I am giving up on the ‘At Home’ countdown, as it would seem that I’m never going to be going into inpatient, or at least not this side of forever. There’s limited point in carrying that on quite so pointlessly.
Today was a ‘good day’. And I have to say, in many regards it was. I finally got some actual information rather than the perpetual string of lies from all quarters, and I know that it’s going to be a cold day in hell (or at least, several years down the line) before anybody concedes that long term help would be of benefit.
And so I go through the multi-ring circus of NHS therapy, again. They’re going to put me on the lifelong waiting list, and then I’ll be onto 1:1 DBT (again) or other group therapies (again) and I have done all of this before. So here we fucking go a-fucking-gain. And in a year, or two, or something like that, maybe I’ll actually get the referrals and have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting onto inpatient programmes that would actually help.
I want to run away. I want to run a really, really long way away. I want to collapse into a heap and be found somewhere with no name and no story and no fucking stories to recite or people or names or medications, just pick me up mute in the middle of nowhere and watch me cry silently until somebody fucking does something, because this? This is another stalling process. This is another month, season, year, decade before they have to concede defeat and dip into the Big Money Pot which they don’t want to touch.
My heart will break or my brain will break. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I really really really do not want to keep on doing this, but I don’t have an option, so brilliant, this is this and I have to keep on going through it indefinitely. Bear in mind, here, that all treatment programmes have months of waiting lists anyway.
So I’m going to reconstruct my life, again. All of the things that I have, I build it up again, and it’ll fall apart. Again. So how this is supposed to make me feel anything other than desperately, painfully suicidal I don’t know, because asking a person to build and build and build and build, and destroy over and over and over again, is not fucking realistic. People die because they cannot keep doing the same thing, it hurts every single time, and actually hurts more the next time, and the next. I have to waltz into the next non-existent solution and pretend I’m okay with it, that I believe in it, but I don’t.
If I could go private, I would. If there was a single damn thing I could do, but nod along and hope for the best, I’d do it. But I can’t.
Tomorrow morning I wake up, and start again. I get more students, and reconstruct my CV, and apply for acting work, and create a new showreel, get new headshots, write to agents, work, earn money, get off benefits, have independence, go out on my own, go party, write books, develop something resembling a personality, feel considerably better, finally get married, love my partner, love my friends, be happy, again and again and again and again.
Rinse, repeat, watch my eating disorder blossom, haemorrhage money, drink like a fish, cry more than any human should in a lifetime, get paranoia that makes me feel constantly sick, be constantly frightened, constantly desperate, laugh at lampshades with mounting hysteria, see figures flickering in the corners of my vision, hear voices that aren’t there and conduct conversations with empty air, lose my memory, lose my will to care, dissociate heavily, hate my partner, loathe my friends, attempt to slit my wrists or take all the pills in South London and off to acute inpatient I go. My life collapses like a house of cards.
And I, idiot, do it all over again.