Jenny’s Suicide Gave me a Reason to Stay Alive – By Charlotte Farhan

That day – 14 years ago, was seared upon my memory, Mohammed and I had decided to do our Christmas shopping and my mood was merry and our arms were tired from our bounty of goodies we had bought. Mohammed had been a bit subdued, but I had put it down to being tired from a heavy weekend partying, which had seen me turn 20. Little did I know Mohammed had been selflessly keeping a traumatic secret that weekend. We bundled into my Mothers apartment, chatty and full of smiles, feeling the childlike magic of Christmas in the air.

Then my Mother and Mohammed became very serious and both turned to me, they sat me down and said they had bad news, but not to worry as they were both there to help me. My heart sank and I knew my world would change after whatever they were going to say was said. My Mother took a deep breath:

“I am so sorry darling, but Jenny has died, she has killed herself”.

The world narrowed and I felt an immediate panic, my feet leapt me into the air and ran – I ran away from the news, halted at the front door and collapsed, my heart had just shattered and nothing made sense anymore. Not able to catch my breathe, the tears engulfed my eyes and the loss consumed me. Then I started to scream with all my might.

Jenny and Charlotte in 1999 at woodside psychiatric adolescent unit.
Jenny and Charlotte in 1999 at woodside psychiatric adolescent unit.

The night before Jenny had called me, we had been putting up the Christmas tree and I had waffled on for a bit about how this year had been hard (as usual) but the next was going to be a good year, that her and I would continue to get stronger, that the evil Dr’s who had separated us and tried to deem me a “bad influence” were going to be so gutted when they realised how amazing we were. We had so many plans – once Jenny was old enough, she would move in with me and Mohammed, we wanted to travel around Italy, we wanted to be artists together. Jenny had told me that night that she loved me, she was so proud of me because of my strength and ability to fight, she also thanked me for helping her, for giving her a chance and for loving her so much. I thought nothing of this kind of talk, as this is how we spoke to one another. Thinking back to the conversation, Jenny had been so calm, she had seemed so content and ready.

Jenny in 2001 at our apartment in Guildford.
Jenny in 2001 at our apartment in Guildford.

Jenny and I met in a psychiatric hospital for adolescents in 1999, she had only just turned 14 and I was almost 16, Jenny did not speak to anyone and she carried a cardigan up to her face at all times, you could only see her beautiful big eyes. We met on my first day whilst I struggled to open my window in my room, which only opened 3 inches, but it was a very hot summers day and that little crack of air was all I wanted. Struggling away suddenly Jenny appeared at my door, she glided through the room barefoot and with complete ease lifted my window up, I thanked her and then she left the room in silence. Soon after this an emergency group meeting was called – which is when we the patients have to have a group therapy session, but the focus is on one patient and a “serious” issue pertaining to said patient. Basically a group telling off and shaming ritual, this one was my first and it had been called for Jenny.

We all bundled into the main communal room and grabbed a chair and formed a circle. The head psychiatric nurse started the meeting and told us it had been called because Jenny did not want to attend school sessions, which were for 3 hours a day. Already I did not understand the big deal and why they were making this girl, who did not speak – feel bad about the fact she couldn’t face classes that day. So I continued to listen to the judgement cast upon her and then we were asked what we thought? For a moment I hesitated and thought about my status as the “new kid” and if it was wise to make myself so visible. However as my nature is to say what I think regardless of the danger or social norms, I eagerly raised my hand. The nurse asked me to tell the group my thoughts, telling them how ridiculous and strange this was, that this felt like punishment and shaming, that Jenny was clearly unwell – otherwise why would she be here and that missing 3 hours of school was not a big deal and that everyone should just calm down and let her have the day off. The doctors and nurses were not impressed, but Jenny’s eyes sparkled with appreciation and the other patients got very excited by my “fuck you” attitude and after a little more deliberating, the conclusion was jenny could stay off school that day. Later Jenny came to my room and she started speaking to me, I was the only one at first, but this was the beginning of our love, our friendship, our romance and sisterhood.

