Another year over, a new one just begun….

I burnt the suicide notes I had prepared. 

Things are not great. 

Paranoia is at an all time high

But

I am going to do 2016.

That’s a start. 

Handle me with care….

I saw one of those annoying self care lists earlier. 

They irritate me because it’s beyond my comprehension that anyone believes a hot bath & some candles will stop the war in my head.

As I scrolled through the ridiculously naive advice, I realised I had my own version of self care. 

I was in fact, in the midst of a session. 

Self harm is my self care. 

It ticks all the boxes. 

It helps me feel calm 

in control

quiets my mind.
The ritual of setting up keeps me busy

Peeling back the foil to reveal a pristine blade

Arranging my towels 

Carefully selecting where I will begin

All of things offer distraction from my despair

panic 

loathing.

They provide comfort 

&

root my in the present moment. 
The bloods feels good; hot & slippery on my skin

The release gained from it flowing out it a weight lifted.

It’s so much better than crying.

That first strike that slides right into my flesh,

When I’m through the skin & my fat offers no restistance.

That wipes my thoughts clean 

It’s just me, 

my scalpel 

&

my blood. 
That’s what compassion is to me. 

It’s stainless steel disappearing into an open wound,

the instant when my cut starts to frighten me

But

I just keep going. 

Rolling in the deep….

i have bad patches. 

days when life is dark 

days when I’m dripping in sadness 

sometimes the days are weeks 

or

months

but

there is light. glimpses of life.

i struggle. it’s exhausting. I hate it.

there is purpose, though.

i do fight it.
i have a very definite tipping point.

my serious relapses follow an identical pattern 

insomnia cloaks me in a miserable fog

panic stacks come knocking 

guilt, shame, blood 

until i’m paralysed.

every minute of every day becomes intolerable 

the outside world is terrifying 

opening my eyes each morning is overwhelming

i attempt to soothe myself with scalpels 

and

opiates

but

nothing works, nothing lasts. 
i’ve crossed that threshold 

i’m in it.

we’ll all be lonely tonight & lonely tomorrow…

crying in the middle of the night is back.

dark rooms

dark thoughts

indiscernible tears.
i feel hollow

&

fractured.
multiple precarious cracks 

all threatening to give way

and i’m not gentle 

i can’t be trusted with my crumbling self 

i’m likely to stick my fingers in the gaps 

and

pull my roof down.
the safest option is 2am tears. 

just lie very still in a dark room

and

cry 

And the walls kept tumbling down….

yesterday i had to ask my best friend to walk me to the chemist.                            

it’s two streets away, but i just couldn’t do it on my own.

my friend is wonderful, but i still felt pathetic. 
today i had to get some blood tests. just routine tests that i have done regularly. 

but, it felt like an impossible feat.

i took a double dose of diazepam & was still overwhelmed.

i began to cry when the nurse was taking blood 

i found i could not stop 

and, so spent a humiliating half hour trapped in waiting room toilet,

desperate not to share my fragile state with strangers. 

now, i am home. Hating myself for all the things that i haven’t done. 

from housework to commissions. 

i don’t want to be back here,

frozen in panic

gobbling pills to survive another day.

i thought I was closing the book on blood

&

stitches

&

shame. 

not so. 

here i am once again mired in it.

even more frightening this time as i have more to lose.

and

because it’s a brutal reminder that there is no cure

this illness can crush me at anytime 

control is an illusion. 

guess what? I’m not a robot…

it has been a bleak weekend

there are reasons

and

no reasons.

 

predictably, when I couldn’t decipher my mind

I turned to my scalpel for answers

you know the rest.

 

perhaps the break made me clumsy

or

thirsty

in any case I made a tad too much mess.

 

with no option, but A&E to stem the blood flow

i wrapped my arm in a towel

and

mustered as much calm sanity as I could 

 

my local hospital has undergone quite the transformation

a swanky new uber hospital has sprung up in place of its crumbling victorian predecessor

within its walls the attitudes were more in tune with its origins.

