How to save a life

Oh picture it a little girl just a beautiful eight year old
Trying to live through this life in a crazy world
Years past and one bad move
She finds herself as a teen and her life in ruins
What could have happened if we stopped and took the time
Showed that girl she had meaning and a purpose to life
Maybe avoid that downward slide
Would you tell her the truth?
Or let her live in a lie? 

It all just seems to change
When you see it as a life to save 

So would you save a life, save a life?
If it was do or die
Would you save a soul, save a soul?
Even if it's not your own?
If you're the hands and the arms that reach
Would you save a life from drowning?

-Manic Drive 

I saw her as soon as I walked out of the front door at work. She was young, tiny and skittish. She should not have been out this late on her own. I was on my way from the closing shift at the pub and I had a friend walking me home. She swung around at the sound of our voices, but hurriedly turned away and kept walking. I fell in step behind her and she stole a look, eyes wide and fearful.

"Are you ok?" I asked gently.

"Yes, thank you." And she turned around. Please don't talk to me.

She crossed to the other side of the road. Please don't follow me.

My friend suspected drugs. I suspected mental health problems. Naive? Maybe.

I watched her - tugging at the arms of her jacket - feeling suffocated by her headphones - searching wildly for a direction to walk in.

"Excuse me, can you please tell me where I am?" Not a normal question. I crossed to her side of the road.

"You're in Harrow. Are you sure you're ok?"

"Yes." No.

"Where are you trying to get to?"

"I don't know."

"Well how about a train station? I can get you to a train station. You can walk with us."

I was offering a crust of bread to a small, frightened animal - and hunger got the better of her.

"Yes, please. Are you sure?"

"Of course. What's happened? Why don't you know where you are?"

"I ran away."

"Where from?"

"A & E."

"Why were you there?"

"... I cut myself."

"Oh... I used to cut myself too."

Her eyes snapped up to mine. Searching. She's lying.

"Thank you for not being judgemental."

"Of course I wouldn't judge you. Yeah, I used to cut my wrists. Just to feel something. What did you cut?"

"My arms."

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Can I see?"

No.

"Please? I just want to make sure you're ok."

She peels her jacket back. Blood is trickling down her fingers. I see scratches. Shallow, angry, red scratches. There is a tattoo on her wrist and it looks like she has been trying to erase it with something sharp (A protractor? Maybe that was just me.) She will feel a tight burning sensation there - I remember that feeling.

She turns her arms over.

Oh, that's where the blood has been coming from. I can see muscle. Clean slices, inches long, expose her flesh and her pain is oozing from the gaping wounds.

I don't react. Not with my face.

"You need to get those wounds stitched, sweetie." I don't know her name. "Please let me take you to the hospital."

"No, I'm fine. I don't want to go back."
Don't push it. Move on.

"Who was there with you? Didn't you have friends or family with you?"

Friends? Family? "No, they wouldn't let anybody from the ward come over with me."

"The ward?"

"I was on the mental health ward. They were taking me across to A & E but I ran. I don't know why."

"Well we need to get you back - just for the wounds. They're too deep. They won't heal on their own." I don't even know which wounds I am talking about.

"Please, no. I can't go back."

Don't push it. Move on.

"Why not?"

"I've been there for 11 weeks. Some of them are nice, but not all of them."

"Did someone there hurt you?"

"No." I don't know if she's telling me the truth. I've believed everything she's told me but I don't know if this is true.

A police car cruises past. She ducks behind me and emerges on my other side.

"They're looking for me."

"Who?"

Everybody. Nobody. "The police."

"Why?"

"Because I ran away." Are you even listening?

I don't think anyone is looking for her. And that's a reflection on them, not her. She ran. They had one less patient to tend to.

Don't push it. Move on.

"Where are you going to go then?"

"I don't know." She looks up at me. Her eyes search mine. I don't know what she's looking for but she finds it there. "Don't judge me, but I want to jump in front of a train."

I don't react. Not with my face. Again.

"Sweetie, no." I still don't know her name.

"Why not?"

"Because I've been there. I tried. I understand. But if my family & friends let me do it, I wouldn't be here now."

I want to tell her if someone saved me one day when I was alone, my dad would be more grateful than words could express. I wanted to ask her to let me save her - on behalf of someone who loves her very much. But there didn't seem to be a someone.

I tell her about my own suicidal period. She tells me she's glad I'm still here. I tell her I am too. And one day she will feel the same about herself.

