Totally Screwed

I want to vent. I want to rage.

Why the fuck am I in this situation? 

I tried to buy my husband a Fathers Day card from the kids and ended up completely triggered thinking about my own Dad:

Dad you’re my hero”

“Best dad in the world”

And my favourite, “Dad without you I’d be screwed” (obviously with picture of father and offspring screw haha). Yeah that one really got under my skin because yes, Dad, without you I was screwed. Left to deal with the venomous malicious unpredictable entity called Mum. And look! Over 2 decades later I’m still screwed, totally fucking screwed. So screwed I’m nuts. It is with cruel irony that right now my own husband is away in Manchester overnight, one of the places my Dad used to go when he was away on ‘overnighters’. 

So here I am triggered by cards and triggered by the stupid PTSD of being left alone to care for ‘the children’ – sorry, obviously I mean my siblings as I was a child too. How silly of me to forget. How silly of everyone to forget.

I’m not a child now though. I’m an adult and a mother and it is absolutely my responsibility to care for my children. I can’t describe the loathing I feel for myself that I struggle to do this most basic thing. I dropped my daughter off at nursery this afternoon and when I arrived home I opened the front door, threw my keys down, glanced at the staircase in front of me and thought ‘right, now go and hang yourself’. It was as solid and unremarkable an idea as say ‘right, let’s put a washing on’. Clearly I have not hung myself nor do I intend to but it’s difficult managing with such urges. 

I try and stifle all the rage that burns, bubbles and boils inside me. The pressure builds with every demand and the poison leaks out. I snap and snarl and hate myself for doing so. No. I must never hurt the children, must never ever be cruel to them. The slightest look of upset on their faces cuts me so deeply and the rage is accompanied by shame. More shame, like I need anymore of that?! 
And all I can think is how fucking useless I am. I will try to atone by doing lots of housework and being ‘good’. I feel a bit jealous of the kids, they get to go to bed and be away from me whereas I’m stuck with me. I’m so tired. And confused. And afraid; the fear of a little girl in a grown up lady’s body. 

I never managed to buy a card. 

Eating

Yesterday I picked my son up from football and another mum said “You’ve lost a lot of weight haven’t you?”. I agreed that I had. “Have you been trying to lose weight then?” she continued. Well, I’ve been watching what I eat so yes a little bit. “Right then. How much have you lost?” She asked. I’m not sure how much weight I’ve lost but I am sure the specifics are none of her business so I just smiled and said “a bit”. She wasn’t to be put off. She started trying to guess. She told me, no offense, but it must be more than a stone because you wouldn’t really notice a stone so it must be a lot and how much was it. Awk-ward. Eventually she gave up and we chatted about dogs. Much easier.

Everyone comments on my weight loss. Mostly complimentary. My mother-in-law, bless her, hasn’t acknowledged that I’ve lost any weight. No, instead she keeps giving me tips: hot water concoctions and Slimming World recipes. I’ll confess these are kind of mixed messages but she means well, I presume.

It’s frustrating as hell being on Quetiapine – a drug known to cause weight gain – and trying to lose weight. I fact I don’t think any more will come off. Nothing significant. I know I can’t eat any less really so here I am stuck, right on the bmi borderline between healthy weight and overweight. Is it so wrong to want to be a healthy weight? Why must everything in my life revolve around the word borderline?!

I’ve been exhausted all day, just mental wear and tear. The sedative effect of Quetiapine won’t be helping either. Once dinner had been sorted, and I had built my daughter a scooter I just lay flat out on the living room. I joked to my husband that I could fall asleep right there. He stood over me. He was wearing shorts so I was trying to perve up his shorts. “You need new pyjamas” he told me. I agreed. Mine were all far too big now. He told me that my bum looked tiny in the pyjama trousers I wore last night. I laughed. As if! As he continued it took me a minute to realise he was actually concerned. He told me he had concerns about my eating, he doesn’t know if I eat when he’s at work, he even used the word anorexia. I didn’t stop to tell him that it’s a physical impossibility for someone with my bmi to be anorexic as that might look like too much knowledge. I reassured him about my bmi and funnily enough he told me that he wasn’t concerned now as he’d checked me out in the jeans I had on and, apparently, my butt is big enough to dispel any concern! “Oh right so it turns out I’ve got a fat arse after all?” I laughed but I was confused again. 

