Things are becoming manageable.

About half an hour ago the hallucination of my sister buggered off without a word, which is fucking fantastic. Still non-stop from my mother but I can sleep and I’m definitely not suicidal any more.

Indeed, going to start angling for release now the crisis point has passed. Meds will continue to kick in, I’ll still have therapy, and to be honest I’ll manage the refeeding better at home.

Because: I haven’t eaten in 10 days now.

I feel weak but weirdly fine. And muscle cramps like fuck. All vital signs perfectly fine bar low blood sugar, of course. Mine not to reason.

Still. Looking forward to food. Am going to have to be so careful though. Not to mention I still don’t know how long this shit will last before I’m back to normal and I don’t get verbal abuse every time I try to even contemplate proper food.

To be continued.


Suicide attempt

Well. That happened.

I started hallucinating two days ago. My sister visually and audibly, my mother just audibly, and I hoped they’d go away. Am on an assessment ward for further psych ward and thought I’d be okay.

But I can’t cope. I cannot cope with them in my head, saying things I can’t bear to hear and reminding me of all I’ve lost.

So last night I went into side room, and, in the short amount of time I had I wrapped an electrical cable around my throat in an attempt to shut the fucking voices up and, yes, die.

I’m alive.

I have a phobia of things touching my neck. Which tells you how desperate I was.

I’m so tired.


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.

Acute Inpatient Again

And I have been officially admitted to acute inpatient.

The night before last, my partner and I discussed our options. My options. I desperately wanted to get to next week; however, I confessed to some stashed meds I’ve had around as a safety blanket for a long time, and eventually came to the conclusion that I needed intervention. I cannot lay the full responsibility of my life in her hands, it’s not fair.

We went to A&E and waited. Got assessed and sent to a type of halfway house, where they supposedly carry out further assessments, but de facto took one look at me and fast tracked me onto a ward the moment a bed became available. Then at 1.30am, I was woken to be taken to the ward. Then at 2.30 had a basic medical.

I am exhausted, but substantially safer than I was, theoretically. I’m in a different hospital to my last acute stay, and it is considerably nicer. There has been classic ineptitude throughout, especially with regards to my meds, but hey ho. Here now.

I’m staying until something changes. Further assessments, complex needs team, whatever. I will not go back to a half life where I am fighting constantly. I’m going to take this time and try to heal in whatever fractured way I can, or at least, not keep hurting my partner while I am hurting myself.

I’m going to nap, I think. I’ll keep you posted.


Had an excellent conversation with my partner, trying to voice some of my fears and somehow describe the things that are hard to describe. The difficulty is partly in voicing them in the first place, and partly in that it is indescribably hard to tell somebody you love more than life itself that you genuinely wish you had never been born. That you had never existed.

And more than that, that there is an increasingly loud voice in your head – not an unpleasant one, but one that seems so comforting and so kind, that lulls you to sleep and promises an end to the constant drowning of thoughts in your head – that tells you it would be so much better for everybody, including (especially) the person you love, that you were dead. Because they’ll heal. Because I’m hurting her more and more with every passing day. Because I’d prefer her to grieve and heal and find somebody who can love her and give her the world, rather than give her the mass of desperation and pain that I currently feel.

Every fucking second I get hit with a new intrusive thought. Methods. Cooking, and debating holding my arm to the flame, or just the edge of the pan so it can look like an accident. Shaving my arms, and pressing it too close to my legs. Sharpen the one knife we have in operation, and glide it over somewhere inconspicuous. Stash meds. Steal matches. Scratch my skin to ribbons. Another one hits me every single fucking second and I am so, so tired of tackling them, I’m exhausted, more and more so every single second that passes, even when I’m happy, even when I am loved and safe and cared for and will never be abandoned I still hate and love her in equal measure for keeping me going and keeping me here.

I am trying to internalise the potential necessity of needing to go into acute inpatient care again at some point in the (not all that distant) future, because there’s going to come a point where I simply get too tired to keep batting them off.

Deep breath, and here we go again.


I didn’t know my mood could physically go this low. I don’t remember the last time I was this bad.

There aren’t really many options. I firmly believe that inpatient- bearing in mind my extensive history of therapies – is the only intelligent option. I can’t afford it. The NHS refuse to re-assess my case. I have months of fucking about before it becomes an issue.

Although to be honest, this may get altered, simply because my mood is so low that I am seriously wondering whether I’d be safer going onto an acute ward. I am spending a lot of my time trying not to cry, hurt myself, or ruminate on suicide options. I am not quite dissociating – I fucking wish I was lucky enough to dissociate, which is a pretty frightening realisation in itself – but I’m just empty. I stare into space trying very hard to return to whatever is going on around me, to not drown in constant pain, and I’m not doing well.

My time is quietly running out. I don’t know whether I’ll kill myself (which I am trying desperately not to do, for the sake of my partner) or this pain will get so much that I check out mentally, if not physically. Where I reach a point of simply not caring any more, and basically become a shell of somebody that could have been happy.

I don’t know. Neither option appeals.

Happy Endings.

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 thingit 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.