Warning: This was not a typically merry Christmas, nor was it a Happy New Year, it was an entire machine gun full of trigger warnings, and it is the reason I haven’t posted for over a week. I fell apart. What you are about to read is what I wrote in the notes section of my phone on the occasions that I was with it enough to form words. It doesn’t show the hours I spent uncontrollably crying, or the hurt so bad I could almost feel it, or how close I came to something that starts with s and ends in a funeral, and tears that aren’t mine. It doesn’t talk about the real issues. It’s superficial. It’s the overflow. But for now, it’s all I can offer you. This is me.
“I came as close as I will ever come to asking for help
I said: I don’t know what to do with my life
She said: Just go wherever it takes you.
I said: I feel very lost and very unhappy.
She said: Obviously.”
That was it.
“They will let me go.”
“Do me a favour and tell them this… Tell them thank you. For everything, but mostly for enduring me. Tell them sorry that they had to meet me, to be burdened by me and probably by my health too. Tell them I’m sorry for ever existing. And thank them for putting up with all of that… (and I have never meant anything more).”
“[My emotion] switched back on and all I could do was feel. All I could feel was hurt. And all I could do was cry and buckle and deflate and write suicide notes and not find the right words or a sure enough way and then cry again and crumple more and race backwards through all the things I run from and just long for [the end]. All I wanted for Christmas this year was to [cease existing]. I died in so many ways, but not in a way anybody could see, not in a way that concerned anybody else.”
This was the day we had Christmas with my grandparents.
“Do you have any idea what your PRESENCE is doing?
Do you have any idea what having you here is doing?
My mood in the last week has done this (mimes falling off a cliff) because of you
Having you around makes our family… Difficult
You can’t stay here. That is not an option.”
She says all this to me, because I tried so hard not to cry in front of her, and told her I didn’t want to talk about why because she’s just shout. So she followed the suicidal heap of me upstairs, and shouted. Because we’d been to my grandparents and I sat and cried at the dinner table and she said it made an atmosphere. So I phoned my grandparents crying too hard to get words out properly, and I apologised for existing. And that’s what I do. When my mind is serious about going, I cut ties. I cut the emotional ties that bind me to the commitment of my existence. Slowly, systematically, it began with my confused grandparents.
“Talking didn’t help, but I cried so much that afterwards I couldn’t shed another single tear”
“University is the right thing for me but I honestly don’t know if this is the right time to be doing it.
I told her I thought she was going to let me go. She just stood there and hugged me for a very long time and asked how. I said I thought she was just going to leave me to kill myself. I thought she was going to leave me to go. She said sometimes just talking helps. It helps her. The words I said were interrupted and argued back against and I was told that my brain is wrong. That made me feel worse but it made her feel better. In her mind she was helping. In his mind I’m to blame (the whole next paragraph does not belong here. It’s too private. So… Imagine its contents before I continue). He said he was just reacting to me… So basically, kill me now. Kill every last cell of my being, please.”
This was the day we drove for three hours to my sister’s house and three hours back to spend Christmas with her and her family, and there were a lot of extra notes that I won’t write here.
“Run away from London and curl up in the countryside.”
“I am terrified to let myself get close to people. I panic, I freak, and yet all I want is to be close to someone, anyone. And I don’t know how to. Not my parents. Not [our extended family].
I started systematically apologising. I wanted to apologise for existing, but I couldn’t do that. I started with my grandparents. When I’m suicidal, like seriously having to make an effort not to end it all – I cut ties holding me to existence, the final strings.
I’m broken. I have caused so, so much hurt. And I never meant to, but they are right. The pain that pours out, it’s all my fault.
So I will apologise to them all. One by one.
[…] And I decided there I wanted to die again. Not again, because I never undecided, I just wanted it more again. Only I don’t. I do that to run from the hurt. I don’t want to be dead my mind just doesn’t want to hurt any more and so it runs to the only coping mechanism left that it can try – the only way it can think to never have to hurt again at all.”
“I am increasingly becoming obsessed with cleanliness and disinfecting
As I lose control over myself, I grab it everywhere I can
I have reason to fear germs. I’m prone to infection, and in a recent hospital admission they found I was leukopenic. But I’m more terrified of dying. So I melt down about the thought of getting an infection that won’t affect any of my family but will run riot in me.
Need to leave uni. Can’t cope. Asked that question directly ad realised the honest answer is no.
Dreading going back to London. Dreading it. Like, I collapse into this heavy pit of crushing dread. I feel heavy, numb, so heavy I’m drowning in life and time just wades into the mire I am flailing in and drags my drowning mind forward through the things that are killing it.
All day my heart had a party. It hurt. The head rushes were more intense and more regular than normal. I felt lousy. And this isn’t about that. Yes, some of this is caused by my physical health, but I am a normal person behind that and I have normal things going on.
I don’t know what to do with my life.
My dog thinks my bed is now his bed.”
“I am impossible to love, and almost as difficult to care about. I know. When people say they care I FREAK out and push them away. I know. I don’t talk about stuff.”
“I’d like to apologise. Just that. An apology. To everyone who knows me, because I’m sorry you have to go through that.”
