Son of Dan

 They just can't help themselves, can they? I've come to the conclusion that they really can't. Pushing me to the edge must be a sort of a pastime, a little machiavellian giggle that can be had at the expense of others. Perhaps some of them are really that daft. I can be triggered and then once again it's my fault. I'm trying to hold on. I'm trying to make everything work. I feel like screaming until there is nothing left of me. I've reached boiling point. I don't know what's going to happen with me. As much as I hate to say it, it might be time for another in-patient stay. Maybe some time in the looney world will help me to see what it's like in the real world through a normal lens, instead of my usual cracked and filthy one. I hate the idea of it. I hated going the last few times. I always feel like my freedom is being taken away from me, but more than that, I feel a deep shame. There is still horrible stigma about mental illness and mental health in general. It's better than it was 15 years ago, but it's nowhere where the topic needs to be. Mental health is critical for good physical health. Often times, a lot of people forget that. 

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Nice to know that I can be just pushed away without a second thought because I've hit a rough patch. Real mates will stay with you through it all, not get a few months, not even a year into a friendship and then want to ditch out. I'm sorry that me being fucking sick and struggling to cope with it is such a fucking chore for people. I'm sorry I bother asking for help anymore. Help doesn't help or it doesn't come. They have no idea what it's like being this way. They couldn't even imagine the hurt that not only comes with mental illness but the abandonment for it. 
There are times when I curl up and cry because I'm so lonely. No one sees this side of me. They don't see how badly it hurts. I won't show them either. If it's such a chore to be kind when I'm struggling with a stressful day, then I can only imagine what they have to say. 
In a previous blog, I mentioned feeling guilty and that I'm a horrible mistake of a person for pushing my mates away and all of them that read that blog commented that it wasn't true, that it was all just in my head and that they still wanted me in their lives. Barely a week later, several of the people that said these things to me, built me up with empty sensations, filling both my heart and head with counterfit care. I don't need these people. I'm better off alone. They can't give me the respect and trust that I have in them. Either that or they won't. And then they have the gall to critique my coping mechanisms? Talking hasn't helped. Medication really hasn't helped. If the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn't be jet-setting out the door. I've been friends with one girl for nearly 10 years. Through her ups and downs, through baby daddies, children, custody spats,  suicidal thoughts and self-harm. I was there. I know what it's like to be on the other side of the coin. They don't know that. They don't see it. 
I'm accused of being selfish while trying to cope with an illness I don't want and one that has stripped me of everything in my life. Interpersonal relationships. Romantic relationships. Jobs. Promotions. Finances. Friendships. Wouldn't you want to get high too? Have an extra drink every now and then because they make it hurt less. They're emotional plasters; holding on for dear life, hoping that the brace holds. 

Soon I'm going to stop answering phone calls, messages, tweets and everything in between. I just don't care anymore. I don't have enough in me to care. I'm too shattered by everything that's happened to me. From friends. From family. I'm better off alone. Even the dog leaves me when it's convenient for him. I love him dearly. but I'm better off alone. No one can hurt me then. I don't want to have to open up only to be ripped to shreds once again. I always give my all. No one else does. Can't match my intensity. Maybe it just means I'm meant to be a solitary creature. After all, I've travelled around the world alone, who's to say I'm not meant to travel through life alone, just a shooting star on another person's horizon. 

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I've started self-harming again for reasons that are unclear to me. I'd not done it in a year, maybe more. But the last few weeks I've found myself turning to the blade, the urge there pooling under the surface of my skin, screaming to be heard...screaming to be let out. And do I let it out? The cuts are puffy and raised. The scar tissue is so thick. It looks hideous and disgusting. I can only imagine what my co-workers and customers think about it. I try to hide it the best I can usually. My deformed wrist from a suicide attempt is not something people want to look at. Fuck I don't want to look at it. 
I was doing so well and now I'm just backsliding with this. The internal pressure is too much I need to get it out. I can't hurt the ones that I have hurt me so I take it out on myself. I don't know why that this time around this is what I'm taking to doing rather than venting it out in a different way like I had been doing. Maybe this time the hurt is just too great. I need people to see how badly I hurt inside so I damage my outer shell.
Blood erupts from the clean line left from my blade. The blood begins to pool and then slowly drip down the side of my wrist and onto the divet cover. I'm too tired to even bother to put a towel down. I just want to get it all out of me. I want to be able to focus on other things. I need to be able to think about other things. I lay my head on my wrist feeling the wet, stickiness of my blood against my face. It's getting in my hair. It stiffens my curls. I wonder if I'm the only one who can smell the blood. My head spins as the rich red continues to pump forth. I knew this was a good idea. I knew this was a way I could relax. I'm still riding the high from earlier, coasting on my edibles. Well, I was until I found proof of my fears that I'm a burden to others; not so paranoid now am I? The several cocktails I've down spin through my veins, lightning my head but weighing down the rest of me. I want to sleep. I need to sleep. I've not been sleeping very well over the past few weeks either. I'm always awake. Watching the clock. Counting every minute, every hour, every second. Perpetual sleeplessness and boredom are the things that keep me company at three in the morning when my eyelids crack open to the early morning darkness hanging over me. 
I'm sick of hearing that I'm selfish for feeling the way that I do. I don't think that I have to apologise for anything. I wouldn't apologise if I had cancer. I wouldn't apologise if I had a heart problem. Isn't mental illness a brain problem? People trying to guilt-trip me into stopping self-medication is the lowest form of insult there is. I'm doing what I'm doing to keep myself alive long enough to work it all out. I am giving effort. I am trying. And they know this. I've explicitly made this clear. It's not just for the good times using edibles or Percocet. It's me trying to clear my head. It's me wanting to forget my suffering for a period of time, even if it's only for a little while. Can't blame me for this. I know most, if not all of them, would do the same thing or something similar to make their lives bearable. 
I'm not sorry that my methods aren't appeasing everyone. Or are seen as some kind of burden to bear. I really could care less at this point than what people think. They're always going to have some kind of opinion on my life and my behaviour. Guess what. You don't have to live with it. I do. I'm the one who's constantly left out, ignored, forgotten, abused at work, disrespected by my family, left alone by those around me who have claimed to care. Fuck every single one of you. 

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Sleepless night again. I've not had a full nights rest in the longest time. Probably going on a month now. I can't always take the medications I have for sleep because I go to work for 530 in the morning and I will sleep through the alarm. The only way to avoid this is to take the medication around 330 or 4 in the afternoon. What kind of a life is this? I can take the medication on the weekend and spend my day off completely hazed and asleep. At least that part works out. I don't have to be conscious or coherent for the day. Most of the pain and boredom is numbed out under the chemical blanket of benzodiazepines.