Another Crisis Survived 

Another crisis survived. It’s a victory but a quiet one. No one cares. They’d have cared, presumably, if I hadn’t managed the crisis. Although when I say cared I mean be angry at me for being selfish etc. 

But I did manage yet another crisis. I’ve had a lot of these crises over the last few weeks. Each time I get through it, without professional help, without much of a fuss and, I suppose, that may invite judgement:- these can’t be real crises if I’m managing them on my own. Hmmmm. I disagree. When I can’t leave my house for fear of buying pills to overdose, can’t care for my children, just can’t manage much at all other than crying, or being vacant, or sleeping? When I have a constant narrative to harm myself or to be dead? When I find my hands moving to my own throat to choke myself? I think that counts but I guess it doesn’t because I am managing it.

I was very depressed yesterday. I went to DBT group and that was quite good actually. We started Interpersonal Effectiveness and I think I need this more than I had realised. I enjoyed the session because I felt like I was learning. I enjoy learning. If something interests me then I just want to soak it up. Pretty much as soon as I got home the emotions became intense. Although I was alone I felt harassed. I had so much to do, too much to do. Every time I tried to tick something off the list it created another job. I was totally overwhelmed.

By evening it was too much. The emotion was overwhelming. Be dead, be dead, be dead. Urges. So I started thinking about my crisis plan and recognised that it was pretty pointless. The crisis team can’t do anything so no point ringing them. My husband can’t help, he gets emotional and overreacts and makes it worse. I looked at the NHS Suicide section on their website. It suggested emailing the Samaritans. I could do that! So I did, I emailed I knew that they couldn’t do anything but listen but, to be honest, that in itself was hugely helpful. It’s funny how many professionals I speak to but rarely feel listened to; they have their specific questions. Everything is lead by want they want from the appointment. 

After the Samaritans I chose self-soothing. I had a little Graze box treat and a hot chocolate, took my quetiapine, made a hot water bottle and retreated to bed. I put lavender on my pillow, cuddled up to my blanket and bunny. Then I took 3 cocodamol for good measure and downloaded an audiobook (The Humans by Matt Haig). With my headphones in I drifted into the safety of unconsciousness. It’s the next best thing. 

My night was full of vivid dreams of the past. Some of it was reliving abuse and some of it was comforting. The important thing was how I woke up and I woke up ok. Ok. Tired, mentally bruised and battered, but ok. Another crisis survived. It’s a quiet victory and no one will celebrate it, not even me. For me the feeling is relief. I know that this is temporary. I expect that I’ll hit crisis point again in the next few days so I’ll try and make plans now with the aim of avoiding crisis. I get scared. How many times will I successfully negotiate these urges? I’m so used to this; to having to survive. I do get resentful about it, about having to fight so hard for something that I’m not sure I want. Having to fight for something that other people want (my survival) on my own.

Still, survival brings options, death doesn’t. So quietly I’ll just go about it. Invisible. 

Managing an Internal Catastrophe 

I haven’t been able to write. I’m not sure I can now. I’m in the middle of trying to manage an internal catastrophe. That sounds dramatic. I’m going with it though as right now it feels dramatic.

 I’ve been trying my DBT skills to help me, with limited success. Opposite action has been useful. TIP has been useful, particularly the T bit. That’s been a welcome surprise as usually TIP doesn’t do much for me but I’ve had a racing heart a few times and ice has helped. I even went for a swim to really stimulate the dive reflex and it was good.

However, as I said, I’ve had limited success with the DBT strategies. Using DBT can feel like acting and no one can keep up an act 24h a day. So I’ve also tried alcohol, various pills and cutting. These all had both positives and negatives too. After a good few weeks of no self-harm I went to town and cut myself 8 times in one go. Truthfully I wanted to do more but I’m mindful of covering them up. I’m dreading seeing Monica again as, presuming I’m honest, I’m going to be told off for not trying hard enough to use my skills. That makes me very angry. I’m exhausted trying to do the right thing. I feel like I can’t do right for doing wrong. 

