(Trigger warning, I guess. Seriously guys this post is like a grenade about to go off)
For days I fought the urge to end it all. I cried as I concluded that the end was the only way to cope, because damn it I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to go and yet I could not find a conceivable way to stay. I tried to think of ways to make the future ok, and I couldn’t. There is no way to avoid the unpleasantness. Everything else on this blog is nothing, NOTHING, compared to what they are asking and expecting me to go through. My mind crumpled at the though of any other way. At the thought of what it knew it had to meet, the tears came, and my world imploded, my thoughts crushing each other under their own gravitational pull until denial smothered something over the vacuum that was left.
There were three options:
The easy way, the way that no part of me could find a negative towards. The “anything”. The option I spent the longest thinking about, that made my heart sink as my mind concluded it was the only thing to do – end it all.
The hard way, the blind and hopeless hoping that will lead me through hell on earth, that will break me in every possible way. The future I don’t want to meet. The kind of life I don’t want to live. The unpleasantness I do not know how to face – let them try. Let a more specialised team of doctors try a more advanced and specific version of something that was so unpleasant before that it killed who I was and left me scarred in ways I cannot explain. Another form of death, but one that makes everyone else feel better, a death that involves keeping my pulse (hopefully) but that will leave nothing left to save. Hope with nothing to hold. No guarantees that it will even work. No idea what it will drive me to – anything, anything to escape the suffering that I know it will induce. Left with no life. Left in a worse state than before. Alive but for what purpose? Alive with no life, nothing left, traumatised again… Not a price I want to pay.
Somewhere in between. The stuff I need to do but have been told I can’t. The option that will make people judge me and walk away and… Make things bearable – change.
I have nothing left to lose. I am heading for a route that is going to break me, a route I am not prepared to take but have no option but to… But that knowledge in turn drove me to a long and logical thought process that concluded the only way to escape, to cope, to manage, was to end it all. Only I didn’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I have been through too much to go now. I don’t want to do that. But I don’t want to stay for the hurt and the fresh memories and the future that will haunt me. And the easiest thing to do, the easiest thing… Cannot happen. I cannot let it happen. I want to end everything, and I was so serious about the thought of this that I cried each time it went through my mind. And so anything – anything… I will do anything to stay alive, to stay whole.
I am just one small, insignificant human. Nobody and nothing depends on me. There is no loss to society if I self destruct. I am small enough that my absence would not leave a ripple in the tiniest pond. And so this is it. The start of what may not be the end, but what many would call stupid. It isn’t stupid though. It has been well thought through and is preferable to a deliberate act to remove myself from the planet. I am desperately trying to cling to… My life. To me. I do not want to seek the end. I do not want to be driven tot that and I am trying to find another way, another thing to give the hell that my life is about to become some sort of meaning. This, now, is my sensible. I need control over something. This is the way where the fewest parts of me die. And if it takes me, then I go with a smile on my face and a fire in my veins.
I’m going to run a 5k. “Big deal” so many of you will say, but my fellow third wheel knows how disastrous this is. I walk 20m and my body protests at the moment. Any exercise wrecks me. I cannot run. I should not run. It is dangerous. It will destroy me. But so were a lot of things supposed to. And it isn’t a case of if I can run. I will run. I am done with limitations. I am done with being unwell, with being the ill person. I am done with hospitals. I have chewed through the leashes that my situation has imposed and I am so, so done. I don’t care about the consequences. They will be no worse than what is waiting for me. And I will be happy right before they occur.
I need something to live for. I need something to hold onto, to focus on. I need to punish myself and reward myself and discipline myself and damn it if I feel like I’m dying then at least I know that I’m still alive. I tried to run fifteen metres a few days ago for a train and became dangerously unwell as a result, passing out multiple times on a train, losing the ability to breathe properly for several hours, chest pain… And it didn’t bother me. Because my legs weren’t bothered by running, which made me realise that I can do it. I felt like I was going to pass out again and I… Stood up. I stood up and I knew I was going to pass out but I felt in control. I was pushing my body until it broke. It was not going to break me. It is not going to break me. Somehow I walked – floating, drifting, disconnected from my body and fighting for consciousness. Nobody stopped me, I got a few worried looks, was asked if I needed an ambulance. But I was not going to a hospital. I am not going to a hospital. I will not be an inpatient again. I am not being that person anymore. I cannot live that life, I cannot meet the things that I will have to meet – because I can decline admissions but once I am admitted they have me, they can try whatever treatment they like because I am too scared of them to say no. I am staying on the outside. I don’t mind suffering. I do not care.
I am taking a huge chance on my own body and I am going to start training. I’m going to buy a road bike and a turbo trainer as soon as I move into my new accommodation, and I will hide it from everyone else I know. I am working on my own training regime, building from “couch potato to 5k” except I am building myself up to couch potato before I can even start there. And I don’t care if it hurts, I don’t care if every workout makes me pass out. I don’t care if fluid foams from my lungs or if my stomach becomes so distended I can’t fit into my clothes… I don’t care if my heart freaks out.
Because there are another two options: Fade (or maybe not fade at all) happily or hold on until I’m empty.
In order to keep living I have to let go. I cannot do this. I cannot carry on the way things are. I have to let go of the thoughts that hold me back, of the things that hold me back. This body will learn. It will. It will get over itself and it will do what I ask of it or so help me it will die trying.
