, allow me to recommend against it. It was disturbing, to say the least, but it woke me up enough to do an inventory of myself to find the damage.

My happy mood had vanished into the ether, and my sanish self was back in command. Mostly I just felt exceedingly embarrassed, but there was a kind of wonder there- like, holy fuck, how did I get blood on the ceiling?
Anyway, I wrapped towels around my arms and walked into casualty, which was just over the road. They stitched me up, and did all kinds of x-rays and ct scans and things.

I ended up being stuck in a psych ward for some time, under rather intense supervision. It was about a year before the hallucinations stopped, but I eventually reached a place where I was willing to live. I still have the odd bad day when the voices show up, and I still see things that other people don't, but I'm back at uni and I'm fitting my life back together. I'm very lucky in that there's only a little nerve damage to my left arm, and I have full mobility in both hands.

Moral of the story: If you or someone you care about has a mental illness- don't pretend it isn't happening. It is, and it will get worse before it gets better. Also, if you leave blood to set on carpet, it will never really come out. But you'll have an interesting story if people ask about the stains.
(yes_slash_no, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 23:00, 3 replies)

Wow
Scary. Have a click.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 1:59, closed)

*click*
for woah! intensity. Jaysus! Live, dude! Ya gotta live!
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 13:47, closed)

*click click*
I did like the pot plant reasoning though.

Thanks for sharing, glad you feel better now :) *hugs*
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Mon 11 Aug 2008, 11:17, closed)