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.

A Successful Weekend!

Back to my parents, and have had a wonderful weekend with friends who (bemusingly) genuinely seem to like me. And my partner doesn’t want to knock me out with a spanner, so I’m going to tentatively assume I managed a social situation without behaving like a total knob.

A new week. I’m trying to learn how to assert my needs and enjoy what I do, with variable degrees of success. Small things with my partner, my parents. Things like where we’re going to move to when we do, what we want for our lives. I am trying to be strong.

I am tired. I am really tired. It’s a depression thing. I know it is. The weekend has completely exhausted me; I was with friends for the duration, new people happened, travelling happened. People in general exhaust me at the moment. Occupational hazard of only being a week out of inpatient, too, but there we have it.

It’s okay. I’ll be okay. It just takes a bit of time.

Inescapably Ill

I’m always happy when I have friends around. Especially those who know what I am currently going through and are both able and willing to support me.

Today only got tricky because I was drinking. Not very much, I might add. I also was not drinking solo. However, my partner was a touch over vigilant, and my beloved friends then got rather vigilant too. It’s not a big thing, in many regards, but it isn’t spoken aloud. I see the lack of trust in my friend drinking what was left in my glass, with pointed questions from my partner and eyes on the back of my head. I can’t even get upset because it’s for all the right reasons.

I just wish it didn’t feel quite so much like a fundamental lack of trust. And the constant reminder that I’m not like everyone else. I’m ill. And I can’t escape it.

Quiet Progress

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

Had the foresight to write this before the heavy duty sedatives kick in so I can type a touch more coherently! Only sad thing is that there is sod all to write about. Today had been very quiet and very calm, and I have started to feel like a human being again. And I mean an actual human, not a walking constellation of symptoms like I have been for a long time.

Things feel more proportionate. It isn’t simple or easy and yes, I still have a complete lack of emotional regulation but I am starting to see a future and that’s terrifying and wonderful.

There is so much work to be done. I have a lot of self to understand and come to terms with. I have serious health problems that will be with me for the rest of my life, but I don’t want to be afraid any more, I’ve spent my life being afraid of myself and in doing so, distanced myself from it, tried to split myself into Me vs Illness and in doing so engendered so much fear.

And perhaps I am waxing lyrical right now, and it won’t last indefinitely. I needed this admission. I needed the time. The space. The dependent independence that inpatient brings.

I have also, since all this shit started, just wanted to know what would happen to me. And now I know. Now I have six weeks clear to be strong, and some waiting, and finally real, long-term help. I have a plan. And that means my life is being projected for two years, there is something out there, further than now.

It’s a start.


(Or: Acute Inpatient – Day Eight)

Sailing on the novel sensation of good news from the NHS, I am taking time while inpatient to try and come to some decisions and theories as to what I can do when I am in steady therapy and able to restart my life.

One of my big things is prioritising. I am engaged. I love my partner more than I can ever express, and I am going to marry her. I have been so hesitant. When your own mortality is in question, forward planning is very hard – and planning good things in particular feels impossible.

I also love to sing, act. Perform. And I owe it to myself to love it, and not let the practicalities of this industry destroy me. I have forgotten how to be happy.

I also truly, honestly love my job as a tutor. I am a good teacher, and my kids mean the world to me.

I am starting to ready myself for something new and familiar, all at once, and I know I need to tread carefully to avoid the familiar pitfalls.

At the moment, I cannot see a life without bulimia. This is my biggest problem. It haunts me every single bloody day. I have not purged AT ALL in hospital, which is miraculous, but I think about it almost constantly.

But look, basically things are looking up. Let’s hope it continues.


(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.