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.
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 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.
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 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.
Every single day, I miss my sister. I shouldn’t, but I do. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her, and that’s okay, but it fucking kills me on an almost daily basis because yes, I miss her.
And because my parents – predominantly my mother – think more of her than me. That has been true for a long time. I realised that when I was reasonably young; I was the problem child. I was diagnosed with bulimia when I was thirteen, and I can pretty much date the deterioration of mine and my mother’s relationship from there.
Because my mother caught me. She noticed. She saw what had been going on for two years by that point: binging and purging and self-loathing and bits of self-harm and while she never saw the suicide attempt, I think in a weird way she already knew. Even though I have never told her, and do not intend to. Our relationship fell to pieces because I was the broken child who was ill, and never got better. And never will.
I’m always going to be ill. I am always going to struggle.
But I have some things:
- I’m engaged. And I love my partner more than anything, more than life itself, and she makes everything worthwhile.
- I have friends who would end earths for me, and for whom I’d do the same.
- I have a degree from a world-class university.
- I have a job that I love, both as my money-earner and my more general long-term career goal.
- I’m a seriously bloody good actress and writer. No really. I am. I love what I do, and I’m damn good at it,
- I’m getting help. And I will recover.
So you know what? Maybe I will be the successful child, one day. Maybe I’ll be the one to remember, at the end of it. The one with a life I’m proud of, in all ways – mental, physical, emotional.
I can, at least, strive for that.
Let’s see how it goes.