Run

Before we begin, an explanation and a disclaimer. All events in these diary entries are true, apart from those that aren't. I've had to change names, ages, descriptions to protect the identity of those I work for and with. I am posting this with the full consent of my boss (He's awesome). There will be a LOT of swearing. If this offends you, please do not read.

    Run.

         

Life is circles. It’s being tied to a wheel; sometimes you are lifted into the air and sometimes you are crushed into the ground. I had thought I was getting somewhere by moving out, having a long term relationship and getting my cats (I hadn’t been allowed pets as a kid as my mum was scared of everything ) I’d had my job for four years, and despite loathing it to the very depths of my being, I hadn’t quit. The debt was there, taking a chunk from my wages every month, crippling me and always a constant reminder of that hateful bastard.

          Then the breakdown came.

There is nothing more fun than having your own mind betray you, your body unwilling to do what you want and need it to. Getting out of bed is the hardest thing in the world and everything is too much. Dressing, washing, brushing your hair, eating…it’s all too much for your poor head to cope with, so you don’t do it. You don’t do anything apart from stare at walls, lock yourself in the bathroom with a scalpel and cry a lot. The crying is a relief though as there are days when nothing will come and it’s just silence with no way to get the pain out.

          I had moved out again. Was living with a 21 year old who also lied to me about having quit smoking and had lied about his age. I’d thought he was 22 and he’d never corrected me. He turned 21 not long after we met. I found out about his lie from the birthday cards at his mother’s house. I was desperately afraid and leapt into the relationship. We rented a house, bought furniture and pretended that we were compatible. We weren’t. He lied about everything and when I was having my breakdown, he would hold me down and cover my mouth so I wouldn’t upset the neighbours. He would get drunk and be utterly, utterly vile to me.

          I’m not so delusional at to think living with someone like me is easy, it’s not. There’s only so many times you can find your girlfriend in a heap on the floor with a knife in her hands before you stop taking it seriously. I never cut myself anyway. I couldn’t do it. The one time I managed, the knife was so blunt it didn’t break the skin. I crushed pills to overdose, hid broken glass, ran away to throw myself onto train tracks, but I could never do it. I was off work for four months as I couldn’t cope with anything. I got sick of his lies and moved out again. Back with my parents. Back in that tiny, stupid room. Back to selling all the furniture. Back to crippling anxiety from being in this god forsaken house. Back to not eating, sleeping and drinking so much tea my eyes felt as though they had dried out. I wasn’t alive. I wasn’t even really existing. I don’t remember large chunks of that period. Maybe it’s my brain trying to protect me, or maybe it’s because I was so out of it and spending all my time planning my demise, and then loathing myself because I couldn’t do it.

 

I was referred for CBT. The therapist had a lisp and always looked as though a child had dressed her with her rah-rah skirts with leggings underneath and the shoes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a porcelain doll. The woman was crazy, how was she supposed to stop me from being completely mental. It was all a bunch of hippy shit anyway; breathing in one colour and breathing out another, imagining that all my problems were in beach balls that floated around me, but couldn’t hurt me. My ‘safe place’ which was supposed to allow me to visualise another place that I felt comfortable with. She told me about her other patient’s ‘safe places’. One imagined she were flying on those dragon things from Avatar, another that she was in a huge library, a third put herself in her favourite movie. That was all well and good, but when I actually managed to imagine myself away from my life, I would just get all the more depressed when I had to go back to reality.

          Psycho analysis is the next thing on the list, after throwing no end of anti-depressants at me hasn’t worked. I’ve tried every one they can think of; Citalopram, Sertraline, Fluoxetine (which made me even more manic and suicidal), mirtazapine, diazepam…I can’t even remember half of them, and they all have fun side effects. Citalopram and Sertraline made my anxiety attacks worse and caused palpitations. Diazepam (short term use) made me groggy and feel detached from everything, but not in a good way. Mirtazapine made me put on a stone, not good for a former anorexic that is constantly battling the resurfacing of that Ana bitch.

 

So I was a huge mess. I was no use to anyone and signed off work again for several weeks. I severed all contact with the two toxic friends that I had, and spent a lot of time sat in that tiny room. My therapist would always ask me if I had a ‘plan’. Apparently a person isn’t truly suicidal unless they’ve worked out what they’re going to do. I’ve picked the tree, I’ve gathered some washing line and I’ve planned my note. I just can’t do it because I’m a coward who is afraid of failing. A thought worse than living? Disabling myself so badly in a suicide attempt that I don’t have the option of killing myself anymore. That would be pure hell.