"Isn't that the train station there?" Why are we walking past it?

She noticed.

"I can't let you go. I have to take you to the hospital. I promise I'll stay with you." I mean it. "We'll just get your wounds tended to and then we'll leave."

"They won't let me back out. I'll be put back on the ward."

"I'll ask if you can be released back into my care." I don't know if I mean it. I just want her to stop bleeding.

"They won't let you."

"You have to get those wounds closed, sweetie. Please?"

She looks at me again - eyes searching. Is she trying to get rid of me? Or help me?

Don't push it. Move on.

"C'mon, sweetie." I smile and start walking towards the hospital.

It works and she comes with me.

"What is your name?" my friend asks. I've forgotten he is even there.

"Sam."

Now it's my turn to swing around. I stare at her. Why would she lie?

"My name is Sam too!" It's the first time I can remember introducing myself as Sam instead of Samantha.

For a moment we giggle and share this moment. It's like we're having a normal conversation on a normal street. We forget that I am a stranger trying to convince a suicidal runaway from a mental hospital to return to care.

A door slams and she jumps. The moment is lost.

"It's not the police. It's ok. Besides, they're looking for one girl - on her own. You're with us. You're not on your own anymore."

She believes me and looks visibly relieved. She's right. The cops won't find me now.

She looks up at me and smiles. It's a wary, untrusting smile. A jolt runs through me. I realise I read her wrong. She's right. I'm not alone.

She starts telling me about her sister. She died three years ago during an epileptic fit.

I don't know what to say. I ask if this set off her troubles. She says they started before that.

It was the wrong question.

Suddenly she stiffens and stops walking.

"I can't!"

I look up. If we turn this last corner we're at the hospital.

"Please, Sam. You need to get the wounds closed." Which wounds?

She runs across the road to the island in the middle. Her run is stiff and looks painful. She's not going to outrun me. But I'm not going to drag her either.

She turns to face me.

"Please, you don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. I'll go to a friend's house."

"Which friend? I'll come with you. Let me get you somewhere safely. You tell me which friend and I'll take you there."

She looks at her phone. I can see her scrolling through contacts.

"I don't know anyone who will be awake now." The saddest voice. The saddest lie. I don't know anyone who will care.

I don't know if she's right. I hope she's not. But either way, she has nowhere to go.

Then a car comes speeding towards us. She slowly starts back-peddling towards the road.

The train.

She's going to jump.

I can't remember the question I asked her, but she stopped and looked at me. The car passes safely behind her.

She turns and limps across the road.

"Please don't follow me."

"I'm not. I'm coming with you. It's that simple."

She turns and looks at me. Why aren't you going away? I'm pushing. Just leave.

She tries to run. I grab her with one arm and pull her to face me.

"Sam. I'm not letting you go. Please let me help you. I want to take you to the hospital. I can't make you, but I can stay with you. Please."

"No, you don't need to get involved."

"I know how it feels to see no other way but you need to believe me. You aren't meant to feel like that. Let them help you. Let me help you."

I see a car pull up on the other side of the road. It's a police car. I reach an arm out to block her exit - just as she sees the car too. As she looks over, police officers are emerging from the car.

She turns to run - right into my arm. I swing her into me and hold her - careful not to hurt her forearm.

"Nooooooooo."

"Please! Help her! Help me! Help!"

"Nooooooooo."

The way I'm holding her is more like a hug and she is forcing herself deeper into my chest, falling into my embrace. The cops are vaulting the fence now. She realises she's not going anywhere and stops fighting. Now she is hugging me. I hug her back, so tightly. My hand cradles her head. I'm crying.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam."

The officers pull her from my arms but she is holding on to me. I don't let go of her either.

"We've got her. We've found her." The officer is radioing his colleagues. He radios our location. They were looking for her after all. I'm glad.
She screams. They've grabbed her arm - the wounds. The congealed blood falls away and the wounds reopen with venom.

"Stop! Her arms! Be gentle! She's not running, let her go!"

The officers instruct her to roll back her sleeve. I help her as she winces. Another officer dives in with a medical kit. I help Sam to the ground. He winds a thick bandage around the first part of her arm.

"You. Hold this." he barks, placing my hand on hers, holding a bandage in place.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry." I'm still crying.

I can't see her. She's hidden by her hair and has slumped. 

