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!
My body image is at rock bottom and I’m losing my mind about all of it, but hey, there we have it. I’m crazy. I will always be crazy, to a greater or lesser extent, but you know maybe, just fucking maybe, there’s a future for me where I’m crazy and thin. Wouldn’t that be absolutely fucking splendid?! I’ve been bulimic for thirteen years, thirteen sodding years, and I am one of those fucking nutjob suckers who has the eating disorder that doesn’t actually make you thin. The sheer indescribable levels of not fair is off the fucking charts. I get the eating disorder hell with none of the upsides.
Non PC thing to be saying, but there we have it.
Every single day, I miss my sister. I shouldn’t, but I do. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her, and that’s okay, but it fucking kills me on an almost daily basis because yes, I miss her.
And because my parents – predominantly my mother – think more of her than me. That has been true for a long time. I realised that when I was reasonably young; I was the problem child. I was diagnosed with bulimia when I was thirteen, and I can pretty much date the deterioration of mine and my mother’s relationship from there.
Because my mother caught me. She noticed. She saw what had been going on for two years by that point: binging and purging and self-loathing and bits of self-harm and while she never saw the suicide attempt, I think in a weird way she already knew. Even though I have never told her, and do not intend to. Our relationship fell to pieces because I was the broken child who was ill, and never got better. And never will.
I’m always going to be ill. I am always going to struggle.
But I have some things:
- I’m engaged. And I love my partner more than anything, more than life itself, and she makes everything worthwhile.
- I have friends who would end earths for me, and for whom I’d do the same.
- I have a degree from a world-class university.
- I have a job that I love, both as my money-earner and my more general long-term career goal.
- I’m a seriously bloody good actress and writer. No really. I am. I love what I do, and I’m damn good at it,
- I’m getting help. And I will recover.
So you know what? Maybe I will be the successful child, one day. Maybe I’ll be the one to remember, at the end of it. The one with a life I’m proud of, in all ways – mental, physical, emotional.
I can, at least, strive for that.
Let’s see how it goes.
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.