Good bye hospital, hello world

I wrote a post with this same title over half a year ago. I had been committed against my will because I wasn’t making any sense. In one moment I was laughing at the skies outside, which I saw from the window in my therapists office, the next I was uncontrollably crying, saying random stuff about things on the walls. I was obsessively talking about how great I was feeling, how okay I was, through the tears splattering out my eyes. I’m so happy, I said. And then I crept up the walls. I didn’t exist. I don’t think I’ve ever said so many words in such a short space of time. I was just rambling along, moving from one subject to another, not censuring myself at all. I said things I didn’t mean, I said things I denied being true, I said things I didn’t realize was true. I just kept going and going and going. So they locked me up for some days. And then they let me back out. In the last post I wrote how disappointed I was in the system, and I still am disappointed about what happened those three days. Because what makes them discharge someone that few days later is so ill they have to commit them again, against their will this time also? If I could’ve stayed a bit longer that first time, maybe things hadn’t gotten so bad that it had to go half a year before I was well enough to get back out. Because my third day there I kind of wanted to stay a while, because I realized that creeping up the walls, and laughing uncontrollably for several hours straight, loosing control wasn’t healthy, wasn’t good, wasn’t anywhere near being able to take care of myself. I was ready to get help.

But three days later I was on another planet. I was never going to accept help again. I was never going to live another day. And it might sound strange that things changed so much just in the span of some days, but that’s the truth. I was really on the edge when I lost control that day in my therapists office, it all started to crumble down, I was spinning out of control. And that third day I saw that, I understood that, and I knew I needed help. I felt myself loosing the grip on the world,  I was just one step away from free falling. And when they rejected me, that step was made. I had lost control, and I didn’t realize any longer that my perception of the world was me being sick, I didn’t see or understand that I needed help, I was too lost for that. All I knew was I was going to die and I thought that I was perfectly healthy in believing that.

6 weeks ago I was discharged again, for the umpteenth time. Then I had been admitted for more than 3 months consecutively, and for half a year more or less (some days discharged because they couldn’t keep my against my will any longer, few days later I got worse and they put me in again). But this time it was planned, it was a step in the right direction. The last 6 weeks I’ve been trying so hard on my own. And the moment where I need to take a trip back to hospital hasn’t come yet, and I don’t see it in the near future either. This time it really is good bye hospital, hello world. I exist in the world. And writing that is so big. It must sound stupid, but to me, that’s so big. I don’t mean that the derealization has stopped, or that I am alive existentially. What I mean is that I have thoughts about the world, I as a person has a life that is more than hospital, and more than my own mind. My life has the world in it. Gosh, I don’t think I’m making myself understood … well, at least I understand myself. Thaha!

I’m not saying that things are easy now, and I’m not saying that I’m not ill anymore, what I’m saying is that fighting with all you have, with all you are, will make a difference, it will move you from one situation to another. What I’m saying is that even if you fight for so long, and you feel as if it is all you’ve ever done, and even if you think for days and days and days on end that nothing will ever change, it will never get any better, and for so long it never does get better, it will. It does. Do I still think of dying? Yes, everyday. Several times a day. But is it all I do? No, not anymore. I’m not where I was some months ago. Not just in a physical way, but in an emotional and mental way. I’m not the zombie that didn’t see anyone else, and who didn’t know what the reflection in the mirror was. I don’t have that one track mind any more. There is room for other stuff. For some good stuff even. And no matter how much I want to give up, and no matter how often I feel like I’m fed up and has had enough of life for better or worse, I don’t want to make the mistake of not acknowledging that, that it has gotten better. No matter how much it hurts, still, no matter how hard it is to keep going, I am not going to forget that somehow it was worse than this a while back, even if that sounds impossible. It’s not good, but it is better. Even if it’s just an inkling. A drop is still a drop, even though the ocean is wide (quote by me!).


You made it through the year

Tomorrow it’s my birthday. I’m anxious. But at least I know there won’t be any tears this year! For the first time in history! (Or, maybe there will be tears, but since I haven’t been able to shedding them lately, I don’t think anything will change tomorrow … or, maybe it will, who knows, it’s become a tradition by now to cry on my b-day after all! Buhu, life sucks!)

