My Addiction Is Just Fixation

Writing as therapy

Years before I had written books. Books which I never dreamed of publishing. I would have loved to but at the same time they were in a way telling people about me without doing it directly.

Well, I did, but then I thought: “Do I really want to do it?” I mean the books were not the norm! They were explicit, and direct in their genre. I knew publishing them would give people an insight into my life and things I do, did, enjoy, or do enjoy. I remember searching relentlessly for the email I sent to myself with the books I had written. I remember finding them and thinking: “what have I got to lose?” I mean, I had already hit rock bottom. I had already faced backlash from my addiction, backlash from trying to tell my story online and educate people. Backlash from just being me, so why not just do it?

I found myself editing the books, and as I did, I edited them in a way that added my own story into the characters’ lives. I pretty much re-wrote the books. I kept the storyline kind of the same, but while re-writing them I put my life into them, in the sense that I would give the characters my thoughts. I would give them an addiction to mimic mine and to portray how it feels, I would give them depression, PTSD and more. I did not do it intentionally. In fact, I didn’t even realise that I was doing that while writing about them.

In my fifth book, one character was so much like myself, yet so different. Things in my life seemed to be getting better while getting worse. Things were happening, which were pushing my son into a state of been mentally unstable like me. I noticed the signs of him been bullied. I tried talking to him, and he insisted it was nothing.

I remember seeing his Instagram account and been horrified as the school bullies came out of hiding and bullied him on social media. They were laughing and joking about him jumping off a cliff. Some of them were laughing and saying it only needed to be a stone because he was so short. I sat shocked, disgusted, and amazed that people could be so cruel.

I had always checked his account. As he became older and liked doing his streams of games, I checked less but still at least twice a week. He would delete comments and everything so I would not see.

I saw them, but only because that day I clicked on his account from mine. I asked, and he said it was nothing, then came clean and told me everything. I asked how the school dealt with the girl who physically pushed him to the ground and kicked him, and nothing was done as her friends were there and said he started it.

I watched as the bullying got worse, and watching it pushed me mentally because I felt I had no way to help him. All the school suggested was I remove him from social media. So, basically punish the abused and let the abusers stay on it? I could not do that, so I kept blocking the accounts as they popped up to bully him. Pulling him out of the online world and something he found comforting and a passion would be cruel. One child who was on there had a picture of Osama Bin Laden as their profile, they had created a fake account purely to bully him.

So, I told him to ignore anyone, and just keep blocking the accounts. He did, but they still bullied him in school, then over the chat on the Xbox. I did not bother the school, as I knew their response would be stop him playing Xbox. These were kids from the school doing it in school, so to me they should have been able to get involved.

Christmas holidays arrived, and I felt like nothing was going to plan. Nothing was working. I had way overspent on the kids for Christmas to make up for the shit they had to go through. I was still editing and writing my books, something which I did have passion for. It was something I did effortlessly and did not find myself struggling to keep doing.

I remember my son constantly blocking the bullies, and about three days before Christmas coming down saying that they kept calling him. I told him to answer and have it on speaker. He did and I listened, horrified to what was being said. I won’t say what, as it was homophobic, racist (despite us being white) and vile. I let the child on the phone abuse my son then spoke up and suddenly he changed. He made out like my son rang him and started it, he then started on me, and began getting abusive to me. Calling me names, telling me I had called him. So I hung up and told the school he was not going back.

I decided I would home-school him or at least keep him at home until I found a school he could go to. It seemed like the school just wanted to sweep it under the rug. The one time he walked back to school at home time after getting kicked several times on the way home, they simply told him to go home and it would be dealt with after the holidays. No call home so, an hour after he was meant to be home, I called and they just told me he left school late. Not even the reason why. This was another thing that had made me realise the school would never truly stop the bullies. They were hiding it from me, they were not telling me about things that happened in school, they did not tell me about the girl who threw him on the floor and kicked him. They didn’t want to take any responsibility for what was happening in school.

