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Thursday, 16 June 2011

Finally the end

I didnt manage to fool the GP; she sent me for an assessment.  The CPN didnt really seem all that interested, not that I told her much anyway.  Thank fuck for health professionals that dont care enough to see past their own nose...I didnt get put in hospital.  I got let home.

I have made my decision now, so I will stick to it.  I really wish things could have been different though.  I wish none of the bad things happened, I wish people cared more, I wish someone could have taken me by the hand and shown me a way not to hurt anymore.

I feel so stupid.  After speaking to the GP today, I thought, maybe I caan manage to be open with the CPN at the assesssment, maybe they can help, but then I got there.  I couldn't.

One of the questions in the assessment was "what have you got to live for".  I dont know.  I have no family, no friends, no job, no prospects, just a whole lot of tomorrows not coping.  She said "what stopped you so far".  I could hardly say cowardice, but I think that is what it has been.

I have a load of insulin pens I procured through some shady means a while ago.  I have zopiclone I can take to make sure I am knocked out enough that I dont wake up in a hypo.  If 18mls of insulin, mix of fast acting and slow acting to make sure the damage is done, doesnt kill me, I dont know what will.  At least it will be an easy death.  I will take the zopiclone, then the insulin injected in various sites, I should slip off unscathed.  If it really doesnt kill me, I will at least be so badly brain damaged I wont have a clue what is going on, and really, if I dont know what is going on, I wont remember the past.

Im done.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Fragile Strength

Fighting with fragile strength the voice of that child, 
Emcompassed in tears and pain, disowned by denial.
Yet she drives my adult self to long for those arms
to envelop her, mother her, and shield her from harm.

Delusions of sanity only spur on the depression
to tear through my soul with a hateful agression.
I know I am beyond this, I have moved on from here.
Yet the depression pervades my prison of fear.

Living back in the then, neglecting the now.
Trying to scream, but not knowing how.
Clambering, clawing to set myself free.
Fuck it, I cant, my prison is me.

Back inside I flee, into the mind I delve.
Forsaking my self for the sake of my selves.
Shrink in my corner, defiled and disgraced;
allowing another to take on my face.

Gentle murmur of voices lull me to peace.
From my duties in life, I am slowly released.
Sense of purpose and surviving slowly fades,
Replaced with a plan, a poison and blades.

I push to the fore and contrive my demise,
Ignoring my selves and the outpouring cries.
Armed with the purpose and clarity I craved,
I stopped fighting and rested, I took to my grave.

The pain, the horror, the aloneness and grief,
The nightmares, the flashbacks swept away by relief.
She of many faces, in the end had just one
On which she wore a smile, content she was done. 


Things are a lot worse since Monday.

Emotionally, I feel...I'm not sure actually.  is apathetic the right word?  No, it isnt.  I have given up keeping my head above water, and I am now at the not drowned yet, but still underwater point of the do I dont I of suicide.  It isnt even do I or dont I, it has got to the why haven't I already, and when am I going to do it.

I didnt go to the doctor today.  I actually had every intention of going after I cancelled and was forced to rearrange it by the staff here on the threat that if I didnt go I could lose my place here.  I lost a chunk between about 10am and just after 2.  My appointment was at 2.  The Dr rang at about half 2, asking why I hadnt arrived.  I hadnt a decent excuse, so I apologised, said I had seen someone on Monday, thanks, and bye, but she wasnt finished talking.  She made an appoitment for me to come in and see her at 3.30 the next day.  I tried to explain I was fine and didnt need to see a doctor, but I think my arguement was flawed given that I was crying the whole time while speaking to her.

I used to hate when I needed help, asked for it and never got it.  I used to feel so crappy about it.  Now when I am feeling like this and I dont want help, I dont want anyone near me, this is when I get it?  Fuck this for a glacĂ© cherry.

I will go to the appointment tomorrow/today (it is after 3am) and sit down and answer her questions, or get meds, or whatever it is the point of it is.  I will tell her all the right things so she can tick the right boxes, so I can come home and be left in peace.

All I need to do, in theory, is assure, no, convince here that I am not a risk to myself.  This is of course providing I dont freak out ond lose time like I did today.  Even at that, there isnt enough caffeine in the world to muster enough energy or perkiness from me at the minute.  Even this, I started writing at about is now 0320.  25mins it has taken so far just to scribble out a quick paragraph, and it's typing, which is quicker than scribbling.

I am afraid of everything tumbling out, telling her everything.  Logically I tell myself, that isnt going to happen, it is never something I would do, but what if I switch, or freak out?

If I read a blog like this, seriously, I would seriously be tearing into the person by now telling them to wise up, catch themselves on, get a life, and stop being such an arsehole.  If I am suicidal, I should just kill myself.  But I dont know what the fuck I am!

I have the means, the know how and the time, no, no I dont have the time.  The best time to do it would be a weekend night when I am less likely to be checked on given that said method can take up to 12hrs until someone is definitely unrevivable.