Really all I want is a healthy bmi and it frightens me that people are starting to get involved in something that is actually very private to me (she says posting on the internet!) Surely I should be able to choose how, what and when to eat without feeling that this is also something I do for other people? Christ, does even my eating have to be for other people?! 

I wonder if there is any bit of me that is just for me? Now I’m exhausted so I really must sleep. 

Numb, Tired

I don’t feel real or alive. Numb on the outside. Inside I don’t know. Turmoil? Sadness? Fear? 

I’m so tired. Exhausted. Moving is a challenge but a necessary one. I want to escape into a bed fort. 

It feels like everyone can read my thoughts. Everyone can see all my private stuff on my phone. Everyone is laughing at me for being so pathetic. I know this isn’t true but I still feel it.

I considered texting Andy and asking him to try and come home a bit earlier. I wrote the text but didn’t send it. Hes supposed to be having a drink with a friend tonight and I really want him to go because I’m worried he’s depressed. He’ll also start making rules and predictions and put pressure on me so Ineed to get through.

My hands are cold and have pins n needles. I didn’t go to DBT. They rang because it’s so out of character so I told them I was tired.

I am so so tired.

Running v Cutting

I’m still in bed. I have a cup of tea and I’m really cosy. Im also fighting a terrible battle in my head.
I have an overwhelming urge to hurt myself. The image in my brain is of cutting my wrists. Not badly. Just enough to hurt. I don’t want to have to go to hospital or anything. I definitely don’t want any attention for it. No! I just want to hurt myself.

However, I also feel the urge to run. To feel my muscles pushing me along and my breath filling my lungs and then emptying. To feel my heart pounding and my body going ouch! Whilst my brain encourages go on! You can do this! You are free!

A dialectic? Maybe.

So run it is.

Here’s the thing though: everyone sees the run. It is praised and noted in my file as further proof of how well I’m doing. No one sees that I could have just as easily cut my wrist. No one is bothered because I didn’t slit my wrist and that doesn’t feel quite right. It’s like I’m choosing the right thing (which is good) but at the same time making it easier to be dismissed by the healthcare professionals. But I still want to slit my wrists. But no one cares.

I can’t figure it out really. 

Now I’m off out for a run. 

BPD vs PTSD

Really I just want to rant; to throw a toddler tantrum.

About what?

WHAT?!?!

This!

STUPID MENTAL ILLNESS!

I honestly don’t know which particular illness I’m most pissed at. Is it the trying to thread a needle, with my eyes closed whilst riding a rollercoaster fun of my borderline personality disorder? Because that is FUN. Tra-la-la-la going about my day WHOA! I’m super scared! Ok, ok, let’s roll with this, we can do this…tra-la-la-la I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING. Int-er-est-ing, bit of crazy rage going on there…suck it down, cook the dinner and then? Well your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps I’ll become deliriously happy (oh wow life is wonderful!) or maybe I’ll be filled with love, or perhaps it’ll be self-disgust. Who the fuck knows? Not me, not anybody. But, you see, life must go on, responsilities must be met and there just isn’t time for a self-indulgent emotional jacuzzi. 

And it’s exhausting.

So, so tiring in a way, that I really believe, others won’t get unless they feel it too. And it’s frightening being catapulted into extremes. I become scared. I limit what I do in case it happens. I hide away. Please don’t talk to me. I can’t promise I’ll always be able to contain it so it’s best that everyone stays away.

Hell yeah, the BPD is awesome. And by awesome I mean an absolute bastard. I dislike having a personality disorder very much.