I’ve finally decided that I am going to try the quetiapine because I am trying so hard and yet I still dream of train tracks. I am scared. Yet even this decision is wrong. God, I just want to cry. Monica feels I should be med free. That’s the DBT ideal and we argued over it. Nora keeps trying to dissuade me. She tells me how nasty a drug it is (cheers!) and how right now is a particularly difficult time of year. This makes me angry too. It is always a difficult fucking time of the year to me, Christmas is irrelevant. I’m still going to see my parents every time I look in the mirror no matter the season. I guess she thinks I’m being reactive and looking for an easy fix.

*insert your own ironic laugh*

Easy fix? Aye. That’ll be right.

Anyway she’s leaving and I doubt she’ll be replaced so that branch of support will be withdrawn.

I think that I have lost trust and confidence in them: Nora and Monica. When I believe in someone I will follow you to the ends of the earth, I will walk through fire for you, I will take what you say as near gospel truth. But…when I stop believing in a person…it’s near impossible to come back from. It’s not splitting as I don’t flip flop between idealisation and devaluation. In this type of situation it’s just like it’s over – the relationship that is. Everything they say will be treated with suspicion. They are no longer trusted and instead must be tolerated and appeased.

I feel so so sad right now. That’s it. 


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. 

Another Day

My daughter has gone to her grandparents.

My son is at school.

My husband is at work.

The day stretches in front of me. I’m relieved to be alone. I need to plan my day now. Try and do the right things – the things that will put me another step along the recovery road.

Breakfast and meds first.

Then phone calls. Starting with Nora to tell her about the rape. Then try and book a haircut and ring the dentist.

That will take me through to shower time. I want to dye my hair, to hide my greys! (I’m in denial about my age, it’s a common theme in my posts!)

I’ll be tired then. A lot will have been achieved. I’ll need to re-assess then. Will I go out and get the things we need from the shop? Or perhaps that might be too much. I won’t know until I reach this point in the day.

My son will go to his friend’s house after school. I might go and pick him up. I should do. I avoid it because it means talking to a person (the other parent). I’m not supposed to avoid stuff so I will try and go. If I can, I will.

My husband will arrive home.

I will make a dinner that the three of us will eat together. This is usually when it all gets too much and the internal distress starts to get out of control.

My daughter will arrive back with her grandparents. I’ll take her to bed. I’ll use this opportunity to hide away upstairs so I don’t have to talk to the grandparents. I know I shouldn’t but by this time I’ll be so tired that everything will feel raw. I’ll feel crowded and pretending to be ok will finish me off.

I’ll say goodnight to my son.

I may talk to my husband. Usually he avoids this with his phone, or the TV, or busying himself with housework. I’ll feel bad. I’ve been here all day. I should have done more. I’m fucking useless I am. Everyone knows it. That’s why I hide. What would I talk about anyway? 

So I’ll give up and go to bed. I’ll fill in my DBT sheets, reflect on my day, dread tomorrow and wonder if I made a step towards being better today or did I fuck it up again? 

Radical Acceptance: It Works

I’m sat listening to Stereophonics. I’ve not been able to do that in a long time. 14 years in fact. I have chosen to listen to them today because I can. I can listen to the Stereophonics without feeling sick. That’s because last night I practised some Radical Acceptance (RA).

I’ve struggled with RA a lot in DBT. Mostly I have labelled it as stupid contradictory bullshit. The scientist in me recognises the evidence that DBT works so I’m giving it all (including RA) my best efforts despite my cynicism. 

So RA is all about accepting reality. Now in fairness I thought I was quite good at this and can talk about my traumas very matter-of-factly (whoops little lie there. Shhh!). This is not what RA is. Pretending to be ok about something is not the same as making peace with it. In my DBT homework I had to list 2 very important things and 2 more minor, every day type things that I am struggling to accept.

My DBT Homework

I worked through the fact that I need to sell my car (but don’t want to). At the end I felt better. I still don’t want to sell my car but today I have a plan for some practical things I can do to get my head around it. With success I decided to try a very important thing I can’t accept: I was raped. 

