Samantha's Blog

My life has dissolved to a bland nothingness, days merged into one long drawn out hell. Like a prison sentence with no release date, I'm spending my days in bed, on the internet, reading, sleeping. I have no plans, nothing to get up for in the morning, nowhere to be. The most mundane of tasks have become huge undertakings to me. I need to book a doctors appointment, my prescription needs renewing...I'll do it tomorrow, can't be bothered to pick up the phone today. My bedroom is a myriad of clothes, dirty mugs, magazines and general debris. I hate living in such a mess, but I can't drag myself out of bed long enough to even make a dent in the chaos of junk. They say you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their bedroom, well mine is like a graveyard of an old life, old ticket stubs and letters from years ago from friends I used to have. Glam clothes strewn across the floor from a social life I used to wear them for. Diarys, photoalbums, memories everywhere. I used to stick things up on my walls, photos of the 'old' me. I became obsessive about it, I had to see my past in front of me, to remind me that I used to exist. It was painfully cathartic. Over the months I went from revelling in looking at the old party images, to looking at them with tears in my eyes, to sobbing uncontrollably when I realised I'd never be the same, to taking them down altogether and hiding them away in a drawer probably to gather dust for years to come. 

There comes a point, with mental illness where your perspective has to change, or you die. I don't know when it happened, I can't pinpoint a definative moment but gradually I've had to accept that I am ill, I will always be ill and the old me is, in effect, dead. You have to stop wishing and believing that the old you and your old life will somehow magically return one day, and start accepting that this IS you now. This is what you have to live with, and you can't change it. And with this comes grief. I grieve for my old self and the life I could have had. Proper, serious, heart wrenching grief. A grief that will be with me for the rest of my life. I don't know how you get over your own death. I don't think I'll ever know.

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How do I get OUT of this. It's honestly like I've been bricked into this tiny little space for three years. It feels like 20. I can't believe it's only three. It takes all the effort in the world to turn around, and when you finally do, you're just facing another damn brick wall. The way I keep thinking about it is there must be just one brick I just have to budge and the whole thing will come crashing down, but really it's not is it. I have to learn to live with the fucking bricks cos they're not going anywhere. And when you're not on anti-depressants the little square space you've got is bricked over the top too, so it's totally dark you can't see a thing, and on pills a bit of the roof comes off, so you can see the sky but you still can't see over the top of the walls.

It's like people can come and visit you in your bricked in square, but they have to climb the walls and just poke their head into my vision at the gap in the roof. But they can't come in and they can't get me out. Sometimes I can barely hear them, and I definately can never feel them cos the walls are too high for me to reach my arm up. Sometimes I'm glad they visited, but sometimes I hate them because they don't stay forever and they jump back down and remind me that I'm the only one bricked in. And some people get bored and don't visit me anymore, because I have nothing to say to them, and I make them sad too. I miss them and wonder what they're doing outside the walls. Most of the time the only thing I have to think about is all the things I'd be doing if I could get out, and think of all the things I already missed. And try to come up with a way that I can live with staring at nothing but brick walls for the rest of my life.

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2 comments

It smells, it's antisocial, it's going to kill me. So why after a week without one, did I give in and smoke a cigarette just now? An overwhelming craving? No not really. In fact I didn't even paticularly want one. And after a week nicotine free, I'm now feeling quite naseous and angry at myself.

The simple, shallow truth? I didn't want to gain weight.

I thought I could quit without falling into that trap. I hit the gym, I ran, I biked. All the while stuffing my face consistently throughout the day. Chocolate, crisps, cereal, stodge. Lets just clarify something for a minute. I have an eating disorder. Gaining weight is an emotional wrench for any woman. But an eating disordered woman? It was too much.

I have struggled enormously with depression and an eating disorder for a few years now. This time last year, I was genuinely suicidal. I stood on the edge of a railway bridge...and wanted to jump. Last night for the first time in months, that feeling returned. Recovery from suicidal depression is a very vulnerable process. Nicotine withdrawal, loss of control with eating and an impending sense of failiure is all it takes to bring me right back to square one.

So tonight I made the decision to retake up my deathly habit. Why? The reasons are too complex to even understand myself. Do I equate thinness with happiness? No. Do I equate control with happiness? No. But control gets me through. Take away my control and you take away my sense of self. 

So now what? Tomorrow I will return to my normal existance. Diet coke, cigarettes and as little food as I can get by on. And I will feel ill, and I will feel tired and I will feel weak, but I will also feel in control. And when everything else in your life is going to the shit....is that really too much to ask for?

So I smoke...deal with it.