I do have plans, but I’m super worried that they won’t turn out good, and that I’ll be reminded that I should die by the end of the day. It’s strange with becoming a year older, you hear that voice in your head, the one that is oddly familiar with the boy next door who used to tell you how much you sucked. I mean, it’s often there, but on a day like that, it’s there more, because you shouldn’t be allowed to feel the happiness that is often associated with those days. You shouldn’t even’ve become a year older. You should’ve died already. That voice, however familiar to the boy next door and to the teachers in elementary and your long time friend who should’ve known better, most of all it’s familiar to your own. Because that is what it does to you: it manipulates you to start tormenting yourself, because all they say is true, so you’ll tell the truth too, right? It’s that, or knowing that they are wrong, and feeling that they are wrong, and seeing that no one does anything about it. Somewhere along you learned that it was easier thinking you deserved it. So all these years later, when turning a year older, making it through all those 365 days, you hear that voice again, shouting in your head, that you’re not worth it. But as I said, I do have plans, and I’m gonna meet some great friends, and maybe some hugs and being surrounded by love (oh, cheesy!) will make that stupid voice fade.

Now I’m gonna go to bed, showered and smooth, and read some chapters in Divergent, before I fall asleep into the clean sheets I just put on. I’m gonna try not to worry about tomorrow, the first thing I can do to not let it get bad is to be rested.

PS: Wow, reading this my life sounds so privileged and good. Well sometimes the pain doesn’t shine through, and I should probably be happy with being able to put up a sweet exterior. The truth is I’ll be happy (read: ok) if I get through tomorrow without any new scars and a couple of hugs.

For some further reference, check out my birthday last year: What defines your happiness?

Why do I keep pushing, when no matter what I do, I end up feeling the pain?

I am proud of myself. Hallo! am proud of myself. When did that ever happen before?
And I am disappointed. But I know I shouldn’t be disappointed, because I did as well as I could, and I tried, and I did so much more than I had expected from myself, and not doing it 100% is allowed, and it’s still new to pay attention to myself and my needs so I understand that I didn’t manage to do it 100% perfect.

Today I went out and spent time with some friends. Not close friends, just one of them were. We were 6. I think it’s almost a year since the last time I was surrounded by so many people that wasn’t my family, or medical people, at once. I was nervous, I was filled with anxiety, I felt worthless, but I did it! I fucking did it, man! Me! I. And I know I left too late, that I spent too long there for my own good. That I should’ve cut it shorter, but it was so hard. Because I had an ok time, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because the others didn’t go home so early, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because what was I supposed to say when I left early, and the others stayed (?), so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because it was nice being out of the house for once, and it was ok to meet my friends, and to listen to them talk and be excited about a life that didn’t involve pain, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. But I shouldn’t have, I should’ve known better, and left early. But I didn’t know better, and there is no point in beating myself up about that, because I went out. I went out of the house and met people, and that is BIG. That is something that is so hard to do. So so what if I didn’t leave when I should’ve, I did something great still, and you can’t expect things to be perfect, and you can’t expect yourself to know better all the time. I thought it would be ok to stay longer, but I was wrong, and I am allowed to be wrong without having to die for it.

So yeah … I think I’m proud. I don’t feel proud, but I think proud. What I feel though, is that I should die. I should die tonight. I should end it all. Life is too painful. Life is terrible. And this is how I know I stayed too long. The repercussions of wearing yourself down when you’re depressed, and when you get overstimulated by the world because of sensory problems and stuff  … fuck, it sucks. I don’t wanna wanna die. I don’t wanna feel shitty. I am happy (not like in a feeling kinda way, but a reasonable kinda way) that I went, and that I pushed myself to be social, but I’m just so sad that this is how my life is. Instead of going home from a nice evening with nice people and feeling like a hundred bucks going to bed and falling asleep with a smile on my mouth, I want to die. And that is not how it’s supposed to be. And I’m so sad, so disappointed, that this is how my life is. I don’t want this. I’m so tired. I’m so awfully fed up with being sick.

But! I am proud. (I reaaaaaally don’t feel proud, but I should be, because I pushed myself to do something that was extremely hard for me to do, and I went through with it, doesn’t that give me reason to be proud?) What do you say? Do you have any well-meaning words that could cheer a terribly worn down person up?

Self-harm on a whole new level!

