For the past week, I've been going back and forth as to whether or not to share this. I'm worried about potential judgement, but in the end, it's relevant to what's been going on lately, and has had a huge impact on my mental wellbeing.
Last Wednesday, as I sat down with my egg for lunch, a police car pulled up outside. I thought maybe it was just a coincidence, and they'd drive off in a minute. But they got out, walked up to the door, and knocked. I wondered if I should run and hide.
As mum went to answer it, I asked "What's going on?"
"I don't know."
I was handed an intervention order, filed by mother dearest.
Basically I have to keep my behavior 'reasonable', and not damage property, otherwise the police can be called and I'll end up in court.
The night of the last 000 call and the cut, I'd broken a bowl, angry at myself for making dinner, and blockaded the lounge room door with a couch as mum tried to push it back, then the whole 'cutting and spilling blood everywhere' thing. If she wants to stand by and watch as I self-harm or overdose, fine. That's the only reason I ever blockade or hide behind locked doors - to self harm without people watching, or trying to stop me.
I was in hysterics within minutes. I sat sobbing with my head in my hands as the police asked if I'd be okay.
I wanted to say "No, I want to die."
It's not like I could say that though. I'd just end up with a police escort to A&E, an assessment under the Mental Health Act, and a visit to the dreaded public psych ward.
I still haven't moved the papers. They were put on the arm if the couch, and fell off face down. I nudged them under the couch when the vacuuming was done, so they wouldn't be put on the table. I'm scared to read them.
I spent the rest of the day in the dark, crying and listening to sad songs. I hid in the lounge room, even smoking inside, which I'm not supposed to do. She didn't stop me though. I scribbled in my jouurnal and tried to knock myself out on my meds, but a couple of hours later, it hadn't worked, so I gave up and went for the vodka.
We'd actually been getting along okay, but now it's all fucked.
Before I got up, I sent her a text, leaving enough time for her to read it before I ventured forth.
"Please don't talk to me about the recent police stuff right now ... I am in even more of a devastatingly low place then I was last week, and I really can't afford to sink any lower. Right now, I just want to be alone and hide away. Just please not talk about it until I have some tiny amount of support."
By the time I felt up to eating dinner, dizzy from the pills and booze, and not having gotten to eat my egg, the meds had kicked in. I couldn't control my knife and fork, and just gave up.
Even now, I feel physically and emotionally drained. Everything seems like too much hard work. Moving my arms and hands to roll a smoke is exhausting. I don't even want to watch anything. I just want to lie on the couch and stare at the wall in silence. Just when I think I can't sink any lower, I hit a new low.
I don't have to move out as I initially thought, but with the recent threats and then being locked out of the house when I returned from hospital, it's only a matter of time before I'm kicked out.
My arm is healing okay. Thankfully I haven't ended up with an infection despite the gaping wound and lack of dressings and follow-up care. After the police visit, I ripped off the dressing and let it bleed, then I stopped bothering with dressings.
Part of my is scared by the cut. Not because of the cut itself. Not because of what I've done, but what I could do, knowing I can cause so much damage with so little effort. It makes me think that I could actually do something bad enough to end my life.
During the mess of tears, the officers asked if there was anyone I wanted them to call. Desperate, I asked if they could call my GP's office to see if I could get an appointment. Mum even agreed to drive me there. The receptionist said there weren't any gaps that day, but maybe the next day. Over a week later, and they never gave me an appointment. I talked to a couple of the bloggers when it first happened, but I still wish I could've seen my doctor to get some professional advice. I thought about talking to Z, my friend who works at the hospital and has had similar issues, but I was too ashamed.
There's still two and a half weeks until my next appointment. I wonder if she'll actually turn up this time.
After the last few weeks – having had two ambulance & police call outs, such a severe cut, so many overdoses, and now an intervention order, I doubt the Clinic would even consider me. They only do voltunary admissions, and I obviously can't keep myself safe.
I have no hope, no help, and no one. Nothing.
The weekend before: Actually resembling
a human being when I put on Proper Clothes
and did my hair & makeup