Thanatophobia infographic

In 2010, I created a Facebook support group for sufferers of thanatophobia (the fear of death). Managing this account can at times be stressful and difficult, but it is always rewarding - especially when someone tells me how much the group I created helped them.

A lot of questions get asked by newcomers to the group, as they struggle to learn if they are alone in the way they feel. With that in mind, I created a survey for members of the thanatophobia support group to take.

When more than 100 people responded, the only way to extract the complete data set was to pay, but the lovely members of the support group chipped in to raise the money to access the survey responses.

I have interrogated that data and designed this infographic to display, at a glance, some key facts about thanatophobia.

As I work in data analysis, I believe all of these results to be statistically significant, with the caveat that it is true of people who admit their phobia and seek help on the internet / Facebook.

For a high-quality version of this infographic, please follow this link: http://imgur.com/zDjCTjQ

Please note: You must credit SAMawdsley.blogspot.com if you reproduce this infographic.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

What mental illness feels like ...for me

Not everyone knows what it feels like to be mentally ill. And no two mentally ill people feel exactly the same.

But to me? Mental illness feels like...

... looking in the mirror and seeing the worst person in the world - and that's a secret you desperately need to hide from everyone.

... you understand the awful subtext behind everything people say - but then being told you don't. And you don't know whether people are just denying it, or it's really the truth.

... you always need to prove that you are worthy - of your job, of your friends, of your partner, of your family, of... well, existing.

... everyone in the world has your problems too, but they are just dealing with them a lot better than you are.

... you are listening to constructive criticism, but only hearing "you are shit. Like, you are really shit. I'm trying to say this as nicely as I can, so pay attention: You. Are. Shit."

... you just want to rant, and rave, and scream, and cry, and tell somebody all your problems. But then you don't want them to be burdened by your problems, or worse - to think less of you. 

... you're absolutely exhausted from being mentally ill, that even getting out of bed is a massive achievement. But of course you can't celebrate that because everyone gets out of bed every damn day.

... you know people care as such, but they don't want to hear about your petty issues. Not really.

... when you speak, you need to finish speaking as quickly as possible because everyone is just bored of what you're saying and you don't have anything of value to contribute anyway.

... people will only like you if you take medication, because the real you is not good enough.

... everyone thinks you're pretending, or "milking it".

... successes are accidents, circumstantial, easy for everyone to achieve, or not even noteworthy.

... your body is so tired at the end of the day, but your mind needs to go over every detail of the day, the week, the month, the year, every year since you born, before you can finally sleep from sheer exhaustion.

... you try so hard not to get sick, but your body just fails you. But it fails you so often that you're sure that people think you're just faking.

... you don't know if your feelings are real or if you're just "over-reacting because she's mentally ill" or "just sensitive because she has anxiety issues".

... you've told your story so many times that it's just boring to everyone - but you don't have any other story to tell.

... every problem that anybody has is your fault. And if you can't think why it's your fault, then it's because you are so selfish that you didn't even notice you were ruining someone's life.

... people are only your friend because they feel sorry for you.

... you're just waiting for your workplace to figure out you're completely incompetent, so you try really hard to not appear utterly useless.

... you've figured out what people don't like about you, so you try extra hard to not be those things - and instead come off as annoying in a different way.

... every time you're not invited somewhere it's because you are not wanted, or not really a friend. Because if you were - you'd have been asked, right?

... people only invite you to things because they feel sorry for you, or out of social obligation - so you say no so that you don't burden them with your presence.

... you are constantly on the verge of a major catastrophe, and that you need to constantly be prepared for it, but you don't know what it actually is, or when it is actually coming.

... you get that the people you love (and who truly do love you back) don't want you to die. But if you did, while it would hurt initially, eventually they would realise they are in fact better off without you in their life.

... if you don't commit suicide, then you're not that mentally ill.

I searched for an image that represented how I feel, but ultimately it was this image, from the first line of Google image search results for the words "mental illness" that spoke to me the most.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Please note: This is not a plea for help. Ultimately, I am currently undergoing treatment on the NHS. I am technically classified as disabled, but I work full-time and lead what I like to think is a fun and productive life. This is just putting the figurative pen to paper on what being mentally ill feels like to me.

For clarity, I have been clinically diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, complex post traumatic stress disorder, and thanatophobia.

• What does mental illness feel like to you?
• If you've never been mentally ill, can you imagine how it might feel?

Of hot pink scooters & teal blue hair

So here's a fun fact. I've been to England three times in my life. In that time, I managed to visit the Accident and Emergency department before Saint Paul's Cathedral. That has to be some kind of record. Albeit, not one I deserve any sort of kudos for.

So I moved to London three weeks ago. No big surprise there. Back in Australia, I used to injure myself a lot. Maybe a small part of me had hoped that this was something about air pressure, my relative position in correlation to the sea level or my distance from the equator. Or maybe just the amount of football I played. Apparently it's not. It's just me.

Week one of my new life in London found me with a double barrel shotgun in my hands for the very first time. This would give people who knew me cause to seek cover or flatten themselves in an attempt to preserve life and limb. But you see, I'm not uncoordinated, just unfortunate. Only I came off injured from my first ever attempt at clay pigeon shooting. That means the target is not only small, but moving through the air at a very fast rate. I shot 11 of my 12 targets before retiring with recoil injury. The trainers were stunned into shock and awe, I'm not exaggerating. My military trained brother only shot five from 12 so, you know, I think I can say I am a natural with a shotgun - as long as I don't have to shoot it any more than eight times or I am in severe pain for days.

