I'm putting myself back on anti-depressants (Fluoxetine).
I watched The Iron Lady last night and there were about two 10 minute intervals in which I did not cry. Throughout the rest of the film I just sobbed manically, tears dripping off my cheeks.
I'm raw these days. It's like there's no flesh on me, just touch me and you go straight to the nerve. Everything hurts and everything makes me cry.
I sobbed all the way through The Iron Lady because it reminded me of my own mother - or how she will be in a few years. The film perfectly depicted the heartbreak of losing a husband - God knows I have no idea what it feels like, and yet I cry my eyes out for my Mum - am sitting here crying my eyes out for her now.
And that was it really. The old, deep-seated inability to deal with death and loss and grief. My mother who lost a husband and has only known pain and heartache since, who is getting more and more fragile and frail by the day. And what can I do except give her a kiss as I pass by in my angry little hurricane, trying desperately to make something of myself for her.
I caused my mum unnecessary anguish by being ill, I trampled on her broken heart. What good do my tears do now?
And still, over four years since I started, I still cough up the contents of my stomach, it still rules me, it still takes everything I have.
Last Monday in my treatment session my therapist decided to try something new to establish the roots of my self-destructive perfectionism. She made me close my eyes and go back to my childhood and talk her through everything I remembered and had felt. It was the single most heart-wrenching thing I have ever had to do. Those memories of my childhood remain locked down far away where I can't remember them for a reason. I cried solidly for the full session as she forced me back to the happiness I had felt in my Dad's arms as a little girl, the loneliness as he drifted away, as my Mum went to work, as the home crumbled around me, to the day when I came home and found him dead, to the days when my Mum cried in agony on the sofa in her empty world. And there was the little girl in the middle. Desperate to achieve, to be noticed, to be loved, to be praised. Desperate to be perfect.
I remained haunted for days after this session, continually having flashbacks as I walked into my living room, seeing the little girl playing on the carpet, or the bedroom upstairs where I had found him laid across the bed, the telephone where I had called my Mum, the door I had run out of in fear and confusion.
I went back to school the next day and never felt another thing.
All the grief that pours of out of me now has been pent up for fifteen years.
I am desperately trying to make it in my career. Am yet I struggle to concentrate; all day at weekends, stuck in this house of sadness. I looked back to when I was a teenager. I worked constantly, getting the best grades at school was the most important thing to me and I dedicated my whole life and all my spare time to working to achieve that. What changed?
I started feeling. I started reading poetry, I started engaging with my feelings and emotions. I started crying and thinking and philosophising. And then everything fell apart. I couldn't concentrate though the intense pain and sadness that I had not allowed myself to feel for so many years. When I was a teenager I felt nothing. I was incredibly unhappy, but I never cried, never wallowed in my pity. I blocked it all off. I buried myself in my schoolwork. I felt nothing.
So I want to go back on the pills that help me feel nothing. I'm sick of feeling pain, I'm sick of crying. I'm sick of it. I want to be cold and empty. I want to plug myself into my studies and feel nothing to distract me.
Here's a girl that made it :
I'm sick of thinking and feeling, I'm sick of being sick.
I am never going to be anything while my eating disorder identifies me more than anything else.
I am just so exhausted from feeling so much.
I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full. ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Hillary Clinton meme
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