I fell apart yesterday. In hindsight, it was coming; there’s only so long I can keep things secret before I blow, and I just couldn’t keep it in anymore. I cried all day. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.
I’m not coping. There, I said it. Why has it taken me six months to admit this? I know I’ve admitted that things are hard at the moment, but not how hard – I suppose there’s still the fear someone I know will read this. You know what? Fuck them. This is my outlet, not theirs.
I’m horribly, hideously depressed. There aren’t words to describe just how lost I feel, and I’m so worried about admitting this because I don’t want to be seen as an attention seeker. Things have… escalated, very quickly. I’ve stopped eating properly – avoiding food all day then binging at night – and the urge to self-harm over the tiniest thing is incredibly strong.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with a doctor. I’d been vomiting for three days, unable to take any medication and struggling to cope with the combination of disability and needing to run to the bathroom every five minutes. The anxiety was beyond extreme, and I could hardly speak without bursting into terrified tears. As soon as I got to the surgery I started panicking and crying, begging my mum not to leave me (she insisted on coming to my appointment because I was so on edge), and once I saw the doctor I became an absolute wreck. I explained how I hate being on so much medication, how my life had become a pathetic cycle of pills, sleep, and insomnia. It went… okay, I suppose. I have another appointment in a week – I assume to check I haven’t topped myself – and I’ve been taken off the anti-inflammatories because my stomach’s utterly destroyed, and been given a much lower dose of the anti-depressant to stop me withdrawing. Duloxetine simply isn’t working for me, so we’re going to try putting me back on Cipralex next week in the hope it’ll stop the panic, or at least control it a little. It used to work wonderfully, and I was useless without it.
It took until 1am for me to finally break down in front of S. I haven’t really spoken to him about my mental health – it’s something I’ve always wanted to keep separate from our relationship – but last night was impossible. I simply couldn’t stop crying. I tried to go to bed early, but just lay sobbing in the dark. Eventually, I wrapped a blanket around myself, walked into the living room, and said, “is it okay if I be an emotional wreck in here with you? I’m not keen on doing it on my own”.
He was amazing. We sat on the sofa, his arm around me and my head on his chest, and I told him everything. Not about the tablet abuse, but I think he knows about that anyway. I told him I couldn’t see a future; not just between us, but no future at all. I was too scared to even try looking forwards because everything fucks up eventually. Truthfully, I’ve given up. There have been times recently where, if someone had offered me a quick and painless way out, I’d have taken it.
Somehow, its harder now that I want to make something of myself. In the past, I wasn’t bothered because I didn’t believe I would ever amount to anything, but now… I want a life. I want to go out and see people and speak to other humans. I want to be able to use public transport without having to put mental blinkers on so I don’t panic. I want to be able to eat normally, and sleep properly. I just want to be something close to normal, whatever that is. I want to feel okay.