I worked through it in stages. I wrote everything down very factually. It took a long time. I kept having to stop and curl myself up in bed as it was difficult. Of course it was. I couldn’t complete the whole exercise. There are some bits I’m unsure of however even after partially completing the RA exercise I felt better. God I felt so much better. I am not scared of the Shadow Man anymore. There is no Shadow Man, not really. It’s a manifestation of the repressed memories of the man that raped me. That did happen. Now, if I accept it, I think the Shadow Man will go away. Therapists say that we experience pain to alert us to the fact that something is wrong. I think I get it. I need to accept the reality of what happened. It happened. It causes me shame and fear and disgust and hey, that’s ok but it’s done now. It was done 14 years ago! I mean it’s not that simple obviously – as I started writing this the Shadow Man was there…just out the corner of my left eye so it’s definitely going to take time although hopefully not another 14 years!

I fell asleep feeling calm and secure last night. I had very vivid dreams about the rape but they weren’t disturbing. At 4ish I woke up and couldn’t sleep. Fortunately my husband was awake too! So it was kind of nice just to lie there snuggled up in the quiet dark. I’ve not been able to really look at my husband recently. That’s maybe because of splitting and maybe because of this Shadow stuff (and maybe actually he has been a bit of an arse too!) but last night I could cuddle up to him again. He fell asleep and I was wide awake. I had a flashback. It was a weird one! My left ear was on the pillow and I heard sounds from the pillow. It was heavy breathing – sex sounds (although not enthusiastic, the female was whimpering). I listened wondering if somehow it was the children in their beds snuffling about and the sound was traveling but no, it wasn’t that. It was sex! Crystal clear. I couldn’t hear any other sound with my exposed right ear. I decided to try and come back to the now. I tuned my right ear in and could hear Andy’s sleeping breath. It’s quite distinctive the sound he makes so it wasn’t that. I tried to listen back in to my pillow with my left ear but there was no sound. The flash was over. I felt quite sorry for the woman I’d heard in my flash. Then I realised that I was the woman in the flash. Oh. Ok. Eventually I fell asleep.

This morning I’m optimistic. Part of RA is a thing called Opposite Action where I do things that would be the behaviours of a person who has accepted the event. So later I’m going to ring Monica and say the words out loud that I was raped. I’ve never actually said that. Never. Saying it is a big step forward for me. And then there’s the Stereophonics of course! Well, that’s because the rapist looked very similar to the lead singer of the band. A different person entirely obviously! However because of that link in my head hearing the Stereophonics makes me think of the rape and that is usually too much emotion to handle!

But, I can listen today. It’s ok. The music is completely unrelated to what happened. So, Radical Acceptance, it seems that there’s something in that after all. It’s still very much a work in progress but hey, as the Stereophonics song goes;

“You can do all the things that you’d like to do…pick a part that’s new”


Flashbacks. I don’t really know what they are. No one has ever talked to me about them. I did have a whopper of a flashback once. I was driving and my mum was right there. I could see her. I could feel her breathing on me. I could hear her saying she would kill me. Now I knew that was a flashback. That was undeniable and it was freaky as fuck. I felt I might pass out and when on to have the biggest panic attack I’ve experienced. All before 9am.

Anyway I was confident then: that was a flashback. Cool. Got it. Complex PTSD. Right on. But since then I’ve had all sorts of visions and experiences and I never know – does that count as a flashback? You may be wondering why it matters. Fair question. It doesn’t really. I could call them zooblickys if I wanted, it wouldn’t make a difference to the experience. The only reason the identification matters is because hcp ask about flashbacks (not zooblickys) and if I don’t know these things are flashes (as Dr D calls them. I like that because it sounds like being a flasher which appeals to my dark humour) then I say no, I don’t really get proper flashbacks. The information I provide helps them decide wtf is up with me. So, there’s a bit of a problem there.

As it is I like learning anyway and try and absorb any information I can about these things. Back in the time of teenage choices I considered neuroscience as a degree. Really I wanted to be a brain surgeon (true story!) but didn’t think I would be good enough. I also quite seriously toyed with the idea of psychology. I nearly applied but actually meeting a counsellor put me off. When we were forced to have family therapy in my teens I met JB – blunder therapist extraordinaire*. She put me off for life. When I told her I was interested in studying psychology she nonchalantly informed me that a lot of troubled people study psychology to try and understand themselves. Well, I thought, I want to escape my troubled background not spend my whole life dissecting it so screw that (yes, do feel free to snort at the irony). JB also had a fucking fascination with her inner child. She drove me up the sodding wall going on about her inner child. I would fantasise about grabbing some toddler sized infant and ramming it head first down her throat – how’s that for your inner child luv?! So, yeah, I was dissuaded away from psychology by JB and her inner child.

