The Grief of Existence

I began this blog promising myself it must always come from a place of raw honesty otherwise their would be no point in its existence. The presence of a ‘ delete ‘ button on the keyboard makes this pledge difficult to honour.

The words in my head are constant and rambling and hurtful and vicious and crazed and self obsessed and angry and bitter. They don’t truly fit under catchy, creative headings. They don’t follow one succinct train of thought. They can’t be fluffed up or edited to reserve dignity. The words I feel able to use can’t ever portray daily life navigated through mental illness as it really is. The truth is dirty and obnoxious.

My life is edited. I am in control, most days, of my public persona. My darkest days of strictly existence are kept well hidden, and my functioning days are just that – who would know that I am screaming inside when I can function.

I’ve done a lot in the last few days. I’ve had a renewed vigour in fighting my demolition. I will not sit and ruminate. I will not stand still long enough to weep. I will not accept that I am defective. I’m impersonating a capable Being.

Some of what I have done I have enjoyed in theory – they have been beacons of normality. I’ve been that person who ‘ Does ‘ . But at risk of repeating myself ( from previous blog posts ) – I am dying inside.

It has been suggested to me that I am experiencing grief. Grief for what has been, grief for what it has become. Grief is much like mental illness – there is no cure, no time frame, no set course, no prescribed list of emotions. Sadness and rage are mine.

I have been trying to help my husband come to terms with his own grief , at the horrific loss of his father. My words have been along the lines of needing to accept what has happened, that the more you fight it, the longer the anger will remain, and the longer the anger remains, the more you will be trapped in an eternal and raging grief. I find myself unable to utilise my own wisdom.

I can’t accept falling  prey to anorexia at thirteen years old. I can’t accept what has been and gone. I can’t accept the mental illness plaguing my brain. I can’t accept that I have a captor and tormentor living within me. I want to reach in and extract it, stamp on it and bury it deep under the ground, from where it can no longer taunt me.

I don’t ask for this heaviness. I didn’t dance with the devil and agree to sell my soul. I didn’t invite anorexia in and sign over my life. I don’t enjoy being compelled to starve. I don’t relish a life of punishing rituals and routines. I’m not amused by the revulsion of my flesh. I don’t find humour in my defectiveness. I haven’t found a voice of love in my savage thoughts. I feel sorry for myself. There, I said it.

I am playing out the role of a hostage and I have no shame in getting down on my hands and knees and begging for my freedom. ” Show me some mercy “,  I plead.


artwork form a poster entitled ‘ Up ‘ by Fine Little Day

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