Monday, 25 November 2013

Dear Pillow, Sorry For All The Tears


Their influence over me at such an unstable time is so great that it flipped a beautiful day into an utterly miserable one in around seven minutes. I'm not strong enough to fight the hormones, the illness and the chemical misfires in my brain right now and I managed to let everything in.

I broke and I fell, hard. I cried for everything that was, everything that had been and everything that would be. And then came the absolute emptiness. The pain that makes every other emotional pain feel like a splinter.

I wanted to hurt myself so badly.
I still do.

So, I ate. Everything. Anything I could get my hands on to stop from taking a blade to my leg, stuffing a fistful of pills down my throat or putting my face through a door. I ate and I purged.

I feel shame, I feel regret, I feel broken but above all, I feel so very hurt. I am so deeply sad about it all. I'm still grieving over the life I think I should have lived, the life someone else has. I can't tell myself that 'I'm enough' right now because it would be a lie.

I have to learn to forgive and let go, for my sake.

I miss Helen. 

Monday, 18 November 2013

"Turn! Turn! Turn!" - The Byrds



The beast is back.

The cycle has started anew.

Is it pessimistic to call it a cycle?

I suppose I'm always expecting to end up here, back in the gloom of it. The change is so noticeable to me because of how I felt before. The thoughts are distressing because they are no longer 'the norm'.

I want to hurt myself.

I want to throw things, scream, cry, mutilate but I won't. I can't.

I haven't cut in over six months, I haven't abused money, found solace with a plethora of men, drank my pain or done any other damaging 'coping mechanism' that I used to do. What would be the point in learning these new skills if I can't practice them when I need them the most? It's hard, very hard. But nothing worth having is easy or simple.

I have spent the last year trying to unlearn twenty-seven years of mental abuse, mental conflict and guilt. I'm impatient at my progress, thinking I should be better than this by now, then that leads to more guilt, more shame. It's vicious, I'm vicious, I couldn't even begin to judge someone else even half as harshly as I judge myself, there is no way I could ever live up to my own impossible standards.

One day at a time, just get through one day at a time.

Don't ever give up.

Be too stubborn to give up. 

Thursday, 7 November 2013

I Can't See The Forrest For All These Trees


I'm trapped inside my head. My recovery has tidied my creativity into a corner somewhere and I don't know how to get to it. I need some drama to function. I dislike being this way. There is no bubbling urge to purge words on to paper. Thoughts are fleeting or can only be orally realised. Paper is my enemy and typing holds no relief.

To consort with my nemesis, littering the surface with my marionette fingers, shadowing the crisp, white sheet with my black poison is painful. Hurtful. A betrayal.
But, I need to. See how I'm starting to flow? Pen to paper, fingers to buttons, create. For fuck sake, just create!

The pressure is too magnanimous, I just stop. I cry. I grieve. I lose.

Just write. Words will find their way out, like water, this black ink is like water.

And water always creates a path.