Grieving. I think that’s what I’ve been doing this week: grieving for the ‘Molly’ that might have been. Crying, so much crying from the intense emotional distress at having burned myself so low that I no longer have it in me to fight to rebuild myself/create a ‘me’. Disappointed in and enraged at myself that my weakness and lack of bravery, my current completely broken and disintegrated state, leaves me unable to see the potential of being alive in the near future fulfilled, let alone the potentials that all of these wonderful mental health professionals (as well as my friends and family) tell me that they see in me. It feels like my heart is being torn to shred to thing that I won’t see my friends’ and family’s futures, to see the children grow up, the babies be born, the weddings, the birthdays, the achievements, the quiet afternoons, the hugs, the laughs, even the tragedies. I want to be there. But being alive is torture. Inescapable, unbearable torture. I’m scared that my tactic of ‘just getting on with it’ for so long (10+ years) while suffering such intense mental illness and distress has burnt me so low that nothing can be rebuilt from the finest dusting of ashes that remain. I’m terrified that there’s no Molly left. I’m grieving for the Molly that could have been, for the experiences that that Molly could have had, for the things that that Molly could have achieved, for the lives that that Molly could have been part of. Rather than the pain that this shell of a Molly experiences and the negative impact (stress, worry, concern, upset) that she causes to those who for some reason still care about her. (Who is that ‘her’, though?)
I’m working so hard – and the wonderful mental health team keep reminding me of my achievements, that they’re so impressed with how much I’m trying – but I’m losing my strength and energy. I’m losing my grip on hope; I’m losing my grip on life.
Sad. Scared. Overflowing with tears.