I look up. We are surrounded by at least seven emergency vehicles. Cops are diverting traffic. About 20 people are surrounding us.

But I am here for Sam. I promised.

Her phone and headphones are in the way. I pull them off. It's an iPhone. She had her iPod playing and the last song's album cover art is on the lockscreen.

"Walk through the Fire" - Buffy the musical.

Who is this girl? What 18 year old listens to the Buffy soundtrack? I can't let her go.

"I am putting my number in your phone."

I try. She has a password on it.

"Sam, what is your password?"

She gives it to me. No pause. She just gives it to me.

They start to bundle her up and move towards the back of one of the police vans.

"Can she come with me?" She reaches towards me.

The officers look at me. I promised her I would stay with her.

They ask Tanya, a social worker.

"Are you her friend?"

Sam is right behind me, two cops helping her into the van. She's co-operating.

I look the social worker straight in the eye.

"Yes."

They put me in the middle part of the police van.  I have her bag over my shoulder. They open the door between us so I can hold her hand.
I see the tattoo on her wrist again.
"What does that say?" I can't make it out through all the deep, red scratches.
"Stay Strong."

We drive to the hospital and I walk with her to the emergency ward.

She is put straight onto the nearest bed.

They close the curtain between us. I need to pee. But I don't move. I take a few steps towards a sink. I need to wash her blood off my hands. But I can't leave her. Even though she can't see me. I promised.

A cop comes to talk to me. He asks me if Sam called me. Did I come to pick her up? I shake my head.

"I only met her tonight."

He asks me the same question rephrased a few different ways. He can't comprehend why I was with her - why I had walked so far and for so long with her?

"Because I've been there."

I ask him if I have to leave and he says no. Then I plead with him - when the time comes that I have to leave her, please make sure she knows I'm being told to go by the hospital or the police. Don't let her think I've abandoned her. He smiles and says he will.

A nurse follows him. She asks me to sign her mental health sanction papers. I do. Under relation, I put friend. I don't know why I don't own up to not knowing her, but I don't.

They leave me. My friend is still with me. I hadn't really noticed.

I realise I still have her bag on my shoulder. It's so light. What does someone like her have in her bag? I want to know who she is and I'm ashamed to admit it, but I looked.

Her phone. A red lipstick. A ventalin spray.

I see a bundled up wad of paper. It looks old. It's a folded up booklet.

I flip it to see the cover. A cry is choked in my throat.

Her sister's funeral booklet. It's from early 2010. It's dog eared and dirty. She has carried it with her everywhere. For three years. Since she was 15.

"Ok, Sam. We're going to have to take you back to the ward now."

I bury the booklet back in her back and arrange my face into a smile.

She comes around the curtain and her face is shocked. She's still here. Why hasn't she left me?

"I promised you I would stay."

I reach out and she falls under my arm. The police officer lets me walk with her to the ambulance that will transfer her back to the mental health unit.

I hold my arm around her. I am trying to make her feel safe. But I am also making sure she doesn't run again.

It's not an ambulance. It's the police van again. My heart sinks. They bundle her into the back again.

I go to make my way to the middle section again but the door is slammed before I get there.

A nurse tells me they have my details and will call me to update me on her condition. Ok.

She tells me I can then advise the rest of her family on her situation. Oh no.

I confess. I only just met her tonight!

She looks at me and then looks at the paperwork. I don't know if she's annoyed or confused. Maybe both.

"Well we have your phone number. If she wants to contact you, we can give it to her."

I tell her to remind Sam I put my number in her phone.

I stand there, stunned. I didn't get to say goodbye.

Then a police officer comes around the back of the van.

"She's asking for you."

And he slides the door open.

I dive in and wrap my arms around her.

"I can't go any further with you. I'm sorry. I just wanted to help you. You'll get better. And when you do, you'll realise how wonderful it is to be here, I promise." I kiss her on the forehead. "Now promise me you will get better."

She looks at me and smiles.

I hold her cheek in my hand.

"You're very brave."

The door between us slams shut and the police van takes her away. She's alone again.

And I break down. Sharp wracking sobs rip through me until my chest hurts.

I wail about being 18. And her name being Sam. And Buffy. And losing her sister at 15. None of it makes sense, but I can't stop crying all the same.

We can't get back inside the hospital. Staff only entrance. So we walk down the hospital ramp.

Suddenly my phone rings. The nice police officer offers us a lift home.