Christmas and the new year passed quickly, I found myself smiling again, feeling like I was slowly finding a way forward. Actually, writing had become a release for me. I had always believed that those artists who write songs about how they felt did so as a form of therapy, a way to survive in life. I believed the same applied for writing stories, poetry or, even just playing a musical instrument. They were all ways to express our feelings.

My daughter and her trichotillomania

My daughter began showing signs of trichotillomania in January. At first, I thought she or one of the girls had cut her hair. She swore she had no idea how she had these bald patches. I remember one night when the kids were in bed, and the doors were open. I sat on the bed and I could hear a weird sound. I walked out into the hall, glancing in the girls' room, and I stood watching her, watching as she twiddled the hair around her finger and just pulled it out.

I felt devastated! More so when someone said it can sometimes be passed on and can be heredity, which means she got it from me.

It was strange. I didn’t have trichotillomania as a child, or as a teen. Mine started while pregnant with twins, and she was one of those twins. It felt strange that I had started doing that while pregnant with her and her twin, and she was the one to also acquire it.

I remember every time I was doing her hair watching as she had less and less, the bald patches grew. I could not let myself slip though. If there was one thing I knew that was right, it was that my kids needed me.

January passed, and I focused more and more on editing the books and homeschooling my son which was a big task as he was mentally suffering from the bullies.

I kept trying to push forward. My daughter was wearing a bandana at school to stop her pulling her hair out but there was no way to stop her doing it at night. I had given her fidget cubes, snap bands on her wrists and various things to try get her to fidget with instead of pulling her hair.

I knew it wouldn’t truly stop her though. Having it myself, I knew there was a reason she did it; for instance, anxiety used to be a big factor in why I pulled my hair or damaged it.

The doctors referred her to a mental health organization, who in turn said the school would deal with it. However there was no real support there for her in terms of mental health. It was like a brick wall again, like when I had gone to the doctors for my mental health and they didn’t care. Actually, they seemed to not care when it was a child either.

My first book.

February came and I remember deciding I will do it and publish the first book. I did, and then I remember thinking: “What the hell have I just done?” It was too late to turn back, too late to delete the book. People had bought it, people were reading it. Anxiety set in, and I felt like running.

Then I was thinking, why? Why the hell did I publish books in my own name. I knew the answer, and it was more to prove to myself I did not care what people said. I did not care what people would think. Okay, I did, but it was something I had to get used to and overcome to move forward.

Months after publishing the books I realised I did it because I had always feared what people thought of me; I always feared how they saw me and what they were saying behind my back. It was something that without a doubt was killing me because I could not just go by a day without thinking: “what will they think?”

So, I guess subconsciously, I did it in my own name so that I could not run and hide from what people thought. To push myself into the place where I had to listen and just nod, accept what they said and carry on and not let it get to me. I was not expecting much or huge sales. Actually, I was not expecting a single person to buy any of my books.

I just wanted to accomplish something, to put myself outside of that safety zone I kept forcing myself into. Eventually, I knew my writing would get to the standard where I felt ready to try put money into it to make the writing perfect. At times, I wish I had not published. I remember some reviews being amazing and others being awful. I remember people saying they loved the story and could not wait for the next book. I remember people saying it was great, but I needed to hire an editor and proofreader.

I remember saying to so many people “why?” I did not publish as a way to make money which is why my books were always free on kindle unlimited. Most people who publish books have thousands sat around ready to put into it. One of my books I was quoted over £800 just for it editing before everything else. The whole main series that ended up been eleven books would cost me over £9000 to be edited!

I wrote because it gave me the freedom from reality. It gave me a place to go to that was not here. It gave me a way of writing down how I felt and what I had experienced without actually writing a story about myself.

While I had people flooding my inbox saying they loved the books and hoped they became a movie, or that I should not stop writing, I got a fair share of abuse. I got messages saying I was sick or a bad mother. One went to the lengths of saying that I had let the devil in and that he was destroying my mind and soul and I would be going to hell. I slowly learnt to let the negative comments pass. Sure, I still now and then get one that pushes me and hurts.

