Erin Wiggan
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Don’t Call Me Crazy

I’m not crazy.

Being only sixteen years old and having to listen to the continuous lack of empathy due to mental illness is soul destroying. 

The controversy of mental health is affecting the way we communicate with each other, and unfortunately meant I couldn’t talk to anyone since I was thirteen years old.

Being almost mute for all this time was really what pushed me over the edge I guess, having to hide all my feelings and let my brain deal with it all put a massive strain on teenage me. 

The doctors diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder around three months ago, but due to the fact that I got progressively worse, they tested me again.

After weeks and weeks of new medication and constant questions being asked, they think I have paranoid schizophrenia. I don’t even know what that really is to be quite honest.

I’m constantly sad, in fact, I can’t remember the last time something made me really smile. Things I used to love all of a sudden have no meaning, there’s no point to anything I do and I can’t seem to find a way to distract myself from the sadness.

I hear voices, not lingering thoughts of self-doubt like everyone hears, but they’re as clear as day. I can hear them as if they’re right next to me, speaking loudly in my ear. I know they’re in my head, but they just feel so real. They’re nasty, nasty voices. They say really horrible things and make me think in really horrible ways.

When I told my mum that the voices were getting worse and telling me to hurt myself and sometimes others, she said she wanted to take me to a hospital then and there, and section me under the NHS herself. It hadn’t gotten that bad yet seen as I hadn’t actually harmed myself, so I refused to go to the hospital.

I know I’ll get better eventually, but at the moment I seem unwilling to try anything that may even slightly put me in a better mood. It’s almost as if my body doesn’t want me to get better, and it wants to punish me even more for even thinking I can let these voices go away.

Hospitals

Hospitals are scary places, no matter how old you are or why you’re there.

Whether it’s to visit a sick grandma who’s had a fall, or you've broken your leg and need a cast.

Being in the hospital for severe panic attacks is terrifying.

The first time I ever had a panic attack, I didn’t even know I was having one. I thought I was just hysterical and shaky and my muscles had started slashing for no reason. An ambulance was called and all of my tests came back okay. I was in a room and the doctors were getting irritated with me. I had this one lady who seriously got annoyed when I couldn’t stand up to walk to the bed. I didn’t realise at the time but this was the start of my reoccurring panic attacks.

Even if I was well physically, mentally I was in hysterics. She didn’t help at all and in fact, seemed irritated at the fact I even went there in the first place.

I think that’s what puts me off talking to others, the fact that they don’t listen, or sometimes just don’t understand well enough and decide automatically you’re being dramatic or seeking attention.

Home

My mum's exactly the same, she doesn’t really understand it all.

I tell her everything about how I’m feeling, and that sometimes the things I do and say I can’t control because there’s somebody else telling me I should say those nasty things or should lash out and throw my bag across the room.

She just thinks I’m making myself worse and seems to think “Erin, calm down and you’ll be okay” is really going to stop my panic attacks. As if I’ll just think “oh great mum, yeah how silly of me, let me just tell my brain to stop letting my muscles spasm and to slow down my breathing to stop myself passing out and then I’ll be okay again.”

But it’s never okay again, they just keep coming, and I don’t understand why.

My doctors keep asking me to find a trigger, but in all honesty, I can’t find one. The smallest things can set me off, whether it being a small stain on the kitchen top or an argument I see between people in the street.

I know I’m not okay, but I know I’ll get better, it’s just a matter of whether or not I’m willing to allow someone to help me.