I’d post this now, but then you might think that I was happy, that I was whole enough to write, that I had the motivation to blog and that I was over the great canyon (because this one is not a rut guys) that has consumed everything that I was…
I’m not. None of those things are true. And I don’t want to talk about how I feel about everything or where I’m at emotionally right now because I don’t know how to – I am lost. I am empty, I am hollow, and frustratingly I managed to give off the impression that I am “brighter than usual”. If brighter than usual means that until yesterday night I was very serious about ending it all being the only way to cope, yet distraught at this realisation because I wanted to stay alive… Then sure, I’m brighter than usual. But I don’t think that’s what it means. I am nothing, right now. I am nothing.
Like I said, there is going to be a change in this blog – I’d like not to mention health stuff on it any more, because I am not allowing myself to acknowledge the health stuff at all in reality and I can’t face being unwell anywhere. I will not admit the state my body is in, the things it can and cannot do. I am pushing through it, no matter what the consequences, and whether it is right or wrong. But right now I am in a transition stage. The change is happening, but it isn’t complete, and it isn’t instant.
I am considering starting an entirely new blog, such is the significance of the change. I need to cut all tethers from the life that I have, from illness. I don’t want to be the unwell person anymore, I don’t want to publicly talk about or draw attention to that, or let that side of me out – I am unwilling to let even myself see that side of who I am, I am unwilling to let that part of me exist anymore. I will ignore it. And it will cease to exist. Because denial is the only way I am ever going to escape it. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I am so sick of it all. I don’t care about the consequences, I am moving on.
I don’t want to mention health hiccups, I don’t want to mention appointments any more because each one makes my world crumble and I don’t want to explain why, and I’m sick of writing the rubbish I write. Right now that is easy, because I have smothered the knowledge of all of these things with denial, but when the curtain of that denial slips, I may encounter a problem. Anyway, I don’t want to write about limitations and health and all of that junk, I want to write about the person behind that, I want to post about my journey to running a 5k (although I’m pretty sure that should mention the impact on me because seriously… There is a story behind this. And I realise the levels to which my body is about to hate me, because I spent three hours unconscious this morning after attempting to cycle VERY gently on the lowest resistance setting on the exercise bike that sits in our hallway. Not my finest hour. But I woke up with my dog curled up next to me so hey, cuddles and overwhelming cuteness. No panic, no reaction to how dangerous the situation was, because there is no fear any more, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t phase me). I mean admittedly, it is a journey that may kill me, but hey, that makes the achievement even more worthwhile if it happens, right? And like I said in my previous post, I have three options right now, three paths to follow, and each of them ends in a death of some sort – this is the only option where that death is not an inevitability, where growth may even be a possibility.
I’m frustrated at this post because it sounds like I’m so much closer to “ok” than I am; it sounds like I’m figuring things out and I’m just so… Lost… That I’ve stopped fighting.
I’ve covered the whole situation I’m in and the way that I feel at the moment in previous posts, and in my mind there is no reason to get all repetitive and write it out again. I still can’t talk about it any more, I probably never will, I don’t need to because hey, denial means it no longer exists right now. There have been no significant changes, but I have started looking at 5k events I want to run (and in doing so found a 10k run for Cancer Research UK around London landmarks in February… Which will be a year after I thought I was going to die pretty soon, which means 12 whole months of defying odds… So what better way to celebrate?) I also found a sailing and water-sports club in the Tower Hamlets over near Canary Wharf, where they offer multiple racing or training sessions a week and offer a personal coaching session (very expensive, but I’m considering treating myself). I didn’t do any of these things because suddenly I felt positive, I started doing these things to give me something to cling to, a reason to live, and some form of incentive to resist the only logical option I can see. I do not want to suffer. I do not want to suffer like that again. And worse this time. For longer. More intense. I can’t. (Damn I said I wouldn’t go here, but my brain is stuck here). I want my future to feel worth living, and in looking at these things I’m trying to make that, I am trying to disperse these things among the hell, I am trying to persuade my brain to hold on, that this life is not going to become the hell that waits for it, the hopelessness that calls for it in the night… That this life will be… A life.