Shame because if I’d done it I’d probably know what a flashback is and that’d be pretty handy. Last night I was lying in bed cuddling my rabbit and my husband was cuddling me. I felt cosy and secure. It was bloody lovely. Then a weird thing happened. I experienced incredibly vivid memories of my school days. This was stuff I had forgotten. I can’t even recall the details now. I do know that I could smell the smells, I could hear the sounds, I could touch the wall and explore the texture. It actually felt magical, like some door to my mind had been opened and I’d just wandered in. It wasn’t in the least bit upsetting. I enjoyed it. Like rediscovering an old treasure which doesn’t make sense at all because I hated my school days! I was awake and aware of my husband the whole time yet I still felt like I was actually re-experiencing these memories. My heart was there; stood in the school corridor. My feet were on the red vinyl floor yet I was still in bed. It was like gentle time travel. I loved it. As the sensation passed I tried to explain to Andy but he wasn’t all that fussed. Just another crazy wifey moment. Anyway, was that a flashback?

When I see shadowy male figures out the corner of my eyes – are they flashbacks?

Am I regressing to being childlike? Since cuddling my toy rabbit in bed am I unlocking the me of the past? What’s going on? Obviously I’d dearly love to discuss it with a psychologist (JB need not apply). Well, that’s not going to happen any time soon so in the meantime I’ll grab my rabbit, curl under a blanket and be that teenager who was interested in psychology. Although adult me has Google! Gotta love technology!

*I will say this for JB – she was the first person, of many, to accuse me of black and white thinking. Who knew eh? 

DBT#5: The Rebel and The Rabbit

I was absolutely buzzing this morning. I hadn’t slept much. My heart pounded and my thoughts raced, tripping over one another. Yesterday I had received two pieces of outstandingly helpful information and I was flying on the boost. A friend from work came round and just chatting to someone really helped to settle me. The extra propanolol possibly played a part too!

I cycled to DBT. It was a clear day and a pleasant ride. Unfortunately I’m currently experiencing the venlafaxine sweats so it doesn’t take much for sweat to start pouring out of me. I had brought deodorant with me to DBT and sprayed liberally before going in but I still had to apologise to the lady next to me. Sweat dripped down my brow, my hair was damp, my palms were yuck! 

In our beginning mindfulness exercise we had to accept the non-judgemental kindness of the chair we were sat on! Bit weird…errrr thanks chair? The group seemed more motivated today. People spoke about their TIP skills homework. Confession: I hadn’t really done it. Not properly. I talked about how I’d used paced breathing, how I’d been too lazy to try paired muscle relaxation and mentioned that I’d done the ice thing before. That seemed to satisfy the facilitators. All good. Oooh what a rebel!

Break was fun. We realised that many of us share a psychiatrist. Poor guy. Ummmm yeah. You might imagine a bunch of us struggling with our mental health and on various medications aren’t too complimentary about our nasty psychiatrist and you’d be right. I know it’s a bit childish but it was fun. I’m led to believe that psychiatrists are generally unpopular with their patients given the nature of the relationship. To be fair I’m not sure how I feel about Dr D. I hated him first time and liked him second time. I shall reserve judgement until I see his letter which he still hasn’t sent (huff!). We shared med stories. That was good too. 

Back in and we were still on Distress Tolerance. The first bit was about methods of distraction. The acronym ACCEPT was used here. Google it if you care enough. I think the acronyms get annoying to be honest. Quite unexpectedly my anxiety level ratcheted up. Some of the things in ACCEPT seemed stupid to me. For example ‘Contributing’ held suggestions like texting a friend to say hi. Why would I text a friend to say hi if I’m at crisis point? I’d just freak even more that I’d said the wrong thing, or what if they didn’t reply? Pffft! I thought. Stupid. There was also something about ‘Pushing Away’ as in smother the thought/feeling. This got to me big time. I felt the shaking begin. You see I’m a master at pushing the thought away. That’s how I’ve ended up here. I have so many repressed feelings that they’re spilling out uncontrollably and overwhelming me. To be advised to do the very thing that was contributing to my situation made me so mad. What a lot of crap! I really wanted to walk out. I mulled it over – what would happen if I walked out? Nothing. So, if I wanted to walk and there was no consequence then why not do it? So I did. I grabbed my bottle of Pepsi Max, stood up, murmured “2 minutes” and walked out. Rebel. It felt good. I sat in the conservatory at the back of the building. I did some paced  breathing and mindfulness and tried to calm down. I went back in before I was ready really but I didn’t want a facilitator coming to find me.

