I’m not sure whether I’d actually shoot myself. I just want to hold the gun, and see how it feels. And then put it in my mouth, and decide. Do I want to pull the trigger?
It’s 3am, and I didn’t go to work today. I meant to, I was going to, but I couldn’t get up. My boss called this morning to check whether I was in the office yet, and I told him I’d be there in half an hour or so. And then I hung up, lay back down and went back to sleep.
I am not functional. I can’t function. I have been hurting myself since I was five years old, and I am still hurting myself. I broke five bones in my wrist this year. I burnt myself so badly I needed surgery, again. I am fucking traumatized. I have been traumatized for years and years and years. I first tried to kill myself when I was 13 – why am I still alive?
Everest just heard me sobbing, and got up on the bed to rub her face against my cheek. Over the last few days she’s been lying with me, her head on my neck, on my shoulder, tucked into the crook of my arm. She’s saved me so many times.
I think the best way to describe Psychiatrist #10 is to describe her office. Her desk is bigger than the ocean, and sits between us. My chair is low to the ground, so I am looking up at her, feeling a little like I’m in the principals office, and I’m in trouble. The tissues are in a gold metal container, resting on a silver platter next to a bottle of hand sanitizer. I imagine the psychiatrist uses it more often than her patients do.
On Tuesday, I saw her for the third time, and she switched my Effexor for Cymbalta. On Wednesday morning, before I’d even started the switch, I couldn’t get up – it’s not the meds that are breaking me. But Effexor is hard to come off, and my body is feeling the way it does after I overdose. There’s a weird taste in my mouth, and a blockage in my throat, and a cold knot in my stomach.
The second time I saw her, she told me there was no point doing psychodynamic therapy because there are so many gaps in my memory, and the only thing that has any chance of making a difference is DBT. And I agreed to join a six month class, because I don’t want to sit around complaining about how bad things are without doing anything to try to make them better.
The last time I did DBT, almost exactly a year ago now, I spun completely out of control. I took an overdose and cut my arms, and I would have died on my bathroom floor if the police rescue squad hadn’t broken in. I am fucking terrified of doing it again. Last time I had Aisha, and Jen, and Anna, and R, and it wasn’t enough. Now all I have is Nikki, once a week, and it’s nowhere near enough.
Wouldn’t it be better to die now, before any more broken bones? Before any more lacerations, concussions, burns, bruises, stitches, surgery?
It occurred to me a couple of hours ago that I need to write a note, to make sure someone posts to tell you if I die. I don’t want to just disappear and leave you wondering.