Trapped inside a body
I hate, I am drowning.
How am I supposed to
survive, when the surface
is frozen solid? I will never
get out of this sea
of despair. Yet I cannot
I break myself.
Each hit, each cut – it’s
the only way for me to
breathe, to get a break.
Tag Archives: recovery
Trapped inside a body
It’s been almost 10 years. 10 years of suffering. 10 years of fighting a war against myself that I won’t ever get back. The mere sight of that number makes me feel utterly nauseous and I can feel my knees getting weak. These illnesses have invaded and ruined every part of my life and me, and yet I am still expected to be able to look ahead with hope and positive thoughts.
I still remember the first few years of this misery. How I begged and cried and hoped and tried to get better and yet nothing helped, nothing changed. I just kept getting worse. What if that’s all I’m here for? To get worse and worse and worse?
I’m tired of feeling like I’m choking.
I’m tired of listening to ‘stay strong’s and ‘you can do it’s because quite frankly, I just don’t have the energy anymore.
Hopefulness is a rare feeling inside of me; most of the time I just feel utterly nauseous and miserable and low. The fact that I’m seemingly unable to handle life, my responsibilities and my demons certainly isn’t helpful in that regard either.
Time is not on my side. Not now, not ever. And it’s exactly that fact that keeps me in this sea of pure despair.
Maybe I just need some time off, some time away from everything and everyone to decide what to do, to decide, once and for all, if going on is truly what I desire or if leaving is the best option.
Every day is a battle, and every day seems to be getting harder and harder to get through. I know it’s because my mood is currently diving all the way down to hell, and I know that there have been days that were easier, that weren’t as bad, but when I spend my nights watching self-destructive memories flash in front of my eyes and my days questioning if I should eat something, if I should get out of bed, if I should continue my life or not, then it’s just a bit difficult to remind myself of the positive aspects of my life and of easier times.
I wish I could tell my mind to just put a sock in it. I wish I could tell it to think about my best friends, my very much beloved boyfriend, about the little things that make me laugh like bad jokes and videos/pictures of kittens and puppies (and all the sweet baby animals out there), but it’s just, unfortunately, not an option all the time. Things that trigger me, even if it’s just the smallest situation, seem to be getting the best of me each time, and it doesn’t matter how often I count from 1 to 10, or how much I try to control my breathing and bite my lips to keep the screaming, the pain inside; I just always seem to be standing on the edge of a cliff, swaying back and forth, threatening to fall.
They say that it gets easier. I agree. It can get easier, it does get easier, but the issue is that out of nowhere it can get horribly worse again, and if you aren’t prepared for that, if you haven’t quite learnt how to fly instead of fall, it just fucking sucks. I want to believe and hope and fight, but my God, currently? Currently I’m hopeless. Currently I’m standing in front of the mirror, hating every inch of this body, wondering how it’s possible that I’m loved. Currently I’m hearing every single voice inside of my head yelling curses at me, hitting me from each side. And my God, they say that fire cannot kill a dragon, yet what if all this time I’ve seen myself as a dragon, I’ve been nothing but a puppet in a cruel play; what if the only purpose I have is to wait till the curtain closes and my puppet masters decide to cut the strings in order to choke me with them? What if, what if, what if?
What if I’m just too tired, too old, too broken to go on?
March is almost over already and so far I don’t have any particularly great news to share. If I look back at this month, the mere words that come to my mind are painted with nothing but agony and despair. About a year ago I was discharged from inpatient treatment, about a year ago I tried very hard to overcome things on my own, to keep up with my health and stability and yet today? Today I find myself once again standing in front of a cliff while the harsh wind is rushing past me, cutting into my skin like blades, either trying to push me over or ‘convince’ me to ‘just take a step closer to the edge’.
My eating disorder is getting worse again. Night after night I end up exercising more and more, my days are filled with thoughts about how much I should be doing later on, if I should be eating, if I didn’t already have enough and above all: if I should get rid of it again. The fact that I’m struggling a lot with purging especially is getting to me. Not because it’s something particularly new, but because it used to not play such a huge role in my life as it does now. While there’s always a sick corner in my mind that is craving the rush, the feeling of emptiness, there are also other parts that leave me broken when I’m finished. I don’t feel ‘well’ or accomplished or great when I look into the mirror.
I feel tired. I feel disgusted with myself. I feel upset, and yes, I also feel sad.
Sad that it seems like it doesn’t matter how hard I’m trying because I just cannot get out of these vicious cycles.
Self harm, depression, detachment, exhaustion, anxiety, despair – only a few of the things I’ve been forced to fight for far too long already.
(Once again I can hear past therapists’ words playing in the back of my mind:
“Sometimes, when it’s been going on for such a long time, it’s too late.“)
It’s too late.
Those few words that have always been screaming for attention inside of me.
It’s too late, too late, too late.
Are there any other words that make you feel more hopeless than these? At least at the moment I cannot think of any.
What if they are right? What if this is it?
To be quite honest, when I think about how many years my mental illnesses have already consumed, I can feel my knees getting weak. The past is stained with dark red blotches of misery and my future doesn’t look any better either; everyone agrees with that.
I’ve long accepted that if I continue, I will always need my medication, I will always need to be careful, to watch my every step. A fact that makes me wonder, more often than not, if it’s worth it.
