Saturday, April 6, 2013

My back, it aches (and other complaints that are harder to understand):

 
**The following is a lot to handle...proceed with an armed heart**
 
I don't have the energy to write my best friend, Zhi Hui, a birthday card. I don't have the energy to lift a pen, to cook a meal, to read a book, to call a friend. I don't have the energy to complete any of my uni assignments even though everyone has been so good to me. I don't have the energy to put on a jumper when it's cold, text my mother or fill in an application for government money ("extreme family breakdown" is the forms title). I don't have the energy to pretend I'm in a safe range of sane, and so on Wednesday, my psychiatrist finally got it. I don't have enough energy to exercise, to walk three flights, to make eye contact. I don't have the energy to hold my head up while I pee (I rest my head against the sink, sometimes twenty minutes pass before I can lift it again). I don't have the energy to do anything except sleep. My concentration is so bad that when I lie in bed watching TV (one of the only activities I can manage/enjoy), I have to pause it at regular intervals to sit and remember what Danny told Ruth, and who the fuck Ruth is in the first place.

 
My hair is falling out in clumps, every time I run my fingers across my scalp or glance down at my pillow. The vacuum cleaner, sink, shower, are all full of it. I'm malting. My chest is tight and flat, I have lost weight in my boobs again. Not sure where else, I'm refusing to weigh myself. My fingers are bloody and men on trains watch painfully as I pick at my skin all the way from Hill Clifton to Cross Southern. My eyes water so I can't wear eyeliner (Physio Boy was too polite to tell me I had black tears running  all down my face on Friday); apparently rapid blinking is a withdrawal side-effect and probably my least favourite of all. It hurts to use toilet paper yet I am covered in bruises and I don't remember how I got them. I feel like I am a walking mental health questionnaire with YES stapled to my head, to my heart, scraped into my bones and ligaments and joints. I feel like I am Ginny Weasley, possessed and missing huge chunks of her memory, under the Dark Lords spell. I am so jealous of anyone who's made a recovery; and so sad for anyone still in this hell hole. I want out.
 
 
 In my mind, I always knew that verbalising my thoughts and feelings about the future could be used as a last resort, a final call of help. I was always told, "if you, or a friend, feels suicidal, speak up. There are people to help and plans in place". I idyllically imagined the CAT team dropping from the roof, wearing black balaclavas, and whisking me away to a place where nothing hurts. Instead, the Dick said, "see you in a month's time", after I admitted I had a plan, the means to carry out that plan, no hope for the future and had tried to hurt myself previously... I don't want to be the Pod to Physio Boy's me. One of the only things that gives me hope is also the thing I am least sure about (is it okay to date someone who spends most, if not all, their time imaging themselves with a gender that's not your own?). I don't want kisses, I don't want to meet the family, I don't even want a kid. I just want someone to hug and cry with, and a nice white hospital bed and someone to give me potassium tablets and hold my hair when I throw up. And something to make this all go away.

 
Lies adults tell you:

 *You can't die from a broken heart
*Duty of care is the law, it is taken very seriously
*What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger
*You reap what you sow
*"More soon, x"

My dad once told me that my writing was a selfish pursuit because I only ever expressed how I felt. Where's the mystery? The beautiful wind swept country? The imagination? I probably should have punched him in the face (it seems odd that my mother has slapped me, yet it's my father who I am terrified of...perceived violence/the threat of violence is often more traumatic I guess), but instead I removed the armour from my wrists, and sunk in. I want to ask Lex to make a short film of the images my brain constructs in crisis. One involves peeling away the skin on my wrists to reveal veins like highways and cells like cars, and every time something hurts I can peal back one more layer. I watch the cars and the highway while thinking to myself...

“I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.
before my death I hope to obtain my
life.”

--Charles Bukowski