I’m self-harming again.

I mean cutting. I mean, after three years, I am back to the insane and ridiculous habit, compulsion, of slitting my skin open because it seemed to make sense at the time. It seems to make sense now; it hurts, electrically, so much more than usual and the blood is weirdly compelling.

It is somehow beautiful to watch blood slide down your thighs. Knowing you have done irreversible damage, that yes, it’ll be visible tomorrow, and the day after, the day after that.

I am so pale. Translucent. I glow in the dark.

I trace a pattern on skin and know it’ll be there forever. I know it’ll scar me, pattern me, trace me indelibly. I am slicing my legs open again because it seems like a bright idea when it really, really shouldn’t.

Watching blood well, spill

God, this shouldn’t be intoxicating, but it is.

I don’t want to do this any more.



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.

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.

Quiet Day

Very quiet day, probably for the best. Went to the gym, did some more writing, had a bath. Generally remaining very low-key and trying not to get myself freaked about my future or life or whatever, which happens remarkably often these days.

Had a completely useless ‘work focused interview’ for ESA, too. The woman conducting the talk freely admitted it was a waste of time, as I a) have a job I will be getting back to when I can and b) have only been out of hospital a week, so going back to work isn’t likely for a while yet!

So keeping on keeping on. And hopefully will be able to actually do things when I eventually go back to aerial…

Belated Hello

(Or: At Home – Day Three)

Forgot to update last night, so somewhat belatedly here I am. I’m struggling with low mood, creeping in around the edges, but I’m alright. I will be alright. I’m trying. I can get better. I’ll be okay.

Sorry. More later.


(Or: Acute Inpatient, Take Two – Day Six)

The psychiatrist who has previously been an absolute tool was quite nice today. Probably because my seizure scared the hell out of staff, plus I got my arm bandaged up from my last self harm venture via scratching and it looks hilariously dramatic.

Looks like I’ll be discharged on Monday. Sertraline has been increased, I’m not on carbamazepine any more, so I can start orlistat when I get released.

Big meeting occurring tomorrow which will dictate a lot of what follows this admission, I’m hoping for some straight answers and, God forbid, some help. Let’s see.

Unmitigated Disaster

(Or: Acute Inpatient, Take Two – Day Four)

Today was an absolute unmitigated disaster.

Let’s contextualise. I asked my mother to make some difficult phone calls, starting with the head of the care coordinator team, to more or less fire my current care coordinator, discuss when Complex Needs will get back to me, and ask about interim care.

Meanwhile: my care coordinator arrives. Is very sweet and caring but absolutely ineffectual. Learned some interesting things though.

I later have a meeting with the consultant psychiatrist. The same one who reduced me to tears last week. I was told that I would be discharged on Wednesday, REGARDLESS of whether or not I felt safe enough to do so. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not be here long, and while it may get reassessed, I’m out of here come Wednesday.

This did not go down well. I started crying.

To add insult to injury: I am told there is a patient who is very sick, and would I move wards. Where to, you ask? Why, to a low security OCD ward. I am not OCD. I’m suicidal. I say no. But it really does prove just how much they want to get rid of me.

My partner arrives, and I have a full blown dissociative seizure. Screaming, crying, convulsing, the works.

Now my timeline gets odd, because I was having a seizure. I was dragged across the ward, publicly, while screaming and convulsing. The consultant knew, and saw me, and thought it appropriate to do absolutely nothing. I was taken away from my partner who is experienced at helping me through them. I was left alone for an extension period of time and completely ignored. Battered myself extensively on the head and scratched my arm severely.

Meanwhile: my partner calls my mother. She calls the ward, and convinces them to let Sarah back. I have to get myself to a neutral room – again around the ward while hysterical – and she calms me down. I speak to an absolute wonder of a doctor who listens – bear in mind that I have no filters and I’m ridiculously upset – and get written up some lorazepam. I calm down. My partner calms me down. All is OK.

Except that it really fucking isn’t, at all.

I’m not upset about the discharge date, per se. I am ridiculously upset that nobody has been listening. I tell him I am suicidal and he still thinks it appropriate that I would leave so early, even if that hadn’t changed. So I am unsafe. Even when I thought I would be.

Random extraneous knowledge from today:

1) Despite multiple conversations to the contrary, I’m going to be assessed by the young group in Complex Needs (16-25) which we’d previously agreed would be entirely wrong for me.

2) The lead psychologist for Complex Needs is on leave for several weeks, so God knows when they will get around to assessing me.

3) There is a psychologist, somewhere, who is developing something for interim care before Complex Needs gets around to it.

4) My blood pressure is scarily low and nobody has done much about it.

5) My face cream hasn’t been written on my charts. I’m not allowed to use it. Problem ongoing. Argh.

6) I have asked at least a dozen times. But it appears that the Complex Needs team are the only people who can do Tier 4 referrals. That’s right. Everything I’ve fought for rests in Complex Needs.

If it weren’t for my family and fiancée I just don’t know what I would do. They have been extraordinary and continue to be. With them around, I know they will make things happen. They will get me there.

I’ll be OK.