If I try to kill myself then I will probably fail. It’s the main thing that is stopping me trying. I hate failing but I really, really hate other people seeing me fail. Even in the best case scenario of people being empathetic and compassionate, that hurts like a motherfucker. Their kindness hurts. Of course, their indifference or cruelty hurt too. Everything hurts.
If I see the man from the hospital then other people’s reactions and judgements will hurt. If I don’t see him then I will hurt because I miss him.
If I take off and go on a trip then I will be anxious and overwhelmed. I will not know what I’m doing and I will be alone. It is risky as I might lose control and not know what to do. I might get into serious trouble and humiliate myself. It might cost a lot of money. While I want to run and get away, I don’t actually want to be sitting in an unknown room in an unknown country. I don’t want to stay but I don’t want to be elsewhere either. There’s a good chance that I would go on my trip and then just come home early feeling even worse.
There are no good options.
I have forgotten how to decide things. I can still sometimes feel like I want something, like I want to hug the man from the hospital, but my automatic reaction is distrust. If I want something then it must be wrong. If I want something then that means I shouldn’t have it. I am so tired and confused and lost.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I email the Samaritans sometimes but they don’t talk, they listen and reflect back. Which is lovely. But not enough for me. I suppose I could get a private psychologist. But I’d have deal with the anxiety of a new clinician and learn to trust them which I find painful. The hospital consultant talked to me about trust and made me realise that I don’t trust anyone. I don’t know how to trust people anymore than I know how to decide things. Doesn’t work. Had enough.
Keep hearing in my head, “I want to go home” but I am home. Think it means that I want to feel safe. But there’s no such thing as safe. Fuck, I was really pretty agitated last night and it’s still here this morning. My thoughts are screaming. I can feel the pressure in the back of my throat, my neck shoulders, chest. The monster is awake and writhing under my skin. In the old days, I’d cut. In the old days. I’d drink and take drugs. In the old days, I’d sleep the day away. In the old days, I’d run. Now I just sit. Sit with my utter helplessness. It’ll pass or it’ll not pass. Each second that passes is another second that I never have to do again. It doesn’t matter how much I fuck up and doesn’t matter what anyone else does to me, those seconds are gone and keep going. I am always, always moving closer to the end. I will be free. The seconds keep passing.