Week two started on a positive note! I got a job at a lovely pub! I was so full of energy I went home and washed the dishes from last night's dinner - and promptly sliced my pinkie finger open across the knuckle on broken glass. My brother was very ill and I like to think he would have taken me to get stitches if he wasn't a mere shadow of a corpse. Instead, he cleaned the wound and patched me up while I put on my brave face (read: cried & curled up on the couch in the foetal position).

I did not let a minor flesh wound dampen my spirits however and sought a mode of transport. I took this task very seriously. After all, I am 27 years old. I am a published author. I have new employment in a prestigious pub on top of the second highest hill in London. So how did I choose to get to work?

On this.

Don't worry, it's made for adults. Or kids that weigh up to 100kg. Whatever, I fit on it, ok?!

And this was fine for my first few shifts. It was better than fine, it was fun. It was a conversation starter with my new coworkers and the patrons at the pub. Oh, and the feeling of flying down the second highest hill in London, daring myself to hold off on the brakes, feeling the wind in my (now blonde, purple and blue) hair was simply breath-taking.

Going home on Friday night / Saturday morning at around 2am and realising as I neared terminal velocity that I had no brakes thanks to a light dampness on the ground was breath-taking in a completely different way. In a split second, maybe even less, I had to decide whether to chance it with actually reaching terminal velocity before careering out on to the busy road this hill intersects with and hoping I could control the corner at full speed (if I made it over the speed bump alive, that is) and that no cars, trucks or buses would be wearing their usual path down that main road - or abandon all faith in a safe passage and simply abort the mission there and then.

Well I made my decision and I stand by it.

Ok, so I didn't stand for long.

My feet couldn't keep up as I tried to run at the speed my body mass was travelling at. Basic physics. Or gravity. Whatever, I stumbled and hit the bitumen. Hard. I ripped open my new shoes, tore three holes in my woollen tights (and the skin underneath on my knee and my ass cheek), grazed the heels of my palms and the pièce de résistance, smashed my entire shoulder into the ground as the lower half of my body collapsed. My skin was saved by my work shirt and Edgar Allan Poe hoodie.

Aptly, my iPod played "Goodbye yellow brick road" and Sarah Blasko mourned her own sad story about a painful road through my headphones. I sat in the gutter and cried. My hot pink scooter lay abandoned and skewif in the middle of the road. My hair, once free and windswept, started to matt to my face in a mixture of tears, sweat and light misty rain. Finally, with all the dignity I could muster, I picked myself and my scooter up and limped back to work.

My coworkers haven't known me long but even without my expressive face, it's not hard to tell when a girl hobbles in, mascara streaked down her face, hair a mess, holes in the uniform that minutes ago was pristine and dinosaur backpack hanging askew, something went wrong. As Wayne, the head chef put it to my boss, "Evel Knievel here didn't make her jump."

No Wayne, she did not.

I haven't been back on the scooter yet, but I will. It's too much fun. I will however, be purchasing a helmet. My mind boggles at the lack of laws here that allowed me to ride legally without a helmet. I also marvel at my own stupidity that I thought I was too cool or too invincible to wear one.

For the last four days I've been throwing up and at times, fighting in and out of consciousness. I've been in a lot of pain. I had to go A&E to get X-Rays. Thankfully and miraculously, nothing is broken. I have done severe muscle damage to my shoulder, will still be in a sling at the end of the week and have only today (Wednesday) managed the admirable feat of typing with two hands. Obviously, I haven't been able to work, thus haven't been able to get paid. I've relied on the generosity of my brother and future sister-in-law to keep me fed and looked after - including fetching my spew bucket and washing my dinosaur PJs for me when the fevers have rendered them unwearable.

In conclusion:

Expectation!

Reality.

And I'm going to Saint Paul's Cathedral before I kill myself!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What's the worst accident you've been in?
• Do you remember the slow and painful process in a blow by blow, second by second account?
• Have you ever been sick or injured in a foreign country?

Saying goodbye.

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."
~Annie

I leave for the UK in barely over a week. I will be gone for at least four months. So I have to say goodbye to a number of people. But goodbye seems so final, so inflexible. So one thing I make a point of when bidding farewell to people I know and love is to always say "see you later." If you know me in real life, it might be something you've noticed. And if you haven't, you probably will now.

I do this because I need that person to know I want to see them again. It is more a promise than anything else. Maybe a request or even a demand. And I do this fully expecting to actually see that person again.

I have said 'goodbye' twice, knowing full well it would be the last time I saw that person. They knew it too. One was my 80+ grandfather. The other was a two and a half day old baby. There was tears, heartache and a most surreal type of grief. It is something I wouldn't wish upon anyone, though I know it to be a stark reality of life.

But how do you word your goodbye when there is hope but you still know it may very well be the last time you ever see that person?

"Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well."
~Lord Byron

Tomorrow, I have to say goodbye to someone I know and have come to love and expect to be in my life. While I hope upon hope that it isn't the case, it is quite possible this person may pass away while I am overseas. I am devastated at the lack of support and hands on care I can offer. Together we fought this situation over the last year and we were told it was beat. And we rejoiced. But now, barely a week before I leave, we have been dealt the harshest of blows and the fight is back on. This time, with one less person to carry the burden.

A kind word and wishes for a speedy recovery mean a lot. Sitting by a hospital bed and being the smiling to face the greet the emergence from an anaesthesia means a lot more. I considered staying but it has been expressly forbade. Saying 'goodbye' is my only option.

But I've thought about it and I think the best thing I can do is to stay true to myself. Tomorrow I will say "see you later".

I request to see you later.

I demand to see you later.

I promise to see you later.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

• Have you ever had to say 'goodbye'?

OCD vs OCPD - there is a difference.

Please note: This is a rant. Or at least, it's as close to a rant as I can manage. I'm told by Macky that I'm not angry or sweary enough to truly rant, but here goes...