I gladly accept.

At my door he shakes my hand. He promises to come into our pub soon. I hope he does.  He tells me I did something very few other people would do. This breaks my heart.

It's 2am. I collapse into bed, sobbing. I look down and realise I have Sam's blood on my shirt.

A few minutes later, I received a text message.

Dad told me that I may not be able to save her. But I gave her one more day. One more chance. And all I can do is hope that it's enough. And one day, we can look back on how we met and where she is now - and we will both be thankful for it.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

UPDATE: She texted me telling me she is feeling better today. I am hoping to get up to the ward to visit her soon.

Where I belong...

I was bullied in high school. I was a social outcast. It hurt, it destroyed my confidence and in a way, it crushed my spirit. While I know the initial bullying was for something stupid and outside of my control (my family & I did a milk run... I know, right?), my overly-enthusiastic, somewhat offbeat & eternally optimistic personality seemed to bait my bullies into damaging my self-esteem as much as possible. Even teachers recognised I was a little bit odd. In the last English lesson of high school, my teacher gave out a literary quote, hand picked for each student to reflect her feelings for us as individuals. Mine?

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." 

---Henry David Thoreau---

And that's what I have always done. I'm still overly-enthusiastic. I'm still somewhat offbeat. And I'm still eternally optimistic. But I'm also still very insecure that all these qualities I possess combine to make one really irritating human being who "deserves" all the bullying she got.

Until I joined a football team in 2011.

My cousin suggested I join & promised me that all the girls were a great & it was a very supportive team. I trusted her & honestly, it was the best decision I ever made. I was terrified going to the first training session. Dad, who just plain loves football, came with me. I was convinced that everyone would hate me, that I would just be "the new girl" and that I would not fit in.

I could not have been more wrong. Dad was straight away asked to be the assistant coach and the girls welcomed me as one of them. Not a single one treated me like I was anything but a friend and much appreciated teammate - and I mean for my personality, not for my (questionable) football prowess.

I was going through one of the worst periods of my life when I joined the team. I was actually suicidal and being part of a team that felt like they needed me helped save my life. I couldn't let them down when, by signing up to the team, I had made a promise. And I keep promises. Some of the girls knew about my troubles. They happily let me be number 7 to appease my OCD and it has been "my number" ever since. I "missed" one training session but what the girls don't know is I was actually there, in the parking lot, sobbing my heart out begging my dad to just let me kill myself. I tried so hard to be at training but I couldn't do it that night. But even despite it all, I knew, and I know now, that they would never judge me for all this.

Of course I signed on again this season. After our coach declined to continue, Dad was asked to be coach and he loves it - he genuinely loves all the girls and brags to his football team about what a great group of girls he has. Dad and I actually sold our house (after 20 years there) and moved closer to my teammates. Prior to this, we had lived 45 mins from my home ground. That's how much of a difference being part of this team has made to my life. Our biggest life decision in 20 years was made with the consideration of where my football team plays.

This season I tried to come off my Zoloft (which I am on for my OCD) and I became irritable and actually nearly got sent off in a few games. But my team understands me. They accept or dismiss my apologies as unnecessary and they love me anyway. It may be even because of my honesty. I don't know. All that matters to me is that they love and accept me.

I missed the last game of the season this year because my flight to England was 35 minutes before kick off. At my last game, most of the team agreed to come out to dinner with me to celebrate. I was only missing one game (and hope to be back in Australia in time for the next season) but they did the most amazing thing for me. After hearing of my Will Blog For Music campaign, the girls raised $100 to contribute and signed a huge card for me.

I cried. In many ways, I still feel like that bullied, outcast little girl, so to feel so accepted and loved by an entire group for exactly who I am, flaws and all, means more to me than any of the girls could possibly understand.

Today I spoke to Dad and he told me about the last game of the season that I missed to catch my flight to London. The girls, the amazing group of girls that I am so honoured to call my friends, wore yellow tape on their arms (the way other sporting teams were black arm bands as a mark of respect after a death) to show that I was there with them in spirit. I wear yellow tape on my football socks, that's the link there, but when Dad told me that, I cried. They didn't do it "for me", as in to tell me to make me happy, they did it "for me" in that they genuinely care about me and wanted to feel me there in spirit with them.

My team! See their yellow arm bands for me?

Since it was father's day, they also signed a father's day card for Dad and gave him a box of chocolates. Seriously. That's the group of girls I am talking about. That is my group of girls.

