Yeah, I was doing better today and then this evening hit and I am drained. Drained and tired. I do feel weak, and I wonder which one of the pantheon is currently fucking with my life. It’s very strange- I’m tired, physically pretty exhausted, but I know that mentally I am on fire.
I self harmed in a small way two days ago. I took a pencil sharpener blade to my ankle. 8 fucking months of recovery down the drain, and although the cuts are in no way deep, they are definitely there. Real. Solid. Unlike me.
Why am I doing this loop of feeling again? I am permanently stuck here, these cycling thoughts trotting through my head in relentless torrents. Then, of course, there are the voices of the dark passenger, which is demanding I kill myself in May.
I have a puppy to look after. She is nearly six months old. I have J, who is stressed out but still with me and planning to see me in August. I have a family that loves me, I have friends that are proving they care by talking about the voices with me (thanks, Mr Robot. You’re a star,) and I have my gran and uncle from down south coming to visit soon. I have things planned for the future- a massage course in May (huh, fucking irony) and I want to get back to America as soon as I can.
Problem is, on evenings like this, every fucking one of these things is nothing to the dark passenger and its voices will shred each one to pieces. I am seriously worried that I am going to do something awful soon. I don’t want to end up in hospital again, where they tell you that they can’t help you and then shove a self-help leaflet at you or drugs that give you crippling headaches down your throat. Then they accuse you of being the reason your ex abused you, telling you that you will never get better, giving you a bullshit, outdated, chauvinistic “diagnosis” of BPD (remember, folks, it is PTSD misdiagnosed and should not even exist) and shove you into the “fucked-up crazy bitch” pile.
Next comes the promises of help. Ah, what, you mean the help I have been denied for A MOTHERFUCKING YEAR?! Try that on for size. I have fucking PTSD and it took you A FUCKING YEAR to diagnose this shit when I had been suspecting it back when I started this blog?!!
Then what about the Promazine? Yeah, that shit you told me was supposed to be a sedative? Balls, it’s a strong antipsychotic that would turn me into a fucking zombie. Worse, a zombie with a godawful headache cause of the stupid fucking Citalopram… No more drugs for me, thanks. I have stopped taking the Citalopram and I never even cashed in the prescription for the Promazine. No way. Stop trying to sedate me. I wanted help, not sedation.
The problem is that now I think it’s too late. I am really stuck in the PTSD patterns of waiting for the next blow and feeling unreal and detached. I permanently look for him in the street. I sleep and I dream of him. I try and pull myself up time and again and it all goes to shit because I can’t do it, because when I asked for help LAST FUCKING MAY I never got it. I have been waiting and waiting and basically now I am unfixable, and the voices are aware of that and love to let me know that I am broken forever.
I hate the way I think at the moment. I miss the me I was when I was with J in America. I loved the feeling of freedom from my PTSD bullshit.
Now I just have a life that I can’t control. I am broken and limping on towards a finish line that doesn’t exist, tattered heart and lungs rotting and dripping from my open chest cavity to the ground. I don’t have a choice.
I probably will die in May. It’s looking likely that I will do it. I tied a fucking ligature round my neck the other day. I am tired of life.
I am sorry I am throwing you away, J. I can’t tell you how I feel because programming and the dark passenger gag me, shutting my mouth so tight I can only let out the blandest of sentences. I am a wreck, and I wish I wasn’t, so then maybe I could care for you better. I can’t even say those three words because my ex fucked them up for me. How could I have loved my ex when he manipulated me into it? How could he have loved me if he raped me?
The answer is he never did, and the other sad fact of this is that I should tell you, J, how much I do L word you. I do. I have since I saw your face in Florida for the first time. Problem is, I am broken and I am breaking more, and one day I will collapse.
Apparently that day will come in May.
I don’t want to die, but how can I live with all this shit stacked against me? PTSD is a demon.