I remember so many of my readers asked me how did you do it. It feels like I am the character and crying with them and hurting with them. I always said I did not know, or that apparently good writers are meant to make their readers cry. It was not until someone messaged me about part of the story that resonated with her that I realised what I had done.

Every time I was hurt, my depression or anxiety would pull me down or whenever I was on edge and considering gambling, I would just start writing. Often, those times I wrote the books were not upbeat and the storyline shifted to something painful. I remember her message and I cannot say what it said as I do not have permission since she included personal things. I remember it though; I remember the part of the book. The words in the book are these:

‘Like I have no control, and my soul is slowly slipping into a darkness I can’t get out of, it is like quicksand. The more I fight to free myself from the darkness the more it takes control.”

Reading it back after she sent it, explaining it is how she feels after something personal happened and how it felt as if she had written it herself. I realised because she could have written it. I realised that when I am feeling down, my writing changes. It stays in that emotion until I feel normal again. I realised in that moment, I had found a way to help myself deal with everything. I didn’t realise I was doing it at the time, I was simply writing the stories.

It was not until about two months ago that reality hit, the reality that I was putting myself into the books, created characters around me while also making them different. Yet each time someone messages me with a new sentence, about part of the book, I realise it is me. I realise that every character is part of me. Sure, some parts are nothing like me, but I split my anxiety, depression, PTSD, trauma, emotions, memories, addiction, weakness, everything between the characters.

I wrote part of my life story in my books without even realising, sure there is no one with a gambling addiction, but there is a character who resembles someone with a drinking problem. While my PTSD was not caused by fighting in a battleground with a team, I still projected my PTSD and trauma onto one of my characters.

I then realised I did not care if I never sold a copy of my books; if I never made enough or saved enough to get a real editor and everything else, because while writing them I saved myself.

I created fictional characters based on my life and how I was feeling and surviving. The money would be amazing, but I am at the part of me where the first books I published make me smile despite the awful crazy and stupid spelling mistakes!... purely because without knowing it I was saving myself.

I was not truly free, though. Mental health never leaves, and neither does addiction. I also wrote that in my book. Somehow, I subconsciously wrote a lot of real things in them, which I guess is why so many people can relate to them.

“Every now and then, I am bound to have issues. It isn’t like they can take out the part of my mind that wants to quit and end it all, the part that is weak and feels like the world is against me.”

That is a sentence which I live by. I accepted that some days I would not want to get out of bed or do anything. I have agreed with myself to try, and if I still cannot, it is fine!

Don’t push it but make the promise that the next day I will be up and active: one day fine, but two or more no! I got to the point where I accepted nothing will fix my mind, nothing will entirely remove all my mental health issues or the addiction and urges that still come and go. There is no doctor smart enough to remove the part of the brain that causes depression and other mental health issues.

I decided I needed to accept that this was part of me, and somehow again subconsciously I wrote it in the book. I thought I was surviving once again. I was writing more and more. There was something going on in the back of my mind. I remember sitting looking at a gambling site, just thinking “why not?” I must have spent hours looking at it before falling asleep while still holding the phone.

Fighting a new enemy

From February to around June, I felt in control again, but something slipped; something happened that pulled me back down and had me realising I was not okay. So much happened that I should have realised was a sign I was not mentally well, but I did not. I had stopped writing as much.

I remember talking to people online, a new group. It was fun and lighthearted. I remember one guy and how close we got, nothing other than friends at that moment. We were close, he listened and seemed to understand me. When I felt low, or like I had nowhere to turn, I would speak to him. He seemed to be someone I found myself talking to a lot as friends. We would spend hours on the phone talking, hours online talking.

