I’ve lost all grip on my head. It’s running wild and I can’t face reining it in. I’m pained to have to ‘work’ on it, it bores me now. I detest my mental disease. I give myself proudly to the fight but I would rather not. I want my life to play out differently now please.
I can’t read any more words on the values of mindfulness and meditation. I can’t spend any more time voyeuristically viewing timetables of classes that I could take up to distract me from my torment and calm my mind. Anxiety flows through my veins and allows not for order, decision making or action. It screeches and screams and paralyses.
I’m stuck in the pain of my mind and there appears to be no end. I’ve always envisaged the light at the end of the tunnel, failure to do so would be deeply detrimental to my hope, but it gets no closer. It’s a cruel trick – the torturous carrot on a stick. And as I heard someone quip recently – what if that light is an oncoming train? My train is my mental malady and it hits me over and over and over and over . . .
Get through today, get through the day, get to the end. Worthless words, valueless. Today ends and tomorrow I wake to a new one. But it’s not new. It’s the same. There’s nothing celebratory about making it to tomorrow, being brave and strong – not when I know my mind will follow.
My brain has switched to striving to maintain a homeostatic state, this means defaults have set in – try not to leave the house; avoid contact with people at all costs; sleep. I refuse to obey which makes for a devastatingly tough existence. ‘Push’ is my despised motto. push. Push. PUSH – can’t stay in bed; must tend to my body; clothes require changing; need to leave the house; can’t avoid feeding those reliant on me.
I’m a fucking mess and I know it. The mess that I am is my torment. It takes me through swaths of emotion – from anger to sorrow to grief to rage to pity to sadness and back again – anger. sorrow. grief. rage.pity. sadness. and back again. This is my second, my minute, my hour, my day.
My fantasies are of retiring to bed, of drinking myself to oblivion, of injecting substances to numb my pain, of eating until I am fit to burst. They will forever remain in the realm of fantastical scenarios. They will remain there to tantalise and distract – shamelessly despicable in their offers of help. Like sirens of the sea they’ll ensnare you with their tempting ways and then mercilessly take you down. I have enough of a self protection mechanism not to go there.
There is no answer. I can do no more than I am doing and that’s hard. It stops with me, it all comes down to me, and that’s frightening. I would beg and beg for someone to save me from myself, but there is no such person.