I feel like a broken record. I'm not coping. I have spent the day arguing with various alters, then checked out around half 2, only to come back now (11pm). Today and yesterday has been really tough. Yesterday was very switchy. When I wasn't out, I was still there watching what was going on with whoever was out. When I was out, at least one person would be there with me, as real as anyone else, walking around, commenting on what I was doing, incessant questions, advice giving that I feel unable to take, then there would be a switch when I wouldnt listen and someone else would take over and do what they had been suggesting in the first place.

To begin with, it was unnerving, mainly for the fact that I had a chat with one of the support workers here, and someone else was there the whole time, distracting me from what I was trying to say, demanding that I answer him. I tried talking to him mentally to ask for some time/space, but then panicked that he would take over and the support worker wouldn't know what to do. I don't even know if that was yesterday or the day before actually, everything is meshing together.

I was up at Foyle Advocates to get some help with housing stuff, and the whole time there I was switching. I arrived, nearly got squashed by the lift door, panicked, and Marie was there, she jumped in and left me 'out' and I stood there screaming at her to stop fucking about as she had a smoke and a chat with two of the workers there. It wasn't until we got up to the office did I get back in, as she sat opposite me, laughing at how much I got my knickers in a twist. After that, I tried to get some stuff sorted, then waited for a while with another worker from there on the sofa as it was lunch hour and the person needing contacting at the Housing Executive was on lunch. I was a mess, trying not to cry, completely thrown by why Marie had done that (almost to intentionally throw me off guard), and he was talking away to me. I think he could tell I was struggling. I cant remember a lot of the conversation, just a lot of trying not to be a mess. Then Marie was joined by Lucy. I panicked. What if Lucy did what Marie done and came out there and then?

She didn't, and I got home OK.

I asked the staff here to maybe try their hand with housing as well as I didn't see much headway being made with Foyle Advocates.

I came upstairs, shouted at Marie, not knowing if it was me who was in the body or out of it, got into a state and lost time. When I came round, it was this morning. Only Siobhan was with me for a while, and was just trying to comfort me. The whole time yesterday, and of what time I had today, everyone has been chattering constantly, the body has been torn so many different directions emotionally. Panic attacks, followed by being fine, then feeling lost...it's like everyone's feelings are leaking into the one boiling pot. Physically dealing with anxiety, then sudden cheerfulness, then sudden pining? I think, stomach is upset, and head is killing me.

No wonder it was thought I was emotionally unstable. “I'm” not though, I pretty much spend most of my days being overwhelmed or depressed, it is trying to deal with emotions from everyone else is the problem.

This is all fuelling the fire of hopelessness. I think I can see why things are so out of control at the moment. Hospital meant reality was suspended for a while, I could choose to avoid stresses such as housing, daily living, etc. I should have been more open about a lot of things while I was in there, but I wasn't. I just wanted out, and done everything in my power to make them let me out. Which included not using the service properly, just trying to muddle along saying what they wanted to hear, and doing things like getting out of bed in the morning, showering, eating the odd thing, etc. I had a distraction, a project even. Project Discharge. It gave me a focus other than the constant suicidal thoughts and for the first time in a long time, we all banded together in getting discharged. There were a few hiccups here and there, but, it seemed to work. Out now, and as worse as ever.

But being dropped straight back into the practical situation I was in before and realising that nothing has changed, has meant that things have went back to suare one. There is a massive reaction to my thought processes over the past while and it has all culminated on, what seems to be, me being supervised when I am out and unhelpful interruptions into areas of functioning (term used very loosely).

I know I should ask for help, that is what everone (even on this side) is telling me, but I don't know how. The thing is, I am afraid if I don't, someone else will step and do it for me. Do they not realise we will all end up back in hospital if this happens though? I can feel a shift and I don't like it.

The 27^th was a bit of a trigger for everyone. I am hoping this is just all part of the aftermath. Things should settle a bit, shouldnt they? Things will go back to good old fashioned loud head and losing time, with only the odd one here and there coming out to grace me with their presence. I have started remembering some stuff from when I am inside. Usually, I just remember soft, warm, darkness, but a nice darkness, not a scary type. Some of the others have started to come to me more when I am inside now though, but my brain isn't cooperating and will only allow me to remember snippets.

What's happening with me? I can self analyse all I want, but I really don't have a clue what is going on.

Post properly now I am back online...in the land of the alive

Transient suicidal thoughts. Or at least catching myself on every now and again as if to say, what are you doing, you know life is pointless, why the fuck are you smiling? I have nothing to live for, and so any attempt I make at trying to 'live', is met with scorn, with a reminder that I don't deserve any of this, I am not entitled to even try.

Does that make the thoughts transient? If they are always there, just time and again I get distracted and allow myself to relax a bit? They havent gone at all. At least this time, I know what I am doing, and I am not about to fuck it up. I am going to hang from the loft here. This Monday. I want the weekend to allow everyone to have have a chance to do one last thing to make themselves happy. Then all done.

This way as well, it is over in minutes, no chance of rescue, no chance of coming back from it. Can pack stuff, or even donate all to a charity shop or something, although given our record with suicide attempts, maybe just pack it. Or have a decent plan B. Drowning isnt really an option unless we can find somewhere that isnt policed so much by Foyle search and rescue. Again, too much chace of rescue. It needs to be something violent and quick. Don't care about pain. Pain is cathartic. A final punishment. Need to leave a note though saying Daddy should get my body, whatever state it will be in, and not mummy. I don't even know if he will want to bury me.

I didnt see the doctor today. I'm afraid what my plans are will be written all over me. Although, the nurses there are pretty astute, well, kind of, and they haven't picked up on it at all.

