I was young and giving up and accepting the fate that some people had placed on me just made me more determined. I had fought tooth and nail to try and give myself a future. My grandfather encouraged my gran to do her cryptic crosswords to keep her brain working and "oiled".
I thought the longer I was out of work, that it would be less likely that I would get back in the game. But with a mental breakdown, thats not quite the case.
But I didn't have a nurse like Justin effing beiber, sit on the bottom of my bed and say that getting well was a long long road and that I should break down everything to tiny bites. One thing at a time. I had my my mum saying that I was a sick just face it. One health care worker saying don't you realise how sick you were.
I did get some good advice from nurses and the doctor. But I was under going a full psychosis and I was not lucid that often and I wasn't ready for talking it out. My medication was working it's magic. When I crashed I was more reasonable. And I regained my judgement. I think I was one of those people that opening up would have been more dangerous.
I went out with friends and some of their college classmates were with them. And one girl greeted me one week with " oh it's you...I knew YOU would be here"
I took this as a sneer of superiority. Insinuating I was a "drooth" and nothing else. So I bucked up. And the pub closed and I lost contact with the duo.
So my priority changed to first I was to get out the house and be productive. THEN I would tackle my social life. I'd rather be on my own than hang about with people that didn't care about taking responsibility. I needed purpose. I got fixated on this. I wasn't a deviant. I had legitimately been un-well. Self medicating too. I wasn't a lost girl.