Fractured (Trigger Warning)

Today has been a strange day, full of feeling but devoid of words. now if you have been reading my blog, or indeed know me away from my blog you will know I’m usually full of words, in fact I have been called verbose on several occasions.

I have been doing a lot of introspection of myself, trying to see if I’ve missed something in me I could have fixed. As you will probably know I’ve been struggling with the physical symptoms of PTSD but what you may or may not also be aware I have for several weeks been feeling suicidal again. My mind seems to be attacking me with my past and my future. One moment I’ll be seeing glimpses of my abuse, the next I am seeing myself dying. It makes me think of the quote whilst it selectively negates the present:

 “The clock is running. Make the most of today. Time waits for no man. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That’s why it is called the present.”

On my 18th, maybe my 21st, I vowed to myself I’d never live to see 40 and pretty much believed that until I started a university where for the first time I started to see a future. I joked a bit to myself about my prophecy was close to coming true, what with the burst appendix and all it’s complications. It wasn’t until the beginning of the year having had a few months before Christmas thinking/planning the easiest way to die did I think about not making it to 40 again.

I’ve diverted a little from the intention of this post, I’ve been thinking about the 2 facets of me, the intellectual and the mental/emotional parts that form me. Before I started the process to go to university I would never have said I was clever. Some things I found easy, others I found difficult, probably why I used to love making stills during chemistry lesson and piss around in maths when I was at school. It’s only now I realise I probably was always smart, didn’t naturally accept the answer until I tested it to destruction. Yet the earliest questions I had, I still can’t answer and it scares me I will never know the truth about what exactly he did to me that I have blocked out. Without knowing I feel out of control.  For the whole part I think I can reason an argument and point and am sufficiently confident to say I have a well grounded intellectual me. I have often said my mind is my strength and my weakness. you might wonder how can being intellectual and articulate be a weakness, simple, if you have just asked that question you have unknowingly validated my point. I have become aware with my struggle to get help that it has been noted that I am articulate and intelligent, therefore can’t be unwell, that would suggest that I am not allowed to feel irrational thoughts or worse be dissociated. I could be wrong but came to the conclusion that whilst they wank themselves into hysteria about psychosis they don’t much care dissociation. I argue both are as dangerous as the other. Psychosis easier to conceptualise because it’s illness induced disordered thinking. Dissociation perhaps harder because the sufferer is not in the here and now, unaware of any thinking and disorientated when they come out of the episode. It troubles me when I was last hospitalised I had a couple of dissociative flashbacks, I have no idea if the staff saw, noticed, interacted with me or what. You’d hope they did and noted it. Prior to the admission the junior psychiatrist I had seen a couple of times was aware of some self harming that occurred whilst dissociated. but yet for the rest of the time I’m articulate so I must be fine.

which brings me to the other fracture in me, my emotional side. So I may be emotionally screwed, I feel intense feelings, sometimes appropriately sometimes inappropriately. If what I understand about bpd development my emotional development got stunted when I was abused and is still playing catch up. I’m not going to break down each different emotional failing in me, there’s not enough time. But I will pause for my self loathing and how my disordered thinking fails me. It’s no secret that there’s no one in this world who could hate me anywhere near as much as I hate myself. I don’t even hate the asshole who abused me as much as I hate myself. This is the founding of why I feel suicidal, simply I do not believe I deserve a) to live; b) to live a happy and successful life. Add to this feelings of being a loser, wasting opportunities, look at me now have I made good use of my degree? Have I fuck!?! Add to this an inability to see things (such as benefits, mental health service access or police investigation into my abuse) as perpetual struggles with almost 0% chance of success a bleak picture of a future is painted.

I fully accept my emotional failings lead to my disordered thinking but I can’t find an intellectual justification for why I shouldn’t have equal access to adequate support? I suppose it’s because the professionals see bpd as attention seeking. I saw one blog today that quoted one suicide attempt and went on to ridicule it for being an attention seeking effort, even went into detail the difference between a bpd suicide attempt and ‘real’ suicide. I am fuming at how he generalised suicide and bpd. I shall make myself clear, I have been prevented a 2, maybe 3 times total in 30 years. I have had far more attempts that have gone unnoticed and I have just slept it off. My philosophy on my relation to suicide is I find the thought of living much harder than the thought of my own death. I am not afraid to die, It scares me to think of trying to take my life and fuck it up royally then I have to live with extra problems. When I die i’d rather not have the whole police/ambulance thing I am acutely aware of the waste of resources that is. It’s not about seeking attention, it’s not about a cry for help, it is simply because I can’t cope with this thing called life.

So whilst there is a conflict between intellectual and emotional Al, whilst I have struggles with my identity, struggles with my past, struggles with external influences in my life it is almost inevitable that I will one day slip off into the night, I just won’t tell anyone when, and for that I feel guilty, I wish I could just turn round to my friends and say I’m sorry. I guess this will have to be my way of saying I am truly sorry if I find myself taking my life and not saying something I just hope you might one day forgive me, if you may never understand.

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