The Morning that Never Starts

Days like this are in many ways the most painful for me. I don’t know if that’s irrational or weak or sensible or what – what I do know is that it’s so difficult as to feel unbearable and inescapable.

This morning I sat in bed for 2 hours, willing myself with every fibre of my being to get up, ‘get going’, and get at least a few basic achievements out of the way before my visit from the Crisis Team this evening – wanting to prove to them and, most importantly, to myself that I’m not the complete, hopeless, useless wreck that I fear I am.

But I couldn’t do it. And do you know what the worst thing is? I don’t know WHY I couldn’t – and as a logical academic, that doesn’t sit well with me. I’m filled with self judgement – I’m physically able, I have mental ‘capacity’, and am in a safe place, when so many aren’t as lucky as I am, so why can’t I just do it?! (said with utmost frustration and anger at myself)

I soon realise that what’s happening is the build up from yesterday’s realisation that I’m just not coping and that I don’t think I will ever cope, which fed into the cycles of increased anxiety, low mood, self hatred and all the jazz. To my credit, I did try to reach out to the Crisis Team yesterday afternoon but it was a rare occasion where it went straight to answerphone and – although I’m proud that I managed to leave a message – I couldn’t find the bravery to pick up the phone to them again that evening and they didn’t get chance to get back to me. That created an afternoon and evening of off-the-charts fear, panic, and wishing for death. I medicated myself through the evening until I could escape to bed and there I find myself, almost 15 hours later, unable to move. I’m pretty sure what’s happening is that as I lay in bed this morning, all of that fear and anxiety and despair and desperation and urge to act on suicidal thoughts returned full force, and that they spiralled so quickly that I ended up in this surreal dissociated state where I felt certain that my body wasn’t mine any more, to the extent that I was sure the body wasn’t breathing and sat analysing that for a while. This detachment business does take you in to bizarre scenarios, I’ll try to be brave and write up a few old journal entries that describe the varied surreal experiences (as well as the regular, day-to-day effects) of the dissociation/detachment that I experience. Anyway, back to this morning…

Sat staring at my feet, frozen with inexplicable fear, not know what to do and hating myself for not being able to just get on with things. My one small achievement recently has been getting up at the same time every day – but that’s gone out of the window with my 2 hours of impersonating a gargoyle today…so I beat myself up about that, too. Self-hatred upon self-hatred upon self-hatred upon an already broken and crumbling self. The trouble is, my judgement that I’m being pathetic and that this is all my fault makes it even harder than usual to reach out for help (and that’s saying something) but eventually I managed to ring the Crisis Team, I manage to read out my little pre-prepared speach to the receptionist, I’m just getting through to a member of the team…and then I PANIC. What am I doing? Why am I wasting their time? What would I even say? Why should they have to listen to my pathetic drivel when there’s so many who are more deserving and more in need than I am? Why am I wasting their time when they’re so busy? What if it’s someone like the other day who unintentionally made me feel much worse? Am I being too needy? What if they see me as the same pathetic, hopeless mess that I see myself as? What if they think that I’m just not trying hard enough? So I hang up. But then the added fear that I’ll have annoyed the team sets in. Maybe they’ll think badly of me? Maybe I’ll be in trouble? Maybe they’ll stop working with me now?  As it turns out, they’re actually quite worried and eager to do whatever they can to help. Someone I’d not spoken to before phoned back and I managed to pick up the phone (yay me!) and squeak out a few pathetic ‘yes’ ‘no’s and ‘I can’t cope’s and he was lovely and caring and really wanted to help. My visit with them has been moved forward, we came up with a simple plan of having a coffee/breakfast and a shower, and he urged that I should phone them back if I needed. After putting the phone down, I was brave and took lorazepam, like the nurses had been urging me to when I’m in this state, and after 15 minutes I’d worked up the nerve to finally get out of bed and make a coffee. I’m still on that stage now, but at least that’s something.

Although I am now beating myself up about the fact that I needed a stranger to talk me out of bed and create a plan of basic activities, again.

Our own brains really can be our worst enemies.

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