And if this works, if somehow I manage to start swimming more than 25m at a time, and can last more than a few minutes on a turbo trainer, and build up to running that 5k… That medal at the end of the race… Will be one great big middle finger to the world. And then I will tell people that I ran. It will fill me with so much… Something. (And then I will go back to sailing and aim for nationals and finally get to sail my laser – I need this, I need something to hope for, something to aim for, something to live for).
Initially my plan was to train until it hurt. To train until I physically couldn’t anymore, until I collapsed off of the turbo trainer in my room and couldn’t move. Until my body could not physically power me any more. Until one day it learned not to fall. I felt like I needed punishing, in a weird, weird way. That first night after the appointment I slept on the floor because I was so disgusted at what I was considering that I felt I didn’t deserve a bed. I felt like I needed control, like my life was gone and the future was nothing and my way of taking that control back was to push myself. And I would motivate myself by withholding food until I had trained for that day. But that is no longer the plan. The plan became safer, more realistic – it starts with walking and it includes four rest days a week.
I told the friend from uni who I met with the other day. I told my fellow third wheel. I am hollow, I am broken, I cannot feel, I cannot think, I cannot face anything or anyone other than those two people, Aunty Godmother (and family) and my Godfather (and his family, who I met with before I saw my friend). I am fighting, so hard, to stay alive. And not against a physical illness this time. Against myself, against my own logic. My own fear… My own dread… And to my surprise my two friends supported that plan. They knew that for me to say hell, it would be bad. Watching me in the ICU so close to the end and me later saying it was just what happened gave the some idea about how crap things are about to get for me. They were more than supported, my fellow third wheel is helping me – he’s keeping me grounded within my body’s capabilities and is working on a training plan with me. My friend from uni was beyond supportive of the whole thing. Nobody else will be. But these guys know how much I’ve cried, and they know I never cry. I cannot talk to them, I cannot talk to anyone. I am not ok. I am broken. I am writing this because… Because you guys need to know that things are going to change.
I have a diabetic penal arranged by a charity called Beyond Type 1. And she (also my age, and living in Scotland) is the only person to whom I think I can face discussing a health hiccup again, even admitting they exist. I don’t know what this blog is about to become. I don’t know what I am about to become, but things are about to change. I don’t want to be that person with all the health hiccups anymore. I don’t want to be incapable. I don’t want to face the hell that a team of consultants are about to ask me to go through in hope it might help one health hiccup a bit, with nothing to try and stem the arterial spray of myself that I am about to haemorrhage. I am going to lose everything. At the thought of what is going to happen I broke down… And so I cannot think about it. I need a distraction. I need to be who I was. I need to find something. I need to find a fire to outburn the one that is razing me to the ground and calling me to end it all.
And I am willing to risk going up in flames.
Time to enjoy today’s purchases – two running magazines and more alcohol than it is healthy for me to consume (and some non-alcoholic stuff which… Won’t be consumed tonight).
Processed with MOLDIV
Processed with MOLDIV
I cannot cope at all. I cannot cope. I can only drink, right now. And continue to hug my dog and watch films with my fellow third wheel as we cook the Thai food we bought earlier…
I don’t know how often I’m going to blog. I don’t know what I’m going to talk about. But I kind of want to ask you to stay, to keep reading if this is a blog that you follow, because… This means a lot to me. And I think that the doctors were wrong. They were wrong when they said I would die all those times. They were wrong when they said that exercise would kill me (swimming messes me up but hey). They were wrong when they told me that there was no way things would improve, because somehow my superhuman body managed to get itself to the point where I can now walk. They were wrong. I defied their odds. And now it’s time to make my own. Stick around. Stick around to see picture of a finishers medal from a 5k race. Please.
And when I’m less broken, I will come back to this blog, and I’ll be here too.
I’m trying. I don’t know what else to do. I am torn in half and being beaten up in a blender of my own emotions, and it is taking all I have to resist running to the grim reaper, running from everything I cannot face.
You have to understand that there will be nothing left to lose no matter what happens. If I go through their hell with the feeble amount of support I currently have (or even with any form of support) I will probably kill myself to end the suffering and make it stop, or at very best end up dead and numb and devoid of all thought and feeling, and therefore be plunged into a living hell. If I end it all, then I will end up in actual hell. Or I can try to live, to carry on, and I don’t even know what’s going to happen in terms of going through hell, but there is no life to lose. If I go, I will be no more dead than I already feel right now. And hey, right before, I may even feel alive.
I am fighting so, so hard, to keep existing. But I am not giving up. And it is so difficult, it is an almost physical feeling. It is eating me alive, it is awful. It is destroying me.
I’m a mess. I’m messed up. This is messed up. I never thought I’d have to go here. I never thought I’d hear a doctor suggest that idea again, let alone go through with it. To save what? To leave me with a life I don’t want to live? Damn I wish I could talk to one of my uni parents right now, either one. I need some logic. I need someone to listen without reacting. I need help. And I don’t want it.
I am doing this alone.
I am hiding my exercise regime, hence why I’m not signing up to a gym or putting anyone in the possibility of having to watch me die in the gym at my accommodation. I will shut myself away. I will conceal the worry and the panic. I will push through it. And when the pain and the incapability and the weakness and the exhaustion have gone and passed… Only I will remain.
I am trying to get a life. But this time I’m running my way out of a rut. I will not give in to this feeling. I hope.