Have a look at this link. I'll wait. If you don't click and look, the rest of this blog post won't make sense. So go ahead and click.

19 things that will drive your OCD self insane.

So, did you feel the urge to straighten the pencils? Did you want to twist that one biscuit around so they all faced the same way? Probably. Because you have OCD, right? It's no big deal. Everyone is a little bit OCD, aren't they?

Well actually, no. You're not. You're "a little bit OCD" like I'm "a little bit pregnant". And I'm not pregnant. But I do have OCD.

If it seems like I'm slightly manic about this, it's because I am. This pervasive misconception that preferring things to be alphabetical equals suffering from OCD drives me to desperation because, like I said, I do have OCD, or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, if you're out of the mental health loop. Both a psychologist and a psychiatrist have diagnosed me with OCD. And it's hard. It's a lot harder than many people would believe.

If you know me IRL, you'll know that I need to have volumes on an even number. I mean, I have to. I nearly killed my whole family leaping from the back seat to the front seat because my brother (who was driving) decided to test out just how badly I wanted the car stereo volume on an even number. In terms of compulsions, I am thankful that I have got off lightly. I do not have the debilitating need to wash my hands over and again or to open and close doors a set number of times. But even still, this aversion to odd numbers is not my OCD. This compulsion is simply the symptom that manifests on the outside and that you can see. No, OCD is much more than this and not many people understand. Some of my closest friends may not even understand.

You are all aware that I have thanatophobia (the fear of death). But having OCD as well means I am thinking about death constantly. I am not exaggerating when I say the only relief I get from thinking about my own mortality and the inevitable deaths of my loved ones is while on a football field. That's 90 minutes in the space of a week (a total of 10,080 minutes) that I don't think about death. And yes, I even think about death in my sleep. It is exhausting. It is so exhausting that last year I decided I couldn't take this life of constant fear and thinking about death anymore. I decided to kill myself. That is OCD. It is persistent, invasive, relentless. It is continuous thoughts that disturb the sufferer and ruins their life. It is not lining your pencils up on your desk.

There is another, little known, disorder called OCPD or Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder and this is more akin to what people believe OCD is like. People with OCPD have "a pervasive pattern of preoccupation with orderliness" whereas people with OCD  have "an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that produce uneasiness, apprehension, fear, or worry". OCPD manifests through "a chronic non-adaptive pattern of extreme perfectionism, preoccupation with neatness and detail" but OCD manifests through "repetitive behaviours aimed at reducing the associated anxiety... of thoughts that recur and persist despite efforts to ignore or confront them".

I am not trying to play "my pain is worse than your pain', I promise. My reason for writing this is because when I (or anyone else who is legitimately diagnosed) admit to having OCD, it is not as trivial as the general public believes it to be. While many people get funny about stereo volumes or like to have their pegs matching when hanging out clothes and they have this in common with some OCD sufferers, I assure you, these people don't understand the half of what living with OCD is like. And somebody saying "I am a little bit OCD about my pegs" is just insulting. You are finicky. You are a perfectionist. You are a control-freak. But you are not OCD. You are not even "a little bit OCD". Please don't presume to know the hell that an OCD sufferer lives in on a daily basis because you like your CD's to be in alphabetical order. It's like telling someone with a brain tumor that you have a little bit of a brain tumor too because you have a headache. Please stop. You are looking foolish.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

• Are you willing to admit to being guilty of claiming to be "a little bit OCD"?
• What are some common misconceptions that annoy you?

What would you sacrifice to do something you love?

I am accident prone. This is no secret. I have blogged about this in my post, "And try not to hurt yourself".

Since then, my relationship broke up and my football season started up again. The football part is great news for me because I love my football - both playing and watching. It's terrible news for my boss because since the season started, I've limped into work almost every Monday morning. He's told me that if I was in the army, I would have been sanctioned for self-inflicting these wounds.

Now, to clarify, my boss is also my uncle. So he's kidding. Same as when he tells me I'm not the accident waiting to happen, I'm the accident that keeps on happening. He loves me dearly, I know that. And he only wants what is best for me - both personally and professionally. As my uncle he has, on numerous occasions, urged me to give up football. My aunty has insisted I do girl things. She wrote it on my whiteboard at work. "Sammy is a girl and must only do girlie things!" And upon hearing last week that both my knees were injured (strained ACL on my left and a bruise on my right) Mum's exact words were "You have to give up the football, kiddo." Where are these sentiments coming from?

Well today I didn't limp into the office. No, no. My dad drove me to work & carried my laptop in while I hobbled in on crutches. My team was 1-0 with only a few minutes to go in our game on Saturday. Desperate to not concede a goal, I went in for a challenge and while I did dispossess the attacker, I came off second best. I have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow and I imagine I will be sent for an X-Ray &/or an MRI.

For months my uncle has insisted I will regret my decision to continue playing football. Now you can't be a Mawdsley without being passionate about football, so you must understand he has had a long involvement with the game - he and my dad were even foundation members of a local club, Rochedale Rovers. He played with my dad for many, many years. He was goalkeeper and he hurt his knee and back on numerous occasions. He continued to play. He regrets it now. He believes I will too.

My uncle has a lot of constant and very severe back and knee pain. It robs him of sleep, physical mobility, the ability to do much of the work he is capable of doing around his house and being able to play all rough and tumble with his granddaughter - the light of his life.