When I went back in we were on to Improve the Moment. I’ve written about this before. I was still upset. I felt like I could see things that weren’t there out of the corners of my eyes but whenever I looked there was nothing. I now had a little blutack ball and I fiddled with it endlessly. We got on to the idea of a self-soothe kit. I was quite excited by this. Monica had asked me to think about what would go in my kit at my last one to one. I had been thinking about it and enjoyed hearing other people’s ideas. I’ve realised that I adore my daughter’s favourite cuddly rabbit. I slept with it in bed the other night and since then I’ve deliberated on getting my own. I mean it just feels wrong. I’m a 36 year old woman. A cuddly rabbit? Well after today’s discussion on self-soothing I decided I was definitely going to purchase my own bunny. Job done. I am ridiculously excited about this!

I may name her Rebel

To finish off today’s session our last task was some mindful colouring. I started doing it properly – like the good girl I always am. Then I looked at it ruefully; I wanted to destroy it, to scrub it all out with black. Oh hello here’s the rebel again! I did it. I destroyed it. Damn it felt good. I explained to the facilitators that one goal for me was to find healthier methods of rebellion. With that in mind they were quite happy when I then tore the colouring into shreds. I felt a kind of cackle inside me and I said aloud “screw your colouring. I’m going to destroy it”. 

I can’t decide if this awakening rebellion is a good or bad thing. Although why judge? DBT says just accept it. And perhaps it’s about time I showed people just how rotten inside I am. I am bad. I will show you just how bad I am.

Says the lady who has just purchased a soft toy rabbit.

DBT#4: Yeah, OK, Whatever 

I drove to DBT today, too exhausted to cycle. Too exhausted to shower in fact; I’ve not done that in a few days. Don’t care. I did, however, make the effort to be early as Monica had told me that one of my group facilitators would speak to me beforehand about dealing with the accent thing from last session. I’ve been sick with nerves about this all week. I even practiced a little speech in my head about how I was going to explain why mimicking my accent is so upsetting to me.

I needn’t have fucking bothered.

Nothing was said. 

No, instead Sally blathered on about the group should be a safe place where everyone feels they can speak. Did anyone want to add anything? I just couldn’t speak up out of nowhere and say “hey, you know when you put on my accent it really upsets me?” I just couldn’t. And because I said nothing the lady did it again: she did my fucking accent again. I actually asked how to pronounce her name, it’s unusual and I wanted to get it right. So she told me whilst imitating my accent and saying “I don’t know how you’ll say it in your language”. What?! My language – English?! Anyway I just accepted that I was going to have to shrug it off. Fuck it.

I spent the whole of the first session staring at the bubbles in my bottle of sparkling water. Just look at the bubbles. Nothing else matters, only the bubbles. It was homework feedback and I just kept on staring, mouth firmly closed shut. I will not speak I vowed. Eventually though I was asked about my homework – had I done it? I nodded now staring at the desk. I began to speak slowly, trying to choose the words carefully. “I did the STOP skill thing. I spoke to my dad. That was a big deal. My low got worse. On Monday I was sat on the sofa and I could feel my usual cycle of behaviour beginning. I couldn’t self-harm because I get in trouble here for doing that. Well, the feelings don’t pass so I knew that I’d have to do something and that’s when I come up with plans – not to kill myself, no. Just to hurt myself in a way that might cause me to die by accident”. I looked up from the desk. I certainly had everyone’s attention. I got this feeling that I had kind of nailed it, that the others in the group knew what I meant although no one had been quite so frank about it. That’s my style – blunt. Holding Sally’s gaze I continued “so I used STOP and instead of making dangerous plans I proceeded mindfully and tried to distract myself. I cleaned and it worked until I stopped. Then all of this came back”. Ah fuck she looks worried. Best reassure her I thought “I have not made any dangerous plans”. I felt her relief. A bit more chat and we moved on. Then it was break.

