Run, Run, Baby Run
There will be fewer blogs possibly in the next coming weeks.
I have so much I'm trying to work through in my personal life, especially with my
mental health. I also want to spend some time working on some pieces for Dan the
Doodlebug to do another one of those for you guys. Art is one of the things I struggle with
most as my depression worsens. I hate living like this. I'm always tired, always bitter, everyone
thinks I'm a lazy slob.
I have no motivation. All I want to is drink or take anything that dulls my perceptions, pollutes my point of view and allows me to see with those wonderful rose coloured glasses. I just want to stay in bed, having the cool winds of spring wash over me. I'm constantly tired and my entire body isn't functioning as it should. I know it the result of the abuse I've been putting it through. What the fuck are you supposed to do when your cries for help both vocal and physical go unnoticed or uncared about? I'm completely cut to shreds and sobbing and people are screaming at me to get my act together, get a job, eat healthily and make something out of my life. Alone. I don't believe the bullshit that people are there for me. They're only there when it suits them; when it doesn't I get the silent treatment, huffs and or eye-rolls. That only makes me feel like I should be ashamed of this illness. I already know I'm a disgusting fuck up, I don't need twats reminding me of the fact.
Which of course happened last night that a. set off an attack, b. worsened an attack and c. just let me in far worse shape than I could have imagined. The cutting was bad yesterday, the self-harm was almost out of control, I reached out, explaining the feelings I felt about the harming. I wasn't doing it out of hatred or sadness like usual, this was pure anxiety, that I needed to see the blood. I needed to know it was still in me. I was still in control. I knew I was alive, I knew it was there, but just that little voice in me head was like "Do it, Danny. Look inside. You can do it. It won't hurt anybody." One cut led to three, three lead to seven and before I could grasp what I was doing, I was consumed in what I was doing. I just wanted to see the red. (I'm going to touch on this a bit more when my therapy blog comes out next week since we did talk about self-harming behaviours.) My self-harm has become my latest form of escapism, I was favouring drugs for a while, but that gets costly and razor blades are far cheaper. Also, there's the added bonus that it hurts after and you're punished and you won't end up in prison for having them on your person. Though in today's society they might think of them as some sort of weapon and I'll be charged with a crime. It's getting utterly ridiculous some of the shit they're coming out with. If you really wanted to, you could hurt someone with pretty much everything around you. You could beat a guy to death with the Metro if you really cared enough.
I'm working on things with my therapist and we're drawing up a new treatment plan. Thankfully, I've been able to be more open with this one than I have the other 15 or so that I've worked with over the past decade. Hopefully, she's got some new suggestions because I am tapped the fuck out. I'm completely exhausted. She knows the hatred I have for hospitals, so she knows inpatient facilities are something I'd never consent to and she'd have a hell of a time trying to find me to lock me up, so she's going to get me a sort of home help aid. They'll come to my house and help me with some of my everyday tasks that I have trouble with due to the seriousness of the depression right now. They're going to help me with getting on a better path to mental and physical health as well as take me out shopping or whatever I need. People usually aren't that understanding and I'm finding this whole programme difficult to work with, but we knocked out the framework for it this evening. I know I don't have any other options really. My beloved Chubberpuff (yes the one who I constantly bicker with and sometimes want to kill) will be gone and so will Kinder and my last stop gate, Jessica is too far away to be able to help me with these things, plus she's got university. Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe this will be a shit thing. All I know is that it's another thing I should try before giving up as much as I want to.
As this unfolds I'll probably talk about it on here; about who I'm paired with, the experience and the programme itself so maybe other people will want to try it if they feel it can help them. I don't really want to do this, but for the fuckers I love, I will try. I know they're worried and they see how much sicker I've gotten. They know I don't want to accept things and face things-one of them does the same shit that I do so he knows it all too well. It's not helped him and I should have been able to see that, and I should have seen it in myself as well. I was blinded by arrogance and by not wanting to admit certain stigma.
