(Or: At Home – Day Sixty-Two)

I am singularly not coping.

Every single emotion is at a terrifying extreme. I am swinging from love to hate to angry to sad to fucking livid to happy to fine and back again. Nearly threw my phone through a bus window (not through an open one, literally THROUGH, glass and all) and instead basically lobbed it at my partner and snapped “please fucking fix it” before bursting into tears.

It’s getting hard to maintain my relationships. Any relationships. The rowing with my partner has got out of hand completely, and I feel like I spend most of my time trying not to snap about yet another fucking thing which I swear to god I’ve discussed before and oh sweet jesus, I ask for transparency and I get 24/7 sulking and I don’t even know why half the time. Fucking hell. Add to that perpetual paranoia about what friends I have left, and the fact that my mother took less than five minutes to trigger hysterical floods of tears earlier today, and I’m considering becoming a hermit until the end of time amen (were it not that I’m excruciatingly lonely).

I don’t know what to do with myself. No psych appointment, my care co-ordinator has disappeared and I can’t handle anything right now. I keep asking for things to be taken out of my hands by anybody, but nobody seems to be doing so. I’ve had conversations practically every other day trying to explain that right now my stress and anxiety levels are stratospheric and my brain is killing me.

Oddly enough, it hurts like hell and it is exhausting trying to get through a day without lobbing myself out of the window or packing a bag and leaving, either through anger or because I can’t bear constantly being angry. I spend most of my time trying not to cry, and occasionally losing the battle. My heartrate is perpetually elevated as I try to get the impetus to leave the house and keep going, and it’s getting worse rather than better. And given that I’ve been saying for weeks that I can’t cope, that’s a pretty damning indictment.

I don’t think I can stay at home much longer. I would rather run the fuck away than have to go back into acute inpatient. I have to live with my mother for six weeks, too, come September. The few things I’m enjoying aren’t going to be possible any more, and I can’t even orientate myself to get to my support groups because it depends on my mother, and I can’t be alone so I can’t do anything.

I have nowhere to go, and no ability to deal with what is happening to me. And I feel like nobody’s listening, or if they are, they lack the ability (or wherewithal) to do anything constructive. This isn’t a sustainable system, and I’m really, really not safe. I don’t have much time left.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Nine)

Today was lovely. Saw my niece and played in a fountain (no kidding) which was really fun, although I’m utterly shattered now and I still feel like my life is happening to somebody else.

Tomorrow is another week. Another set of battles. Trying to see a psychiatrist, getting my benefits sorted (as they’ve been stopped and I can’t understand why, I sent the stuff they needed over a week ago) and getting my written assessment report from the inpatient unit I’ve been rejected from and getting funding and doing my normal life and aerial and oh dear god I’m out of patience and I don’t want to do any of it any more, I’ve lost all possible impetus and drive.

Apathy is remarkably all-encompassing.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Six)

I feel like I’m floating through time. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I’m partly just heavily dissociating. Everything is blurry in some way, out of my grasp, and I sit to write and don’t remember the day that I’ve just had. Concentration is difficult. I don’t want to leave the house very much, but also can’t bring myself to care when I leave – my partner makes me leave, we have a number of things organised, and I do what I have to. I don’t have much impetus to argue.

Still no word or developments mental health wise. Group tomorrow morning.

I don’t know any more, I don’t know what’s happening to me.


(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Five)

Slammed a heel today during a very inelegant fall in aerial and I’m reasonably sure I’ve bone bruised it, as it hurts like a son of a bitch, so that’s fun. I am having a lot of fun with aerial, but I’m bruised to hell and back.

Managed to meet up with a good friend of mine and had a good chat.

Otherwise not much by way of developments. My mood is pretty low. Overall, I definitely feel like I’m plummeting. The sensation of hopelessness that’s been spreading since the discovery that I really can’t fucking trust anybody in the NHS has now sunk marrow-deep and will not leave. I just can’t be fucked any more. I don’t care. I am so tired and I am so, so done with all of this – and I don’t have that option, I have to be doing everything myself.

People don’t seem to get just how fucking tiring it is, to be mentally ill. I can hold conversations, socialise, go out. I can. It’s physically possible. I have just got so used to being so tired that I don’t even notice it any more.

Getting Fat. Not Happy.

(Or: At Home – Day Twenty-Five)

I want to crawl out of my own skin.

Eating disorders are shit. They’re really, really shit. I haven’t been allowed to purge (due to constant supervision, 24/7) and I am loathing everything about my body right now. This is hell. This is my own personal hell, and I am getting – impossibly – fatter with every passing day.

Now, this isn’t normal. Even in the realms of eating disorder recovery, this is simply not normal. I am going to my GP tomorrow to ask about my options. I can’t risk coming off my medication, but I also can’t continue like this – I swear to god I’m looking more like a beach ball with every passing moment. This is not through lack of effort or through major dietary issues, this is evidently medication-related and I need some type of option. I don’t know what. I don’t know if there is a what.

This isn’t fair. I am doing my best, I really am. I am trying to practise self-care and mindfulness and looking after myself. This is not fair, and I’m fed up of life shitting on me when I’m dealing with quite enough as it is. I struggle every fucking day to get up and get dressed and go out and respond to people around me, be something that resembles a normal human being and I can’t, I can’t keep doing this. I don’t have much left in me, I’m in pieces. I’m fed up. I’m tired, I’m angry, and it all hurts a fuck of a lot. And I’m really, really, really tired of hurting.

I’m Sorry, I’m Boring

(Or: At Home – Day Nineteen)

Mood has hit rock bottom.

I don’t have much else to say. I’ve spent the day languishing in (admittedly slightly self-indulgent) depression. I spoke to a friend. I went out to the gym. Routine is good. Supposedly. It doesn’t feel good. Not necessarily sure anything would right now.

Sorry, this must be desperately dull to read, but I have nothing much to excite anybody with right now. Life is irritating. I’m mentally ill and boring as hell right now. I still haven’t heard from the treatment programme, and it’s been a fortnight so fuck alone knows if that’s still happening but I sincerely doubt it.

Maybe better news tomorrow. Seeing my care co-ordinator. Here’s hoping.