I hate my stupid head. Probably one of my most favourite says and one of those things a friend of mine hates to hear all the time, but it is true. I do. I hate it with a passion. The crazy stuff it conjures up, the way it makes me feel the times it argues with me and it always wins. Always. I am powerless against it. I fight it with logic and reason and it just comes back at with me with more and more until I am pulling at my hair, taking a knife to my skin and just begging it to please shut the hell up because I can’t take it anymore.
I am so glad at the moment everyone is talking about depression and suicide, although I know that in a month or so when the news of Robin Williams death has begun to be forgotten, so will the cause and soon we will be back to ignoring mental illness. I really hope it isn’t.
A couple of weeks back I posted a blog on the time limit for mental health, because there is one. The medical professions fob you off with medication that only works for a little while, then your body gets used to it and you need more. Any therapy that is given has a limit. I find it so stupid. Twice this year I have come to the point of making an attempt on my own life. Twice the hospital have sent me home after fixing me up. Last year I had done the same. In my last therapy session my therapist asked me on a scale of one to ten, one being dangerous and ten being no danger, how do I rate my risk for another suicide attempt? I told him that I was a three. Which means it’s there. I want to do it. Sometimes it’s so overwhelming I plan it in my head, visualise what I am going to do, but I have something that stops me – my children and my family. What if one day that is not enough?
My therapist then showed me a chart about people like myself who think bad thoughts, self-harm and then feel bad because they self-harmed and it’s a cycle, which is true of course, he said what I need to do is step out of this cycle and draw on my compassionate self to self sooth. It feels somewhat like being told to think myself happy. I have tried explaining to him that some days I feel so weighed down and sad and alone and so desperate that the thought of feeling this way for another minute has me sitting in a corner and all I can do is cry and self-harm some more because I don’t want to feel this way anymore and no amount of happy thoughts can pull me from it.
I wish I had a physical illness instead. At least then I would get the help. I hope if anything comes out of the heart-breaking death of Robin Williams, it is that people start standing up on both sides of the fence. Those who are sick with this dreadful illness and any other medical condition no longer fear talking about it and those with the power to help, do so.
I hope that if you are reading this and you have these hours, weeks, days or even months of darkness when you can’t climb out of the hole, know that you are not alone.