Dying

I’m crazy.

I thought for a while that I might be okay. I thought I was getting better and managing.

I am. I really, truly am. Compared to how I was, I am doing so fucking well.

But even when I’m better, I’m not. The thoughts don’t go away. The thing that changes is the immediacy; I am suicidal, yes. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to live day after day after excruciating fucking day, I don’t want that, nobody would.

I spend every single day fighting the desire for things to fucking stop.

I do not want to live a life like this. I feel like a burden. I feel like the thing that holds back the people I love.  I feel like without me, the people I love would be so much happier, so much freer. My partner could find somebody else, somebody able to look after her rather than her constantly needing to look after me. I wouldn’t be the focal point.

I want to vanish. I want to stop hurting every second of the fucking day. I want to say “I’m okay” and actually mean it. Just for once.

Because I don’t. I’m never okay. I am never, ever okay. I am managing, I am coping. Even when I’m “well” I’m not ‘okay’, but I have lived and survived and even occasionally thrived while not even a little bit ‘okay’. I know how to deal with my life and my world while so not-okay it’s not even funny. I live my entire world and life and future knowing there isn’t a huge amount of it; I don’t see my life spanning that far. I do not see myself with a ‘forever’ and that’s the hardest thing in the world, trying to plan for a future that is not mine.

Now, bear in mind that I’ve drunk alcohol tonight. That anybody with half an ounce of intelligence will look at somebody with mental health problems and alcohol and go “well it won’t be that bad in the morning” but they do not understand.

It is precisely that bad in the morning. It is always that bad in the morning. I am just as close to killing myself the next morning as I was the night before, I’ve just had more time to think about it, more time to be subtle. More time to work out how to do kill myself where nobody can see it. Where nobody can interrupt or stop me.

If I decide not to, that is a success.

And every single fucking morning, I make that decision, and that is my success. Every. Single. Morning.

I make the decision to wait it out another day. I don’t decide to not kill myself, and that’s the thing I cannot express: my decision is not to stay alive. My decision is to wait. Another minute, another hour, another day, another week. I decide that I will keep myself alive just a little bit longer, and hope that something appears that makes my decision worthwhile.

And I live in constant terror that tomorrow morning, it will not be enough.

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Disappointment

I cannot help but feel like a tremendous disappointment to everybody in my life.

Let’s break this down. I’m very mentally ill. I have indisputable PTSD which comes to haunt me at the worst of possible moments. I am currently also physically ill. Which really does not help. So I feel like death warmed up and my brain is doing its usual job of trying very hard to kill me and it is so fucking hard to handle everything at once, I can’t do it.

Tomorrow, I’m supposed to be seeing my three-year-old niece for her birthday. I am neither physically nor mentally able to do so (although I’m not discounting the possibility of feeling substantially better in the morning). If I cannot go, then I disappoint her, her parents, my partner’s parents, her family. I haven’t been able to see them in so fucking long, through hospital admissions and general lack of sanity. I feel horrendous. I want to be there and support them and love them and I can’t.

Being with my own family is almost fucking impossible. Being with hers is so much worse, because I want to prove that I’m worth her. My partner is my everything, and I constantly constantly again and again show myself to be so utterly and completely lacking. I can’t take care of myself, let alone her.

I want so badly to give her the world. I want to celebrate a child’s birthday and laugh with her brother and his girlfriend, with her dad and his fiancee, with her pregnant sister and her husband, all of these people – I want that.

And instead, I’m here with my brain beating a painful tattoo against the inside of my skull, I am insanely nauseous, I am sweating and freezing and dizzy and I want nothing more than to sleep forever and not remain a perpetual disappointment.

Bulimia Sucks

My body image is at rock bottom and I’m losing my mind about all of it, but hey, there we have it. I’m crazy. I will always be crazy, to a greater or lesser extent, but you know maybe, just fucking maybe, there’s a future for me where I’m crazy and thin. Wouldn’t that be absolutely fucking splendid?! I’ve been bulimic for thirteen years, thirteen sodding years, and I am one of those fucking nutjob suckers who has the eating disorder that doesn’t actually make you thin. The sheer indescribable levels of not fair is off the fucking charts. I get the eating disorder hell with none of the upsides.

Non PC thing to be saying, but there we have it.

I’m OK

I had a really good day, actually.

Few drinks, saw my old uni supervisor who’s now a good friend of mine, watched my favourite Disney film and am planning to go to bed and have lots of sex. Should make for a fun evening, at least.

My mother and I have a weird relationship where I do whatever she asks and I don’t think about it too much. I don’t have much sanity left.

God alone knows. I feel like a resident whale, and yet I still drink, meaning alcohol calories. I don’t know whether this makes me desperate, or a hypocrite, or both. I’m choosing not to think about it too much.

I’m in trouble, but distantly so.

Eating

With every day that passes, I grow more and more determined to resurrect my life. I am very fed up with the twilight state I currently inhabit. No independence, no freedom. It gets old.

I’m struggling with my body in a major way. Eating disorders are insidious little things. Just when you think you have a handle on it, it all crashes onto you again with nowhere to run.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be free.

Self Esteem

It would be nice to feel beautiful, once in a while. It’s an occupational hazard of having a long-term eating disorder, but I do not like myself aesthetically in any way, shape or form. So it would be really lovely if I could feel beautiful, or you know, passingly attractive from time to time.

I’m really tired today, as well. It is entirely recovery from living with my parents, it’s emotionally very tiring, so today I’ve been exhausted beyond belief.

There’s a strange chasm of communication that happens from time to time with the people I love most. Where I can’t make basic things make sense, or be understandable. It is so frustrating and I can’t work it out. Like when I heavily dissociate and can’t talk, I can’t say the things that are i my head because I’m just not in the building, not how I should be or want to be.

Anyway. Such is life. I’ll get there.

Zodiac Gemstones (and yes, feel free to mock; I already am doing myself)

I am really, truly, properly hilariously drunk.

I’m not proud of myself, I might add. However, it really does the job when the rest of my life is turning to shit. Drunk makes the annoying small bits and pieces of my soul make more sense than it ever used to, so I’ll go with it, at least for now.

And so I watch a beloved TV programme and adore every single moment of it, even when I understand very little. It is so much fun. I am busy and all of the things I have cared about are suddenly relevant.

Like: I used to be a total nerd about gemstones. I know my stones, my partner’s. I know zodiac signs. Of course it is all total bollocks, but I sometimes clutch rose quartz to my heart and breathe my sister’s name and believe, pray, hope, that she remembers me; not the obvious stone, but the complex. I remember her, and I love her, and one day she will remember.

And if she doesn’t, then it is nothing. I will forget. She will forget. It is nothing, I am nothing to her. My sister will never understand the significance of the stone she polished in her rock polisher when she was a child, and I will never confess to the fragments I hold and remember, the weird and stupid and impossible and false things she (and I) remember because it’s not real, because it isn’t there.

Because love and faith and magic are utterly different things. They do not all exist. They are not all real. They are not there.

I only have what I hold, what I remember.

And that is enough, because it has to be.

It has to be.

It is enough.