I’ve had enough of being mental. I. HAVE. HAD. E. FUCKING. NOUGH. Someone, get me out of here, for fuck sake. I’m laid here, thinking about the 60 years of life that I might have left, literally panicking. I don’t want to live that long like this. I don’t want to have to fight every day, just to stay calm, to get out of bed, to quiet my mind. Kudos to those with bipolar disorder that have the courage to live with the constant threat of relapse, but I can’t.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this intensely ill, for this long. Something really isn’t right. I need help. I’ve needed help for a long time. Someone needs to make me better pretty sharpish, because I’ve had enough of this crazy ass bull shit. Is there some sort of medication that fixes this? Or do I just need some alcohol and heroin?
It’s so exhausting; over thinking every single thing, my mind never quiet, consciously hearing every thought in my head. The emotion I feel most is anger. Absolute burning rage. I want everyone to fuck off out of my life, leave me on my own to just lay still. And if that’s not a viable option, then I want to be dead, to not exist. And then sadness, intense sadness. I’m so sad that my life has become this. And then the guilt. It’s so heavy. Knowing that I’m wasting a life and am such a burden on others. I’ll be told that I’m not, but my husband is miserable, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s obvious that I’m fucking up Moo.
I’ve been planning a suicide, but all options are scuppered, either by my own anxiety not allowing me to leave the house, or lack of means for gaining enough prescription medication to do the job. I’ve felt quite calm about it. I know others won’t see it, perhaps for a few years, but it is the logical thing to do. I can’t live like this any more, the thought of one more day like this makes my anxiety soar. It’s inhumane. If I were an animal, I’d have been euthanised a long time ago.
How do I convey these thoughts to my community psychiatric nurse or psychiatrist? How do I make them see that I’m not making progress, I’m not coming out the other side of a ‘down’ patch, that I’m actually fucking mentally unstable? Or am I not? Am I just over analysing? Really I just need to get the fuck over myself? And it begins again. Fleeting thought, intruding, mulled over, scrutinised, creating anxiety and then, before it’s processed, another surfaces. Endless.
Posted on July 14, 2014, in Uncategorized and tagged anxiety, bipolar, bipolar affective disoder, BPD, depression, GAD, generalised anxiety disorder, mental health, mental illness, suicide. Bookmark the permalink. 14 Comments.