That consultant said those words to me hesitantly but with relative ease – he knows what he’s about to put me through, but he isn’t the one who has to live it. He… Oh damn no I’m not going there. That is not where this blog is going any more.
I don’t know where it’s going.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I sat with my next door neighbour and their puppy (now 8 months old and ALL legs) and just spoke about everything and how hopeless everything looked. After telling me that I wasn’t a child with terminally ill cancer and that I could always have it worse (which didn’t help, because this isn’t a case of feeling sorry for myself right now, it is a case of dreading what is to come. And yeah, I know it could.) No. Do you know what, this post is done. It stops now. I can’t even.
Let’s try again…
The social media post reached me long before they did – my family. My mum stopped speaking to me on the phone a few days ago after I sounded unhappy, told her that I wasn’t happy (wasn’t going to lie about it) and she got annoyed that I didn’t have anything else to say. Messages from then on were sporadic, with most of mine being left unanswered, I like to hope because there was a bad reception, but I’m pretty sure she just couldn’t be bothered with my crap. And then there she was, smiling at me from a screen in an ice bar in Amsterdam with my 13 year old brother. There he was (my brother), in a gyrocopter in France, go-karting on an old F1 track, scuba diving… There were these pictures of this perfect family holiday, with all of them smiling and doing these amazing things that they never do when I’m with them… And I felt so, so… Not part of it. I’d been dreading them coming home, and the post said they were back in England, and I knew they weren’t too far away. I wanted to cry. I screen-shotted the post and sent it to a couple of friends, waiting for their reactions to see whether or not I was being a pathetic idiot. Without me saying anything my fellow third wheel said it sucked and was pretty awful and apologised. My other friend said she’d feel really down if it was her. Ok no, they both made a huge deal about how crap it was. Yeah. And then I didn’t feel so bad about my nearly-tears, about watching the family that I already felt I didn’t fit in cement my outsider status. I was dreading their return because I didn’t want to feel like an outsider again.
And they walked in. My “dad” didn’t say two words to me until I made a point, about an hour after they returned, of saying “Hello dad” in front of everyone, and got an offish and sarcastic “Hello, (me)” response practically spat at me. I already screwed up. I was moaned at for not appearing happy enough and my mum knows why I’m not happy. All she said on the phone from France when I called her right after the appointment stupidly wanting my mother was “ok” and then we haven’t talked since really. I got annoyed at how selfish the attitude of being annoyed at me for not looking happy enough was, and told her I’d been suicidal and she had no idea how upset I was. She said she did. Then she walked off. Neither of us knows how to be.
There’s more. Of course there’s more. I just… Nope.
Self hatred quickly settled back into the place it had been forced from by Aunty Godmother and her family and my fellow third wheel (who has been home alone staying with me for a few days until yesterday – when we made a bunch of origami animals from YouTube videos before he left)…
This post is going nowhere.
I don’t have the motivation to write it and I don’t want to say any more about these things.
I give up.
I don’t want to post like this again either.
I don’t know what to do or how to be or what even.
This isn’t how I feel. I am empty and broken and hurting and fighting my own desire to end it and I don’t know where to turn or who to talk to and I need to talk about this but I can’t. I can’t even think it and so it is trapped inside of me eating me alive.
I am broken. I feel dead inside.
I thought planning my weeks out might help once I’m back at uni.
But I don’t know how to last that long.
I can’t even.
I am hurting so, so much. I keep finding myself on the verge of tears.
I don’t want to write like this anymore.
I don’t want to anything any more.
I’m not even adequately describing how broken I am. I can’t get across to you how black and hopeless and hellish the future is because I can’t even think about why any more. You have no idea. Nobody does.