The way your mind can change in a matter of moments. So I’ve mentioned before that I have mental health issues. Notably depression. Something set it off last night. It was something that would upset anyone I’m sure, but my brain can’t cope in the way someone without mental health problems could. At least, I don’t think it can. I can’t quite see what is normal anymore. Not that there is any definition of normal. All I know is that my coping mechanism of cutting myself is not one that should be my go to reaction when something hits me hard. I shouldn’t need to force myself to think of reasons why I want to be alive, focus on all the negativity that’s past by me in recent times and dwell on these things as to why I don’t deserve to be here, and then punish myself for doing this.
I didn’t go to work today. Aside from being physically exhausted from crying and giving myself a nasty headache, my body hurts when I feel like this. It feels like my limbs are made of lead. Moving my body actually feels harder. I’m sure I move more slowly. I don’t do it for dramatic effect. Why would I, I’m home alone? I’m skulking around my house like a sloth when I get up to use the bathroom or feed my cats. I’ve felt sick, a constant nausea. It doesn’t help that I haven’t really eaten, but then when you feel like that you don’t have an appetite. I really do feel physically unwell.
I’ve done nothing today but move from my bed to my sofa, make two cups of tea and as I said, feed my cats. I hate wasting life, but right now it’s a life I want to just sleep in. I’ve spent most of the waking hours since last night thinking about ending my life; I know it’s not ultimately what I want as I’ve been here before and I know it gets better, so I won’t do it. Knowing how easy it would be to end feeling this way though, to snuff out the exhaustion that comes with feeling like this and the physical pain and mental turmoil; that’s how it feels to be suicidal. You don’t necessarily want to die; you just don’t want to be. Of course I think about my family and the people who love me, but the worthlessness you feel inside is much greater and you convince yourself that they will be better off. I don’t want to see anyone when I feel like this, I feel like a burden. I feel useless. I don’t want to wash or get dressed, why should anyone want to spend time with me? I know that’s not the case, I really know it, but I can’t help feeling it. I can’t convey how much of an effort things feel, even having a conversation, your brain just doesn’t care to know.
I was watching “999 what’s your emergency” last week and a police officer was called to the scene of a hanging. I sobbed for about an hour. I didn’t know this person of course, but I was so sad for them. I could imagine the pain they must have felt and the loneliness to go through with this desperate act. It’s funny how no matter how supported you are (which I’m so lucky that I am) you can feel so totally isolated. I don’t know if people blame themselves when a loved one goes through with this, I can imagine it being entirely likely, but the all consuming pain depression can bring can be so crushing, it’s no ones fault. I do think vastly more needs to be done to support mental health in terms of services, but that’s a whole other issue.
I just want to sleep until I don’t feel like this. That isn’t practical of course. I have to push myself to look after myself to get better so I don’t feel like this. But that is fucking hard. Like really fucking hard. Sometimes I snap out of it quite quickly. I take medication, I’ve had therapy, and I know the right things to do. Other times it takes me longer. Every time it starts though, it’s so disheartening as I just think “not again”. Disheartening isn’t the right word. It’s fucking crushing. I’m 29, I have amazing friends, I don’t want to ever be staring at a handful of pills and talking myself out of taking them; I want this cunt to leave me alone.
I’m writing this because I want something good to come of feeling like this. I can’t write it when I don’t feel like it, so I’m forcing myself to do something. I can’t sleep anyway. When I try to I just feel alone, which makes me hysterical, so despite my exhaustion I don’t sleep. It’s mildly helping me (the writing), which in itself is a good thing. I was made to feel ashamed for self-harming and I will never again be made to feel ashamed of this illness. I cannot help it. No one who has it can. It’s invisible, it’s hard to understand, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to or judge because you don’t. So I will talk about it. I will talk about it to try and help those who don’t understand understand a little better, to let fellow sufferers know that they are not alone, and to try and reduce stigma around mental health, particularly self harm.