Binge, purge, binge, purge, binge, purge.
Out of control.
Binge, purge, binge, purge, binge, purge.
Out of control.
I want to try and analyse my thoughts. I want to write, I guess a diary of my feelings and emotions so I can look back and work out where I’m going wrong. I don’t want to be self-indulgent, I don’t want to be melodramatic. I want it to be factual. I want to look back and easily see what is wrong, rather than having to read through screeds of over dramatic nonsense.
Today I have felt depressed, lacking in motivation, hopeless and empty.
I got around two hours sleep. I woke up drenched in sweat, again.
I managed to wash, though it was bloody hard to do.
Spent some time with my sister. We had pizza. I threw up quietly in my bathroom. I don’t know if she heard.
I’m particularly aware of my body. It’s flabby and grotesque. Bingeing and purging makes my stomach fat and disgusting.
Restricting my diet makes my stomach flat.
But I’m too out of control to restrict well.
It’s now after midnight. I can’t sleep. I have taken over 600mg pregabalin. I’m thinking about suicide. I have 1600mg sertraline I can take, but not sure if 16 x 100mg tablets will kill me.
I keep looking at the crisis number to phone. I don’t know if I’m in crisis or not. I don’t want to waste their time. I don’t want to present as calm and for them to dismiss me.
I have no idea how I feel. I don’t know if I’m in crisis or not. What is the definition of crisis?
Here is a very interesting article. I relate completely to it, it’s comforting to see someone else write down how I feel. It validates it somehow. See below:
I feel like my escapade the other night didn’t even happen.
I want to tell someone. I want someone to recognise my struggle. To realise that basic functioning is becoming too hard. Ultimately I want attention.
I’m really fucking struggling.
Please note, this post contains content relating to suicidal ideation and attempt, take care.
I had my last ever counselling session on Wednesday there. It was difficult. I didn’t feel able to talk about anything in depth, it wasn’t a normal session. It was the end. The end of our relationship. The end of feeling safe. The end of being able to talk about the bad stuff. That’s how it felt. However, it was a nice ending. I was able to laugh and joke with my counsellor. I even got him a funny thank you card, which we laughed about too. It’s sad though, to think I no longer have that safe space. That being said, it’s not the end of my support, I will now being seeing a psychologist. So really, I shouldn’t complain. I’m sincerely grateful for the (approx) nine months I had with my counsellor. I was able to share and voice things I had never felt able to say aloud before. I was able to get things out of my head. I am now a whole lot more accepting of myself, however I still have a long way to go. I’m now much more able to catch my negative thoughts, and my “should’s”, “musts” and any other rules I have relating to my core beliefs. I’m not able to change the thoughts yet, but at least I’m able to recognise them.
Yesterday was strange. I felt miserable, but no more than any other day. I did some cooking, saw my family and saw a friend. Although I feel very flat and disengaged from the world, it wasn’t a terrible day. However, when I got home, something happened. Something sparked inside of my sleepy brain, and I didn’t have the sense or quick reaction time to battle with the thought. The thought quickly turned into action. My pills I had previously counted out with the intention of overdosing, I decided to take them. I though “fuck it”. I had motivation, I was better doing it while I could. It was fucking terrifying, taking those pills. I felt exhilaration and absolute fear at the same time. I felt relief and regret. It was a wonderful and terrible mixture of emotions. I took half of the pills I intended to take, and panicked. I deliberately drank a lot of fluid first incase I panicked, which something inside my sluggish, pathetic brain suggested I might. I vomited. I quickly took myself to the bathroom and viciously stuck my fingers down my throat until my body could no longer purge itself. I was sure I still had more to come, but my body refused to cooperate. I hadn’t seen any tablets in my sick. Could they have been digested so quickly? Panic. Panic. I don’t want to die. I want to curl up and let the pills do their damage. Panic. Dialled NHS 24 on my phone, and tried to decide which service I needed as the automated voice reeled off