Not Going Well

I feel like my skin has been ripped from my body.

Everything – and I mean everything – hurts. It would be impressive if it wasn’t such absolute hell to live through.

I don’t know what to say, or how to say it. Getting out of bed is hard. Breathing is hard. I’m alive and moving and doing everything I have to for entirely menial and basically banal reasons. I am surviving, hour by hour. It doesn’t feel like actually living. I can’t see beyond tomorrow.

Therapy is… hard. Helpful. I don’t know. I’m trying to be more mindful and mentalise (am in MBT, mentalisation-based therapy) but it just doesn’t feel enough: it’s like somebody’s teaching me how not to fall off the boat, when I’m already in the middle of drowning.

Not much good stuff here, sorry. Don’t feel like I’ve ever felt this shit. Realistically speaking I probably have, but I’m usually blessed with amnesia. This is different. I remember, and I know, and I’m feeling every fucking millisecond of it. And I don’t want to be any more.


A&E plus musings

I’m having to tag along with my partner when she goes to work because she doesn’t feel safe leaving me alone. Which says all you need to know, really.

Anyway. Spent today in A&E because heart palpitations, chest pains and shortness of breath. Six hours and nothing to show, but hey, I’m not dying. Had an ECG and chest xray so everything bad has been ruled out. Which is good. I think.

I hate myself. I hate my brain. I hate that I’m sober. I hate that I can’t go throw up. I hate that nobody will let me self destruct in peace and I hate that I don’t care any more about living or dying or all the rest, I want to crash and burn out, exit in a blaze – not of glory – but of something. I want to feel something that isn’t pain.

Pain, or the mindnumbing mundanity of day to day life. The ridiculous tedious frustrating nothingness of simply continuing to breathe as though it’s supposed to mean something.

Sorry, seem to have turned into an angsty misanthrope. Realistically, I’m just angry and probably bored.

Thing is, no matter what I do, I can’t seem to fix it. I can’t be busy enough. I can’t escape unless I’m blind drunk or vomiting or self harming when for the most fleeting of instants I feel present. Feel something acute and immediate.

By the way, profoundly suicidal right now. Which kind of makes sense, given everything I’m talking about in this post. Can you blame me?

I’m talking too much.

Forgive me.


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.

In hospital

Sorry it’s been a few days for an update; I’ve been literally too out of it to read or write. Didn’t sleep for a full week. Managed a couple of hours (finally!!) last night so feeling considerably more human, although still utterly exhausted and in need of repeating the exercise several times over before I return to normal.

Still hallucinating like fuck. Which sucks. Verbal abuse 24/7 for over a week is killing my self esteem, confidence, self…

Also haven’t eaten for the duration. Hallucinations scream when I try. Not good.

More later.

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.


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

I don’t have the energy to recount the number of small constant things that go wrong or are not present on this ward. Like my ongoing medication. Like promises that get broken. Like notes not being updated. Like nobody passing on information. Like refusing to help with self inflicted injuries. Like it taking six attempts and five days for my medicated face cream to be written up (it still hasn’t).

On the bright side, today’s evening staff are being very kind. Trying to fix problems. Assuring me that I won’t be forced into discharge tomorrow.

I’m going to speak to them a bit. I need to speak to somebody who doesn’t look through me or forget me. Somebody who listens. Somebody for whom I’m not a perpetual problem.

Because that’s how I feel. Right now. Like I only ever cause at best, irritation and worse, pain. I am a problem.

And they wonder why I am suicidal. I am constantly invalidated, ignored, or forgotten. I am nothing, and they seem at pains to constantly remind me of this.

I have rarely felt so utterly alone.