I did not realise at first, but I was not well. I let him in and he manipulated me online; somehow, he manipulated what I did offline. I was no longer me again, I was hiding away. I was shielding myself from the world. I walked away from relationships because he somehow convinced me they were the issue. He was someone who offered advice, laughed and joked with me. Pushed me into doing things with my life I wouldn’t have, had I been sound minded.

I then quickly realised that if I tried talking to people online, he was watching. When I did not answer he would get angry. Slowly, I began to spiral down more, and more. I no longer had a life. It wasn’t really my life as it had become his. For instance, if he called or messaged me while I was online in the group talking to someone and I didn’t rush to reply, he would appear and comment, making me feel like I should not have been online.

I realised he was not someone healthy for me. For example, when I was talking to him on the phone or messaging him, and he saw me online talking to others in the group, he would get angry.

Then it got to the point where he would complain if I took too long to reply, as well as asking who I was talking to because the message he’d sent showed “as seen” on Facebook. I used a laptop, so the chat box was always open so it always looked like I had read messages.

Things got so bad that social services became involved. It was this situation that opened my eyes to what this man was doing. It made me realise he was manipulating me. He actually had told me he was going to move in for Christmas.

I realised quickly that I needed to escape from him, as every time we spoke, my mental health got worse, and I found myself struggling to stay alive. I remember telling someone in the group that I no longer felt safe and realised what was going on. I explained to her how he wouldn’t let me go online or talk to people. and how he pushed me into blocking men from my social media because they talked to me.

She was someone I thought I could trust. However, that night, something happened. I woke up to voice notes from him calling me a cun* a disgusting bast*rd, tw*t everything. He had snapped, she had mentioned how I felt to someone, and he had snapped calling me a lying dirty cun*. I was shocked. Then, suddenly he changed again.

But later, he went back to that nice guy. He apologised, said he was just angry. I remember saying “no, not a chance” to him. There was no way I was going back; there was no way I was seeing him ever again or speaking to him again. I remember telling him it was over. He would get two trains when he came to visit me. I did not want my kids around someone like that.

He then proceeded to message me more, telling me that he was going to come down anyway and sit outside the house until I gave him another chance. When I refused and said no, he still insisted he would. So, I told him “no, I am leaving and going to stay with someone so I wouldn’t be at home”. He stopped asking. Still, though, he kept telling me he loved me.

I realised he was one of the causes of why I had fallen again, and why my mental health had become so bad. I was in a place where I felt I was being watched or pushed into doing things I didn’t want because I was mentally unstable -this actually helped him when pushing and manipulating me. I was barely eating, I could not eat and no longer felt hungry. I no longer slept at night either. I would actually sleep all day while the kids were at school.

I found myself every day looking at gambling sites -although just considering it-. Everyone seemed to believe gambling was not an addiction or an issue, so maybe it was just me? I would sit and look at those sites for hours just considering it; considering how bad would it be if I did gamble.

I had stopped gambling; it had been over a year.-which by the way no one remembered-. Not a single person remembered. I remember posting on Facebook that it had been a year and those online friends I never met congratulated me, but those I knew in person did not even care -or at least that is how it felt-.

I began to hate myself more than I had ever done before. I began to see myself as weak and foolish for being able to be manipulated so easily by someone. Calling it off was a disaster as I said. I didn’t just get abuse from him, but he made himself to be the victim. I would get messages from those from that group saying I was stalking him.

I would get messages calling me names, and people siding with him and ignoring my side.

People were seeing me as the one in the wrong but the wrong of what? For saying that I realised I was being manipulated and that he kept forcing me to block guys who spoke to me on Facebook because he believed that no other man should come into my house? That I was not allowed to talk in the group or anywhere if he was talking to me, even just through messages?

It didn’t last though. I remember he moved onto a new woman from the group. A few weeks later, I sat and watched the new woman he was dating and the other woman who had given me abuse from that same group messaged me apologising saying they realised as he did it again. It was too late though, the fact they sided with him and sent me abuse had pushed me further into the darkness.

