Barely holding on.
As a fair warning: this blog talks about mental health issues, self-harm and other possibly triggery issues. If you have problem with these feel free to skip reading.
So, it's been a while.
I keep telling myself that the reason I haven't been posting is because my computer is broken and I hate writing any long texts on my phone. But that's not really it.
As I may or may not have mentioned at somepoint, a few years ago, I was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. Most of the time I'm able 5o manage it reasonable well and remain a, at least mostly, functional adult.
It does however mean that I respond rather poorly to stress and anxiety, and because of laundry list of things that have been causing me both for some time now, I've pretty much taken a nosedive straight into depression.
The thing about cutting, or any sort of self-harm I suspect, is that it doesn't matter if you do it once or dozens of times. You'll kever again be quite clear of the urge to do it again.
It's been nearly ten years since the last time. My scars are as fainted as they'll ever be. Some of them are even almost disappeared completely. And here I am, thinking about which of my knives would be the sharpest. Or where I'd need to cut to keep it hidden.
The stupidest thing in all of this is that seeing as I'm perfectly capable of seeing and realising what is going on with me and my mental health, you'd think that that would mean I could do something about it.
And yet. It not that I don't know who or where to call. It's not that I don't have people I could talk to. I really do. I have a really great support system of friends and family and medical professionals. All of whom no doubt, would help me get the help that I need, if I just asked for it. If instead of pretending everything is fine, I'd just let go and trust for them to catch me.
So why don't I? Because I'm ashamed. Of not being strong enough. For not knowing better. For once again fucking up my life to the point where I have no bloody clue as to how to untangle the mess that it's become.
Between writing the above and posting this, I did do something. Last night I went out walking into the woods with a friend of mine and tomorrow I'm going to see my I guess you could call her a counsellor. Saying aloud how messed up things are doesn't magically make things any better, but I guess it's a start.
So, it's been a while.
I keep telling myself that the reason I haven't been posting is because my computer is broken and I hate writing any long texts on my phone. But that's not really it.
As I may or may not have mentioned at somepoint, a few years ago, I was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. Most of the time I'm able 5o manage it reasonable well and remain a, at least mostly, functional adult.
It does however mean that I respond rather poorly to stress and anxiety, and because of laundry list of things that have been causing me both for some time now, I've pretty much taken a nosedive straight into depression.
The thing about cutting, or any sort of self-harm I suspect, is that it doesn't matter if you do it once or dozens of times. You'll kever again be quite clear of the urge to do it again.
It's been nearly ten years since the last time. My scars are as fainted as they'll ever be. Some of them are even almost disappeared completely. And here I am, thinking about which of my knives would be the sharpest. Or where I'd need to cut to keep it hidden.
The stupidest thing in all of this is that seeing as I'm perfectly capable of seeing and realising what is going on with me and my mental health, you'd think that that would mean I could do something about it.
And yet. It not that I don't know who or where to call. It's not that I don't have people I could talk to. I really do. I have a really great support system of friends and family and medical professionals. All of whom no doubt, would help me get the help that I need, if I just asked for it. If instead of pretending everything is fine, I'd just let go and trust for them to catch me.
So why don't I? Because I'm ashamed. Of not being strong enough. For not knowing better. For once again fucking up my life to the point where I have no bloody clue as to how to untangle the mess that it's become.
Between writing the above and posting this, I did do something. Last night I went out walking into the woods with a friend of mine and tomorrow I'm going to see my I guess you could call her a counsellor. Saying aloud how messed up things are doesn't magically make things any better, but I guess it's a start.