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.
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.
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