a list of ailments. Eventually I spoke to someone who put me through to a nurse practitioner. I felt numb by this point. I struggled to show or feel any emotion. The nurse insisted on sending an ambulance, even though I explained I felt fine and had been sick. I really just needed reassurance that even though I hadn’t seen the pills come up, that they must have and I would be fine. But she was having none of that. Ambulance arrived. Very humiliating. Two paramedics came into my flat and advised me that they couldn’t force me to go to hospital, when I stated I didn’t need to go and surely they could check me out, but they would get the police who would force me to go. Charming. Humiliation continued as I put shoes on and allowed them to escort me into the ambulance. Ridiculous really, there was nothing wrong. My own fault, I suppose, for calling for help in the first place. I should’ve realised they would have assessed my risk and sent an ambulance. Still, very humiliating. Spent a long time in A&E. I was asked many times “Why did you do it? Did you want to die?” My answer of “I don’t know” clearly didn’t cut it. I was asked a lot of questions, but nobody listened. Nobody gave me time to think about my answer, or help check out how I was feeling emotionally. I began to feel very drowsy and foggy by this point. I refused to tell anyone this, I just wanted to go home. I spent a long time sitting on a trolley bed thing, crying. I began to hallucinate after a while. Not ridiculously so, but for example I so could see some cracks round a pipe in the floor, the longer I stared at it the more cracks appeared. I thought I was causing the cracks to appear. It was fairly entertaining. I assumed it must be the overdose. Because I had been sick, I assume, there was no need to pump my stomach or give me that stuff, charcoal maybe, that makes you sick. Nobody mentioned it. The doctor came to see me after a while. A lot of questioned I cannot remember and struggled to answer. I was so foggy and felt so drugged I could barely stand. But I kept this to myself as I wanted to go home. Nobody cared that I wanted to go home. I heard the nurses talking about me in a mean way, saying someone would have to tell me what would happen if I tried to leave.. very dismissive and annoyed at me until I heard a nurse say “she didn’t say she was going to leave, she just said she wanted to go home.” Finally, someone actually listened to me. The paramedics told me I would likely be sent home after the doctor saw me, which would take a few hours. I had an ECG done. I had my obs done, blood pressure, pulse etc. All very embarrassing. I didn’t need it. I needed to go home. The doctor then informed me I had to stay and be monitored for twelve hours. TWELVE HOURS?! That would mean staying until 11am the next day. No. I could not do this. I had a GP appointment at 7.45am and psychologist appointment at 10.15am I explained. The doctor said I could maybe go for the psychologist but not my GP. It was awful. I was hooked up to a machine to monitor my cardiac activity and obs. It beeped constantly. I lay on my trolley bed, freezing cold, I wasn’t offered a blanket for hours. A lot of crying. I couldn’t believe what I had done to myself and put myself through. Such an idiot. Another doctor spoke to me several hours later, around 1am. Same questions, that I couldn’t answer. She spoke to someone else and agreed I could leave around 5.30am. I was happy with this. I slept very little, they kept me in A&E which was really busy. I didn’t mind that, but the machine I was hooked up to was infuriatingly noisy. Eventually I was sent home, and I chose to walk. My heart and blood pressure were fine, but I felt terrible. I struggled to walk in a straight line and nearly collapsed trying to walk up stairs. Thankfully the hospital staff didn’t know this or they wouldn’t have let me leave. It was possibly the most humiliating experience of my life. Never again will I do that.
I slept in for my GP appointment. I practically flew there in my car. I was a little late, but my GP was nice about it. Asked what he could do to help, which he always asks and I always reply nothing except prescribe my painkillers. He considered psychiatric input, but neither of us were sure what good that would do. I assured him I had no further plans or intent, and I was low risk. He was happy with this. Reluctant to prescribe antidepressant, suspected I might use to overdose again. Gave me prescription for my painkillers and I left.