Even this post doesn't capture how I feel about my football team. How do you explain the way you feel for people who made you feel like a worthy human being, who welcomed you entirely for the first time ever and who, in essence, saved your life? I'm known for being quite verbose but in this case, I simply have five words.

Thank you. I love you.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Who do you owe thanks to?
• Where do you feel the most comfortable?
• What's been your experience with team sports?

Just because...

Because I am tired.

Because every day I live is a hellish nightmare full of constant thoughts of death.

Because, believe it or not, sometimes it sucks to have everyone think you're wonderful.

Because if people expected nothing from me, anything I gave would be good enough.

Because I am so terrible at the art of self-soothing.

Because I'm not perfect but it's not for lack of trying.

Because just knowing the words to 'Defying Gravity' doesn't mean I can sing it.

Because I can't turn off my emotions.

Because if I drag my own sunshine out of my life, it is so exhausting trying to light it back up.

Because I enjoy attention, just like most people, but I feel like I am hated for it.

Because I am always there for everybody and I genuinely care.

Because when someone is there for me, I have trouble believing they genuinely care.

Because I am my own worst enemy.

Because my paranoia is exhausting.

Because I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

Because my own thoughts and emotions contradict themselves.

Because my hands are always cold.

Because there are days when I hate myself.

Because there are days when I despise myself.

Because there are days when I loathe myself.

Because I can try to walk through a door and end up walking into a wall.

Because the touch of someone I love can burn like 1,000 fires.

Because my heart can't decide what it wants and yet it wants whatever that is so badly it hurts.

Because no matter how hard I try, I just can't cook.

Because my anger is intense, irrational and fleeting but by the time it passes, my pride is too stubborn to let it go.

Because people think I'm so good and sweet that I am not allowed to have moments of self-pitying.

Because sometimes I want to cut my own heart out and just hand it over to people who think I don't feel how they hurt it anyway.

Because I think every bit of pain, misery and suffering is my fault and if I can't determine how I caused it, then I blame myself for being so selfish.

Because being bullied has made me so insecure and I end up second guessing myself constantly.

Because I can't take a compliment truly to heart as I am always sure there are ulterior motives.

Because there are times when I feel like a human punchline.

Because I've been lied to and treated like I don't matter.

Because sometimes I can't handle the truth.

Because sometimes I really don't matter.

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Do you ever have days like these? Have a rant! Share what it is that makes you sad... Real, imaginary, stupid, legitimate... go for it!

Samantha vs Samantha-on-Zoloft

A song for every emotion, right? Well this is how I feel.

Stage whisper: "I am on medication...!" I know, right? Shocking. But seriously, I am not ashamed to admit it. Like someone who is diabetic needs insulin to function better, I too need Zoloft to deal with my OCD & anxiety. But many people are ashamed. And people who should be on medication resist it - for numerous reasons, the biggest, I believe, being the stigma attached and the "crazy person" label that comes with it.

I went on Zoloft in March last year after a bout of suicidal thoughts and behaviours linked to my thanatophobia and my recent (at the time) OCD diagnosis. My head is not a fun place to be. Not by any stretch of the imagination. When my psychologist suggested I go see a psychiatrist, I knew what was coming. What is a psychiatrist if not a psychologist with a prescription pad, right? But even when the psychologist handed me the script, I looked at his outstretched hand with disdain. His hand hovered before he registered that I was not going to make any motion towards accepting his prescription. So he put it on the desk beside me. And when I left, he had to practically wrestle it into my hand. What followed was not pretty and I owe a few people a great debt of gratitude for how they rallied around me. I was not well.

The thing that frightens me now is, I am still not well. I leave for England in 71 sleeps and I decided a while ago I don't want to be on medication on my holiday. So I've been gradually weaning myself off the tablets. And it's been going fine. My withdrawals are beginning to subside and I'm able to go longer and longer between tablets. But I have regressed. I've been feeling it slowly happen over a period of time but I have been trying to deal with it - to ignore my paranoia, to self soothe and to control my anger. But tonight was a major slap in the face for me.

I'm back to being anxious and paranoid. My team lost at football tonight. It's your fault. They aren't happy that they lost. And now they all hate me. Even more than they already did. We let in seven goals. Because you suck and you let your team down. But we did get two goals. Yeah, no thanks to you!