 

The dr I saw was pleasant, he didn’t say much, but everything he was accompanied by a smile

this disarmed me a little

i wasn’t prepared for him to be a dick

he worked at speed that belied any concern for me

his method could only be described as slap dash

he did administer local anaesthetic

just not enough to actually prevent pain

a small part in the centre of each cut was numbed

the rest, I felt.

 

he closed the largest (10cm) gash with four stitches

I had cut clear through the fatty tissues

causing the resulting wound to gape alarmingly

obviously, I am not a professional

but

i have had less serious injuries closed with both internal & external sutures.

this time the dr just yanked together the edges (with some difficulty)

unsurprisingly the stitches had burst 10hrs later.

 

i didn’t challenge him

i just sat there

apart from wincing when the initial stitch went in

i didn’t say anything at all

 

i sat there and let him stitch two deep cuts without proper anaesthetic or care.

 

at the time i just wanted to get home.

later it occurred to me that the way I was treated probably wasn’t ok

i wondered why I didn’t request more local

or 

enquire about his technique.

the only answer I could summon was that I didn’t think I had the right to ask for better

for all my campaigning, 

in that moment my usually vocal defence of my rights was silenced.

it felt that pain relief for me, was a luxury rather than a necessity

the shame is so ingrained.

 

the voice in my head that tells me I deserve the pain is strong

the part of me that shrieks that I’m worthless

 renders me compliant

content to take whatever semblance of treatment is given.

 

afterwards, when these thoughts started to emerge

i even questioned my right to question

 

every day, i fight the thought that I’m nothing

i battle to recreate a life

i push myself to do terrifying things

partly to make me feel like a person who is capable of succeeding

and

partly to stop this shit happening to other people.

but

the truth is

no matter how many people I present to

or

how much they pay me

 

regardless of how better everyone thinks i am

or 

how many days pass without cutting

it still only takes one bad day

and

one cruel person

for it all to come crumbling down.

worth it….

one of my dearest friends gave birth yesterday
she brought a beautiful baby girl into the world
and
i’m so proud of her
i’m so happy for her
i’m so in love with that little girl already

but
i’m crying
when she told me she was in labour i felt a stab of pain so sharp
that it took my breath away
because i’m selfish
and jealous
and another person i love is getting everything I want

the thing is once i got my breath back
i prayed that her labour was easy
i prayed for them both to be safe
i was excited.
all i wanted was for them both to be healthy & happy.

when i saw her beautiful little face this afternoon
i cried happy tears
she’s perfect
and her mummy has done the bravest, hardest thing by bringing her into the world
i know how full of love her life is going to be
and
how wonderful her parents are.

we live on different continents
i can’t be there every day
but
i want nothing more than to be a part of this tiny new human’s life
i can’t wait to watch this family grow.

So, yes
i’m self-involved
and
yes, it hurts
but
the hurt isn’t a patch on the joy
idoesn’t touch the thrill of a new life
it cannot dull the pride
Nor dampen the adventure.

there will always be pain
and
it will always be worth it

the huge, expansive love
will never stop being worth it.

i’ve lost control again…

i’m ill
oh, i know, i’m always ill
but it usually ebbs & flows.
i get some respite
i used to have days when i felt i like a normal person
not
anymore.

i’ve been sick every day for months
i’m exhausted
i ache, everywhere
i threw up
a lot.

my body has decided that i am no longer permitted to eat
my weight is plummeting
and
i have no control.