The news of Jenny’s suicide was and still is so painful, she was and is the only person who truly understood what it was to exist in that world with me, who knew me as myself, with no pretence and no manipulation of the truth. We had our own language, we wrote fictional stories to one another about misunderstood beasts, we washed each others hair, we would be tactile (which I find so hard to be), we had private jokes and our love for one another was gloriously dysfunctional and both sick and beautiful, we were everything we ever needed. The doctors and nurses thought that due to my conditions that I was a danger to Jenny, but her parents knew otherwise, they understood their daughter and the relationship we had. Eventually I was thrown out of the psychiatric hospital due to “bad behaviour” and yes you read that right, a teenager with serious mental illness and a risk to themselves was chucked out of the “safe place” that this hospital was suppose to be. Jenny remained at Woodside and we were separated. Luckily her parents let her stay for long weekends (which you had off when an inpatient) and once I moved out of my Mothers at 17, Mohammed and I had Jenny stay at our home regularly.

My beautiful Jenny a few month before her death.
My beautiful Jenny a few month before her death.

Jenny left me a suicide note and a poem that she had wrote for all her closest friends and family, this letter I now read on her birthday and on this day – the anniversary of her death, lighting her a candle, listening to our music, getting lost in our memories and the what ifs. Jenny keeps me alive when I am at my most suicidal, she has even visited me as an hallucination during psychosis when my mind is uncontrolled by rational thoughts and my ability to stay safe is minimal, she is there, either as herself or as a black cat. Life is so fleeting and as long as I have Mohammed this world will have me in it until I draw my final breathe, this life I live is for Jenny, and for those two little girls who found each other in the wreckage.

Poem by Jenny left in her suicide note
Poem by Jenny left in her suicide note

 


If you would like to know a little more about me and Jenny, here is a piece I wrote a while ago which is the story of when we ran away from hospital together – Our Tree – By Charlotte Farhan 


If you are struggling and wish to seek some help for your suicidal thoughts or have too lost a loved one to suicide and are struggling with grief, please use these contacts below.

Sane – Mental Health Charity – UK

MIND UK

International Suicide Hotlines

Halloween and the stigmatisation of mental illness

It is that time of year again – All Hallows’ Eve.

Halloween is upon us and has been all weekend, it is a celebration, a ritual and a chance to party with friends, adorning costumes and different personas for one night. With the nights drawing in and winter fast approaching it reminds us of the dark and in turn the dead.

However Halloween has become a mass capitalised practice, with shops and establishments enticing you with their decorations and latest gimmicks from the beginning of October. Making plans for this one night affair becomes about popularity and with the addition of social media – a costume contest is held with hashtags and a one-upmanship mentality.

Although this is not the scariest thing about Halloween, in fact the most frighting of attitudes and beliefs come out to play during this festivity and that is the representation of mental illness and the mentally ill. With depictions in horror films, on TV and in literature – as well as costumes depicting “psychiatric patients” or the idea of insanity being cool or glamorised.

As some one who has sever psychiatric conditions and who has had these since being a child, my thoughts on this subject are something I wish to be heard on, hoping that listening to someone who is actually mentally ill, who has been hospitalised in genuine Victorian asylum buildings in the UK, as an inpatient on a psychiatric ward, that in hearing me you will understand that my suffering, trauma, illnesses and identity is not something you get to “have fun with”. You don’t get to put it on for the night and then take it off without hearing me tell you that this is causing me and people like me to be demonised, you continue our persecution and discrimination. Whimsically you step into a piece of clothing which represents people who have been killed for their disabilities, locked away and forgotten about due to their illnesses, and tortured or experimented on because they behave and think differently to the perceived average person.

Having been stigmatised and labelled as dangerous to others, as a person who is violent or unstable – a person to be feared, a monster. I myself, have believed these things to be true, having allowed myself to be shamed into submission, thinking that in fact I am a scary, crazy villain. So I hid from it, allowed myself to be silenced, accepted family and friends stigmatising me with their fancy dress and in their language when watching horror films. Listening to people discuss my situation as frightening, something which scares them so much they can’t watch.

In the depictions of mental illness within horror films and on TV sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself, in a girl who is screaming manically and bashing her head against walls, or rocking herself in a corner or strapped down sedated in a hospital bead. I have lived these experiences, I still do sometimes. The rocking myself is a self soothing, allowing me to keep myself safe.

Yes I have done this in the dark, on a psychiatric ward – yes it was scary.

But not for you! For me!

When experiencing psychotic episodes I have smashed my head repeatedly against walls, on tables anywhere I could. As I rarely remember my psychosis or at least only fragments of it, I can not tell you exactly what I was thinking – but I can guess with almost complete certainty that it was to stop the intrusive images, the voices, the flashbacks, the pain… It was not because I was possessed or dangerous to others it was because of my neurological damage due to early childhood trauma. Which again is not scary in the spooky horror sense when explained, it is in fact a medical condition and symptoms.

