*TRIGGER WARNING- SUICIDAL THEMES
Dare I even write about it? Fuck it. “Write hard and clear about what hurts.” Ernest Hemingway.
I am magnetised and attracted to chaos. I live and breathe it. The ups and downs are relentless. There is no sense to be found in the senseless, so maybe writing about the senseless won’t allow me to find sense. What am I talking about? Fuck knows.
It appears I’m in the defeated position, so depression deep within is the resultant reaction. Brew up a mix of chemicals in a lab and you’ll get a chemical reaction. I don’t even wear my own lab coat in the crazy science lab I live in because I’m a maverick like that. Am I FUCKED if I wear gloves. No chance. This experimenter doesn’t take precautions in terms of safety. That’s why I’m covered in unhealed burns and scars.
So what is there’s an explosion in the lab when the chemicals mix? Is there any such thing as a controlled explosion in BPD/EUPD land? The two things are a contradiction in terms.
I like control AND I do a lot of exploding, but never at the same time. I am either controlled OR I am exploding. I never do controlled explosions.
I hyper control everything to avoid explosions. If I control things to the nth degree, I’ll have the upper hand, so my explosions might be a little less destructive, [so I hope]. But lately that hasn’t worked. My explosions have been incredible explodey and bangy and dangerous and un-controlled-ish.
Why do I get surprised by the eventual bang?
I’m a crazy experimenter who operates in life without a lab coat, specs or heat proof gloves.
Lock me up. Detain me. I don’t care what happens to me at this precise moment in time. All I care about is NOT feeling like I’m feeling now, and I’ll achieve that by whatever means possible.
Brilliant ideas I’ve had today are drowning myself (classic), overdosing (textbook), jumping (scary) and hanging (dark).
“They are just thoughts” says Mr useful from useful town, the NHS equivalent of a robot, who should be in the lab for repairs but offering mental health telephone support regardless of the inner malfunctioning.
My advice is to “be optimistic” chimes Mr NHS mental health professional most un-useful.
Being given shit NHS help doesn’t help one bit. Inside I feel very alone and very isolated- to a level of strength where merely thinking about it makes my eyes brim full of tears.
I can’t describe the acute hurt, nor do I want to.
“I don’t want to live” is a simple way of describing my current frame of mind. But I kinda have a family to raise, and this husband of mine needs his wife.
Nevermind, at least I have the jolly pleasure of the NHS complaint interview in two days time. That is definitely something to look forward to-HELL YEAH!
I am so optimistic about that, and not at all cynical and wondering what the point of it it-nope.
I’m being optimistic, like the jolly useful man from the mental health team told me to feel.
And this optimistic life while battling suicidal tendencies is bloody utopia, let me tell you!
Like McDonalds, ‘I’m fuckin’ loving it’.
Bloody loving loving loving it. Actually fucking HATING life in all it’s excruciating non-glory.
I have nothing more to say.
With me, there are no controlled explosions, and I think it’s fair to say, right now, I am feeling immensely explodey. Does it come across?!