Want to die. Not really.
Ok, compromise: I want to overdose again. Really.
I hate this feeling. These urges to do something so awful. My mind is tumbling trying to figure out which DBT strategy to use but I can’t think as I’m in sole charge of the children today. Well, that does at least provide distraction. Even although I know I will never self harm or OD again when the kids are at home I still think about it. I think about it a lot. It is more than a thought. It is an urge.
That’s the sequence I’ve been taught. So maybe I need to isolate the emotion and then try to resolve that?
That sounds like a lot of work.
I can’t think straight. I find a part of me starting to make dangerous plans for Monday. The other part of me argues back with the hundred reasons of why that’s a bad idea.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
As always I dream of someone wanting to be here for me, to sit with me, to hug me tight as I cry and they’d listen and say all the right things and it’d be perfect. I’d be accepted and understood and loved. Yup, a dream. I need to stop torturing myself with this. There is no one.
I have people, really wonderful kind and compassionate people, in my life but I’m missing my white knight. Andy is close, really really close but he doesn’t understand emotions and if it weren’t for that then he actually would be that person. He’s definitely saved me. I know that and appreciate it.
Despite the fuzzy plans forming I don’t think that I will overdose. I see it as very unlikely. However it’s going to be a real, painful effort to stay safe. And who’s going to help? Who would I tell? No one.
When the kids are in bed I’ll head to bed too. I’ll get out my DBT stuff and try to figure all this crap out. Right now I don’t think I’ll ever beat this. Not like this. Not without that someone but as I know they’re not coming then I’d best crack on.
I hate my personality disorder. Or maybe this is just me. In which case I hate me.