I am so on the edge. Absolutely on the edge. The difference is when I’ve been on the edge in the past I’ve had some energy left, but a new sensation filled me today. Why am I even bothering? I just don’t want to do any of this anymore. ‘Any of this’ being simply living. I feel like I should be writing a cheerful and empowering and determined blog post but I’d just be lying to you all. So apologies in advance.
I feel so so exceptionally fragile. And I hate it. But I can’t remember ever feeling quite this fragile, quite this vulnerable and unsure of everything and just hurting. My heart aches and my head pounds with it. I feel like if I breathe slightly too deep, I’ll dislodge the thick heavy lump in my throat somehow, dislodge the fist of emotion that’s choking me, and I’ll drown. I think it’d kill me and in all honesty I don’t really care. I’d welcome death in an instant. But I don’t want to die that way. And despite everything, I still don’t want them to win. That’s the only flicker of fuel I have left now, deliberately frightening myself no you can’t kill yourself. If you do, imagine how arrogant they’d be, and who would suffer at the hands of that arrogance. It’s sick. I can’t even do something as personal and individual as take my own life without them having won control in some way. I feel like they’re a parasite; invading every single aspect of my life now. I can’t even grieve without the memories, so without their pain and without their faces. As a child I at least had school to escape to. I don’t even have that. The memories don’t leave me, the pain doesn’t leave me, the terror of them finding me (which they do) doesn’t leave me, and so every morning when I wake up it’s growing harder and harder to find the willpower to just try. Because I’m scared and I’m tired. I hate to admit it but I’ve grown to rely on meetings now, because lectures don’t require me – I won’t let anybody down except myself and I frankly stopped caring about that a while ago. I may let people down if I don’t attend meetings. And that is the only thing which forces me out of bed in a morning. Even when the world is so dark and painful and all I want to do is curl up and at least just sleep because that’s as near to dying as possible, I refuse to let the abusers affect anymore people than is necessary. So if I don’t turn up to a meeting because I’m in bed, then they’ve affected other people, however secondary. So I force myself up. I force myself to the meetings. I force myself to reply and write the emails that need doing. I force myself to smile. Not a lot feels genuine. I no longer have the energy for that.
Sometimes when they’re hurting me now, or making me do stuff which hurts me even more, I stare at them. I’m not staring with anger necessarily; it goes past that. I’m not even staring at them with pain. I’m pleading with them, which makes me feel so weak because something I so desperately tried to teach the children in the ring (and myself) was to not plead, to not beg for them to stop and not plead with our eyes, no matter how much we want to. When I was really young I struggled with this, because I really wanted them to stop and thought if I yelled ‘please stop’ etc, they might. Gradually I taught myself not to plead but I would still slip up. But ultimately our pleads just fuel them and tell them that they are causing the pain and devastation they want. For as long as we fought, screamed, lay numb, and just refused to plead no matter how much we wanted them to stop, we still had one tiny glimmer of self-control in an otherwise horrifically insane situation. Now, I still fight when they get me and I get more angry than I have normally allowed myself to. But I also plead. And this is fairly new to me. I plead with my eyes. Please, just kill me instead. Please just kill me. Take as long as you want but just finish this…or just stop. Just stop. I’ll let you win, I’ll never talk again if you just please stop. These pleads may be silent, or they may be spoken. Either way they’re ignored or mocked, and as I always knew…my pleads and begging are just used against me, and used to make me feel defenceless and weak.
That sense of overwhelming powerlessness and desperation seems to be haunting me though. Eating at me.
Today one of my alters stopped me from seriously self-harming. During the night I woke up and just sat in my bed, not crying, just completely numb and thinking I don’t want to do this anymore. It felt like an absolute accepting feeling, like something in my head had just clicked after days and weeks of struggling to. I didn’t feel dazed, or out of it, I just felt…finished. Resigned. Sad somewhere that I’d reached that point, but refusing to say this was me giving up. It is me being beaten up. I can only be beaten up for so long. But mostly I just wanted out. I didn’t care if that was in the form of suicide, or someone finding me and actually killing me, or me just drinking my way into oblivion and spending the rest of my days in a drunken unconscious state until my liver packed in, or just living on sleeping tablets so I was again unconscious. I really didn’t care which option it was. I just wanted out. I still do. I just don’t want to do this anymore. I know I have to, but what I have to do and what I want to do are so extremely opposite currently it’s unreal. People call me strong. I can tell you that I am not. I’m really not. I’m struggling now to get through a single day at a time; I constantly check the time to see how much longer I have to be awake for, how much longer of the day is left. Last night when I went to bed I whispered God, if you are there, please actually do something for me now. Please just let me stay asleep. And please don’t let them hurt my friends or anyone else when I’m gone….
God didn’t listen. I woke up in the night, as I say. And I woke up this morning. Somehow waking up in the morning was incredibly harder, to see the daylight again. That I had yet another day to somehow get through, to smile and work through and keep living in this fake bubble of “I’m coping, can you tell?” Daylight made it more real that I hadn’t just been allowed to die calmly in my sleep. That I had to face another day. And another day of what? Who the fuck knows?!
Even my body is finished. Everything’s finished. I feel like I’m just living now, waiting for the moment when I can just die, and not be held responsible for giving up or being weak or letting them win. Just die. Just be hit by a car in some accident and it all be decided for me. Just slip in the shower and knock myself out and drown. Nothing intentional, just something happening which can finally take me away from this without my last ever thoughts being of guilt – you kill yourself and you might as well give them the knife to rape someone else with.
But if I just die, then that’s not my fault is it?
It’s night-time. I will whisper my prayer again. And no doubt I’ll have to bloody wake up again, plaster my “i’m coping” face on, blast through meetings and emails, before crashing in tears in bed again.
I feel like I’m being punished by the fact I’m still alive. That’s probably what it is. Even my suicide attempts in the past have failed. Apparently I’m supposed to live in this turmoil and insane emotional pain which I just can’t even begin to put into words.
I don’t want to do this anymore.