I try not to post too often so that I have something to write about during the week – control. Something I’ve always needed. Control over events and what is happening, when and where. But I decided to be spontaneous. I don’t know if that is a good or bad thing.
This post won’t be a happy one – filled with hopes of recovery and positivity, because frankly, recovery is not linear. It’s a wave of an up and down motion. Half of the time, I don’t know if I’m recovering or falling.
The reason for this post is mostly for myself – to be honest with myself as much as I can. I might even show it to my brain doctor when we have our catch up. I’m supposed to be discharged, I don’t know if I have been or not, but I don’t know if I am ready to be. This is to help me to have the opportunity to show my brain doctor and to be honest with him – to say things I cannot verbally get out.
I’m not in a good place at the moment. It’s very dark in my world and I don’t know why. I’m anxious. Afraid and angry at myself. I don’t know what to do to be at the high I was in a month ago. I don’t even remember how I even got to that high. I’m very confused, and it’s frightening.
I should note to anyone who cares to read this that there are some potential triggers in this and if you are triggered by it, then I suggest not reading it for your own sake. Should the triggers be more than I can see at this point. Frankly, I feel no good emotions at the moment, and haven’t for the past month, and it’s scary. But I feel quite too numb to care.
I shouted at myself this morning. I was baby sitting my little sister while my family members popped out for a quick meeting. I was making my sisters afternoon snack and had to bypass the window in the kitchen. It’s a large window and it was dark outside, I could see my own reflection in it.
That was enough to set it off. The thoughts came. Loud. Thumping – demanding attention and forcing me to listen, loud each time I tried to ignore it. I was told to embrace the thoughts, but everything became too loud. Too demanding. Too overwhelming that I thought I might go insane if they didn’t stop.
Brain tumour. If you don’t look back, you’re going to get a brain tumour. Look. Look. LOOK. Oh, you looked? You’re going to get sick. What if you get sick? What are you going to do? Look at your eyes in your reflection – no don’t look – what if you see one more enlarged than the other. Brain tumour. You’ve been overwhelmingly too warm the last few days. What if your wrist is infected? What if you’ve got that bug going around? Oh – you’re near the knives? See the knives in the reflection? You beside them – they’re going to fall down and stab you. Be careful. What if your sister comes in looking her snack and they fall on her when you lean against the fridge? What if she gets hurt? It’s all your fault – look back at your reflection. Again. Again. Again. Stop looking. If you look again, you’re going to get sick. That’s it. Shut your eyes everytime you walk past. If you look, look back ten times. Twenty. Thirty, but don’t look again after that or you have to repeat it again to keep everyone safe.
STOP. It wouldn’t stop, it doesn’t stop. Constantly loud thoughts. Eating at your brain. Screaming at you and taking over every function you have. I hit my head off the cupboard once to try and get it to hurt enough to make it stop. It wasn’t hard, but it sparked enough pain in the nerves to give me a second to flee the room. To run from the thoughts.
They still followed.
They don’t stop. I’ve had a week of a lesser volume when I was being treated. It was still there, but I could function enough to feel positive about getting better.
Now I just feel like I’ve journeyed into the void. There’s nothing here. Is that normal? The thoughts eat away and cause bursts of anxiety which make you want to smack your head until they shut up and leave you alone. I’ve got a tension in my mind which won’t lift and causes me to whimper at random times. It’s not a physical feeling, but at the same time, it’s there. As if something heavy is weighing down on your mind. I want it to stop. Make it stop. Will it ever leave me alone?
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Was it because I was rude to my sister? Was it because I used to give people who cheated off my tests in primary school the wrong answers? What did I do to deserve this torture?
If I could ask God anything, it would be that – what did I do to deserve this pain?
I want it to stop. I want to stop existing. To disappear – to feel, but to stop feeling at the same time. To be on a constant high of happy emotions and living life to the full. Hell, I want to be able to have what everyone else has – even if it’s just a hand to hold when times get rough.
I self harmed a week ago to this day. It wasn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last. When I did it, I eyed the veins. The artery. I knew how easy it would be and pondered it. I’m not a medical person, although I have watched and read enough crime and medical shows/books to know where the critical areas are. How vulnerable and exposed they are, and if I moved only a few centimetres up and to the centre, I could hit them and feel relief.
And even with the thoughts of relief, I thought of the pain that would follow. Physically. Bleeding out is one of the most terrible ways to go. Hypovolemic shock would have hit after losing a few pints. With the four stages of the shock, once stage three hits, it would have been critical.
I never did cut a vein or an artery. But I knew the opportunity was there and the thought scares me due to how I think about it nearly everyday. I probably wouldn’t do it – but, the thought that I could is both reassuring and terrifying.
I don’t want to die. I just want this torture to stop existing, and the miserable existence of loneliness, despite trying to interact with friends and family and still being left behind, to stop. I no longer want to feel left behind. Lost. Unsupported. Perhaps it is the bias of my darkened state of mind at the moment, but it only feels like a select few have tried. None would include family members. One would include a close friend.
I had a fight with my mother. Not uncommon, but it was a bad one – to me, at least.
I was struggling all last week, very badly actually. I was nearly in tears at work because I couldn’t sleep the night before and because I felt so hungry that I was going to vomit. I don’t know if I should phone my doctor or not, doing so makes me feel slightly ashamed that I’ve let him down. Another part of me is terrified of being seen as a lunatic. Two massive fears.
