Binge, purge, binge, purge, binge, purge.

Never ends.

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:



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.


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.


My younger sister (16 years old) has switched from Fluoxetine to Sertraline. To help the transition she has also been prescribed Risperidone 0.5mg.

What the fuck. That is nonsense. That is irresponsible prescribing. She is 16 for gods sake. She is not suicidal, she no longer self harms and she did not give the Fluoextine long enough to really have any effect.

At the end of the day, it has very little to do with me. But I’m sad and angry. Angry with the irresponsible psychiatrist. Angry with my sister because I don’t believe she needs that, but I know she loves being in the patient role. Sad because she might actually need all this medication. Sad for my mum, no doubt she is struggling to cope. Angry because when I was her age, no one took me seriously. Despite my self harm and overdosing and suicide attempt, I was never given medication. I wasn’t even diagnosed with depression. It was “low mood and anxiety symptoms”. Because I had no confidence and never kicked up a fuss, no one really cared.

I’m so ashamed to admit that, but it hurts that she is taken seriously and to this day, no one understands how fucking terrible I feel.


Saw my GP this morning. He wants me to talk about my problems on a “social level”. He cleaned up my self inflicted wounds. It kills me to hear my wounds “aren’t deep enough to need to do anything other than redress them”. It devastates me. When he says something like that I hear “you can’t cut deep enough, you can’t even do that right and that makes you a failure”. I told him about being close to killing myself. He wasn’t phased, I think I like that about him. Nothing I say phases him, he doesn’t panic he just accepts what I’m saying. That’s a good thing. I got my prescription and I’ll see him in roughly another month. Maybe by then I will feel better…

Raw with Frustration.

I have spent the morning in considerable distress. On the outside I look calm, unemotional, even bored. Inside I am screaming. I have gone through spells today of tearing at my hair, hitting myself in the head and very very short spells of being tearful. I’m still mostly unable to cry.

Yesterday was hard too. I had counselling. I felt overwhelmed with blackness. I came home. I called the Samaritans, but they didn’t help. All they can do is listen, not advise. The woman sounded very bored and didn’t sound like she was listening anyway. I hung up on her. I popped my pills out, and counted them. I stared at them. I lined them all up, neatly on the table. I stared some more. There should be enough to kill me. I know what the “lethal” dose is roughly, and I think the number of pills I counted amount to that. I did a lot of staring. I wasn’t able to take them. I cut instead. Lots of blood, since I’m cutting deeper, and cutting over open wounds. I did my almost crying thing. I decided to tidy up, and then if I still wanted to overdose then I would. I tidied and cleaned. I sat and stared at the pills. I still wasn’t able to. I cut some more. I did my almost crying thing some more. I hit myself in the head a lot, in frustration. I ended up curled in the foetal position on the sofa, headphones on full blast to drown out my mind, and fell into an uneasy sleep. I woke up on the sofa. I then went to bed. I wasn’t able to go to uni, I was too upset and angry with myself. That’s the third class I’ve missed in two weeks. My essay was due yesterday too, I can’t bring myself to do it. I did find the motivation to join a friend for some drinks last night. She’s the only person I can really bear at the moment without getting too irritable or upset. She knows how I feel just now, so that’s probably why I can spend time with her. We had a good night. Home around 3am. Sat and stared at my pills while drunk. Furious that alcohol didn’t give me the courage to go through with it. Went to sleep in my clothes and full make up on.

Back to today. Kept my phone on aeroplane mode for long spells, incase anyone tried to contact me and it distracted me from killing myself. The periods when I put my phone back on, no one had contacted me, and I felt very alone. I have spent all fucking day so far staring at those fucking pills. Why can’t I do it? I cut. It helped very little. I’m back in bed after spending what feels like hours staring at the pills. I actually had the NHS 24 number dialled on my phone, incase I panicked. I really really wish I could do this. But I can predict what will happen. I will overdose, regret it, phone NHS 24. By the time I get to the hospital it will be too late, I will die and I will be terrified. Perhaps it’s better to remain miserable. I overdosed a couple of times years ago, but never enough pills to do enough damage or even require hospital admission.

I feel stupid. I feel empty. I wish I was dead but I’m not able to do anything about it. I may as well be dead, I am a big fucking waste of space. Now I will spend the day binge eating, probably not purging, self harming and not being able to face my essay. What a fucking life.