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.

everyday is silent & grey….

I had a gastroscopy yesterday. I’ve had one before and whilst it was unpleasant, it was fairly straight forward. Yesterday’s procedure did not go so well. For whatever reason my body didn’t tolerate the procedure well. It became a painful and frightening experience.
I’m ok.
They didn’t find anything life threatening, just further deterioration of my existing conditions. I’m sore and tired, but there is no lasting damage.
So, why do I feel so awful?
It feels pathetic to admit this
But
It’s because I’m alone.
It would be so nice to have someone to hold my hand through these times. I don’t want to complain because I know I am lucky in lots of ways. I have friends and family who love me. I am grateful for all the help they give me. The truth is there is only so much I can ask of them. They have partners, responsibilities, lives. Hence, most of the time, I am on my own with this.
And it is lonely.
Spending days trapped in my house (&my head) without any human contact. Being ill limits what I can do so much. Pain can override my ability to even read or watch a film. This leaves me alone with my thoughts.
Thoughts that can quickly spiral into dangerous places.
Hope easily slips away when you’re struggling to get out of bed. It feels like my physical health will never improve & that hammers away at any progress I make with my mental health. Reclaiming my life gets further away with each flare up & new diagnosis.
I suppose this post is mostly about me feeling sorry for myself. I’m scared that the life I want is simply not possible now. I’m not sure that anyone in my life really understands how I isolated I am. Nor do I know how to talk about these feelings.
I’m pouring it out here in an attempt to feel maybe even little less alone.