It was about food, funny enough. I’ve been trying to eat more to get well and get the nutrients I need. I’ve even taking to small snacks to try and feel full after meals. I took one of my sisters treats – a Barny bar. She had a small box of them. Around five in a box.
I was hungry, feeling faint. I knew that artificial sugar would give me a quick kick because it breaks down quicker, even if it does not stay longer. Therefore, energy comes faster. My family don’t buy crisps or chocolate – the latter is only reserved for school or work. The Barnys were a treat and my little sister usually lets me have one – because for a six year old – she listens, and she notices when I feel like I’m going to faint. When my hands shake and when my eyes begin blinking rapidly to stay aware.
So I took one. She had gone to bed at this point and it was only myself and my mother awake. She was doing her exercises and I was writing a blog post.
”You need to stop eating her treats”.
My retort: ”I felt faint and it’s only one”.
Mother: ”It’s not fair on her. They’re for her. You should get off your ass and buy some yourself”.
Me: ”It’s nearly eleven at night and I feel sick. Not going to go out on a journey for food when I’m relaxing”.
Her: ”You need to get a grip. I think you should go back to your doctor again, obviously there’s something wrong with you if you can’t even get out to go to the shop to get your own food. You’re 21 now and should be doing your own shopping”.
Me: ”Right. Whatever. Even though everytime I buy food and put it in the kitchen, someone else eats it. Don’t exactly have a padlocked mini fridge in my room. I just won’t eat then, because everytime I eat, you shout at me for taking food. Can’t even eat an apple without a snide remark”.
Her: ”Can’t even go to a shop. Get a grip. Maybe you should label your stuff so no one eats it. Besides, it’s food that has been bought for the house. You shouldn’t be eating it. There’s never any food and that’s all you complain about. Get to the shop, phone your doctor because you’re not right if you can’t go to the shop. Go back to that doctor and get your head checked”.
I snapped at that point and threw half of the soft marsh snack at her. It was softer than a pillow – imagine being hit by a marshmallow. I couldn’t – I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I felt so angry. So frustrated – I was already feeling a lack of support and have felt that way for months. Years really. We don’t talk about feelings in this house unless someone comes in drunk from a night out and is upset. Even then, it’s dismissed. I couldn’t do it anymore. I told her that she was mocking me – because that’s how I took it. I’ve watered it down. She was mocking me for not being able to do a simple thing because she doesn’t give a damn to learn or listen. In her words: ”You’re over the age of 18 and no longer my responsibility”. Although, now she isn’t talking to me – it’s been about a week now. So I can’t exactly blame her for my downfall at the moment.
So why have me then? Why bother intentionally conceiving if you were going to stop caring? Yes, she’s been struggling with health and whatnot, but fucking hell – so have I and I’ve slaved away scrubbing the house for her and trying so fucking hard that I’ve been in tears and been so miserable that I’ve hurt myself over it. Why the hell can’t she do the same? I’ve not been eating, more subconcious lack of eating than intentional. When I’m down, I stop and don’t realise, until times like now where I feel like I’m going to faint and I feel shaky, too warm and cold at the same time and like I am going to vomit. What is this?
I did about twelve cuts. Not too deep. I didn’t want them to scar so that I couldn’t wear my short sleeves when they healed and faded. Tactical. If they are light and only bleed a little then they won’t scar and I can go on pretending. I can only see them because I know where to look for the thin lines that have been gradually attacked at. This time, I went further than before. I went over the tendons and dug in. Still, it wasn’t deep, but hell – the pain distracted me from all of the misery and all of the thoughts for a few hours and it was something else.
I got four hours sleep that night before I had to get up for work. A week later and the cuts are still healing up – the blood is gone, but the skin cells are still knitting together where a thin gorge has separated them. When I run my fingers over them, they feel rough and scabby. They are still a pinky-brown colour and the skin is slightly raised where the healing is taking place. When I drag the skin back, I can see the indentation that I made. Most of the lines are short, but others are long -across the wrist. The fog was back and it stopped all sensibility and only allowed me to see darkness.
It was shit timing apparently,!because my work place decided to get very warm. I keep panicking when I realised that I’ve rolled my sleeves up and keep having to push them down. I don’t know if anyone has noticed, and I hope they have not. But at the same time, I wish for someone to help. To hold my head in their hands and push all of the pain away. But mostly, I am ashamed.
I paint as a hobby, but it didn’t help. The whole time I painted over the weekend, I thought about painting a wrist and painting scars. I thought about walking about with my sleeves rolled up to show someone I was in terrible pain and need someone to help. But I never did.
Now, it’s twelve and Monday has become Tuesday. I’ve admitted a dark secret online and I’m so ashamed of it. But fuck – fuck, maybe someone out there will get help before things go to shit because of it. Or maybe someone will realise the ugly side to whatever this shit is. Maybe someone will take my world and make sense of it for me.
I don’t want pity. I don’t want to be handled like glass.
I just want something that I can’t explain. I just want things to get better – for recovery to be linear. For this post to be the thing that helps me to be honest. I might never be able to say these things out loud, so this is the transcript of the darkness inside of me and how I want to scream because I feel torn apart inside.
I was getting better, I think. I can’t tell anymore if I’m tricking people into thinking I am because I feel ashamed when things go south. Or if I want to make them proud. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know myself.
Maybe one day I will, and even though I keep thinking about how easy it would be to give it all up, I try to (not always succeed to) think how I might find myself one day, under all the rubble.
This is the most terrifying post I have ever written, but it is the most honest one. I need to be honest with myself. To figure this all out.