I have so much I'm trying to work through in my personal life, especially with my
mental health. I also want to spend some time working on some pieces for Dan the
Doodlebug to do another one of those for you guys. Art is one of the things I struggle with
most as my depression worsens. I hate living like this. I'm always tired, always bitter, everyone
thinks I'm a lazy slob.
I have no motivation. All I want to is drink or take anything that dulls my perceptions, pollutes my point of view and allows me to see with those wonderful rose coloured glasses. I just want to stay in bed, having the cool winds of spring wash over me. I'm constantly tired and my entire body isn't functioning as it should. I know it the result of the abuse I've been putting it through. What the fuck are you supposed to do when your cries for help both vocal and physical go unnoticed or uncared about? I'm completely cut to shreds and sobbing and people are screaming at me to get my act together, get a job, eat healthily and make something out of my life. Alone. I don't believe the bullshit that people are there for me. They're only there when it suits them; when it doesn't I get the silent treatment, huffs and or eye-rolls. That only makes me feel like I should be ashamed of this illness. I already know I'm a disgusting fuck up, I don't need twats reminding me of the fact.
Which of course happened last night that a. set off an attack, b. worsened an attack and c. just let me in far worse shape than I could have imagined. The cutting was bad yesterday, the self-harm was almost out of control, I reached out, explaining the feelings I felt about the harming. I wasn't doing it out of hatred or sadness like usual, this was pure anxiety, that I needed to see the blood. I needed to know it was still in me. I was still in control. I knew I was alive, I knew it was there, but just that little voice in me head was like "Do it, Danny. Look inside. You can do it. It won't hurt anybody." One cut led to three, three lead to seven and before I could grasp what I was doing, I was consumed in what I was doing. I just wanted to see the red. (I'm going to touch on this a bit more when my therapy blog comes out next week since we did talk about self-harming behaviours.) My self-harm has become my latest form of escapism, I was favouring drugs for a while, but that gets costly and razor blades are far cheaper. Also, there's the added bonus that it hurts after and you're punished and you won't end up in prison for having them on your person. Though in today's society they might think of them as some sort of weapon and I'll be charged with a crime. It's getting utterly ridiculous some of the shit they're coming out with. If you really wanted to, you could hurt someone with pretty much everything around you. You could beat a guy to death with the Metro if you really cared enough.
I'm working on things with my therapist and we're drawing up a new treatment plan. Thankfully, I've been able to be more open with this one than I have the other 15 or so that I've worked with over the past decade. Hopefully, she's got some new suggestions because I am tapped the fuck out. I'm completely exhausted. She knows the hatred I have for hospitals, so she knows inpatient facilities are something I'd never consent to and she'd have a hell of a time trying to find me to lock me up, so she's going to get me a sort of home help aid. They'll come to my house and help me with some of my everyday tasks that I have trouble with due to the seriousness of the depression right now. They're going to help me with getting on a better path to mental and physical health as well as take me out shopping or whatever I need. People usually aren't that understanding and I'm finding this whole programme difficult to work with, but we knocked out the framework for it this evening. I know I don't have any other options really. My beloved Chubberpuff (yes the one who I constantly bicker with and sometimes want to kill) will be gone and so will Kinder and my last stop gate, Jessica is too far away to be able to help me with these things, plus she's got university. Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe this will be a shit thing. All I know is that it's another thing I should try before giving up as much as I want to.
As this unfolds I'll probably talk about it on here; about who I'm paired with, the experience and the programme itself so maybe other people will want to try it if they feel it can help them. I don't really want to do this, but for the fuckers I love, I will try. I know they're worried and they see how much sicker I've gotten. They know I don't want to accept things and face things-one of them does the same shit that I do so he knows it all too well. It's not helped him and I should have been able to see that, and I should have seen it in myself as well. I was blinded by arrogance and by not wanting to admit certain stigma.
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