But…

…I also find myself completely fucked over by the PTSD at the same time. I mean the nasty thugs of BPD and PTSD often go around together so my experience isn’t unique here. Let me tell you, trying to control those unpredictable extreme emotional shifts is made a shitload more difficult by being constantly treated to images of the past. Oooh nightmare! Again? Yes a-fucking-gain. And I can expect one the next night, and the next, and the next… hurrah! Then of course there are the images/memories/flashbacks. How about seeing my mum sneering at me in my mind. Just pops in, uninvited. Like tonight at Body Balance class. Or there’s the sensations – someone breathing on my neck, she’s wrapping her hands round my neck oh god oh god oh god. Meanwhile, outside of my brain (in the real world), as alluded to earlier, life-goes-on. Concurrently. So perhaps I’ll be paying at a checkout or getting my daughter dressed whilst trying to stifle the fear of the prickling on my neck. I’ll be honest, it is spectacularly unhelpful to have PTSD.

The worst bit of the PTSD, for me, is the time travelling though. I can just about manage all the other crap but the time travelling is the final sucker punch that delivers the knockout. The emotions that were shut off all those years ago fire my brain up. My brain tells me that I am 14; that my children are my siblings; that I am alone and it’s too much for a young person. Too much. But it’s all lies, I’m not 14, and these lies are more powerful than any words. They play me like a cruel puppeteer ‘hey puppet, play the part of being 14!’. I fight back against it of course, I have insight at least. I do know that I’m actually a mother in my 30s but I can’t cut those puppeteer strings. I’d describe it as a game but there’s no fun in it. No, it’s rather like some cryptic challenge: behave as a 30 something responsible mother whilst also, uncontrollably, behaving as a 14 year old. 

Yes. I hate that.

So I couldn’t say which symptoms or diagnosis pisses me off the most really. It’s all crap, all of it. 

Fortunately though I look fine. Invisible illness. I wish I could show people a sneaky peek – this is what it’s like! There might be a better chance of understanding. Oh well, a girl can dream. And, on that, it’s time I went to bed for another nightmare. Toodle-oo.

Numb

I’ve figured it out. I’m good at problem solving and I used to be really, really good at coping. What changed?

Emotions.

That’s what it was – sodding emotions! When I lived with my parents I didn’t really have emotions. Well, I must have, but I managed to deaden them. I must not cry. I must be strong. And I succeeded. I did it! Sometimes I’d cut myself but not as much as I do now. Somehow I did it: I functioned and it worked. So I know it can be done. I know that I can do it.

And that’s the answer: kill myself emotionally. We’ve been through the whole can’t actually kill myself because of the children thing again and again and again. There had to be an answer and, of course, there is! It’s not appealing but sometimes that’s just the way it goes. 

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and finally began to accept that I have this…thing, this personality disorder. I also managed a bit of self-compassion – I have tried. I have really, really tried but it’s not working this. It really isn’t. I can’t bear the thought that this will be the rest of my life. So this is the answer.

I’m not sure how to consciously go emotionally dead. I mean it happens now in dissociation but that’s not controlled. Probably keeping busy and not thinking about anything that inspires emotion. I can do it. I can look happy, I mean I’m too bloody good at that aren’t I so that bit I’ve got down. 

I felt very sad looking in the mirror. Goodbye.

“I’m not like them but I can pretend” Nirvana, Dumb.

Give up

TW: Self-harm (and a lot of swearing)

Fine!

I give up.

Fine fine fine. Fucking FINE!

Over reacting?!

I DON’T CARE.

Let’s make it 7 weeks of not checking my diary card.

Let’s not see my care coordinator for another month.

Let’s fight for a psychiatrist appointment and then get given a half hour check up instead of a proper assessment.

Let’s deny my ESA claim and send me to a DWP assessment which will inevitably result in refusal of my claim.

And let’s criticise me for over reacting or catastrophising or self-harming or, y’know, actually being fucking right ALL THE TIME. 

I hate them all. Always banging on about my life threatening behaviours. What a joke. An absolute joke. How am I supposed to take anything they say seriously when they say one thing and their actions are something different.

I’ll just crack on and do it my way. Cheers. 

I don’t want to hear any reasonable, logical arguments. Wise-fucking-mind can PISS OFF. 

