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’ve looked at life from both sides now….

I haven’t written in a while. I’m not entirely sure why that is. I seem able to write other more frivolous things, but any deep introspection eludes me.
I am volunteering again. A project I really believe in. it gives me a sense of purpose. I know I shouldn’t need to find worth outside of myself, but I do. I suspect if they were honest, most folk have a similar struggle for validity.

My body continues to malfunction in a variety of ways. Planning is redundant. Where I can go & what I do is ruled by my ability to manage symptoms. I am the queen of cancelling. I am so tired of disappointing others & myself.

My head is a mystery to me. There are days when I feel I am making huge leaps. Future aspirations bloom, hope is palpable. And then for no concrete reason I plummet. Days seeped in grey merge into one another. Life becomes a featureless landscape of withdrawal or a frenzy of anxiety.

Self-harm is never far from my thoughts. I am not actively hurting myself, but I still believe that is the true me. I am forever searching for a way to hurt enough & still function. I can’t begin to find the words to describe how it feels to daily fight your most ingrained instincts. In so many ways I am broken, I honestly don’t know if the damage is irrevocable.

you slip into the fog….

the arrival of sunday brought with it doom.
a hopeless kind of sadness that consumes all the light.
it’s a feeling that overwhelms
and
sends me into an emotional spiral.

everything is pointless
it is impossible to believe that this will pass.
i simply can’t cope.

my escape is a beautiful opiate fog
tramadol supplemented with trazadone & valium.
a cocktail guaranteed to keep me sealed within soft bubble.
the outside world unable to harm me
reality ceases to exist.

i float from hour to hour
content to be numb.

i can feel the distance as you breathe…

i’m a little bit lost
and
a lot broken
but you could patch me back together
i don’t mean in any permanent sense
that’s up to me

you could fix me today

A letter from my past…

I was looking through some old notebooks & I stumbled upon this letter. It surprised me how hard it was to read it. I am grateful that I am no longer in that awful place, but I am terrified of going back there.

For the important ones,

I’m gone. If my death was avoidable, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. I apologise for anything you feel I’ve robbed you of & the hurt I’ve caused. I do love you all, I’m do very sorry that wasn’t enough.

My days are often bright, but I never feel completely safe. My dark cloud can return at any time, always threatening to bully me into submission. I’m writing this because I’m almost certain I won’t survive another storm.

There’s nothing any of you could have done. I’m broken. The damage is irreversible. I can’t get back. Any peace I’ve found is not sustainable. I’m tired & I’m sad. I know I may soon lie down.

I’ll miss you all, take care of each other.

the times they are a changin’ …..

i haven’t written since i returned home.
mainly because it’s been tricky to clearly define my thoughts & feelings.

i am endeavouring to hang into the lightness i felt in australia.
it’s a struggle.
i have mostly been just keeping my head above water.
And
putting on an impressive show.
i believe I mimic OK rather well.
i suppose i am adopting the ‘ fake it ’til you make it ‘ strategy.

i knew australia couldn’t be an overnight cure.
it has however been a positive force.
i have hope now.
i know happiness is possible.
i am certain a woman i like & respect still exists.

it’s a matter of fighting for her.

i intend to fight.

so, it’s the one day at a time cliche.
exploring new options
and
taking small leaps.

it is terrifying.

I still have EMDR on pause. i’ve discussed it with my psychologist & we agreed not to rip the lid from that box yet.
it will have to happen.
delving into those memories again is an alarming notion.
i remain convinced it is the best route to long term recovery.

whatever recovery means.

i am yet to decipher what recovery consists of.
those around me seem to consider not cutting to fit the definition,
i know that is not the case.

the battle continues in my head.
i hanker for blood,
itch to create mayhem.
i’m still not convinced the urge will ever leave me.
that i don’t deserve punnishment is becoming more feasible.
perhaps I can forgive myself.

recovery is an unrelenting war fought on multiple fronts.

i have to forge a new identity without self harm.

i hope i’m ready.

let’s talk about sex….

