This entry does discuss OD’s and SH.
You have been warned.







The last few days have been hard. Actually, aside from yesterday I don’t remember much of previous days. I can tell you what I’ve done (work) but little else. I’m losing way more time than I realise. I don’t think about it much until I try to remember what I’ve done. I draw blanks most of the time.

Last night sucked. Actually, it started before last night. Some time earlier in the week. I felt low, teary, emotional. I decided to go for a walk then buy an ice cream on the way back. Walking was great. It felt good to move my body…. but everyone inside started talking. I don’t know who. I don’t know if it was more than one. Cutting. Punishment. Pain. Starvation. I pushed it away again. Ignored. Avoided. I bought my ice cream and a slurpee from the 7-11, then walked home.

The thoughts of self-harm settled I think. I don’t remember them coming up after that until last night. I’d gone grocery shopping. I had a list. I was prepared. I knew what I needed. On the list were painkillers. I don’t know how or why they ended up on the list. I already had some at home.

The painkillers went in to the trolley. They were scanned at the register by my work mate. They were packed in to bags and later delivered (love the home delivery service!). They were unpacked and put on the shelf in my room with shampoo, toothpaste and the like. I don’t remember putting them away, but I knew it happened.

At some point that afternoon/evening I became sad, low, teary. I didn’t understand what I was feeling. I felt so lost and alone. I wanted to just curl up in bed and sleep. I thought going for a walk would be useful for my mood but I just didn’t want to. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to hide.

At some point it went bad. I watched my body get up and go to the bar fridge in my room. A bottle of lime cordial was made up and bought back to my bed. Pills were taken from the pack and swallowed, one after the other.

It all happened before I could stop it. Later on I knocked myself out (safely) with sleep meds so nothing else could be done. The new packet wasn’t opened, just the remainder of the pack I already had. I don’t understand why. I don’t know why someone inside wanted to take pills. It’s happened so many times before, just like that.  Pills get taken before I can do a thing. If I consider how much has been taken to be dangerous I take myself to the emergency department. Then I get to tell the staff there that I didn’t overdose, an alter did. That I dissociated and watched it all happen.

I think saying I couldn’t stop it is a lame excuse. That is the level of dissociation I experience. Someone else controlling my body whilst I watch. Only when I’m back do I realise how crap/dangerous/stupid their behaviour is. Whilst I’m watching it happen it’s all sort of silent, odd, and almost dream-like.

I want to control this better. Dissociation sucks. I miss out on life. I forget. I feel like an idiot because I don’t know what I’ve said or done. I have to lie my way through interactions with friends and colleagues. I can tell some friends that I just have no clue what they’re talking about, that can be okay. Work mates? No. I do everything I can to appear normal at work. Some people know I have mental health issues. Most don’t. I want to keep it that way.

I want to be fucking normal. I overdose and self-harm many times each year. I dissociate on a very regular basis. I become catatonic several times a year. I end up in the emergency department of my local hospital several times a year. I HATE this. I hate how out of control my life seems. I hate how dysfunctional it is.

In saying that… it’s so much better than it used to be. I had no hospital admissions last year. I only had three or four trips to emergency. I had no contact with the police. I wasn’t sectioned once by the police or doctors. I didn’t become catatonic more than a handful of times, I don’t think. I didn’t self-harm for most of the year. I think I only took a few small OD’s.

It’s a lot better than it used to be. Still chaotic. Still dysfunctional…. but better.

I hate that I have been in therapy since I was seventeen. That’s nearly eight years. I’ve had breaks from therapy in that time but no more than a few months at a time and mostly between therapists. I start therapy again on Monday after a six week break. I dread going back, but welcome it as well.

There is a lot of ambivalence. I hate that I’m in therapy. I hate that I’m unwell enough to need therapy. I hate that I probably can’t turn things around some more without the help of my psychologist. Ah… and someone inside hates therapy and doesn’t “want to fucking go back!” Yeah.. helpful, not.

My life is so much better than some peoples. It really, really is. Yet it still fucking shits me that I’m nearly twenty-five and don’t have my life on track. I don’t have a career (working in a supermarket does not count). I am still studying. Three years at uni and still stuck in first year because I keep fucking needing time off for my mental health. I’m impatient, frustrated, disappointed and angry. Yet life could be so much worse so I need to be grateful for how good I’ve got it.

Okay, rant over. I’m going to take my sleep meds and get some rest.


2 thoughts on “Ranting

  1. Rest is good hun, we all need it. I am sorry that it was a bad few days for you, take care, thinking of you lots. ‘hugs’


  2. Remember, I click like not because I like what’s happening to you…I don’t!
    I click like to let you know I’m glad you can share, write it all down and get it outside of you
    Keep writing

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