Being in a psychiatric hospital is not a horror fest or a sensationalised attraction to experience. It is like any other medical facility, it is there to treat people with illnesses in a focused in-patient manner. Yes the Victorian buildings were scary and yes me and my in-patient friends would tell ghost stories and scare ourselves whilst walking through the abandoned buildings and grounds – but we didn’t think we were the monsters, we knew we were thought of this way by the outside world.

(West Park Hospital in Epsom is where I was an in-patient for 6 months in 1999)

However we had seen real horror, most of us having survived childhood molestation, violence, and emotional abuse. We knew we were only really a danger to ourselves, hacking away at our own flesh daily, burning ourselves with lighters, putting ourselves in danger as vulnerable people, not eating, taking substances to excess and attempting to kill ourselves often. We were the scariest thing around – to ourselves, but are we really people to be feared? No – we are people who have been vilified in order to hide the realities of true horror, which happens everyday in plain sight, by people you know, people you forgive and people who you look up to. Our ideas disturb the status quo and our sadness gets in the way of the idealistic idea of living a happy life. We make you uncomfortable – because deep down you know we are not different, that you could become ill or have a breakdown. Your neurology is not bullet-proof. We are not made of weaker stuff.

So I ask you to think about the depiction of mentally ill people at Halloween, I ask you to challenge your thoughts on what we look like, act like, or are capable of. Think of the backstory of a character and realise just how un-scary someones emotional distress, neurological condition or neuro-divergent ideas are in context. Think how you may make someone you know feel – who has mental illness, when you dress up as a deranged “psychopath”. Don’t contribute to this stereotype and the discrimination it allows to continue.

(These images are of graffiti myself and other in patients did in abandoned rooms during our stay at Woodside adolescent unit at West Park Hospital in Epsom, England in the summer of 1999 – during art therapy sessions. These photographs have been taken by people who site these as disturbing images of “crazy”impatient scribbling. I see them and remember letting out our pain, me and my best friend Jenny (who took her own life years later), of us together – expressing ourselves through art, this is NOT a horror movie scene or anything sinister.)

The Agoraphobic Artist – My Story

MY STORY

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My story of Agoraphobia starts when I was 16 years old. Only recently discharged from an adolescent psychiatric hospital and having wanted and attempted to die for almost 5 years, (including standing in front of an oncoming train, but being rescued by a very brave train guard) I had survived and started to believe that it was a cruel, never ending punishment. However I was struggling with so many things and was having very vivid hallucinations and believed that I was indestructible.

Then at Reading festival in the year 2000 just after I had graduated from secondary school with almost nothing to show for myself as I had been in hospital for most of my GCSE’s, I went with the attitude that life was a massive joke and I was the punch line. There I met my (now) husband Mohammed, I was in love instantly. I even told my friends I would end up marrying him, they (as usual) thought I was insane, in most medical opinions I was. Sure enough I started dating Mohammed and he was and still is everything to me.

Having never had a kind, loving male in my life, having been abused by my Father and then abandoned by him and having been raped by a classmate when I was 15 (hence the break down and hospitalisation) I had found my prince in shining armour. Mohammed gave me and still gives me more than enough love to compensate for my Father not loving me and being treated the way I had been by boys and men. Mohammed truly saved me from taking my own life when I was a child. A gift of life he gave me and I was not about to waste this gift!

So after wanting nothing more than to die, I now had swiftly changed perspectives, I didn’t want to die, I didn’t want to leave Mohammed, not for one second! This I have later found out is due to my borderline personality disorder and something which we have as suffers which is called black and white thinking (also known as splitting).

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Everything suddenly felt unsafe! The world became scarier than ever, everything was potentially going to kill me, kill Mohammed and separate us. Slowly but surly I became withdrawn and anxious and developed Generalised Anxiety Disorder. I had gone from someone on the highly at risk register to someone who was preserving my existence with such an attention to detail that it was taking over my life and caused mine and Mohammed’s life to become harder and harder. We were kids, now living on our own and we were in over our heads. After almost being sectioned in an adult psychiatric ward in Guildford at 18, I decided I had to keep my mental illness hidden as much as possible, this also fed into my reclusive behaviour and soon enough I was not going out on my own, then only once a week with Mohammed to do the weekly shop and back.

