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. 

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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.

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. 

I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed….

I got a new tattoo last week. It’s a small poem that I wanted to have with me permanently. Six lines of simple typewriter script that embody an important part of my story. A tattoo seemed the perfect way to mark the progress I have made with my mental health. It is important to me acknowledge that yes I have struggled and I have used my flesh to illustrate those troubles, but they don’t define me. I have hope.

  

If I were writing this for a one of the mainstream mental health organisations I suspect this is where this piece would be cut. It would be a neat little story of redemption; unfortunately mental illness isn’t that tidy. The above is all true. I have made strides into a new life. I did want to commemorate my evolution, but I was also making a declaration of defiance. The fight isn’t over, you see. I am fairly certain it never will be. The urge to hurt myself has never completely left me. 

I have been doing well. I am working on some business ideas. Trying new things, stretching myself. I haven’t cut for quite some time. I had begun to feel that I was wrestling back some control. 

It’s never that simple though, is it?

A few weeks ago my nightmares returned. I cannot discern any trigger. Nor can I find any way to calm my subconscious. The disturbance has crept into my waking hours. Flashbacks have begun to plague me & with them come the overwhelming desire to spill my blood. The compulsion to cut is so strong that I see images in my mind, tiny little slasher movies starring me. Even worse though is the fear these symptoms bring. The sheer panic that my life is about to be shattered again. I am overwhelmed with the need to be swallowed up by my crazy. 

The glimmer of hope is that I have not cut. However, I can make no guarantees that I will not reach for my blade at some point in the future. 

And

This is the reality of mental illness. 

I fight to reclaim my life every day. I never have the luxury of being cured.  I just keep breathing and pushing forward. This is my ‘recovery’. This is story I want to tell.

the blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it…..

i’ve been up all night
thinking
listening to sad songs
reading brutal tales
i suppose it was only a matter of the time
in the end, all it took was
two words

a couplet that lit up the relevant part of my brain
one evocative phrase that kicked started this whole sordid ritual
words that gave me license to bleed

i needed to bleed
i had to feel the very pulse of life
the pure, vibrant strength
of my will.

if only for right now,
i have reclaimed the power that resides at my core
i am once again the most authentic version of myself.

as my blood washes over me
i turn up the volume so the melancholy music can fill my head
and
my tears finally flow.

won’t you please,please help me…..

after conducting a small survey with close friends & family members.

i decided my therapist may be correct

i do indeed have an unrealistic perception

of

my situation

 

i am still not entirely won over

but

i’m convinced enough to be

frightened

 

i reviewed lots of the handouts i have received from my psychologist

and thought a great deal about how i could reduce my

self harming

behaviours

 

i wanted to reduce my opportunity

and

my desire

to cut

 

i filled up my week with things i thought i could do

if i really pushed myself

 

i accepted invitations from two close friends

along with already planned time with my little ones

& agreed to look after my brothers dog

 

i kept busy.

i got dressed

i did my hair & applied make up

i ate well

and

attended to much needed housework

i ticked so many of the advised boxes

 

i didn’t want to do most of these things

they were tiring

and

scary

and stressful

but, it’s what i have been encouraged to do.

 

the result ?

 

i feel worse

in every

possible

way

my mind and body are worn out.

interacting with the world has been horrendous

 

i felt close to breaking  last night

i cried for hours

had an episode of vomiting

finally drugged myself to sleep

 

this morning i woke up to the dread of another day

i’ve been on edge

i can’t settle

everything feels wrong

i’m in pain

i feel nauseous

and

utterly exhausted

 

most of all

i am overwhelmingly sad

of course this leads back to my usual destructive tendencies

with all it’s predictable problems

satisfaction is hard to accomplish

and

the calm is brief

 

i simply do not know how to live anymore

neither my own maladaptive

nor

the recommended

supposedly healthy

techniques work

 

i try

i engage in therapy

i take medication

i attempt to follow advice

nothing helps

 

i see the years slipping by

and

i hate myself for wasting them

i am desperate

help me