I saw the psychologist. She’s very nice actually, and helpful. I think. I was very open with her, I’m not sure why. Maybe because I took my pregabalin and cocodamol, I tend to find it easier to open up with these flooding my system and making life more bearable. I didn’t tell her that part. I told her I’m a lesbian, and how I’ve come to terms with it more because of counselling. I also mentioned the “bad sex stuff” briefly. She asked “was it rape?” I fucking hate that word. NO IT WAS NOT THAT. I explained that I would not use that word to describe it, not because it doesn’t fit it’s just a god awful word. It turns me into a self blaming victim. Once that word is used, people suss you out, they judge you and they pity you. I do not need that. We talked a little about criticism from others, particularly my mum. I’m going to see her again in two weeks. She said we will have around 10-20 sessions and I will see her every second week. But as we get towards the end of the sessions, she’ll start spreading the sessions out so I can practice and get used to not having or needing the support. That’s terrifying. I don’t want that to happen. I can’t cope on my own. She also mentioned psychiatric input. She said she’s going to speak to my GP. I wonder if she will, and what will be decided. For some reason, I’m actually feeling fairly positive about this treatment, even though it’s going to be devastatingly difficult. My homework is to hang out with one of my “safe” friends more in the next two weeks, because apparently I’ve isolated myself. She’s not wrong.
I don’t know where this leaves me today. I’ve struggled to eat yesterday and today. I think I probably feel as though I’ve lost control, especially with last night’s escapade, so I’m taking control back. My new plan is to eat well on the days I’ll be doing strenuous exercise, and on other days not to eat anything, or minimal. We’ll see how this goes. It might encourage me to do more exercise so I can eat more. Or the opposite. I miss being slim. I miss my old body. I don’t hate this body, but I miss my old one, the one that fitted into clothes. I don’t fit anything anymore. It’s sad. But I’m taking control and this is going to work. It’s all going to work out. It has to.
Sitting on my sofa, crying,
It’s 1pm, I have done nothing with my day.
It sounds like I do all this for attention. I sound like I have a personality disorder. Perhaps I do. It would explain my inability to regulate my emotions.
But it’s not for attention. Just because I am very honest with both my GP and counsellor, does not mean I am attention seeking. I just want help. I just want to not feel like this. It’s so scary feeling like this, and doing it alone is even scarier. That being said, I have no intention to be honest with my GP anymore. It’s completely pointless. I want to get to the stage where he will give me painkillers on repeat prescription, which means without having to make an appointment. He wants to see me regularly at the moment to make sure I’m okay or something. But if I start pretending to be okay, I might not have to see him anymore. I will continue to be honest with my counsellor, and then the psychologist when I start seeing her. But not him.
If I’m honest, I would really rather not see any of these professionals. But the alternative means trying to cope alone, and that scarier.
I’m struggling to find the words. I’ve struggled for a while now, to find the words that could accurately describe how I feel. There are none. My vocabulary is poor at best, and every single word fails to capture the utter despair I currently feel.
I want to die. That has not changed. There is no eloquent way to say it. This feeling has varied in intensity. Last weekend I was elated and erratic. The feeling was there, but it hung patiently in the background, waiting to be invited back to the forefront of my mind.
My counsellor phoned me yesterday to “check up on me”. He also wanted permission to speak to my GP. I advised him this was fine. I didn’t care. I was filled with stress and anxiety. At the time, I couldn’t care less who he spoke to.
I saw my GP this morning. He expressed that my counsellor had spoken to him, and that he was concerned. He said my counsellor told him I had laid out all my tablets to overdose on. He said this as if he had no idea. I had already fucking told him this, it was no surprise to him. Arsehole. In my mind, I had already left his office before my body actually escaped. I felt as though he was blaming me for the way I feel. He does not understand how helpless I am to these feelings. These feelings of fucking despair control me. It’s not as easy as “do something nice with your days off work” or “play the piano again”. I can’t just fucking do it. Does he understand what it is like to do something you previously enjoyed and actually had passion about, to now have no feelings whatsoever other than frustration. I have no concentration, and when I try, for example to play piano, I cannot sit for long because it’s so sad and frustrating. It’s so fucking sad and it eats away at my insides. My soul is fucking eroding and he wants me to spend my time better. There was no outcome from this appointment. I only went because I need my painkillers. Then I took a few painkillers to try and escape this fucking world.
Where does this leave me? I have no fucking idea. But I am consumed by fear, despair and self loathing.