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This continued for a year, then when I was 19 I found ecstasy, a class A drug which allowed me to do things which I would never be able to do, it gave me back my flip side, my fearless side. Just 2-3 pills and I was able to counterbalance my heavy anti-psychotic drugs and fear, so that I could be like my friends and hide my torment and struggle.

I wouldn’t go out, especially without Mohammed and then orchestrated my life so that it was not an obvious problem. But soon, I was put on heavier medication and became like a zombie for a year and didn’t move really, let alone going out. I was starting to create my own world.

 

A spoon full of sugar - By Charlotte Farhan http://www.charlottefarhanart.com/
A spoon full of sugar – By Charlotte Farhan
http://www.charlottefarhanart.com/

Then just before my 21st birthday I suffered a complete psychotic break from reality and broke up with Mohammed. I convinced myself that I was holding him back and that I was not good enough for him and wanted to become my other self, my reckless other side. I couldn’t make sense of anything and felt out of control. This led to a year and a half of heavy drug use, dangerous behaviour and living life as a fearless crazy person. I changed my identity, hide my illness, made friends out of enemies and had no regard for my future, just instant gratification, the thrill of being on the edge again.

However, one day I looked at Mohammed (who I was still very close friends with and who I still loved like no other) and I realised for the first time in my life that he was my future, my partner and my family and that in order to be with him I had to confront everything.

Formidable Love - By Charlotte Farhan  http://www.charlottefarhanart.com/
Formidable Love – By Charlotte Farhan
http://www.charlottefarhanart.com/

Mohammed and I got back together in 2006, although understandably he made me work for it, I had to prove myself and I put everything I had into winning Mohammed back.

After 6 months of being back together, I started feeling the panic coming back, the fear that I would die and not get to live this life with Mohammed. So I started withdrawing again from the outside world and sometime in 2006 I went out for the last time on my own.

My agoraphobia got worse in 2010, I moved to Portsmouth and within a few months of being in the city, I decided that maybe I could start working on my exposure work for my agoraphobia, so one day I decided to take a few letters I wanted to post to the post box a few meters outside my front door, Mohammed was indoors and I felt I could do this!! As I walked to the post box, I saw a man walking towards me, I didn’t really pay attention as I was on my mission. Suddenly I caught his eye and I realised it was my attacker who had raped me when I was 15, I felt all my blood escape my body, my heart stopped, I started sweating and hyperventilating, I turned on my heels and ran to my front door, thumbling around, franticly trying to turn the key, I fell through the door and couldn’t catch my breath and vomited all over myself.

PTSD - By Charlotte Farhan http://www.charlottefarhanart.com/
PTSD – By Charlotte Farhan
http://www.charlottefarhanart.com/

I felt this was another cruel joke which a sinister God was playing on me. I knew this man lived in Portsmouth, but it is a massive city and did not think this could happen. My world came tumbling down around me and I felt trapped and frightened.

This led to me not being able to go to a “normal” university as I couldn’t attend classes, even with supervision or assistance. I was then told by The University of Portsmouth I was to unwell to study and had to leave. I took this as a massive failure and as I could’t work either I felt I was nothing.

This is when I turned to art (Art Saved My Life) and am now an artist who works from home. I started at the end of 2010 and now am a professional visual artist, illustrator, art mentor and I am an artist in residence as well as being a massive promoter of art and it’s benefits to aiding and managing mental illness. I also raise awareness and break down the the stigma of mental illness through my own art.

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It has been almost 7 years since I last went out alone, I am still able to go out with Mohammed, my Mother and a few safe friends, but this is only to certain places and it has to be all pre-planned with warning.

I do all this from inside my home, without leaving the house and it is a struggle everyday. I am still receiving medical treatment for my mental illnesses and am working towards a future when I can just pop to the shop across my road to get a pint of milk. People take for granted these little things which no one would think is a massive ordeal for some. I long for my independence and for freedom from my own prison. I take one day at a time. I am the sort of person that has evolved through all my trauma and pain to believe that we have no excuses, I have days when everything hurts me like I am covered in burns and other days when I can inspire over 36,000 followers and live out my dreams. All I know is that I am blessed to still be alive and to have the people I have around me and I will do everything in my power to help others like myself through art, change the world and I can only do this if I am alive, here and fighting the fight for us all.

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Thank you for reading my story.

All my love, Charlotte Farhan xxx

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