Yesterday at 8.46am I received a phone call. I was not awake and I was extra shitty. It was from the reception of my psychiatrist’s office. And I was even more shitty. My appointment had to be rescheduled to next week. I was blindsided and totally unprepared for this eventuality.

My boyfriend, who was in bed next to me, took it better than I did. He had taken the day off work to come along with me – at the request of my doctor. And he has graciously agreed to take more time off to come to the rescheduled appointment. He is an important human.

I went sky high though. There were tears and frustration and quiet anger and deep sadness and finally, an incredible amount of denial of all the aforementioned. Because I was fine. Of course next week was okay. I just needed that appointment yesterday.

I really needed it.

The most galling thing about the workplace bullying incident was how much progress was stripped from me. Prior to that month, I hadn’t even thought about self harm in passing. Nor was I using suicide as an immediate solution or short-mid term solution for when things went slightly pear shaped. I was able to radically accept life as it came at me, to varying degrees, and not get bogged down and destroyed by various random things that I encountered.

But since that month? Suicide is my go to solution. I am consumed by my desire to draw blood. I think about all the problems that face me as I grow up and I’m honestly thinking ‘yeah, I’m going to shoot myself in the face as a medium term solution to having to grow up and age’.

It’s problematic.

My mood was dark after hearing that I was waiting anyway. I itched to cut myself all day. It was difficult not to do it. I was fixated. And even more difficult was turning to my boyfriend and telling him how I felt. Honestly, I had to text it to him while we were in bed together because the words just wouldn’t come.

‘I’m still thinking about cutting’.

It has been impressed on me by my mum that I should hold things back from him. ‘He won’t stay,’ she says, ‘you’re too much sometimes’. She says this with an incredible amount of love and concern. But because of how I am these things often sow seeds of doubt instead. This repeated teaching has made me jerky and has prevented the last plain of connection being crossed. For all that I love him, suicide and self harm are still things I can’t voice to him. I fear driving him away. Where there was no lasting consequence in hurting myself in the past, I feel I now have everything to lose.

It took me half an hour to press send on that message last night.

‘Thank you for telling me’.



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