If I am chucked into hospital tomorrow, there isnt a chance I will be allowed to keep my place here.  It is temporary supported accomodation for homeless folk.  If your support needs are too high, they can by all means kick you out, but I dont know if I can be left high and dry.  I mean, if I was chucked into local cracker factory, would they give me til I got out to find a place, would they send my things up to me, would they be decent enough to go into hospital, come out and give me an amount of time to find somewhere else?  All I would need is overnight here if they were to kick me out, then I could just finish the job.

See, even if I didnt top myself, there is still something, always some fucking crisis to be averted.  I wish I had one of those normal, happy, quiet lives.

Fuck this.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Breaking down the break down

I was sitting on the sofa, from where I hadn't moved in (insert random guess here). I lost time for I don't know how long, and when I did come round, I noticed cuts on my arms and thighs. I probably needed stitches on my right thigh, but to be honest, going to A+E for stitches, even when I am not an emotional wreck, is not something I do willingly.
I curled up on the sofa, head racing with everything. I was really triggered, not sure what it was that actually set me off, but I was whole hog reliving things all over again. One memory would trigger another one, and so on. This was roughly 5am.
I didnt even hear anyone coming into the flat (I live in temporary supported accomodation). Terry, one of the staff here, touched my leg. Not having a clue I even had company being so lost in my own head, I jumped a mile out of the chair. Her touching my leg, not only scared the bejaysus out of me, but it brought me back to the here and now. A mix of my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest and the realisation that I was safe, here and not back there, I broke down into tears, which soon made its way into full blown hysterical sobs. Terry and the other staff member, the manager unfortunately, told me they would leave me be for a bit and come back in 15mins.
I managed to calm myself down, realising that if they saw me in such a state it could lead to one of 2 things. They would either make me see a doctor and they would actually realise that I am not coping as well as I pretend, or they would ask me to find alternative accommodation as I would be deemed too “high risk” or “complex needs”. Thankfully it was the lesser of the 2, and when they returned in about 10mins, they told me I needed to go see a doctor. They asked when I last ate, I told them honestly, I didnt know, and when I last lept, again, I didnt know. I was trying to look composed and together, even changing my jammie bottoms so the blood couldnt be spotted on the old ones, and had started tidying round (i.e. aimlessly picking up things and binning them) to give the impression of a together, able to cope, not so much of a mess person. I couldnt stop shaking though. When they asked me what day it was, I said Sunday, erring on the side of caution, thinking maybe Saturday. It was Monday.
Emergency doc appointment was made, and I was told that I wouldnt be able to stay the night there if I didnt go. Jackie, the manager, was concerned I “might harm myself”, so I can understand her ensuring I would go see the doc so then her back was covered. I went, accompanied by aforementioned Terry, who said she noticed the dressing on my wrist, was it bad, etc. I was just standing, chain smoking, waiting on a taxi in the heat when I had put on a heavy coat and a warm outfit given that the last time I was out and seen the weather was Friday and it was raining then, and hadnt as much as looked out the window since.
Got to the docs, saw a different GP than I normally saw. It was also a male GP; wouldn't usually see one of those. He asked what was going on, I choked, couldnt make words come out. What the fuck are you meant to say? Well, There was a bit of an incident on Wednesday night, which on top of everything else is now getting me to the stage where I am verging on catatonic, cant cope, losing time to the extent of blotting out day at a time and when I do get even a little bit of energy, I am frantically researching the most effective suicide methods within my means.
Instead, I said I was flashbacking more, nightmares worse, not sleeping well and more time was being lost than usual...the abridged “dont section me” version.
He asked about the self harm when Terry piped in about that, I told him it was fine, manageable and I could treat the cuts at home. He asked to see them then.
Right, I am never a fan of showing people scars, cuts, etc. It is such a private thing. I would feel just as comfortable if he asked to give me a full gynae exam in front of the waiting room. I hesitated, Terry asked if she wanted me to leave, I said yes (the less of an audience the better), and showed him only the cut on my wrist, not wanting to take my trousers down and increase the humiliation further by showing thighs. He asked if I wanted the nurse to dress it, that it was too late to stitch but the nurse could maybe do something, etc, I politely declined and covered again.
He prescribed me some more chill pills and some zopiclone for sleep, asked if there was anything else he could do for me. I said thanks, and no thanks, went to leave before he asked “The Question”.
“Are you wanting to harm yourself further”
“Do you feel as though you want to end your life”
At this point, all the information about researched method, flying through my head, how to, how much, time intervals, notes, etc.
Who actually admits to that.  If you aren't suicidal, then you are not going to say you are.  If you are, why tell someone, surely then that would completely get in the way of you actually being able to do anything about it.
He called Terry back into the room. Still not printed off prescription, he chatted to her about...something...I barely heard it, printed off the prescription, said something about being glad he didnt have to fill out any “pink forms”, asked to see me again on Thursday, I explained I had an appointment with a different doc already on Wednesday, should I cancel, he said he didnt want to tread on anyone's toes, then, finally, he let me leave.

I avoided the “pink form” (have no idea what that is, but assuming it has something to do with the cracker factory).
Managed to eat something, and actually slept last night (thanks to chill pill/zopiclone mix).

Mentally, still a mess, but the GP actually helped. I am less of a mess.