Sunday, December 18, 2005
Christmas Cheer and Genuine Madness
It's been 30 days since I've last cut.
Oh my god.
....Please, let me just dwell on that for a bit, but not for too long. I don't want to get sad. Yes, my last cut was on 16th November, 2005. I remember not feeling it at all and I was all drugged up and I almost went to sleep, if it wasn't for Ria, knowing that she'd be devastated in the morning. And I remember staring at the ambulance men with wide eyes, as a zombie with messy hair in her rugby shirt and pyjamas and barely able to walk. I only brought along my mobile and my keys cos I thought I'd only be there for a few hours and not three days. I remember the doctor saying to her attending: "Yes, isn't it amazing how secrets can be kept from you for so long? Astonishing." As if I was some new type of fungus they discovered in the fridge, astonishing all the same, but lacking any listening functions. And I remember lying straight to my family's faces, leading them down different directions and then throwing up bright pinkish vomit. My mouth and spit tasted of paracetemol so I wasn't surprised about the drip. My Dad was on holiday on the caribbean. I began to read Life of Pi and I don't think I'll ever finish it. I remember being told again and again that I had been saved from a slow and painful death and feeling quite wistful. I remember the literal hours and hours of questioning, making me relive every single second, every feeling returning to me, but I had nothing to hand. I couldn't cry because I was on suicide watch and if I cried then I would be taken away, sectioned under the mental health act. Maybe. But I was always aware of it.
I had no cause to cry when Mum came down. I just needed a parent who would sneak in food and tell me jokes and be parentally patronizing in their own dysfunctional dotty way. I lied straight to her face as well. I even twisted up lies with other lies. I was losing my mind, albeit very slowly. When I left the hospital I was "assuming the position": Big duvet, on the sofa with petit au chocolat and hot milky drinks that would later mske me ill. Aunties couldn't come down, my brother was home late and I didn't call anyone. Or were my friends engaged? I couldn't remember. I was too fed up, depressed, ill, exhausted (despite three days in a hospital bed), resignated. I didn't expect to last long and I felt as if I had killed off all my ideas. I cried a lot, too tired to cut myself open. I was still worried about Oxbridge and my two essays and Dad was coming home tomorrow and I told Rich what happened and he didn't mind and what's-going-to-happen-to-me-was-the-prophecy-true. No deep intake of breath there. I was drowning. I waited to lie to Dad and get on with the end of my life.
Yet, I ended up telling him. I can't explain why. My mind wasn't as fragile. I had slept 11 hours and it was a very normal Sunday morning. Still can't explain why. I was just thoroughly tired of lying about simply every feeling and action and aspect of my life, and I was tired of every dust bunny of my life and I guess lying collapsed first. Now he knows too much, thanks to my psychiatrist wondering tongue - she mentioned eating disorders and voices in my head. It was painful to see his face change. It's hard to explain...see, think of a loved one. They find out something strange and dreadful and are in a moment genuinely surprised and they simply had never thought of it before. And then the reality sinks in: your daughter hears voices and has an eating disorder.
So, now my moods swing wildly from giddy, to happy, to poignant, to level headed and funny and normal, to painful misery, to suicidal thoughts I bat right out of the field, to numbness I try to kill instantly because it's icy fog but it leaves of its own accord. For now. Then I start falling in love again, with guys I'm not actually attracted to. It took me a really short amount of time to figure it out with Rich, and maybe admitting it will ease the process to a gentle climb without any conflicting feelings solidifying into a crush. And my post was supposed to be about that, and his first love dumping him and how I might love him and he love me and us being so love-avoidant and cynical we can't even hug properly. Oh, and then there's the situation where I may never touch medicine again, considering the smell makes me bring up food immediately. It's no way to live. Ack, what the hell as this got to do with Christmas? Well, I heard that most suicides happen during the Christmas/New Year period, so I wish anyone thinking about such things that you simply have to keep on keeping on. I can't say anymore; that's it. And for god's sake talk to someone. Oh- and I might be diagnosed with dissociative disorder. It makes a lot of sense, the whole losing self and soul thing. My next post will be happier, I promise you. It was just that it's three in the morning it seemed like a good time to talk about my attempted suicide.