Have you ever been so sick of stumbling through life just to find yourself in an endless cycle of dead ends and resets? Have you ever reached a point when, for all your efforts, nothing seemed to improve so you just decided ‘fuck it!’
I reached this point Friday and I have spiraled into an epic state of avoidance and mathematics ever since.
Friday I was sat in class. I was there with all the good intentions in the world; forever the optimist. Then the panic began to pull its way up my esophagus. It pulled at my heart strings, in sat on my voice box and it clawed my guts up behind my eyeballs. I sat there and I fought. I fought for my breathe, for my sanity and for my friends because screaming and puking simultaneously is not fair on anyone who has to see it.
Eventually I ran. I rocked myself, hands clasped over my head and cried silently in an attempt to swallow it back down. My efforts eventually made way for nothing but a seizure.
I came back round a different entity entirely. I was completely confounded as to why I was there at all. Eventually I gathered enough of my thoughts to make my way back to the room. It took a further 10 minutes for me to not just stare at the door handle but actually grasp it and push the heavy wooden barrier open.
A while later, still fighting the anxiety we took a break. In that moment I gave way to my only need; my survival kicked in and I was gone. I scooped everything off the desk in one go and launched it into my backpack before speed walking like a soccer mum on crack, out of that building.
By Friday afternoon I was suicidal, having gone to the mental health team in desperate need of help and being presented with some jumped up little know it all, fresh out of her degree and having never seen real horror in her precious little life. She had sat there and smirked at me with her head so far tilted to one side I had hoped it might fall off so I could give it a good hard kick it.
She told me ‘I will try and see if someone can call you about your situation.’ That was her solution, to send the normally docile and smiling patient, who was now red faced, hair torn, rambling, rocking and suicidal, back home with a maybe on the help….
So there I was sat on my bed, doing what I hate most; the math. I calculated a staggering 5,240mg in a cocktail of varying drugs. I formula I was pretty sure would end me before the Saturday sun surfaced.
I send my text to my partner just letting him know I love him. It wasn’t suspicious at all, I do that a lot and so does he. He replied as standard and I began to thumb the pills from their little foil beds. Then my cat stepped in. I am here today because of a cat. Don’t ever tell me cats are cold and don’t care.
She sat onto of my pile of pills. She looked me right in my dank eyes and she meowed in such a tone it caused a memory to ricochet into my cortex. I was hit so hard with it, the way the scene cavorted in front of my eyes, that I gasped so hard it was lucky I didn’t inhale the pills with the cat.
And there she was, my little Maggie Mae, scared for her life, cowering in the corner of her little room at the cattery that I left her in during one holiday. I was recalling how relieved she was to see me. The way she howled more than meowed and clung her little claws around my nape as I flew into the room to hold her. She could not cope without me; she needed me to survive or she would be scared, alone and traumatized just like I had been and as her mother, I would never allow that to happen to my baby and she knew that.
So with reluctance I scooped her up again, cried into her nape and choked my apologies before taking myself off to bed and laying motionless with nothing but tears emitting from my body.
I pondered my choices that evening. Do I quit my dream or do I quit life? Will it ever really get better or am I deluded and everyone else a liar? Is this a cruel psychological experiment being conducted by the government to see how far a person can be pushed? I was made to suffer from the start after all. I have concluded the later and they are winning so maybe they can…give it a fucking rest now?
Saturday, the sun never did come. I remained void of any light, slumped sideways in trying to force myself to be normal because ‘just snap out of it’ is the solution.
I was still a different person at this point. I was listening to music I have never previously even bothered with, I was perplexed as to why I had no slipknot t-shirts anymore and I most certainly did not eat weetabix!
I found myself at my desk painting. Something I love to do but never actually do because I am lazy and unmotivated.
Then my partner came round. I unfolded then. My spiral unraveled down, down, down the rabbit hole. Tears and mucus unleashed like the gates of sinus hell had opened. Truth bitter and repulsive spewing from my mouth with no care if it should swallow him or shove him far. I was officially broken.
The remainder of the weekend saw me tearing my hair out because of all the fireworks, day and night. It saw me cry, have more seizures, lose all hope and then be refused to a new property despite mt growing needs for a ground floor place. Literally everything that could be going wrong or causing me stress, happened over this weekend.
The seizure was weird. I felt it coming and I tried to stop it because they tell me I can control them. I felt this creeping sensation in the back of my brain, like tiny fizzy sparklers gently walking across my brain’s surface in an octopus like fashion. I swear I could feel my brain lighting up all its danger signals trying to stop the fright train (punny) from colliding and causing bloodshed.
When he left Sunday evening I clung to him with genuine fear for my life. I cried. All he could do was ask me to hold on and not give up. I didn’t promise.
I’m still not ok. I have slipped into avoidance mode. I don’t give a shit mode. Disassociation mode. Leave me alone mode. I’m so done mode. I give up mode. This is survival mode.