i’m horny.
actually, I’m horny almost all of time.
i know part of depression is supposed to be a loss of libido,
but this has never been the case for me.

sex is a drug
an invigorating
blissful
powerful drug.

when I’m fucking I’m not worrying
i’m not terrified
or
sad
i am completely in the moment.
focused on mmine & my partner’s bodies
and
how good we can make each other feel.

sex is the only thing that switches my brain off.

sex for me, offers the same release as self-harm
but
in a positive, non-damaging way.
sex makes me feel good.
the more physical the better.
i like it rough
i am totally up for some kink
in an ideal world I would be getting it on more than once a day.

i’m always safe.
i don’t sleep with strangers.
i have some ex’s i’m on good terms with who step in when I am unattached.
i need some sort of connection with a person to enjoy being dirty with them
i have to like them
i want to lie in bed afterwards & have a gab.

this year in particular
i have realised how therapeutic sex can be.

i have an almost insatiable appetite for cock
(& lately pussy too)
woman are constantly told they ought not to behave this way
i am sure many folk would call me slut
i don’t care

there are very few things in life that make me feel content & in control
i refuse to feel guilty for indulging in an activity that does.

what the hell am i doing here ?…..

therapy was another cry fest.
i have been struggling recently
and
as soon as I sat down in that room, it all came tumbling out

i am so frustrated with my current situation
my slide back into deep depression is soul destroying
and
incomprehensible.
why am I back here when I was making such progress?

nothing has changed.
all the recovery boxes were getting ticked
until it all started to fall apart again.

it’s such a cruel illness
there is no explanation for the sudden blackness crowding my head
i am trying so hard to fight it
but
every tiny little step is exhaustingly hard
it’s so difficult to believe I will ever emerge from the darkness

my psychologist believes that part of my problem is my inability to give myself credit
i do not feel that I should be congratulated for washing & dressing
having tea with a friend does not strike me as deserving of applause.
i struggle to connect with my compassionate mind.

i am critical
i consider myself pathetic for all the things I cannot do

guilt is another struggle
i don’t believe that I am allowed to have happy moments
it seems to me that if I can feel good for a short period of time,
i should be able to make myself ok
all of the time.

the only thing I see worth in
is my voluntary work
i have been donating some time to a children’s & youth initiative
engaging in an activity that is not about me feels good
however, my decline has interfered with this
overcoming me fear & anxiety to even manage the journey has become increasingly difficult
the pressure of Interacting with the other group leaders crushes me
hence, I am able to attend less
and
i am robbed of the one thing that allows me to consider myself a worthwhile member of society.

the battle goes on
i am cutting, but much less frequently
i feel i still have a modicum of control.
forcing myself to see friends & family continues to be a focus,
engaging in voluntary work has become a priority,
i have also begun a new anxiety med until I can see my psychiatrist.

i refuse to give in
with increasing frequency,
i want to.

and watch your life slide out of view…

i’m bogged down in the swap of depression
again.

i don’t why it always creeps back. i do the work, i make progress. i start to think i am moving forward and then before i know it i am entrenched in this misery.

life becomes too much. every single task is overwhelming.
Washing, dressing, opening the post, doing the dishes. all impossible.

i can’t even begin to tackle this cluster of simple, mundane jobs. i feel worthless. i am ashamed to admit my paralysis. i can’t ask for help because i can’t bear for anyone to know.

each inconsequential decision becomes a mammoth undertaking. i can debate with myself for hours about whether to sit in the living room or my bedroom. i’m crippled by the fear of getting it wrong, of making it worse.

and the sorrow. the stagnating sadness, which i can’t drag myself out of.

the voice in my head constantly berating me. it tells me what a failure i am. it demands that i cut. screams orders to rip myself apart.

i can’t stand it.

i drug myself with handfuls of pills. opiates to blur reality, sedatives to shut me down. anything to escape the drone in my head.
But
there is no escape. there is always another day. the blood will never flow unchallenged.
it’s never enough.
so,i wait.
for the voice to get quieter
my mood to become unstuck
and
i pray
there won’t be a next time.