After all, my illnesses have invaded every part of my life, ruined it, ruined me. I feel like I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life trying to fix it, doomed to spend my life with the attempt to survive instead of actually living it. A thought that feels like there’s a knife stuck in my chest.
Tomorrow I’m seeing my new therapist for the last time until my insurance company decides to allow further sessions. Hopefully they won’t make me wait for too long again, though, because despite all disordered thoughts and voices inside of me, I’m quite aware that I need the help and that I need it asap.
Let’s wait and see if I’ll get it.
Lately my mood has been very, very low and regardless of what I do and try, I seem to be unable to get out of it. Most of the day I just want to stay in bed or sit around covered in blankets with a hot water bottle resting on my knees while simply staring out the window.
(Although, I suppose, I wouldn’t mind just sleeping either.)
The thoughts that are running through my mind go back and forth between seeing death as the only solution and hopelessness as the only state of mind I could and should have.
I’m so tired of this life.
I’m so tired of this feeling of guilt clutching my heart.
(Seeing my therapist tomorrow again, but I still have to finish some things for it which will only lower my mood even more.)
I may have wings,
yet I’m not
your little butterfly.
I’m the dragon that will burn you
if you step over my lines.
This week truly hasn’t been one of my best. I relapsed a lot and if I had to describe my mood, I’d say that it seems to be stuck in between ‘low’ and ‘so low, I can almost taste the fire of hell on my lips’ which is probably why I spent most of it in bed or feeling too paralysed to do anything else but staring ahead of me, getting lost in my thoughts and whatever bit of darkness can be found in it.
Yesterday, however, I was forced to go out to see my new (I lost count of how many I’ve had) therapist, after I’ve tried for months to convince my insurance company to cover the costs for my treatment. To be honest, there isn’t a lot to say about it yet, except that so far he seems more capable than any of the others I’ve had in my life. I don’t want to go out on a limb and say that I’m hopeful, though. After all, it’s been only one session so far, and who knows, maybe after the first five probatory sessions, he will decide that he no longer believes that he can help me as so many others have already. (A hopeless case. That’s what I’ve been called too often already.) Or maybe, I’ll be the one putting my foot down because his treatment plan isn’t the right one for me, after all. We’ll see.
Regardless of that, I must say that it was exhausting to go back to talking about things that have happened in my life, and things that are making it currently unbearable. Of course I am used to thinking about those topics, I’m used to writing about them and finding some comfort in written words, and yet all these memories flowing around inside of my head seemed to have drained me of all my energy yesterday. I could barely stand after I left his office because my whole body had tensed up too much, and each fibre of my being was screaming in agony.
I certainly hope that with time, it will be easier once again.
there are already things that I appreciate about my new therapist. It’s not only that he promised to take care of things with my insurance company, but also that he’s actively listening, that he isn’t interrupting me or simply adding off-the-rack comments such as ‘That’s sad.’ and ‘Oh yes, that’s understandable.’ One of the things I am appreciate of the most, however, is that I’m allowed to talk about my suicidal thoughts without having to worry that I will be threatened with forcibly admission back into inpatient treatment.
There is something relieving about the ability to talk about the darkest thoughts and plans without always having to make sure that I’m not sharing too much for my own good.
Frustration and anger are some of the main things that have been giving me a headache today while the cold and my silly body acting up seem to be nothing but mere sidekicks.
My last (outpatient) ex-therapist (back then, over a year ago) stopped our therapy sessions because she decided that I shouldn’t see her anymore due to my amount of mental illnesses. While I can assure that today I’m alright with that (especially because she was an awful therapist who said and did a lot of unprofessional things) and I’ve been rejected and given up on already quite some times, I didn’t expect her, in particular, to turn out to be a thorn in my side – again.
Apparently, she managed to forget to tell my insurance company that all approved therapy sessions wouldn’t be needed anymore which means that my insurance sent me a letter informing me that while they’d be generally speaking likely up to paying my future therapist (since I collected and filled out all the paper work as requested), they will not do so until I’ve shown/proven/explained that the prior approved outpatient treatment has already been finished (or in this case, stopped).
Since I am in desperate need of starting therapy again, I have to admit that this delay is upsetting and annoying, and absolutely unnecessary if only she had remembered to do her job. I really hope that this is the only issue and that it will be resolved soon.
Had to meet with a new therapist this week because my insurance company wanted me to see one of theirs before they’d even consider paying the private one I seem to get along with. It was exhausting, to say the least, and, on more than one level, useless since she concluded our session by saying that she cannot take me as a patient because I have too much.
I suppose I appreciate the honesty, but being told again that outpatient treatment STILL is not what can/is going to help me hurts. I do not have the time or energy to go back to inpatient treatment. I don’t have the money. I have to think of university and my degree and future and just taking a break now – after I only got out of inpatient treatment in March – is just not a possibility. Of course, I’m aware that I should put my health above everything else, but this is a rather complicated situation and, you know, life doesn’t always allow you to think of health first and to concentrate on yourself.
To be honest, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
I am here. Not because
you told me so
but because I realised
that life goes on
even while I’m drowning
in my sheets and
bloody tears have stained
them all over.
I am here. Not because
I belong to you
but because I understood
that I can be
the change I desperately
I am here. Ready to
claim the space I
deserve. To scream at
the top of my
lungs, to fight for
others and myself because
I am here at
a place I belong
and I refuse to
turn into a ghost
for your convenience.