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 Back!


So first things first, I’m so sorry for disappearing completely and not coming back, especially given that my last post was suicidal in the extreme. I have had some wonderful messages from kind people who have tried to get in touch, to check if I am okay, to check if I’m alive.

Which I am. So hi. Not dead.

Obviously, a lot has happened in the last nine(ish?) months. I’m in therapy. I moved house. I haven’t been re-admitted to hospital. I’m having the best year, mental health wise, I’ve had in a very, very long time. For the most part, I have been addressing my problems and trying very hard to find solutions, to find ways to live with and without mental health problems.

I’ve relapsed. Again. Bulimia-wise. But: I managed a good month or so without purging, which is wonderful, and I am trying to piece myself back together for the nth time, which is why I’ve returned back to this blog in the hope of organising my thoughts and hopefully, if I can, track the journey of my recovery which I can look back at in a few years and be proud of.

Look look, optimism!

Today’s been a write-off. I ate myself silly and threw up a frankly ridiculous number of times, and I’m tired, and I am fed up of fighting, but I’m going to. I am going to fight because I don’t want to die, and because I want for myself than this.

So here we go.

Thank you, again, for supporting and commenting and messaging. It means the world. And I promise that I will not disappear again without warning!



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 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.


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.