I HAVE NO CONTROL

as a result, i have shut down
because i cannot function without control
with every pound i lose
i feel like my actual self is diminshing
i am just fading away.

i rarely leave the house
i barely move at all
i can’t function
i can’t write
i can’t even cut with any efficacy.

i lack the strength or energy to assert dominance with a scapel
which means i’m lost.
i have to lie down to it
i don’t have any other options.

i’ve tried everything….

i have fallen into another slump.
i rarely know why this happens.
occasionally there are clear reasons for my depression worsening.
but, not this time.

life is struggle at moment
the urge to harm myself is overpowering
i am told the desire will leave me
i continue to wait for that peace.

in the mean time I try to live
i feel as though there is something inside me trying to break out
i can’t relax
it is impossible to just be.

i have resorted to doing, doing, doing
i do housework every morning.
i’ve cleaned out drawers & cupboards
organised my wardrobe
i’ve scrubbed every surface in the house
everything I eat is cooked from scratch
i bake
the next three months have been budgeted
i am keeping a detailed food diary
my life has never been so regimented.

i force myself to socialise
close friends are invited for dinner
i see films with my sister
plans are made with friends in other cities
i volunteer
i’m reading voraciously
my writing output has gathered pace
self-manicures have become works of art
my hair is styled, my legs are smooth.

from the outside i seem to be doing great.
my productivity has soared.
i appear to be creating order.

the truth is my drive is desperation.
a constant need to escape an unbearable internal chasm
if I don’t keep moving
i will butcher myself.
my increasingly despairing attempts to grasp control are failing.
i am left sore
&
sad
&
exhausted.

i long to curl up in my bed and hide
but
my spiteful inner voice will not allow it
there is a constant coaxing to shed my blood,
a continuous stream of gory images.
all accompanied by heavy hopelessness
&
the suffocating knowledge that it will return.
no matter how much progress I make
or
what heights of contentment I reach
i will feel this way again.

don’t patronise me….

I didn’t sleep last night. I’ve been in a fair bit of pain & my stomach hasn’t been behaving. My mood hasn’t really been behaving either. It took a dive earlier in the week for unspecified reasons. Perhaps feeling so sick has had an impact or maybe it’s just my head being a dick. Who can say?

On account of the above I slept late. Dragging myself out of bed was a struggle, but I did it. Mainly because I am currently dog sitting & no matter how shit I feel, not walking a dog is cruel. So, up I got, flung on whatever clothes were lying on the bedroom floor, brushed my teeth & took that pup for the longest walk I could manage. I did these not because they would lift my mood. Nor did I do them as part of an ‘action plan’. I didn’t derive any sense of achievement. They needed to be done, so I did them.

Later, my stomach had calmed down. I hadn’t eaten all day & was hungry. My fridge contained half an aubergine that had to be used today or it would only be fit for the bin. These factors combined led to me make some vegetable moussaka. I didn’t cook because it would make me feel that I was worth taking care of. I simply used the ingredients available to feed myself because otherwise, I would not eat.

I tell you these things not because they are interesting. I certainly don’t mention them because I want applause. I merely draw your attention to these mundane activities as they are the reality of day to day life.

THEY ARE NOT SELF CARE.

Mental health organisations & patronising individuals are constantly spouting the merits of self-care. I am so tired of hearing this bullshit. Everything I do does not have a therapeutic purpose. Mental illness (or for that matter physical) does not define me. I am a single woman living alone. There are always tasks that need taken care of. I take each day as it comes & do as much as I can manage. That’s just survival. In that respect I am no different from anyone else.

Obviously my illness can make simple jobs difficult. Things the average person may take for granted come harder to me. That doesn’t change the nature of life. I either keep living to best of my ability or I lie down and die.
To label each chore or treat self-care is to rob me of my basic humanity. I am no longer a person, but a collection of diagnoses. Mental illness becomes my defining feature. I strenuously reject that characterisation. To measure my wellbeing by how many dishes are in my sink is insulting. Similarly, to minimise serious conditions by suggesting a nice dinner will make it all better is also offensive.

I live my life as fully as possibly. I enjoy whatever I can and try my best to endure the rest. Doesn’t that sum up most people’s experience? I don’t hear anyone congratulating ‘non-mentals’ for continuing to exist, so why are they patronising me?