Before I go, I am going to tell someone everything. I am going to tell them about my life, about what I have seen and done. The truth about every part of me.

Only then will I be ready to let go, and ashamed enough that someone knows everything that I will have no choice but to delete myself. Someone else will know how dirty I am. What they did and how they hurt me. How I was to weak to let go. How I was too weak to stand up to anything.

Discharge. Finally here. I'm home, have unpacked my toiletries and books, but yet to start on clothes. Too daunting a task, even on post-discharge high!

My medications have been a bit muddled with as PRN's don't follow you out of hospital, but have a stash of chlorpromazine in the kitchen that should see me through until I call the GP, not go see her. I really don't want to see anyone who can put me in hospital, ever again.

I'm glad to be out. I didn't use the support there the way I should have, and that is my fault. I turned what should have been a therapeutic, helpful treatment, into a stay in a building that was frustratingly shit to be in and hating every second of being stuck in there with some of the oddest people I have met in my life. The patients were OK though.

No, the place was understaffed and overestimated in their capabilities. I am sure they are very capable of helping, but this was seriously restricted by time. Due to under-staffing, the time allocated to each patient was minimal, unless in ICU or on 1:1 obs. No time to get to know someone, to do any kind of therapy work see what people were dealing with psychologically.

I was in ICU to begin with, and on 1:1 obs, but at those times, my place of residence was under the covers, ignoring anyone who came near me. I just wanted let home. I suppose I was a bit of a mess at the time, even if I couldn't see it myself.

Now I am out, I don't know where my head is at. The other day I was planning suicide for Monday. Then today, I promised a friend I would go see her in Newcastle on the 5^th. I still want to die, actively, not just as a safety net, and have all in order for that, so why did I make plans for 2wks away?

Maybe it is true, maybe I am emotionally unstable. The way I experience it though is everyone inside having different emotions and experiencing them all simultaneously. Or my “personality” is disordered. Singular.

No.

Doubt it.

When the plans were being made with Rachel, I was kind of there. “Kind of” being I was there, but not in my body, I saw the sink at the other side of the dorm in the hospital, I heard what was being said, I was “kind of” there. But I was absent at the same time. My body wasn't attached to anything, least of all me. The voice sounded disembodied, even though it was animated. It wasn't me. Or was it?

My “multiplicity” may in fact be a neurological thing. Memory problems caused by blackouts, or something. Voices just being a very active thought process that takes on different intonation and gender. Maybe all this is part of being “emotionally unstable”. The disconnection to things happening around me are maybe some sort of concussed type 'blips' that make me think there is someone else driving my body who isn't me, but in fact, is. But suggesting such physical anomalies would surely give weight to the fact I am factitious?

The first person to suggest that I had dissociative identity disorder was the same doctor that has been struck off for being unfit to practice. That was when I was 15. Since then, diagnosis accumulated have included depression, unipolar, anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, bulimia, borderline personality disorder, emotionally unstable personality disorder, complex trauma and factitious disorder. The last one was rubber-stamped willy nilly by an A&E doctor after an insulin overdose a few years back. I said I was diabetic, thinking that then this would mean I would not be taken to be suicidal, just clumsy and would be let loose again in no time providing they got my blood sugars stabilised. Obviously, diabetes is a very serious disease and would be on my medical records, and it wasn't. The doctor didn't come back to question why I had lied, hadnt spoken to me about my mental state and assumed that I had got myself into a state by taking insulin so I would get sick for the hell of it. Hence that diagnosis.

I have no idea which of these diagnoses stayed and which remain, whether a new one automatically means the old ones are deleted or if new ones mean the old ones are just disregarded.

All my diagnosis' are all covered by my first ever diagnosis: dissociative identity disorder. Yet that one seems to have fallen by the way side too, or at least it wasn't mentioned at today's discharge meeting, despite the best part of my stay in hospital being a switchy mess and talking 'openly' about my experiences of dissociation.

I used to not care about what the latest label smacked on me was. That was when I was not being forced to engage with services though. It becomes important now, when that is the preconceived idea that whatever professional will have on you, based on your shiny new label. Not everyone is going to delve into your psychiatric history to get a fuller picture, but more importantly, not everyone is going to ask you what you think, which to me is the most important thing. After all, it is you who is wanting help for what you think is wrong, and ultimately, you who will fix that with the guidance of whomsoever you get lumped with courtesy of the NHS.

What am I ranting for, what is it I want?

I want help, but I want help for the problems I am actually dealing with. Not mood instability as I experience pretty consistent and coherent moods, with the exception of when I switch, come around and people tell me that whoever was out was whatever mood then, or when I am overwhelmed with more than one emotional situation due to sharing a fucking body with more than one person. That explains the “emotional instability”. But losing time, hallucinations, a head so loud it could rival Glastonbury at times and not knowing how to cope other than self harming, those are things not explained by emotional instability, but explained by dissociation.

I looked up the criteria. I fit 3 out of the 9 category at a stretch. You have to fit at least 5 for a diagnosis. Hmm...

If I had the right diagnosis, treatment would be focused on the above. But because I am “emotionally unstable”, it will be focused instead on mood regulation. No good to me. I am a pro at switching off or dampening down feelings, and can choose a lot of the time to employ this 'skill' when becoming overwhelmed. Or I get too wound up, get past the tuning out stage and inevitably lose the plot, blank out, switch.

But perhaps the DID diagnosis is still there and this is just an 'alongside' diagnosis and I am being unstable over something silly?

Breathe....

P.S. Should maybe email the link to my blog to psychiatrist? See where I get then...

...on second thoughts, perhaps not.

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. 

Cornered

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 glacé 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 0255...it 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.

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.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

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”

“No.”

“Do you feel as though you want to end your life”

“No.”

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.