I'm back to being angry and temperamental. I actually had the ref pull me out of the game to have a stern word to me because I was mouthing off. And your team was ashamed to know you! I am not a "mouthing off" kind of girl. But that's the thing, you see. I am. Samantha is a "mouthing off", angry, snarky, acidic, paranoid girl. Samantha-on-Zoloft is not. The paranoia, I could deal with (sort of) because that's all internal. But having no control over my behaviour and finding myself yelling at opponents and the ref is horrible. When a girl blatantly and deliberately fouled me outside of the ref's view, a small voice piped up, "Just hit her! Just punch her square in the jaw!" But I am not a hitting person! I've never hit anybody in my life! But again, I guess Samantha is. It's Samantha-on-Zoloft who is not a hitting person. Samantha tonight had to fight very, very hard not to obey that small voice.

I'm finding it hard to verbalise my feelings right now and explain why I am unhappy about this. You see, I don't have a problem with being on medication. I think my problem lies in the fact that I need it, or I feel I need it, to be a better person. I have heard people say the nicest things about me lately. I'm actually in awe and humbled by how highly people seem to think of me. But now, and it very well could be the paranoia talking, I feel like all these people like Samantha-on-Zoloft, not Samantha. Who I am, in essence, is not good enough. So who am I really? When you need medication as a diabetic, nobody judges you but when your symptoms manifest to the point you feel the need to apologise to your team for your behaviour (and I did) then you feel somehow less than perfect. But I suppose, considering how anxious, paranoid and irrationally angry I am lately, I should give the public what it wants. Or who it wants.

The other danger I find myself in is being so tired. I don't mean like, I need a nap. I mean I am drained of  all emotion, will and drive. It's the same feeling that preceded my suicidal episode last year. And I made a promise to those who helped me that I would do everything they asked me to do to get better... and stay... here... alive. And part of that was admitting when I feel like this. And I guess, this is me admitting that I do. So Samantha - anxious, paranoid and irrationally angry Samantha - should submit to Samantha-on-Zoloft. And you know how there is a song for every emotion and situation? (Or maybe that's just me...) but the song (slightly adjusted) comes to you courtesy of Eminem.

"I've created a monster, 'cause nobody wants to
see {Samantha} no more they want {Samantha-on-Zoloft}
I'm chopped liver.
Well if you want {Samantha-on-Zoloft}, then this is what I'll give ya."

Or at least, I should. Right?

Miss SAMawdsley xx


Questions:

• Are you or have you been on medication for a mental health issue?
• How did it make you feel? What about if/when you came off it?
• What do you think of people who need a tablet a day to function?

Please remember that Samantha wrote this, not Samantha-on-Zoloft.

It's probably irrational, unbalanced and warped but it's not attention-seeking, I promise.

But please be gentle as I have blogged my own truth - and that takes courage, right?

Please don't make me turn comments off.

To heart, or not to heart, Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is tomorrow. Seriously, is there any worse faux-holiday? It causes me such anxiety whether I am single or not (which I am). But I love it all the same…

When I was a little girl, Dad used to get me a mini version of whatever he got Mum. Mum would normally get a bunch of flowers, a big heart shaped chocolate and a diamante encrusted heart shaped pin with her name engraved on it. I would get a little flower, a small heart shaped chocolate (or heart shaped lollipop) and a plain heart shaped pin with my name engraved on it. As much as I loved it, I felt I was intruding on their Valentine's Day.

When I was a little bit older, Mum left Dad. In the first week of February. Valentine's Day just made me so sad. Dad kept my brother and I. Just days after Mum left, Dad took us to a florist. He ordered a huge bunch of beautiful red roses to be delivered to Mum at her mother’s place. The florist asked my dad what he would like written in the card. He proceeded to recite one of the most beautiful poems I’ve ever heard. I asked where he got it. He told me he wrote it in his head a few nights prior and memorised it. I am certain that, collectively, all three of us held our breaths to see if this gesture, this last chance to be a family again, would work. It did not.

Years later I found the card she received from “the other man” that same Valentine's Day. It went with a bear that once replaced Puppy that time I forgot to bring him with me to Mum’s house. I threw that horrid bear out of my room and refused to let him ever come back in. No one ever asked why and I never found the card my dad sent her.

