So, tonight, I was trying to act happy. I am really not. I wanted to let everyone around me in my family have one night where they weren’t worrying about me.

The last time I relapsed I was drinking, and the alcohol makes me feel strange. On these pills, I’m reckless and suicidal with alcohol, and I feel a weird compulsion to cut. Tonight was no different.

I drank my rum and I went insane.

Quietly, calmly insane.

I ran to the bathroom, razor in hand, on the pretense of putting my rucksack upstairs, and I cut. It felt like anaesthetic flooding my veins. The gleam of fresh dark blood on the blade was enchanting. I breathed, then promised myself more tonight.

Now I’ve sobered up again, I want to fucking die. Why is this such a godsforsaken struggle? And who ordained that my shoulders were broad enough to carry this?

I went dancing today, helping out at the school of an ex-professional dancer who knows me well. She was a principal dancer and is still completely fantastic. Her parents and daughter like me too, and the kids kind of hero-worshipped me. A strange feeling.

I can’t take their compliments. I cannot understand the children’s hero-worship. I don’t feel worthy of their praise, and I certainly feel half a dancer- I can’t jump, so now half of the repertoire I know is invalidated.

On my way home, I was wondering about how much my life has crashed and burned since this. Outwardly, to anyone else, I’m pretty damn functional. I do two volunteer shifts on a Monday: I dance all week apart from Friday and Sunday. I try so hard to be normal and functional that it leaves me, by the evening, exhausted. Completely drained. Some days I fall into bed and sleep restlessly; other nights I lie awake, trying to find something that will give me some sort of peace. Most nights I don’t manage that.

I’m sick of the charade. I’m sick of pretending I’m getting better, when I know I’m not.


The worst self-harm related thing I’ve thought of this past couple of weeks was when I was helping a friend out. She’d given me a pair of old pointe shoes to bash into oblivion (an exam requirement, called soft pointe shoes- supposedly practice for wearing pointe shoes full time) and I had the hammer, and wondered what it would feel like if I hit the back of my hand with the hammer as hard as I could.


For fuck’s sake, the thought of breaking bones makes me feel sick. So what the hell was I thinking?!

The psychologist cannot come soon enough. I need to talk about all this.

Words cannot explain how sick of life I am, how sick of myself. I hate the skin I live in. I hate the voice I speak with. Most of all, I hate the mind I have. I hate it.

I never used to want to overdose, but now I’m wondering what sixty ibuprofen would taste like.


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