Decided I’d try crossfit, because why the fuck not.
So I ache, but I totally don’t regret it. I am weak as fuck right now (based on my part strength and health and fitness) but hey, beginners, and I’ve been basically sedentary for quite a while so I guess it’s to be expected. Bit saddening though. Lunges and squats, erghhhh, plus ‘death by burpees’ which was surprisingly near-literal.
I absolutely loved it though, so it’s a nice commitment that gets me out of the house and active and busy.
General sanity remains static. To be continued.
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.
My partner can’t cope.
This is not a failing on her part, and I’ll rip the throat out of anybody who suggests it.
No; she just cannot have my life in her hands. It’s too much. Unsurprisingly. Being the sole reason for somebody’s continued existence is a burden I cannot begin to imagine, but that’s where we’re currently at.
So she had a bit of a breakdown and we’re considering options. May need to decamp to friends’ houses and all that. Back under 24hr watch I go, only this time more thorough than any ward could begin to be: they’ll be making sure I eat, don’t throw up, etc. After the last effort (and not eating for 11 days) my partner doesn’t really trust wards to look after me properly. Shocking.
God I hate this system.
Still. Seeing psychiatrist tomorrow and therapist Tuesday. Partner will be accompanying. I’m having to go with her to work and all the rest. We’re going to discuss tier 4 care. Because this has got out of hand. Again. As it always does.
I really really hate myself for doing this to her.
Okay, so I’m in trouble.
Had a long conversation with my partner yesterday after drinking a bottle of wine and a fair bit of vodka, trying to work out what to do with me from here as I’m past the point fo control, anybody’s control, let alone my own. I am really unwell and really, acutely aware of it.
I’m binging and purging constantly. I am drinking like a fish. I am struggling with an acute and constant desire to do myself damage because it’s the only way to make sense of anything currently happening in my head. If the eating doesn’t kill me soon, I’ll do it myself for efficiency’s sake, and that’s obviously not ideal as far as my life and partner and all the rest goes.
It’s hard to admit how bad things are.
We discussed whether or not we’re at a point that Tier 4 should be a serious consideration again. The treacherous part of me that I loathe and wish I could suppress tells me honestly: yes, it should be. That I am risking, gambling with my life every single day I continue as I currently am, and I need serious intervention from people who are better at this and can support me in getting genuinely well. I need help, I really need help.
I don’t want to lose everything. I have an amazing life, great job, all the rest. I don’t want to consider having to go into hospital for a year.
But then I wonder if I will be giving up a year for the sake of a lifetime, and the answer is obvious, whether I want it to be or not.
To be continued.
I was discharged last Wednesday. I’m now at home and patching up my life, yet again, after everything fell to pieces. I feel like I spend my life re-patching my life together.
I got very freaked. Had a meeting with my previous 1-1 therapist (current is on leave) along with the psychiatrist for complex needs, who basically told me I need to get saner or they’ll chuck me back into the CMHT at which point I may as well try a far more effective suicide attempt, because god knows it’ll only be a matter of time after that.
Thing is, I like MBT. I like my therapist. I like the facilitators for group and how group works, and it’s been helping me tremendously in interpersonal relationships etc. So I don’t want to be kicked out of a therapy that may actually help, but also they clearly got very spooked at the suicide attempt and psychosis because, well, as the psych said “we wouldn’t really be expecting this at this stage”.
Well no, I wasn’t expecting it either, but that’s what we have.
So I’m very frightened. Can’t help wondering if I should be in Tier 4, if I should be trying that option again, if I’m just stalling the inevitable. I feel very small and very lost and very, very broken by all of this. There’s only so many years you can go through the same things before it starts to eat away at you somewhat, before you wonder why you’re still trying.
It also makes me wonder if I should lie. Pretend its all gone away so they’ll keep me.
I don’t think I can handle another rejection.
Okay. I’m on a ward, as of 11pm, with an actual bed rather than recliner chair to sleep on which would be splendid if I could sleep without my hallucinations screaming at me. I’m playing music to distract myself. It isn’t working.
I’m on 1-1 obs still, but have been told that if that’s going to remain then I’ll need to be put on a formal section, which scared the shit out of me but hey ho.
Also my physical health is getting sketchy. Haven’t eaten in 4 days. Voices screaming whenever I try.
This is hell. This is above and beyond anything else I’ve ever had to deal with. This is the worst experience of my entire life to date, and that’s going some.
I need out, just five minutes of peace. My desires have become that simple.
So first things first, I’m so sorry for disappearing completely and not coming back, especially given that my last post was suicidal in the extreme. I have had some wonderful messages from kind people who have tried to get in touch, to check if I am okay, to check if I’m alive.
Which I am. So hi. Not dead.
Obviously, a lot has happened in the last nine(ish?) months. I’m in therapy. I moved house. I haven’t been re-admitted to hospital. I’m having the best year, mental health wise, I’ve had in a very, very long time. For the most part, I have been addressing my problems and trying very hard to find solutions, to find ways to live with and without mental health problems.
I’ve relapsed. Again. Bulimia-wise. But: I managed a good month or so without purging, which is wonderful, and I am trying to piece myself back together for the nth time, which is why I’ve returned back to this blog in the hope of organising my thoughts and hopefully, if I can, track the journey of my recovery which I can look back at in a few years and be proud of.
Look look, optimism!
Today’s been a write-off. I ate myself silly and threw up a frankly ridiculous number of times, and I’m tired, and I am fed up of fighting, but I’m going to. I am going to fight because I don’t want to die, and because I want for myself than this.
So here we go.
Thank you, again, for supporting and commenting and messaging. It means the world. And I promise that I will not disappear again without warning!