On the other hand, there is my dad. Now granted, he is a couple of years younger than my uncle, but only a couple. He plays football on Monday nights with a big group of men (& I play with him). On Wednesday nights he plays in a huge 35+ comp. I'm not old enough to play there. On Thursdays, he trains my team. Now when I say train, I don't mean stands around and yells instructions, I means gets in there and does everything we do. He plays in the game at the end of training and has been brought down in tackles on numerous occasions. He has had surgery on both knees, two shattered wrists, a broken ankle, a shattered cheek, numerous broken toes, memory loss and more strains, sprains and muscle tears than he could possibly count. But he still plays, he still loves it and he regrets absolutely nothing. He loves football - the light of his life.

So what do I do? I love football. I am still on a high from our 1-0 win on Saturday. In a way, I wear my knee bandage as a badge of honour. The only reason I got hurt is because I went in for a hard tackle to stop a goal. The only reason I cared so much about the result is because I love my football team. And the only reason I love my football team so much is because I have never met a group of 16 girls who are as accepting, fun-loving and supportive as my team.

Samantha, football star.

I played football when I was about six but I hated getting up early (see 'Ambition > Talent') so I gave it up for gymnastics which was on a weekday afternoon. I started up again when I was 12 and played on the boys team with three other girls. Those girls were all friends and were horrible to me. Absolutely horrible. At the end of the season, QSF told me I couldn't play with the boys anymore and would have to join a women's team. With those three bitches. So I quit again. In high school I wouldn't join the football teams because none of my friends would. I finally sucked it up and joined by myself in grade 11 and 12. I enjoyed it but the girls weren't that nice to me. Dad came to every single game when no other parent showed up to even a single one. That's just what football means to my family. At this time, I also played on a men's commercial league team with my dad. Each Friday night I would lace up my boots and march out there to play - the only girl - small for my age & inevitably with blonde pigtails. My team sent me out as captain. The general consensus was you had to be 17 and a male to play. I was 15 and a girl. But when someone finally challenged this, no definitive rule could be found & I was allowed to continue playing. I've played on men's six-a-side comps, men's indoor football comps and in other tournaments.

Last year, my cousin mentioned she was signing up for another season with her football team. She asked me why I didn't play with her. I told her I categorically refused to play with girls after my recent experiences. I was hesitant but she insisted they were absolutely lovely. Finally, I caved. Dad - ever the football fan - came to my first training session. By the end of the hour he'd been asked to be assistant coach. My cousin was right. The group of girls was amazing. Breathtaking. Lovely. Funny. Warm. There aren't enough adjectives. I love those girls - every one of them. As someone who has been judged, treated poorly and deemed 'weird' her whole life, I feel accepted. I've made friends. And I get to play football every week with my friends. And my dad. He's now our coach.

I think I just answered my own question, didn't I? I love my football team too much to quit. I love the time I spend each Monday night with my dad. I don't see me ever giving up the sport I love so much. Even if it means I won't be able to walk in 25 years time.

I have a football team.

I have friends.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What do you love most in the world?
• What would you sacrifice to do that thing?

#IDidNotReport

~ Samantha Mawdsley, 2008

Hot breath leers at my neck

I blink my eyes

The darkness is thick from my slumber

I should be safe in my bed

Am I still asleep?

Am I dreaming?

His eyes swim in the darkness

they drink me in

In the moment I see that hungry look

too many unwanted touches…

I am remembering

I am repulsed

I don’t understand

why this man is standing over me

And yet my innocence knows

exactly what brought him here

But he is family

You trust family

His own family, his stepdaughter

lies sleeping beside me

All I can think is please not her

don’t let her see

or understand

or sympathise…

He tells me he couldn’t sleep

He needs me

I watch his face contort and relax

He asks me to kiss him

I repress

I forget

I don’t want to remember that Christmas…

I used to have nightmares when I was a child

And there was a monster

I woke up…

I lived a nightmare when I was seventeen

I woke up

And there was a monster

I copied and pasted that from my DeviantArt account. I don't want to reread it. I don't want to go back to that place. But that is the starting point for my story.

Today on Twitter I came across a hashtag, #IDidNotReport & people were detailing why they did not report being the victim of sexual violence or abuse. It began because of a poor attitude to rape. A player on a team might say "Man, we raped the opposition Friday night." This is casual. So when a girl is actually raped on Saturday night, no big deal. I know this is a very extreme view, but forgive, I was knocked unconscious in a football game last night & thinking too much hurts my head.

Many people believe sexual assault or violence is not that common. Because according to the statistics, it's not. But what #IDidNotReport actually shows is just how often victims do not report the crimes against them. I don't think I have an IRL girlfriend who does not have their own #IDidNotReport story.

@A_hectic_bloke #ididnotreport because he was ~respected~ in the ~scene~ and I didn't want to lose friends. Or upset his fiancée.

@Stubbornella #ididnotreport because I was too little to know I had any right to my own body... to say no.

@elmyra #ididnotreport the guy who groped me on the train home, aged 14. Thought I had to deal with it by myself.

@TheFatGirlGuide #ididnotreport because ppl think because you're plus size, you should take what you get.

@Princess_Sassy #IDidNotReport but told my family what my "uncle" tried to do. Nobody in the family talks to me anymore even though every girl said 'me too'

You get the idea. And yes, the last one is me. So why didn't I report it? I'm comfortable enough in myself to talk about many things - my mental illnesses, my experience with domestic violence, my phobias & I'm even brave enough to post near naked photos in the interests of loving your body. Well I did tell somebody. I told my mum. The "uncle" & his family wouldn't have been at the end of our street before I was running into my mum, calm tears pouring down my cheeks, telling her what happened. This was two days after the event. I was eighteen. They were staying with us for Christmas.

Why didn't I run straight into my mum's bedroom after it happened? Better yet, why didn't I scream when he tried? I didn't want to wake my cousin, his stepdaughter, who was asleep beside me. I didn't want to cause a giant fight with my uncles and aunty's, cousins and my grandmother. I waited until everybody left - two whole days of playing happy families - before I admitted what happened. I thought of everyone but myself.

