I feel like death today. Well, maybe not death. I like I want to die. It just seems quite the practical solution. I fantasized last night about drinking a bottle of wine and then just stabbing myself. After three overdoses I’ve kind of given up on that method of suicide and have become obsessed with the idea of stabbing. Either stabbing my forearm, right into the artery, or just going for the chest. I think it’s the amount of blood. But the pain of stabbing I think will be a far cry from slashing my thighs. Hence the idea to drink the wine. Pain relief. I might be irrational and suicidal but I am at least organised.
Today I don’t have these thoughts, I’m just tired. I’m tired of being ill. I’m tired of mum having to wake me and remind me to take my medication. I’m tired of not doing anything with my life, of being broke, of being a failure, of being fat and ugly.
I feel like I’m waiting for something. This is no good. I’m not good at being patient. I want everything now. I want to watch every film, listen to every song, and talk to everyone, but at the same time all I want is to lie down and stare at the ceiling. Anything more than that seems impossibly hard and makes me want to cry.
I never wanted to be this person you know. I never wanted to be the troublesome one. The child that means mum has to call up professionals for advice and has to help me draw up a crisis plan. The one who gets applauded for being up and dressed, sometimes even showered by dinner time. My condition means that legally mum is my carer. The term ‘carer’ is so often used with physical disability that it makes me feel not only useless, but also a fraud at the same time.
I know I need the help; the nudges, the whispers and sometimes the all out screaming of advice into my often deaf ears, but at the same time I can’t help feeling that I don’t deserve it. I have trouble accepting mum’s responsibly over me purely in a parental capacity so it’s almost impossible to accept that she has to look after me to an even bigger degree.
Anyway enough of this nonsense. There is something else I wanted to tell you about. Oh yes, I have recently (in the last three to four days I think) developed an alarming worry that everything around me isn’t real. It’s quite obvious that my fear; being quite literally on the borderline of sanity, is that I could easily fall into psychosis. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am, for the most part, a decently intelligent human being. I have done lots of research into mental illness especially. I know that you can’t accidently catch psychosis. I know that I can’t stop it happening, without medication but similarly that I can’t make it happen either. However that hasn’t stopped my increasing anxiety that everything around me is fake and that the sights and sounds which present as real life are actually entirely in my head. I had a similar worry after watching ‘A Beautiful Mind’. I worried that everything was made up, but this time, I don’t seem to have a practical excuse for the anxiety I feel.
Once again, rationally I know that everything is real, because knowing how twisted my imagine can be, if I was to hallucinate, it would be, or at least I hope it would be, more interesting than my mum telling my sister to hang up her blazer and do her homework. These things do happen. I know this.
I think.
Life on the Borderline 