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.
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. 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. Fucking 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 (more scary) and hanging (the mental image of what my loved ones will find isn’t nice).
“They are just thoughts” says Mr useful from useful town, the NHS equivalent of a robot in for it’s service but offering mental health telephone support regardless of the inner malfunctioning.
My advice is to “be optimistic” chimes Mr NHS mental health professional un-useful.
Should I hang myself with bunting? To make it cheerier?
Should I drown myself wearing a string bikini top and cheery Hawaiian shorts?
Should I overdose and lay under a “keep calm and carry on” poster so I can think optimistic thoughts while I wait for the inevitable to happen?
Should I jump into a field of pretty daisys? imagining a super soft landing into fluffy cumuli nimbus clouds on a summer day?
Is that upbeat enough of a suicide plan?
I scorn when I am given shit NHS help. Inside I feel very alone and very isolated.
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 my husband 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-OH HELL YEAH.
I am so optimistic about that, and not at all cynical and wondering what the point is, OH NO summerSHINES says aghast, cynical, NOT MEEEEE.
I’m being optimistic, like the jolly useful man from the mental health team told me to feel.
And this optimistic life while suicidal is bloody utopia, let me tell you!
Like McDonalds, ‘I’m 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.