If, at any point, anyone wants to give-a-shit then I’ll be here just trying not to destroy my children by my sheer fucked-up-ness.

Oh, and did I mention? FUCK YOU (not you reading, general them as you)!

The End.

Morning has broken

Good morning!

I want to be dead.

Same old, same old.

Got to be a good parent this morning though so activity scheduling it is.

How to stay present? How to stay as a mum? I’ll have to use all my skills. By the time I drop her at nursery this afternoon I’ll be exhausted. I’m tired already and there’s 5 hours ahead. Then I’ve got a one-to-one with Monica. Night-mare.

I already feel like a failure. Because I am.

But I’ll try and we’ll get by.

I feel bad

I feel like I’m tied to reality by fine threads. Sometimes I can pull and reel reality right back in. Other times I worry that reality is going to entirely slip away  from my grasp. Today I’ve veered between these two states uncontrollably. And it’s not even 5pm.

I’m so tired.

I met a friend for coffee at 1030am. As I drove there I was wondering if I should ask her if we were really alive or was this all a dream. The fine threads of reality tugged and jolted me back. I parked up and my feet hit the real ground when I got out of the car and I was back in reality. Coffee went well. I gave my friend a lesson plan (she’s a teacher and had asked for my advice). The lesson plan had come to me in my dream last night so I wrote it this morning. It was pretty good I think!

Then I went to DBT group. I think I might have been in and out of dissociation. I spent a lot of time focusing on objects or closing my eyes. In the break I sat on the floor curled up in a ball. Then I went back in and was sort of ok. Then I wasn’t again.

Home and so tired. Confused. What’s going on? My head hurts. I want to sleep, rest and be cared for. My jaw aches. 

I’m really unsettled by these feelings. Then my dad emailed. It was weird. That doesn’t feel real either. 

I can try and tell my care coordinator tomorrow but I expect she’ll tell me this is normal (for people like me) but it doesn’t feel very normal. I must use all the wrong words. I don’t know the right words but I know I feel bad.

I’m managing 

Trigger warning: self harm and suicide.
I’m managing. That’s what I tell myself or anyone else who happens to ask. I look pretty good outwardly actually.

There isn’t anyone watching over me. No one is asking any monitoring questions. They haven’t in weeks. So no one knows that:

  • I’m struggling with dangerous impulses.
  • I can’t go near painkillers in shops despite my feet naturally pulling towards them
  • I’m self medicating with cocodamol 
  • I took 3 cocodamol the other night and was so close to taking the rest of the packet that I nearly went to give the packet to my husband. Nearly.
  • I’ve closed my eyes when driving just to explore what happens.
  • I’ve accelerated towards certain objects quite a few times now, slamming the brakes on and shouting at myself – what the fuck are you doing?!
  • I cut my own neck last week. It didn’t bleed. I found where the vein was, avoided it and took a knife to my neck. I have a couple of creases on my neck so I cut in one of them so it wouldn’t be noticeable. It was more a scratch really.
  • I cut my thigh and panicked because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. It did eventually though.
  • I’ve had thoughts of having superpowers, and maybe I should test this out.
  • I’ve been scared in the supermarket and felt the urge to scream and shout at people because they are a threat.
  • Sometimes I think I might see little things that aren’t there.
  • I faced my abuser with a letter.
  • I’ve lost 3 stone (actually a few people have noticed that and congratulated me on it).
  • I’ve been trying Quetiapine and have been on it for what 5 weeks? And increased my dose and not a single hcp has checked how it’s going.

My usual GP has disappeared. My care coordinator is new after my last one resigned and my relationship with my DBT therapist has broken down. 

So all this stuff is going on with me and no one knows any of it. Except me. I did pluck up the courage to ring my psychiatrist a week ago. I left a message and it was never returned. I’m just not ill enough – which is a blessing I suppose.

So it’s a good thing that I’m managing. Just like I managed all this stuff before. Until I can’t manage anymore and decide to take a break. And then… ? 

Well, it so totally doesn’t matter does it?