I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit this, because I think it’s terrible, but here goes …

My self-harm has come to a new level. It’s not clean cuts, or a bunch of clean cuts. It’s not stitches, or a bunch of stitches. It’s nothing that will make me have to go to the doctor, where I’ll get those condescending looks, and where I’ll be met with overbearing nurses who don’t want to listen when I try to tell them what kind of thread they need to use on my skin. I won’t have to take the risk of meeting a doctor who’ll make me justify being sick, or who’ll treat me badly because surely I must like pain. This won’t leave traces on my skin which’ll haunt me forever, only I can know the harm it has done to me, unless I’m very unfortunate and it turns out the wrong way. This won’t be visible on me, and I will never spend time trying to hide it, because it’s hidden most of the time anyways. I’ll never be left disappointed with the world because of this. It’ll never give me experiences of inferiority (visiting the doctor for self-harm often does). But it hurts.

I’m inclined to say that it hurts worse than any cut ever has, but I’m not sure if I’m saying that because it’s true or because in this moment it’s pulsating with pain. It hurts when I do it, and during the night, to the point it wakes me up sometimes, and then for days after. It hurts so much it makes me walk funny, and sometimes it’s so bad I look totally ridiculous when walking. It hurts in a very demanding way, it’s insisting to be felt, to be thought of, to be endured. It makes me feel like an idiot! Because who would do this to themselves? Who?! And why would someone do this to themselves? And three days after when it still hurts I think to myself that I shouldn’t have done it, but then I remember that I should, I deserve it. There’s no escaping it, because it’s already done and only time will make it right again. But I deserve that. How can I think that? And it makes me feel like an idiot even more because rationally I know that there are risks with doing this, like an infection (which could make me have to visit the doctor), or it never growing back. But I guess all self-harm in one way is idiotic. I don’t wanna be an idiot though, but I don’t know how to not hurt myself. I’m obviously not well.

I’ve been pulling my nails out.


Edit: I’m starting to wonder if I’m more messed up than I thought.

I remember, but I wish, I wish (!) I didn’t. How can I ever forget that I’m worthless?

Let me just say I really appreciate all the comments, I’m just in a so spaced-off place that I can’t focus enough to realize what they are saying, and not even in my right sense to approve them, and respond, but I will, I promise. And I do, do, DO, appreciate them, really. I’m just messed up and shut off (or something, heck I dunno!) and don’t know how to even speak the same language as my friends. There are SMSs, messages and missed phone calls I haven’t responded to and when speaking to my mother this evening I almost couldn’t wait for the phone call to end. I feel like a dick person. But maybe it’s just numbness. But in some days I will read the comments again, and I’ll respond. So thank you. How long did I take writing this? Wow, my god.

I’m not even sure I exist. Derealization, welcome! Fuck this. I need stitches. Come on Marie, don’t do that. Hold it together, don’t let it go that far. Your dad will worry if you run out the door in the middle of the night. Don’t do that. Pull it together, you moron. Pull it the fuck together.

Reading in that old diary yesterday was like opening a can of worms. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck! How can I ever be able to handle that that happened to me. That that little girl had that life? How did I ever get through it then? How did I cope, how did I live? When it sent me spiraling into a deep, deep depression when I got older, how did I manage to survive that as a kid?! I can’t handle remembering it, so how did I handle living it? Without telling anyone.
God, I get so sad for that little person, that little girl that I once was. Every day! Every DAY. And then when I met wonderful people, people who saw me, and liked me, I wasn’t able to experience it because I was already broken. There came so many good people into my life when I moved, and I never believed it, I never believed that they cared about me, that they liked me, that I mattered. That, I, the worthless, ugly piece of shit, mattered. But I did, and I didn’t get to feel it, because all I felt was worthless, broken. And those who broke me … they don’t even know. They don’t remember ruining my life.

I remember. I remember when he spat me in the face, and laughed it off, as if it was an accident. It was no accident. And this guy, he don’t have a single clue what he did. I remember my friends (my friends!) talking about a party they were going to, one which I weren’t invited to. I was okay with not being invited, but it was the way they talked about it. Whispering, and looking over at me, insinuating how un-cool I was, since I wasn’t invited. It turned out there were no party, they just did it for fun. FOR FUN! And they don’t remember this. They thought of me as their friend, some of them still do, and I love them. But how could they be so cruel? How can kids be so cruel?! I remember one of my teachers telling me all I said was bullshit. I told him he couldn’t talk to me like that, that it was bullying, and then he said right to my face that that was bullshit too. That all I ever said was bullshit. And it wasn’t. I was a good kid, wanted to be kind to everyone, trying to be perfect so that no one could hurt me. But it doesn’t matter if your perfect. And I could say that they didn’t know better, when it comes to the kids, but the grown-ups, is not knowing better a good enough excuse then? How can adults tell an 8 year old to stop crying, that there are no reason to cry, someone just told you you were worthless, that you deserved to die, but that’s not a reason to cry. Why isn’t that a reason to cry? Because that’s what I deserved, because that’s the truth? That was what I thought. I must be. When no one would do anything, and I wasn’t allowed to be sad about it, it must be because that was what I deserved. I deserved all the pain. And all this pain that has come around the last years, the hospitalizations, the stitches, the overdoses, it has all been a part of what I deserve. How can grown-ups be this way?

