This'll probably get lost in the fray of more cheerful and 'normal' blogs and really I have little place posting this here instead of my livejournal, but for some reason I feel it's necessary to show just what can happen when life piles too much on you and you don't have the necessary support to pick yourself back up again until its too late. This is why I preach the importance of hobbies, going out, and having lots of friends.

As I mentioned in my last blog, I haven't heard from my SO, Hattie, in over a week. This is nothing new, especially with his hours and lack of a computer, but there are times when this silence bites at me more than necessary or even logical. I have a fair amount of paranoia, I get those snowballing 'what if' thoughts that usually escalate to "oh god he's dead" more than "oh god he's cheating or doesn't love me anymore". I also hear voices, and they're not the cutest ones in the world. There have been times in the past where I have had these moments of extreme loneliness, extreme panic with no response from him for good amounts of time, and it all blows up into a thousand texts, three dozen phone calls at 3 am hoping to God his phone wakes him up, praying to gods I don't even believe in that he's alive and okay and just PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE. I try to learn from each time this happens, but sometimes a little voice likes telling me calling his phone at all hours is alright. Last time I did that was the night he left during our visit, he was kind of cranky about it the next morning when I went on a calling spree again at 8 am. And, naturally, I always feel bad.

The past few weeks I've been wanting nothing more than to begin the moving process or something close to it, my mother and I are fighting every day, I sleep 14+ hours a day, I can't remember the last time I left the house, I think I'm borderline anemic again (merely speculation but I'm showing several symptoms I had the last time I was diagnosed and told to eat more protein) and honestly I just want to hear from him. My state of mind is not so healthy.

This afternoon I thought about killing myself. No I'm not admitting that for sympathy or anything, I'm stating a fact. I haven't thought about suicide in months, but there I was trying to figure out where I had my prescription-grade painkillers and if I'd be allowed time for them to dissolve without my mom finding me. Stomach pumps hurt, I'd rather not be introduced to one. The thought dissipated when I started thinking, "well what would happen to my cat? What if my SO is alright, who will tell him and how will he feel?" Nifty skill I picked up my first time at an outpatient clinic. Problem was, I was still in a lot of emotional pain and I needed an outlet. I don't trust a lot of folks with the majority of my problems as I realize they're mostly related to mental illness or general anger and not everyone knows how to deal with it or really wants to. Lord knows I don't.

Story time, brace yourselves: When I was 12, I began cutting myself on the inside of my right wrist, usually with a serrated kitchen knife that hurt pretty badly. I liked the pain, the sight of blood, and the feeling of releasing tension. It quickly became an addiction. It escalated to the point where I had unwound the wire binding on a school notebook and during classes where I sat in the back or out of general view, I'd use the sharp end of the wire (SERIOUSLY painful) and cut myself. Sometimes I'd go in the school bathrooms and try cutting with the serrated edges of the toilet paper holders that break off the tissue. I couldn't go a day without doing it at least twice, sometimes over the healing cuts. Only reason I stopped was because my mom caught me one night and threatened to have me admitted. Even that young I knew horror stories about mental hospitals and so forced myself to quit.

Last year I cut for the first time in years, in the beginning of my relationship because my now ex-friend Heather was putting so much of her problems onto me while I was still recovering from carpal tunnel surgery and dealing with my mom that I just instinctively grabbed my boxcutter and pressed it on my skin until it created a red line. I told Hattie the next day and he told me that he couldn't stop me, but the next time I was going to do it to think about him doing the same thing. If I was alright with it, I could cut and he'd say nothing. I swore that was going to be the last time, even when months later I almost did it again and he flipped out and demanded pictures of my wrist to prove I hadn't.

I betrayed his trust. Twice. I was distressed, I was lonely, and frankly too ashamed to reach out for help. I pride myself in the thought that I'm more mentally stable than I was a year ago, two years ago, more than I've ever been, really. That I slipped, well, it's embarrassing to me especially for the reason I did it. But, I cut myself, twice, and then broke into tears telling no one, "I'm sorry." I'm not any better and really I'm a bit afraid to tell him what I did. I'm not sure what his reaction would be.

My point is, even those who act high and mighty and alright with the shit they're handed crumble to their knees once in a while. I'm ashamed I stooped to that level, but well, I lost my best friend because she could no longer support me when I needed her, my mother does not understand these things, and my SO is a busy and stressed out man. Yes I have this forum and plenty of wonderful folks who look after me the best they can with what little I give them, but in the end it's a matter of wounded pride. That and a wounded wrist. I let down myself, the man I love, and every person I've told they can get over this sickness. Maybe that's a bit melodramatic, but the first two are quite true.

We all have off days. Some of us are just off.