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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.