The next bit of text is the first of three things I posted on a blog that’s gone unused since April 25th, 2011. I’d like to make some changes and try to introduce me, now. It is very likely that I will introduce myself again in a future post if this doesn’t feel right. Anyway. Let me introduce, myself six years ago.
My name is not important. My age is young enough to be ridiculously naive, but old enough to be stupidly cynical and bitchy, and in-the-middle enough to be effectively a child…
I am…screwed up. Somehow. Clinical depression, apparently, but my lovely GP cared only to share that information with my mother and not me. I started self-harming in the February of 2009…Nothing else works. Also probably some kind of eating disorder, but I’ve only ever told one person in real life…about my issues with food, self-image etc. So nothing particularly rare, just the typical garden variety fuckup, available for purchase from modern society through branches of School, Home or Anywhere Else.
Things hurt. Things are scary. I don’t feel capable. I have no reason to wake up every morning.
Evidently fifteen-year-old me had a lot going on. Anyway, as I said up top, that’s the selected highlights from the first of three posts made on that blog. Four months after those posts, I returned from a week on a boat in Birmingham, watched Torchwood until 2am, swallowed 130 paracetamol tablets and went to sleep with no intention of reawakening.
My stomach rudely interrupted this plan at 4am, choosing to disregard the accepted laws of human biology by gaining sentience and attempting to remove the offending tablets (and, it seemed, itself) with some magnitude and careful tactical aim back along my oesophagus. ‘This is it,’ my stomach screeched at my oblivious brain, ‘it’s over! We’re through! I’m out!’ It hissed and spat, bristling with indignant anger at how I had been treating it. Its rage is justifiable. I, too, would be furious if the sole person responsible for my care had so resolutely ignored my demands. Disregarded my needs. Opposed my requests. Especially if all I was doing was trying my best to do the one thing I was made for. I can understand why it tried to escape that night.
Tethered fortunately by my intestines, my stomach did not succeed in its bid for freedom, and today remains forlorn but safely anchored in its rightful place. It protests about this often. The tablets, however, were expelled in a rainbow arc before my brain could process this abrupt consciousness. Blearily, my brain rubbed its neurons and began to take stock of recent events. ‘Oops,’ it thought. ‘That may have been an error.’
‘YOU COMPLETE BASTARD,’ roared my stomach.
My name is not important. Amendment the first: my name is Bailey, like this:
and Hannah, like this:
but I much prefer this:
My name is Bailey, like a wall. My grandfather brought that name to my grandmother and it didn’t fit her. She is Somers, an name of Anglo-Saxon origin meaning someone of warm or sunny disposition. She tried to make it fit for many, many years, and gave it to their children, who gave it to their children, of which I am one. My name is Bailey, like a wall.
The other part I’m not so sure. It doesn’t feel like I’m Hannah, like a favour. The hurricane part of my brain vigorously condemns that notion and is already negating the idea – ‘you’re not a favour, you were barely even an accident, a pathetic little blip, not worth’ shh. At the moment I suppose I’m Hana, like work. I am working hard on this.
I am more than this, but this is part of me. Writing, they say, helps.