I’m losing myself
I thought I was getting better but I’m not.
I knew I’d take a dip again before and during March but I’m feeling really bad right now.
I’m considering suicide again. I’m not overdosing for anybody. I went through hell in that hospital and if anybody wants me to experience that again they can just kill me with their own two hands.
But. There is a time when I am actually going to be on a roof terrace. There is a lift to it and I will be on it. At first I sort of joked to myself that I shouldn’t go near the edge. But I’ve been thinking about it more and more. Maybe I could actually just throw myself off. Surely I couldn’t fucking survive if the drop was high enough. I’m worried I’ll do it.
Whenever a celebrity dies by suicide, people always say “why didn’t they reach out for help.”
I’ve been reaching out. I’ve been super frank about it here, on my website, and I know there are people who see it. I’ve been honest with people in person, that I am still not happy to be alive. Tonight I said to my husband, “I am going to die unless you stop me.”
I’ve done the reaching out that everyone talks about. People talk, everybody knows my mental health has gone out the window. Everybody knows I tried to kill myself. Now what? What’s supposed to happen next? Are people supposed to “get me the help I need?” Because there is zero help coming my way.
I wasn’t even offered counselling after my assessment at that place. I was offered the “recovery college” which I’ve already talked about. That’s not gonna help me. I don’t think counselling would help either, to be honest, it’s not like I haven’t had it before, I used to see a proper NHS psychiatrist at a place where you had to be buzzed in through all the doors. I was discharged from the service because there was nothing else they could do for me. Even if I got a councillor to come and see me somehow, the same would happen again. They’d run out of ideas for me. And I’d have other mental health crises in the future.
I found out tonight that my GP told my husband I’d need to come in for a medication review because they want to up my dosage after my suicide attempt. But that never ended up happening, they just never called him about it, they just never felt like doing it. Just like nobody has been bothered to tell me how my organs are doing. I’m not drinking or taking painkillers because I don’t know if it will fucking kill me. I had to sign a form acknowledging I could still lose my liver when I self-discharged, and still, nobody can be fucking bothered to tell me anything. I just sit here feeling my organs pang, even right fucking now, and I have no idea what’s going on.
I had a pretty serious head scan more than a year ago now, and we’ve still never had a straight answer about it. Will got tired of calling, and calling, and calling, for the results and now it’s just kind of forgotten and buried under everything else. Healthcare in Andover is so bizarre. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out there’s some sort of tumour pressing on my brain that’s caused my influx of migraines as well as my unsolvable dive in mental health. I would honestly not blink if you told me that was true.
I’m running out of the energy I need to fight with myself. It’s hard, to consciously think every day, that you should try staying alive. For most people it’s a given, but I have to argue with myself about it. I am losing the fight. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what else to tell people.
There are things and people that I love but they cannot keep the crippling unhappiness away anymore and it is going to kill me.
When I was lying in my hospital bed and staring at the ceiling I told myself, that a year from that day, if I was still alive, I’d get a tattoo saying “И жить!”
It’s a lyric from the Tracktor Bowling song Время (Vremya, “Time”). The song is meaningful for me in a few ways, but that small part, meaning “And live!” is from a section roughly translating as
“And live!
Without asking time
to borrow us that
which can’t be ever brought back.
Stop waiting
and lying to yourself.
Instead, walk yourself the difficult
road of life till the end.”
So, basically, stay alive and do stuff. I’ve thought about having that line tattooed for a few years. I think I just need to look down and see it sometimes when something has devastated me. So I said to myself, when I was there, that if I’m here in January 2020, I’ll get that tattoo. We’ll see what happens.
I think, at the end of the day, I just don’t feel like I belong here, in life. I could get my entire life history off my chest, but still, nothing with me would be straightforward.
Nothing about me can be summarised with “I am _______.” There’s always something that needs explaining, always a footnote, always something that people aren’t going to understand. And, frankly, it sucks.
I think people try hard to be different, but, my family was non-mainstream in every single way and honestly, I still suffer for it. I literally don’t feel like I have a place on this earth, like I have no true home. Nowhere, no community, no group, where I can plonk down and say “I 100%, completely belong here, this is me.”
And I think that realisation is always going to haunt me. No matter how well things might go for me later in life, I think I’ll always feel like an outsider wearing out my welcome. And that feeling is truly exhausting sometimes. I am losing the fight.
