Bear with me, the switch in my head that allows me to be a positive soul has flipped and all the little self-loathing lies are dancing round again. Bloody marvellous; hello self-doubt and the certainty that I’m not only the worst person in the world, but that I don’t deserve happiness and you’re all about to realise how awful I am.
Well that’s just fantastic. I’m self-aware enough to realise that these phantasies are a load of nonsense, and to hate myself even more for giving in to the urge to shout out about them. I’m sure I’ll have a few supportive messages as a result of this post, but trust me I’ll be beating myself up for drawing attention to my own stupidities; certain that I’ve just cemented your opinions of me as someone just looking for attention.
This is the horrible thing about mental illness. This isn’t a broken rib, or a head cold. There’s no easy way to recognise that this too will pass in the same way that I can have a reasonable expectation of a cut healing. This moment of despair, exhaustion, and paralysis feels like it won’t end. I truly hate this.
Writing about it here does help. It lets me order my thoughts and review them rather than wade through the maelstrom of fear. It always feels like it risks becoming self-indulgent, but a) that’s the illness gnawing away again, b) I’m writing a personal blog, we’re a little late to worry about that, and c) it’s a useful tool for surviving and tracking where I am.
I’m going to stop and try to sleep now. I’m safe enough because I have people in my life who care about me, and I’m not going to hurt them by doing anything stupid, no matter how strongly the thought batters against the shutters. I have Ladies M and P, the Charleesi, my brothers (both biological and adopted), my gamers, and of course the #Tuesdays crew to remind me: I am not as alone, unlovable, stupid, or worthless as I feel.