I have two female cousins on that side of my family. One of them admitted straight away he had tried it with her too. The other, his stepdaughter, kept quiet for a few weeks. Then one day when her mum dropped her off at school, she turned around and ran back to the car. Wordlessly she shoved a note at her before running away. She was also a victim but she had to live with him.

My brother wasn't told. I just asked my father if I told him or not. Apparently my brother told him - many years later when he found out. Mum said she would handle it. That involved not telling my brother or father because truth be told, they very well may have killed him. I just apologised to my father for not telling him.

I don't talk to that side of the family. I was asked to please be civil and go to my real uncle's birthday party even though he would be there. They tried to coax me, admitting it was a surprise wedding. I still refused. So my "uncle" went. I did not. I cannot keep the peace, I just can't. I demand to be treated with more respect than that and they didn't like it. I am a pleasant and amicable person but people do not like those rare days when I grow a back bone.

I have cousins and young friends who may be reading this. And I hope they are. I want them to know my advice - talk to me. Talk to someone. Do NOT suffer in silence. Do NOT put yourself through anything to protect somebody who would hurt you. There is NO reason you should feel you should be silenced. Talk about it. And do NOT, and I can't stress this enough, DO NOT be ashamed.

MY UNCLE TRIED TO MOLEST ME!!!!!

But sadly, and as much as I wish I had, #IDidNotReport

Miss SAMawdsley xx

My tea party funeral

I went to a funeral today. If you've ever read my blog, you'll know I have thanatophobia (fear of death). My aunty expected me not to come but I always feel I should honour the life of someone I knew & loved, even if it makes me terribly uneasy.

On the way to the funeral, I had a chat to Dad about our funerals. The funny thing is we would be the one to organise the other's funeral if we died any time soon. I have ideas about what I would do for Dad & I shared those with him. His idea for his own funeral was a big football game that all attendees have to play! But I was also curious what he would do for me.

He said he would bury me dressed like Alice in Wonderland. That made me so happy! I'd never considered what I would wear, I guess I just thought a pretty dress but with this idea, I imagined, rather than being buried, I would be tumbling down a rabbit hole & this thought made me smile. I actually find this thought comforts me!

Goodbye...

Music wise, he would play 'You'll never walk alone' by Gerry & The Pacemakers. It's the Liverpool anthem, it was sung at my grandfather's funeral & it will be sung at my dad's, my brother's and my funeral too. I don't know what other songs Dad would pick.

Dad told me he would, rather than have a traditional wake, have everyone attend a Mad Hatter's Tea Party. I could just imagine all the people I love best gathered together eating scones & drinking tea from mismatched tea cups - sharing (hopefully fond) memories of me.

I asked Dad if he could invite my Twitter followers. That may sound weird, but when ever I feel alone, I remember I have a stack of people who enjoy my "company" - even if it is on the Internet. And if they felt they would like to attend to say goodbye to me, I would love them to do so.

One thing I did say was I don't know who would speak at my funeral. I am the public speaker in the family & none of my friends are enthusiastic public speakers. I would like to know who would step up & do it. I would love to know who would share stories & what their favourite stories would be. Would they write a script or poem like I would or would they tell stories, off the cuff?

Isn't it funny that the occasion that supposedly represents your entire existence is arranged by people other than you. It will not be my party, it will be the party my loved ones have for me. Firstly I hope it's a long way off & secondly, I hope it is a happy occasion full of people who love me but smile because they knew me!

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• What thoughts or plans do you have for your own funeral?
• Who would plan your funeral & what do you think they would arrange for you?

'Ambition > Talent' or 'The true story of the death of my Olympic dream'

Ambition is more important than talent. And I am proof.

I was born in 1985. I started gymnastics at my local PCYC when I was about five. I loved gymnastics. I have always had amazing balance. I walked at nine months old & at the same age, Dad would hold me on his hand in the air & I would balance there. True story. I have photos.

Two years later a gymnastics talent scout approached my parents and asked if I could attend an... I guess you'd call it an audition?... to enter training for the 2000 Olympic team.

Mum and Dad took me to Chandler Sports Complex where I spent the day tumbling, cartwheeling, stretching, swinging and balancing. At the end of the day, the Olympic talent people decided I had the right height, the right body shape, was flexible, had amazing balance & that I could go much, much further. As in 2000 Olympics further.

I had talent.

I never made it to the 2000 Olympics. Not because I wasn't talented enough. No, I never made it because I didn't have the ambition.

Mum, Dad and I talked about it coming home. I was seven and I had "won the audition" so I was happy. We talked about it again during the week. Dad was nervous about how we would manage. As a family, we were already time poor and financially struggling, but he never let that on to me. Ultimately, the decision was mine. I remember thinking about it, little seven year old blonde bundle of cuteness I was. The 1992 Olympics has just been on so I sort of knew what it meant, but I guess I couldn't quite grasp what it entailed for me to be like the girls I'd watched on TV so I finally asked Dad what it was the Olympic people wanted me to do. Dad said, "well, you have to practice a lot to be good enough to be in the Olympics. You have to learn to do all the things they do on TV. You have to to get up really early every day to go to gymnastics training." And I was out.

Seven year old Samantha had talent. But seven year old Samantha did not have ambition. No way was I getting out of bed early. I liked gymnastics, but not that much! Looking back now, I regret what could have been. I would have liked to be 'Samantha Mawdsley, Olympic gold medalist.' I'd even like to be 'Samantha Mawdsley, former Olympic gymnast'. Hell, I'd be happy with 'Samantha Mawdsley, who can do the splits!' But Australia managed to field an Olympic team at the 2000 Sydney games without me. They found girls just as talented as me, probably more so, but who had ambition. They had determination, passion, drive and dreams and they taught them to be amazing gymnasts. But they couldn't teach me ambition. I just happened to be damn good at bouncing on a trampoline...

