ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD

entry seven

The most difficult part of having an illness that is only in your head is having to rationalize it. Not only to others. But too yourself.

We, especially in todays age are such visual creatures. It's easy to care and to sympathize with an ailment we can see or touch. Someone with a broken leg get their cast signed, and people with cancer or other illnesses get all of the help and the understanding they rightfully deserve. But it feels impossible to prove something that only exists in your head.

I know I'm sick. I know it. But even I find myself not believing it.

Sure I have scars, and I have the pill bottles and the razors and the old unsuccessful suicide notes. But that dosent seem to be enough.

I'm just doing it all for attention.

It's not real.

Maybe I'm not real.

"Thinking you are not sick or faking illness is in-fact a symptom of sickness."

A therapist once said that to me. But she later fired me so, I don't know what that means.

I've been finding myself trying to prove or justify that I am in fact sick, to myself. Maybe I'm just being dramatic, or I'm just trying to get attention from someone. Maybe I'm just weak and take things too seriously like everyone says.

So I stopped taking my medication.

Stupid decision I know. The side effects of stalling everything cold turkey was enough for me to see that. But in all honesty the pain, the nausea, the vertigo, and the sleepless nights only fueled me even more. I managed to convince myself that the pain only meant I was being cleansed, and I can be normal. I thought If was the pills that changed me, and without them perhaps I am just normal.

Then two weeks later, cue my fourth suicide attempt.

I'm fine now. Physically I mean. I'll never be mentally fine. It's been four weeks and I'm back on my medication.

The time without it was very interesting. I thought I was doing it all for attention, even though I always take drastic measures to hide it from everyone.

You want your own attention.

That makes no sense, shut up.

I hid myself away for five days, locking myself up so I can suffer in peace without questions or interference. I screamed, and cried, and hurt myself to try to relieve the mental agony. Each day was a roller coster of emotions that each inevitably led to my distraction in some way or another. I convinced myself the people and the things I love would be better off without me. If you love something set them free. And in this case they needed to be free of me.

I tried really hard to stay. I shook and cried and screamed and rocked back and forth whilst digging my nails into my fresh healing cuts to try to distract myself, and to try to wait until the wind shifted and I no longer felt suicidal. But it was four whole days, and I still felt the same. That is the longest time I've been stuck on the extreme end of the scale. Usually I can have shifts a few times a day or at least once a day. But for four whole days I spent convincing myself to just give up and die.

I should have been admitted to the psyc ward. If I wasn't living alone I would have been. But I'm never going. I will lie to psychiatrists, I will lie to therapists, I will lie and manipulate and fight anyone to not go there. Once I drop my mask and they see my true colors I know exactly what will happen. I will be strapped down. Screaming and crying to get free as they inject me with a sedative. Then I will be a medically induced zombie, staring blankly ahead for weeks and weeks until they decide I've been traumatized enough to be released into the wild again. Trapped in my own head with no escape or chance to relieve it. Those workers don't get paid enough. Yet some get paid too much, some abuse us. And who are people going to believe? A mental patient or an established Dr or nurse? No thank you.

I cried and hyperventilated so much that all I could taste was my own blood. I have an inhaler, without it to help loosen my lungs during that time I'm sure I would have passed out. But it had been happening off and on for those four days.

It's been two weeks, and I'm still recovering.

I was unable to speak for an entire week. Even drinking water hurt my throat far too much. I had no energy or motivation to do anything, not eat, not shower, or brush my hair or teeth. All I did was sleep. After I got my voice back a bit I finally accepted that I was unsuccessful yet again. So I might as well try to get it together.

Showering was the hardest thing I had to do. I barley had the energy to stand, let alone wash my hair. So I sat and let the hot water fall on me, burning into my wounds that I hadn't had the motivation to bind or stitch. But at least I was clean. I probably sat in there for at least an hour, maybe more. And after I forced myself to comb my hair.

And that's all I did that day.

I broke getting my life back into tasks. And all I had to do was one. Just one a day, and that's it.

It's hard to justify your mental illness sometimes. But we shouldn't have to justify it. Just as someone with a physical illness shouldn't have to justify it to others.

Other people don't have to believe us. We just have to believe in ourselves.

I'm finding this is a pattern. Not the cutting off medication and believing I'm faking— but the attempts.

One at fourteen. One at sixteen. One at eighteen. And finally this last one, at twenty.

Every two years.

I think that's about the only real consistent thing in my life.

I had gone a few weeks without relapsing after that. But I just fell back into it again. It makes me strangely happy seeing how deep I can go with one swipe, and watching them heal. I love watching them heal. It's so fascinating.

Yet it's bad timing. It's getting warm again, and I'm stuck in my long pants and long sleeves. People are beginning to ask questions.

"It's because we care."

You say that, but I still can't believe it's true.

Isn't it sad that the only treatment option for people with borderline personality disorder is assisted suicide? I've thought about it. A lot. But this is America. A corporation not a country. So I could never afford it.

"You're just being dramatic."

I don't need you to believe me.

But I wish I believed myself.