When I got to high school, there was a shame-inducing tradition of selling flowers to be delivered throughout the school. $2.50 got you a dying carnation with a small badly cut up tag tied on with cheap ribbon and your chosen sentiment hand-scrawled by a grade 12 girl who couldn’t care less. My first year there, my friend and I panicked at the horror of being the only girls not receiving flowers come Valentine's Day. Luckily we both received ‘From your secret admirer’ flowers. Turns out $2.50 can also buy insurance against being one of those girls who didn’t receive a flower.

I didn’t receive another flower until grade 12. That year I received one from a dear friend telling me “blonde becomes me” and another was one of the sweetest gestures I’ve ever received. My best guy friend (and technically ex-boyfriend) had a rose delivered to me asking me to be his date for the formal. Everyone in the grade knew I was getting this flower and when I looked up from reading it, every girl in the class was looking at me before one brave girl (funnily enough, the ex-friend who was in on the secret admirer scam from years prior) blurted out “Well, what are you going to say?” For the girl who was picked on mercilessly, the fact that I was the only girl to be asked to the formal through a flower and the first of all the girls (save the ones with boyfriends, I expect) to be asked to the formal meant the world to me. I had been dreading the formal for years, fully believing no one would ask me, purely thanks to the social stigma of being “the milk girl” (I worked on a milk run after school) but instead, I was the first girl to be snapped up!

That special moment was only a counter-balance for the fact that I had no way of stopping the crappy carnation that was winging its way to my ex-boyfriend who’d broken up with me on the 12th. That was just awkward for all involved. But my dad made it better by having big ugly plastic roses in the car for me ad my best friend when he picked us up that afternoon to drop us into the Brisbane Motor Show.

I had a boyfriend most Valentine's Days since then. But my heart still always breaks for my dad. I know that every Valentines Day he just remembers the last one he tried to share with my mum. He thinks of that poem, those roses and that desperate clinging to the family we once had before it slipped away forever. I always try to do something special for my dad. Ex-boyfriends of the past know that my dad is my main Valentine. Two years ago I bought him a black rose with a note that said “For the only one who can see the bright side of my dark side”. I don’t remember what I got my boyfriend at the time.

Last year I tried to kill myself just days before Valentine's Day. I say that bluntly, but a fact is a fact. It wasn't anything to do with Valentine's Day. My dad took me to a movie about life-after-life. I just cried and told him I wanted to die. This year, I need to make it up to Dad.

The boyfriends that I’ve had usually spoilt me. I have photos, teddies, cards, jewellery and fake flowers from many years and boys gone by.

This year is the first Valentine's Day I remember for a long time that I will be single (last year was a blur of suicide watch and therapy). I don’t know what to make of it. Obviously Dad will be my main Valentine again. But as a girl, its nice to know someone is thinking of me - thinking that I’m special, thinking that I’m beautiful, thinking that I’m worth something, anything, on Valentine's Day.

I know its a Hallmark holiday that isn’t even worth the cheap paper that all those cheesy, sappy, soon-to-be-thrown-out cards are printed on, but I still want to be part of it. Everyone says it’s just a gimmick and a poor excuse to make couples spend money and that’s totally true. But no one wants to be excluded. I could shout from the rooftops and use my blog as a stand and say “No to Valentine's Day” but I don’t want to. I like the sentiment. I like the feeling of being special, in some way, to somebody. Whatever reason that may be. I don’t want to just feel like the girl who is in the way, the girl who’s future with a live-in mother hangs on a poem, the girl who sends herself a “secret admirer” flower, the girl who feels the shame of giving an unwanted Valentine's day gift, the girl who spends Valentine's Day making sure her dad is ok… but I don’t need to be the girl who received an $80 dozen roses, the girl who wakes up to a serenade outside her window, the girl who sees a proposal hanging on the overpass on the way to work, the girl who is whisked away for a romantic dinner for two… I just want to be the girl who knows she is special… to somebody…

Miss SAMawdsley xx

Questions:

• Do you celebrate Valentine's Day?
• What does the holiday mean to you?

I'd like to wish a very happy Valentine's Day to some wonderful people who may be reading this.

Lori - who deserves all the love in the world

My best friend - who has been there for me every day for 21 years
Adam's mummy - who is spending her first Valentine's Day in 10 years as a fabulous single girl

Player - who sent me love purely for the sake of love

Simon - who is the best guy a girl could ever ask for

Someone - who has taken a tiny piece of my heart to a far off world. You damn well better bring it back one day! "I like you!" xx