Still am...

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions

• Do you think ambition is more important than talent?
• Do you regret not trying harder to do something?
• Has ambition ever failed you or gotten you ahead?

I reject your reality & substitute my own!

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My psychiatrist told me I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I rejected his diagnosis. Because that's how it works, right?

"Mrs Jones, I'm afraid you have cancer."

"No I don't. I am sick of young whippersnappers like you telling me what I do and do not have! Now give me a prescription for Endone and I'll be on my way!"

Is Mrs Jones' cancer like Schrodinger's cat? Unless she looks she neither has, nor does not have, cancer, right? Because that's exactly how I feel about BPD. I neither have, nor do not have, BPD - unless I go back to my psychiatrist. And I haven't. It's been nearly a year. It was March last year.

"Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a psychological condition marked by a prolonged disturbance of personality function, characterized by depth and variability of moods.

The disorder typically involves unusual levels of instability in mood and black-and-white thinking, or splitting. BPD often manifests itself in idealization and devaluation episodes and chaotic and unstable interpersonal relationships, self-image, identity, and behavior; as well as a disturbance in the individual's sense of self."

To be diagnosed as BPD, a patient needs to present with five out of these nine symptoms.

* frantic efforts to avoid feared abandonment

I will do anything to avoid being abandoned. I have broken up with boyfriends, purely so they couldn't break up with me. When people move away, as people tend to do throughout life, I take it so personally. To me, the fact of the matter is I am not worth enough to them for them to stay near to me. Whatever the reason for the move (work, family, relationships, etc.) it is simply more important to the person than I am. And that hurts so deeply.

* intensity and instability in relationships

* suicidal behaviour, or acts of self-harm

I cut myself throughout high school. I would carve a sparkly spiral on my wrist whenever I was sad. If that was already bloody and scabby, I would carve a star into my ankle. I planned to kill myself in 2005. My dad went to football on Monday nights. On the Sunday, I decided to wait until he went to football and then take every tablet I could find and lay down in bed. If I was still alive when Dad got home, he would just assume I was sleeping & leave me be & I'd be dead by the morning.

Last February I made an attempt. Late one night, I was so overwhelmed by everything that I got up from my bed & headed towards the kitchen of my shared unit for a big sharp knife. As I walked past my housemate's room, I felt a small voice creep up & I squeaked out his name. The sound of my voice, so pitiful, terrified me and I ran back into my room sobbing hysterically. My housemate came running into my room to find me begging him not to let me kill myself. He'd later tell me I had screamed his name & sounded terrified, not pitiful.
These days, I discovered I have physical urticaria. I can stratch myself, feel pain, see an angry red weal & know it will be gone by morning.

* an unstable self-image or sense of self

This is a huge one for me an I have trouble explaining it. I believe I am very different to other people. I don't understand the way other people's brains work and why they do what they do. I'm confused by basic human interactions and am always paranoid that I am doing it wrong. I feel like I wear myself as a costume that fools people but inside this costume is a weird alien who desperately pretends to be normal. It's really hard to describe...

* impulsive behaviour (eg. spending, substance use, reckless driving, sex, binge eating)

* emotional instability due to reactivity of mood

I am shocking with this. The smallest things affect my emotions and they do it in a huge way. A few careless words can send me deep into a spiral of sadness and paranoia. I analyse everything and come to conclusions that are usually painful to deal with and upsetting to me. I hate going to the grocery shops and will come home in a bad mood that I have been known to take out on people I love. Recently, I got insanely angry at my dog for not helping me carry my groceries into the house. Yeah, I know...

* chronic feelings of emptiness

This could be BPD and this could be thanatophobia / existential anxiety. Either way, I absolutely cannot fathom the point of life. I sit and ponder why... just, why...? I am the kind of person who needs goals. I am that donkey that will only walk if there is a carrot dangling right in front of me.

* intense, inappropriate or uncontrollable anger

In grade 10, a guy in manual arts was teasing me. The next thing I remember, my friend touched me on the shoulder. I had opened my tool cabinet, grabbed a chisel & was making my way towards him while the class looked shocked. I describe the part I don't remember as 'red'. It's like my memory was replaced by blindingly bright red. And getting angry at my dog for not bothering to help me carry groceries is not exactly appropriate, is it?

* paranoid thinking under stress or 'dissociative' symptoms

I play football. I'm pretty good. But I won't try to do anything - tricky passes that I am perfectly capable of doing or dribbling the ball up the field, taking on a player - because I am so paranoid the team will hate me if it goes wrong. Even though if they do the same, I'm OK & just yell out encouragement. Some players haven't come back this season. I am convinced it is my fault. I don't know why, I just am. They were there last season when they didn't know I had joined the team, but they won't come back this season.

If someone is upset - or I perceive they may be upset - I believe it's my fault. I usually can't think of a logical reason why it's my fault. And then I believe that it's because I'm so selfish and such a bad person that I didn't even notice what I did to upset them. It's exhausting being so paranoid.

And the dissociative symptoms? I have repressed so much of my life - moments I have been stressed, movie endings that have upset me, confrontational conversations... I just dissociate and somehow come out the other end alive.

It's still something I am considering - whether to accept this diagnosis or not. And in all honesty, this is the main reason I don't want to accept the diagnosis:

"Pejorative terms to describe persons with BPD such as “difficult,” “treatment resistant,” “manipulative,” “demanding” and “attention seeking" are often used."