“I don’t want to go back to uni. I don’t know how to go back to being alone. I don’t know how to go back to trying to be social and feeling lost and overlooked in one of the most densely populated parts of the country. I don’t know how to go back to the pressure that will eventually give rise to stress, and the lack of support. I don’t know how to go back to being without a dog, without something warm and alive to cling to in the aftermath of a flashback or a nightmare, without a safety net to wake me up before my body even lets me know it’s trying to die again. I don’t know how to go to a cold, modern, EMPTY studio where 14 square metres fits my kitchen, study area, bedroom and bathroom all into one space. I don’t want to be penned in. I’m not an animal built for a city zoo.”
(another piece too private and personal to belong here) “And it’s as if all the things we had to work to (…) It’s as if that never happened. This perfect being stands in place of all of that and it tells me “this is all on you” and they both omit, forget, overlook. They tell me it’s normal (…) And in that moment I know I will never forgive either of them. I feel betrayed. Mostly by myself.”
That was when my 17 year old nephew, who has a nut allergy, ate a sandwich with pesto in it. He didn’t go into anaphylaxis, but he had a shot and a cannula and that’s a HUGE deal to healthy people. And a huge deal of it they made, with outpourings of sympathy over social media and everywhere. And I was worried about him obviously, and it sucked, but it showed me that people care so much more about him, because nobody gives a crap about when I am in intensive care fighting for my life.
“And it’s at times like this that I want people to go to hospital with me, to see what I go through, to gain perspective on a line hurting by seeing a central line stitched into the most sensitive areas humanity could think to develop major veins. (…) I am shouted at because not everybody has been through things like me and if I hadn’t been through all of that then it would be a big deal to me too. It never was.”
“I don’t even want to start uni work. I just want to [not exist].”
“I give up and I want to end it all, but after weeks I sent my friends messages to tell them what they mean to me, and their responses were adorable. I had no idea I meant so much to them, no idea what I’d done to their lives. And without knowing what I was thinking, Uni Pal told me that could I please not leave uni because I am her reason for carrying on, and the reason for (something else). And I remembered this life I have there that isn’t bad. And I want those people around me. I want to be enough for them. I will go back for them? I don’t want to go back, my brain hasn’t un-decided that it’s quitting. What I really want is to write a book. And then another and another and another. And get a puppy to train as a service dog. And a place to live, maybe rent a place here (where my parents live, where I grew up, the money I pay in rent for my 14 square metre room will get me a 3-4 bedrom house on a train 28-70 minutes from London.
What do I want for the next 364 days?
(a big long list including heart surgery etc. that ended like this)
- I want to feel like it’s ok that I exist.
- I want to feel wanted
- I want to matter
- I want to not hear the hurt and pain in the voices of people I’m meant to care about or whose lives my simple presence destroys. I want to die. I want to set them free
- I want to feel like I fit
- I want to be less lonely and alone
- I want to leave university
- And die
- I want to die
- But I don’t
- I want to run
- I want to go to Barcelona with my friends
- I want to swim
- I want to be the person they deserve or die trying to protect them from myself
I am poison
I want to not be poison any more. I want to apologise to every single person I’ve ever met and apologise fro my existence, for bothering and burdening them, for the fat that they had to meet me. I want to run back through time and build walls around myself to keep out the people I let in. I want to run back to all the times I survived when I shouldn’t and trip up the doctors that saved my life in the brink of time so that they don’t save it. I want to go back to [the main event in hospital that gave me PTSD] and tell the dying dregs of myself (because that’s where I really died, back then) I want to tell that girl to bite down on the scar over her radial artery. (Very graphic description of what would happen if and how that girl could do that). … Ans when she stops drinking and passes out she won’t bleed much more and it will be too late and she’ll be free from it all. I want to give somebody else all the extra time on the planet that screwed up girl has been given. My family hate me, but not me. They hate what I do to them and say they love me but they tell themselves that because they can’t not care. I am poison. I am a thorn. I am faeces, pure excrement. I do not belong. Two lines on this family tree will never join to me. The damage is done.”
And then I wrote out this
9/3/1996 – 7/8/2012
I just want to be I.P”
Because I died when that man… I died back then.
“My heart doesn’t want to leave uni – it has already left, and now my head realises that ni is not good for it, for me, right now. But my head is afraid that when this crisis clears, it will regret leaving. I can’t even think about starting uni work, I just meltdown at the thought.”
“They said we’d discuss options, discuss plans, but all of that is forgotten. It was just lip service – they stepped in and to them offering empty words was enough, they had done enough, the situation was saved. Only… It wasn’t. It opened a void, it tore my heart to shreds. There was relief, briefly, until I discovered that this was the end of their support, there would be no discussion, and I had to pretend things were better because they seem to think things are. And then it was assumed that I’m going back to uni, like I could suddenly miraculously cope.
They don’t know how to not un-help
I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to look a these people and they don’t understand that-
These people half care. They care as much as they know they should, it doesn’t run deep. The hurt runs deep, and they tell themselves to care. They’ll get over my death fairly quickly.”
This was a very twisted part of my brain speaking. I know it makes me out to be the sort of scum that should be at best assassinated and at least wiped off the face of the earth. So whatever you thought of me, I’m sorry. It isn’t my physical health that poses the biggest threat to my life at the moment, and with the state of my heart/kidneys, I fear that’s going to put me in hospital too.
There are more jottings. For another time. For now, I have to decide whether or not to give up the contract to my flat and move back with my parents. I have a couple of hours to make that decision, and have to be moved out by Monday. Guess that’s that then.
Feeling is so, so much more dangerous than not.
Really do not know why I shared this. My brain doesn’t care about anything at all at the moment, so I’m not yet drowning in regret over putting this lot out here but… I will, I think.