It would be nice to feel beautiful, once in a while. It’s an occupational hazard of having a long-term eating disorder, but I do not like myself aesthetically in any way, shape or form. So it would be really lovely if I could feel beautiful, or you know, passingly attractive from time to time.
I’m really tired today, as well. It is entirely recovery from living with my parents, it’s emotionally very tiring, so today I’ve been exhausted beyond belief.
There’s a strange chasm of communication that happens from time to time with the people I love most. Where I can’t make basic things make sense, or be understandable. It is so frustrating and I can’t work it out. Like when I heavily dissociate and can’t talk, I can’t say the things that are i my head because I’m just not in the building, not how I should be or want to be.
Anyway. Such is life. I’ll get there.
Anger does not go away. It has been easier since my mood plummeted – and I’m sure my partner will agree – but anger still sits in me and festers. My anger has been turning directly inwards recently, and it was actually something of a relief to lose my temper. It shouldn’t be, but it was. For once I didn’t want to hurt me.
This is not, by any means, to say that I want to hurt anybody else, especially not my partner. But I am so, so tired of wanting to hurt myself all of the time, that yes it does come as something of a relief. And if that makes me a shit person then there we have it.
But hey guys, hey guys, I made another day. Day after day after day. I managed to get through another day, and my urge to kill myself is manageable and my urge to hurt myself hasn’t been acted upon. Hooray. Days.
God I’m so tired.
(Or: At Home – Day Fifty-Five)
Slammed a heel today during a very inelegant fall in aerial and I’m reasonably sure I’ve bone bruised it, as it hurts like a son of a bitch, so that’s fun. I am having a lot of fun with aerial, but I’m bruised to hell and back.
Managed to meet up with a good friend of mine and had a good chat.
Otherwise not much by way of developments. My mood is pretty low. Overall, I definitely feel like I’m plummeting. The sensation of hopelessness that’s been spreading since the discovery that I really can’t fucking trust anybody in the NHS has now sunk marrow-deep and will not leave. I just can’t be fucked any more. I don’t care. I am so tired and I am so, so done with all of this – and I don’t have that option, I have to be doing everything myself.
People don’t seem to get just how fucking tiring it is, to be mentally ill. I can hold conversations, socialise, go out. I can. It’s physically possible. I have just got so used to being so tired that I don’t even notice it any more.
(Or: At Home – Day Twenty-Four)
I am exhausted. I have no right to be – slept for a solid eleven hours last night – but the emotional exhaustion of so much social interaction has rendered me basically capable of yawning and video games with a manic buzzing at the back of my skull. I have social engagements (as it were, me not being from the eighteenth century) for the next three days too, one of which is accompanying my partner to an audition. Which, of course, I’m dreading, for reasons pertaining to my massive inferiority complex and depression at not being able to do my job and live a normal life.
You don’t expect the emotional exhaustion, not gonna lie. It’s remarkably exhausting to just be human, when your brain basically has a vendetta against you. Which is mean. I’m even trying to be nice to it at the moment, and it repays me with exhaustion and cripplingly low self-esteem. Bitch.
So on that happy note, I’m going to bed. You never know. Maybe I’ll finally hear from the treatment programme that I was assessed for nearly three weeks ago now, or perhaps pigs will fly…