Imagine a trained professional basically saying to you, "you are mentally ill. How do I know? Because you are difficult, manipulative, demanding and attention-seeking." It hurts. I'll tell you that. Luckily, the few people I have told this to have laughed. They say that if they were to describe me, they would never ever use any of those words. Except "attention-seeking". But they would use it in the "I like to be the centre of attention by being bright, bubbly and entertaining - not by faking drama or making stuff up to get attention. They understand that I am still 'me'. And if 'me' has BPD, so be it. They still love me for who I am, mental illnesses and all.

You may think I am being too open and revealing by writing this blog post. But I am me. If I wrote about the complications of pregnancy, that would be fine. If I wrote about having diabetes, that would be fine. If I wrote about actually being diagnosed with cancer, that would be fine. Obviously they would all be sad, but  in revealing my tragic medical history, I wouldn't be revealing too much. Well I have a mental illness. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have thanatophobia / existential anxiety. I may have Borderline Personality Disorder. And if I do, that kind of sucks... but I refuse to be ashamed of it. Like the ad says, "I can treat my mental illness. I can't help how you treat me."

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Do you have a mental illness that you have kept hidden? Why?
• What is your opinion on being open about having a mental illness?
• Have you pledged to support a change in attitudes to mental illness? PLEDGE NOW

The Scream

Have you ever screamed out of sheer panic? Has terror ever gripped your heart so hard that every last breath in your body escapes your lips in an ear-splitting sound that just can’t be of this earth? There are two scenarios that cause me to emit that horrific noise. One is the Superman ride at Move World. When it throws you out of that tunnel, I just can’t help it. I can’t breathe but I can’t keep quiet either. But it’s a joyously nervous sound and even though I can’t talk for two or three days afterwards, I still love it. The other is out of cold-blooded fear and is during a panic attack.

Well, I guess I shouldn’t call it a panic attack because I’m not sure that is what it is – and nor is my psychologist. The weirdest thing about these episodes is I am asleep while they happen. Or normally I am until the sound wakes me up but sometimes it takes somebody else bursting into my room to snap me out of it. When I wake up the next morning I often can’t talk for a few days, such is the strain on my voice and the length and breadth of my scream.

I don’t remember what leads up to the screaming. If it’s a bad dream, I’ve never remembered it. The closest I’ve come to remembering anything is being aware of the realisation that I will die. I don’t remember thinking anything before that or even being awake to think. I’m not sure if it’s a dream or perhaps I am in a state of semi-sleep. Maybe I even think it while I’m screaming, I don’t know.

I’ve never met anyone who has experienced anything like this. Even the traditional panic attacks don’t often involve screaming. And I’ve never met anyone who has traditional panic attacks that involve screaming either, now that I think about it.

I used to have episodes that involved losing my faculties, screaming and hysterical crying. I’ve never admitted this but from about age 12 I slept on the floor of my dad’s room. (That took a lot to admit, please don’t judge me). I was tearing into my dad’s room so regularly screaming and terrified of imminent death that it just became easier to sleep in there. Perhaps it was the time we suspected I’d fractured my ankle jumping out of bed that triggered it, I can’t remember. Dad would sit up talking to me until all hours of the morning until I was so exhausted that I eventually fell asleep. I didn’t sleep in my own room until I was about 15 or 16. In fact, I don’t actually remember what my room looked like or what bed I had in my actual bedroom. Not before Dad built me an awesome bunk bed that we designed, anyway. My mattress was on my dad’s floor and I had my favourite possessions set up beside me. That was my life. It was embarrassing & I never admitted it to my friends. Well, until now I guess. In fact, I’m not 100% sure why I’m admitting it now…

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Have you ever experienced a panic attack?
• Have you ever screamed? Like, really screamed? Why?

Panic attacks & thanatophobia

Imagine you know for certain that tomorrow you will die. There is not a thing you can do about it, tomorrow will be your last day on earth and tonight will be your last night. How would you feel? I can’t imagine many people, if any, would answer with anything that isn't fear, frustration, anger, confusion or sheer panic. Well I don't know for sure that I will die tomorrow. But what I do know for sure is that there will come a night that will be my last. Following that last night will be my final day on earth. It may not be tomorrow, it may not be the next day. It may not even be for the next 50 years, I don't know. But it will come.

I guess the best way to sum up my thanatophobia is to explain the feeling you would probably be overcome by, knowing you are about to die, is how I feel almost all the time. It is a constant state of fear, of worry, of anxiety. Sometimes the sheer desperation of the situation, the situation that everyone who is born must inevitably face, manifests in what I am forced to call a panic attack.

Panic attacks are defined as "episodes of intense fear or apprehension that are of sudden onset and of relatively brief duration." To clearly define a panic attack, many specialists believe that at least four of the following symptoms should be experienced:

• Clear intense panic
• Palpitations, or accelerated heart rate
• Sweating
• Trembling or shaking
• Muscle tension
• Blurry vision
• Sensations of shortness of breath or smothering
• Feeling of choking
• Feeling waves of being flushed
• Chest pain or discomfort
• Nausea or abdominal distress
• Feeling dizzy, unsteady, lightheaded, or faint
• Derealisation (feelings of unreality) or depersonalization (being detached from oneself)
• Fear of losing control or going insane
• Fear of dying
• Paresthesias (numbness or tingling sensations)
• Chills or hot flashes
• Weakness in the knees
• Confusion
• Tunnel vision
• Blank mind
• Sensing time going by very slowly
• Feeling the need to escape
• Feeling of warmth inside, expanding from within
• Head pressure, unlike headache

In my moments of thanatophobia-induced panic, I have at some point, experienced all of these symptoms and consistently experience 15 of the 25 symptoms. However (and this is very much a point of interest to my psychologist and my psychiatrist) the most glaringly obvious sign of my panic and distress that he hasn't heard of before is my uncontrollable, piercing and blood-curdling screams. I actually reach a state of such frenzy and desperation that I scream, so long and so loudly I often lose my voice for up to four days.

