I wish I had the energy or the motivation to come home from work and do anything but exist.
I wish I still had hope. My hope died about 3 or 4 weeks ago, during, or possibly shortly after my most recent crisis. I always knew I’d be up and down but I’ve never lost my hope before. But now, I feel resigned to this bleak future, with no hint of a chance of being able to escape it. I can’t see how I could possibly have a hobby, or go back to exercising, or even cooking for myself. I entertain the idea in my mind, but it floats away as quickly as it sets in.
I work to put a roof over my head so I have somewhere to stay while I’m not working, and so that I can run the car that gets me to work which I do so I can pay for somewhere to stay while I’m not working and so that I can run my car so I can get to work….
If I don’t work then I will be homeless, and will end up cold and hungry, which I don’t really want to add on to this misery of existence. All pleasurable things end abruptly, and I am cast back into my fog of nothingness.
I am a fantastic liar. It slipped at the last crisis, and people started getting upset and coming to my house and sending me concerned texts. I hated it, so I’ve set myself back up again. “I’m fine, just waiting for treatment” and “Yeah I’m actually feeling a lot better now”. I hate the attention.
Where do I get this hope from? I’m all alone with my own thoughts, my care-coordinator has only just reluctantly agreed to put me on the waiting list for a psychology assessment (because the wait is so long – apparently it’s better to have no treatment at all…). Don’t mind my scarred hand, or my reckless driving, or my weeks off work, or my manic behaviour. I’ve got a job and can feed myself and can string a sentence together and use what little energy I have to look presentable for my appointments because I go to work straight afterwards – therefore I mustn’t need that much help must I?
I wish I could tear open a hole somewhere in my body and just let my useless organs squeeze out so I can be done with this stupid existence.
I close my eyes and dream of walking slightly too close to the edge of the road, where the wing mirror of a nice, big, fast lorry smashes into the back of my skull, shooting fragments of bone and bits of brain over the pavement. I can then look down on my body twitching as the lights die in my eyes, and I finally settle still with a content smile on my face. It’s over.
I used to dream of a home with a husband and children and laughter and a big dinner table and a herb garden, with our clothes hung out on the line drying in the gentle breeze, and finger-paintings on the fridge. Somewhere quiet and calm, in the countryside where the children can explore the woodland, and where my husband and I could sit outside and share a bottle of wine with our feet in each other’s laps while we read the papers together or play cards. But I can’t have that because I’m unstable. I’m a monster. People don’t want to stay too long around people like me, because I spit cruel words out of my mouth like poison as easy as a person exhales a breath. My soul writhes in hot, burning tar. I’m toxic, and I ruin people and make them feel small and worthless.
As I sit and type this, tears streaming down my face, my boyfriend sits next to me and plays on his phone. So worthy I am of love or even acknowledgement. They all eventually ignore me. Won’t be too long until this one fucks off too I suspect.
So here I sit, wishing I was dead, wondering what happened to that hope.