I made some pretty inappropriate suicide jokes at break. The people I was speaking to seemed to like them, they were cracking up. I apologised for my dark sense of humour and hoped it wasn’t triggering for anyone. 

Back in and we learned of TIP skills. I’d already done of all this months ago with Nora. I didn’t want to rain on anyone’s parade so I tried to look interested. Inside I was thinking yeah, ok, whatever. Some people were quite enthused about TIP skills and felt they would be helpful to them. I hope they are. When I’ve tried TIP skills they haven’t done anything for me particularly. I stay just as deranged and obsessed with whatever crazy life threatening scheme I’ve dreamt up. Sigh. I can’t help but wonder if this DBT is right for me. 

Oh well. Ups and downs. Peaks and troughs. Knives and ice cubes.

I have no identity

I am person. About 90kg of person. I have green eyes, brown hair and freckles. I’m nothing special. I have my own unique DNA and my own unique fingerprints. I have a date of birth and a name and a National Insurance number and an NHS number. I have qualifications. I have a driving licence and a passport. All of this information about me. Me! But I have no identity.

Sure I could show you ID if required. Some document to confirm facts about which human I am? Yes, I’ve got that. That’s not the identity I mean though. I mean about my bpd1personality. Who am I? I honestly don’t know. I really don’t know. Trying to figure it out is like shouting into an empty cavern and just hearing who am I…am I…am I…am I echoing back to me.

I’ve been at my DBT one-to-one with Monica today. I cried and I felt bad. It was a difficult session. I could see she was trying to puzzle me out and I felt guilty for being whatever way I was being. Bleurgh. I told her that I am just wrong and no amount of DBT would fix that. As far as I could see it would just give me skills to hide it. I used an analogy. I said that DBT was like training me as a boxer and  I just had to get used to (or accept in DBT language) being punched. Well, maybe I do need to just accept being punched a lot but, at the end of the day, being punched over and over and over again was still really going to suck and forever was too long to spend being punched.


Picture from Hyperbole and a Half

She tried lots of different approaches with me and I rejected each one. No no no no NO! Why won’t anyone see?! She wanted to get to the bottom of what I felt was wrong about me specifically – as if it were that simple! I could have torn my hair out in frustration: EVERYTHING! My entire core is rotten and none of you will even try to see it! “So tell me” she coaxed. “Absolutely not. I cannot discuss how rotten I am. It is too difficult.” I replied, crying. When I composed myself I sniffed “You see that’s why I try so hard to be good because I know that I am bad and I have to work really hard to balance it out. So I try to do the right things. I try to show positive traits, like kindness…and…stuff like that. I try really hard to be good because I am so bad”.

I think that might be what they call a breakthrough.

I felt the first realisation: I do it for them, for my parents. I just want to be good for them. I’m so so sorry about being born and ruining their lives. I know I was a really bad baby and I couldn’t choose my behaviour as a baby but as soon as I could choose I chose to be good. Really fricking good.

Then came the second realisation: No matter what I do it will never be good enough.

So, I asked Monica “Where does that leave me then?”

Instead of any sense of self, my identity, I just have this empty cavernous space. Who am I? I’m scared to find out. Monica told me that DBT would help with that. Well, that’s something at least.



This is Going to Kill Me

In bed. Crying.

I’m fighting these ‘illnesses’/defects/conditions (whatever) as hard as I can. I promise I am fighting. I have two excellent reasons to keep fighting and they’re asleep in the rooms next to mine.

Sometimes I feel I am gaining ground.

Other times, like now, I only see hopelessness ahead. It frightens me. This is going to kill me. 

I don’t think I can do it. I promise I will keep trying. I won’t go easily. I just don’t see how I can win against this

How could there ever be a future me who doesn’t feel hollow, empty, and wrong? It’s not possible. The DBT is to teach me skills to manage these feelings, not get rid of them. With the best will in the world I just don’t see how I can face feeling like this forever. It’s like trying to push back water. Futile.

So I’m crying because I don’t want to die. And I’m safe now. And I’ll be safe maybe for years…I don’t know. I’m not saying I’m actively suicidal. I’m not. The whole reason I’m so sad is because I want live, not just exist but really live, and I don’t think I’ll ever manage that.

And then this will kill me.