Tomorrow, I go on holiday. Wish me luck. I will have to show off every scar on my body, cope with men staring at me, and cope with wearing gloves or bracelets despite the heat. My social anxiety at the parks will be huge. I will have to wear my bands all day and I will have to either go cold turkey with cutting or be sneaky.
Basically, despite the fact I will have my family, I will have to face a lot of stress and anxiety. I will have to try not to cut my wrists. I will have to try to be normal.
I am armed with flagging willpower and a terror of vanishing into the vast wastes of America alone, told by the dark passenger that I have to run. I will try so hard not to. I hope I succeed.
If my pantheon is willing, I’ll be ok for at least three weeks. If not, something will happen.
I have a friend who has been undyingly loyal, who is coming to visit me. That is a highlight and I hope the rest of the holiday will be as good.
I’ve been thinking over the past couple of days about what illness I might have. Bipolar? Schizophrenia? BDP? I need to know if my brain has different people living in it or I’m sick.
Then September, and the dark passenger’s little reminder- “You have til the 5th. Good luck in avoiding us.”
I think I could well end up dying.