Then because I spoke to them, things got worse. He turned on me saying he would post all my messages all over Facebook for the whole world to see; everything I had trusted him with. Then he started saying he would ensure social services took my kids, no matter what it took.

I blocked and ignored him. Then he messaged my sister, telling her not to pass messages on for me, although she had never done it. This was just another way to get me back involved. He then said to my sister he would show proof of how bad I am. He sent her screenshots but quickly realised he messed up. The screenshots were not conversations with me.

They were conversations from someone else. Ones where he is messaging a man that used to date the other woman. In those, he is telling the man to tie the noose better and make sure he succeeded this time. The messages were far from the man he had been at the start.

I realised he put on a fake picture, a fake story, and made himself look like this amazing man, when deep down he was vile, attacked women with words, and if their exes were around, he’d tell them to ensure they committed suicide right this time.

I didn’t want this crap and was determined to mover forward, so I blocked any accounts that he had used, and anyone who I thought may message for him.

Everything that he’d done had pushed me, and I was struggling to stay alive. All the issues I’d thought I won were right back there, every part of my mental health had fallen.

While I tried getting my mind to work out what was happening, it would not. I became that empty body walking around doing things without a soul. I had no passion; I had lost my passion; I had even stopped writing. The house was falling apart and no longer a home, and I seemed to just be blind. I remember so much, yet I don’t.

The relationship with him had stripped me bare, pushed me into a place where I no longer felt like myself again, where I no longer even had the passion for writing. This was partly due to the fact there was so much stigma and critique happening when people saw my books. Before it hadn’t bothered me, but because of what he had done, every word seemed to affect me and while ninety percent of comments were positive, I could only see the bad and feared writing.

I remember my mental health hitting an all-time low; lower than it had ever being before. I remember every day I was back to considering gambling. I remember joining a gambling website but then not gambling. Somehow, I went from coping and surviving to drowning and feeling worse. I found myself in a place of wondering once again would anyone notice if I died. Would anyone really care if I did die?

Things got so bad for maybe three weeks that I hardly got out of bed. I had a constant feeling of being dizzy and vertigo which scared the hell out of me. It was none stop and made me think I was dying.

I remember just not wanting to do anything and been too afraid to move. I did though. I woke up slightly and started moving again. I then slowly realised that dizzy feeling that the room spinning slowly disappeared.

I was back to that first week of not gambling, the thoughts of gambling were constant. When they were not there, my mind was showing me the past and things that pushed me into a place of feeling mentally unstable. I had been surviving, writing had saved me so much. Having that stripped away, mixed with the actions of that man, just left me in a place of uncertainty.

I remember thinking back and asking myself if there were signs. Were there any signs at all? I then realised he was someone who came into women’s lives who were isolated and alone, made them feel they had someone who cared, someone who gave them what they needed. Often, when I spoke about myself in a bad way, he’d pull me back out of it, make me see I was not ugly; he’d make me feel like I could love myself. I realised he was someone who built up women, so they felt strong, and while doing so, manipulating them, so he would get what he wanted. He had never been vile, or nasty, and I guess that night was his downfall. The night he swore, left voice notes calling me names was the night he let his true self be seen.

I realised how mentally unstable I was in those months, and how that led someone to get into my head and abuse me in some ways. More importantly, though, it made them able to manipulate me. I then felt shocked and sickened by the fact that I had not noticed. Then what? Would I have got worse to the point I did take my own life? As I quickly realised that the relationship was pushing me closer to the devil and gambling than anything else in my life did.

Everything seemed to break me down and there was nothing there to build me back up. I was lost entirely, and I thought my only way out was not to live anymore. Death seemed to be something that kept creeping back into my life, into my mind and making me think that it was the only escape. I had failed my kids again, I had become weak. Feeling weak was something that made me hate myself. If I was stronger, I would never have let him in. He would not have found a way to manipulate me, to drag me down. If I wasn’t weak, I would not be thinking about gambling or suicide. Feeling weak, was one of my biggest demons.