And I know that grown-ups are sometimes so much worse than this, they molest kids and they beat kids, and that is so much worse than what I experienced. But, and this is gonna sound awful, maybe dis-respecting, and that is not what I want, but sometimes … (if you have experienced that, don’t hate me for thinking this, it’s just a thought, and I really don’t mean to downplay your pain, not at all!) … sometimes I think that would’ve been better. If they hurt me physically but I knew that it was wrong. Instead of always believing I was so worthless I deserved it. To feel the pain from having people do that to you, but knowing it was wrong, and knowing that everybody thought it was wrong, in stead of hearing that the pain I experienced was right, it was what my life was supposed to be, forever. That was who I was, a punching bag for my surroundings.

I’m so grateful for my parents. I’m blessed to have them. Really, really, really. But the shitty thing right now is that that makes me feel guilty for being sick. Because I love them so much, I just wish I didn’t bring this pain upon them. The pain it is for them seeing me sick, and in hospital, and hurting myself, putting myself in danger. I shouldn’t be allowed to feel hurt, when I have that good parents. But gratefulness doesn’t take your pain away. Love for loved ones doesn’t take your pain away. Especially not when you’re deluded into thinking the best thing for everyone is if you’re dead.

I feel so weak for experiencing all this pain. I keep hearing a voice inside my head telling me it’s not bad enough, it’s not a good enough reason to feel hurt. But at the same time, I can’t look at myself and say that what I see is weak. But how is people stronger? How do we all get through this? How do we all stay alive ……

I’m so overwhelmed. Why aren’t there any mental acute pain-killers? I need one.

Everything is so painful, I can’t sleep! There is no one to talk to and no where to go, in the middle of the night, so I figured getting out of bed and getting it out could be a good idea, but help my soul, nothing takes the pain away!

I was 14 the first time I cut myself. It was random, but probably would have happened sooner or later, if not that night. I accidentally dropped a bottle of perfume, it broke into many pieces. I cleaned up the mess, and kept some of the sharpest ones. Later I took one of them and ripped my skin open. It was tiny, tiny, it barely bled. One could probably say that it was only a scratch. It just had to try, right? Perfectly normal, nothing to worry about. But truthfully, I guess I was sick, already then.

My thoughts on myself in the world, and the world in me was absurd. I believed it to be my fault when people were raped in Africa, and earthquakes happening half around the globe was also my fault. Whenever I made a mistake, if I ever accidentally made someone the teeny-est bit upset, I would be filled with shame. How could I, so worthless, make someone else who was valued feel bad? I felt like a disgrace to humanity, and was filled with pain, and thoughts of ending my own life, that that was what I deserved for being in the way, or bumping into someone.

I got the worst idea tonight. I was feeling upset already, and I felt as if I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and then I got this feeble thought. I should find the diaries from the period where I figured I would find my first suicide ‘hope’.  Find out when it was I first walked that way. How could I be so stupid? I already felt worn out and barely holding myself together, how could I get that foolish idea to read from a diary of that time when I was so hopeless, so lousy, so alone. How is it possible? And how is it possible to accept ones past and move on from it all. I feel so guilty for being upset that I was bullied when there are kids who are abused, because I think that the pain I suffered wasn’t bad enough. I have no right to be sad. I have no right fall apart. But I do. I do fall apart, and it hurts so much. It hurts so much! It’s too much …

I put the diaries away, but they’ve already torn the wound apart, it’s pouring. How could I be so stupid? I’m not strong enough to face my past. It hurts so much! Why did I do this to myself tonight? I don’t wanna remember. And I don’t know how to remember.

And now there are more pieces shattered again. Why, why, WHY!? I don’t want my past to have happened. Why can’t I wipe it all away. I’m sorry that I exist, I can’t take this anymore.