The sound of my screams, usually somewhere between 1am and 4am, would wake my father up with a chilling fright. He has often marvelled that our neighbours have never called the police to report a potential crime. He's explained this as being due to us living on acreage or thanks to the Genovese Syndrome, the bystander effect where witnesses often tend to believe someone else will help. It is because of this that I even found myself in the uncomfortable situation of explaining to my new neighbours, who shared apartment walls with me in my new unit block, that if they were woken by my late night screaming I was simply having a panic attack. I actually had to promise my neighbours that if I was ever in danger I would scream real words such as, "help me, please!" so they would be able to assist me.

I don't remember much about these intense screaming panic attacks. My psychologist is even wary of calling them that, but I have no other word for them. I've been told I scream 'What if I'm wrong?' This alludes to my Buddhist beliefs but obviously, if I am wrong, what is there? Is there nothing? And that is ultimately my base fear. Ceasing to exist. And then I scream.

I do not have these panic attacks in daylight hours – although I have come dangerously close in cinemas. I do however have the traditional panic attacks. I will feel as if everything is closing in on me, the sheer inevitability and overwhelming desperation at my lack of control of death renders me unable to function. I will gasp for breath, my heart will race, I will sweat and I will need to call someone to talk. I often choke down the phone, “talk to me! About anything!” My network of friends and family know not to ask questions and to just start rambling about the first thing that comes to mind – their job, football scores, traffic, the weather, anything to distract my mind. I focus on their voice and their words until I feel it’s safe to open my mouth without a blood-curdling scream escaping.

Miss SAMawdsley xx


PS: For help with Thanatophobia, please join my Facebook support group: Thanatophobia / Fear of death

Questions:

• Have you ever had a panic attack?
• Have you ever perhaps lost control and started screaming?
• What are your thoughts on thanatophobia or anxiety?

"And try not to hurt yourself..."

It's my boyfriend's birthday on Thursday. He has planned his whole weekend out from Thursday to Sunday night. Yesterday he told me all the things he wants us to do - dinner, movie, golf, etc - and he's really excited about the whole thing. At the end of the conversation he asked me to do something for him. He asked me not to hurt myself before the weekend.

I wanted to be offended but honestly, looking at my recent history, he's right. I just asked my dad and he said I was never a clumsy child. I was once able to stand on my dad's hand in the air. There's a photo of him holding me at head height and I'm there, in a little pink jumpsuit, standing on his hand. I was nine months old.

I had childhood accidents like all other kids. I fell on top of eight glass milk bottles once - three stitches in my knee. I fell onto a chair in preschool - two stitches in my lip. I sliced my finger on a cat food tin once. I cut my pinky knuckle slicing cheese too. But in years of trampolining I never once fell off. I also never fell off my horse or my bike either. In fact, I can actually skate ramps and bowls on my rollerblades! I was always the co-ordinated one. But recently, something changed. And admittedly, Clumsy-Samantha is the only Samantha my boyfriend knows.

• We met in March. Our first date was going to be mini-golf. But I had to cancel when I tried to cook burritos. Yes, somehow while cooking burritos I ended up with second degree burns all over my left hand. I spent a night in hospital and two months as an outpatient.

Second degree burns

Bruised knee

• While playing football, I managed to kick myself in the knee. I was only chasing after a ball.
• I was brushing my teeth in my bathroom. I forgot I'd closed the door behind me and when I went to leave, I walked straight into the door.
• I was dancing in my shower when I slipped and fell into the shower screen. Thank God it didn't break or it could have been much worse.
• I walk into doorframes regularly and often simply turn corners too early and walk into walls.
• I so badly bruised my knuckle knocking on doors that I couldn't make a fist.

Swollen knuckle

Scratched cornea

• We were playing golf last weekend and while walking towards my ball, something flew into my eye. I ended up in the emergency room for the second time this year. Scratched cornea and three days of recovery. (That one wasn't clumsiness but these things just keep happening to me.)

In fact, it had become such a joke how often I hurt myself that the radio show I was a co-host of introduced a new segment: Sassy's Accident of the Week. There was not a single week that I did not have an accident to report.

But back to my boyfriend and his request that I please not hurt myself before the weekend. Well not two hours after my boyfriend and I had this conversation, I went to football with my dad. We were warming up and Dad kicked a ball at about shoulder height to me. I could have ducked and headed it, I could have jumped and chested it. But I was lazy so I caught it. And in the process of catching a ball, (yes, simply catching a ball) I managed to stab myself in the eye with my own thumbnail. I wish I was kidding...

Stabbed eye

So now I'm paranoid about it getting infected or something. I'm actually scared that I am going to ruin my boyfriend's birthday weekend with my clumsiness. If I don't hurt myself beforehand, what if I hurt myself while I'm with him?

But it makes me wonder, why am I suddenly so clumsy? I know when kids are growing they lose track of their own lengthening limbs and can become quite klutzy but I've been 167cm for about 10 years now. I'm fairly used to my size. Dad thinks it may have something to do with my anxiety. Like maybe my mind is so busy stressing and worrying that it doesn't properly process my surroundings - or only enough to survive but not remain uninjured. I just hope I live until Sunday night so my boyfriend can have a happy birthday...

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• How clumsy are you?
• Have you ever injured yourself in a stupid way?
• Do you have any theories on how a person could "get clumsy"?