well, i want to die

i can’t stop eating.

i can’t stop exercising.

i can’t stop thinking.

i can’t stop this.

which means i can’t do this anymore. i shouldn’t have to do this anymore.

i’m under no illusion that self harm will kill me. i know it might, if i hit the right spot deep enough. but it’s unlikely, and humans have this nasty self-preservation instinct that always stops me from bleeding out, even when i have hit an artery, even when it was on purpose.

so i need to get my hands on some good stuff, and i need to end this shit for good.

whatever.

for the past week, couple of weeks, month, i don’t know, i have been restricting and exercising all day long, then eating chocolate or biscuits for dinner, and then doing it all over again to make sure i’m burning off all that disgusting fat. i’m losing weight again. i’m 1.1 kg from my first goal. and then 5 to my next.

i can do this.

we can do this – ana is my coach and she is damn good at what she does. we’re ready to evaporate again. this time, we want to evaporate so far that there’s no way to return. are bodies like rain? are disordered thoughts like rain? condense has so many more meanings than condensation.

i turn 21 on wednesday.

embracing english lit

disclaimer: i’m not writing about my mental health for once, lol

i have loved reading and writing and words for as long as i could remember. in fact, somewhere there’s a bunch of ‘books’ i made when i was probably around 3 or 4 years old, which have no words (just random letters of the alphabet, i had a particular affinity for zees and exes) just pictures and speech bubbles. when i went through my greatest traumas during middle school around age 13, i started to write novels. they seemed like novels at the time, but in retrospect, 45000 words is barely a novella. then i moved on to poetry once i moved to sydney at 17. and finally, i began to perform at slam and spoken word events, writing poetry that was designed to be heard as well as read.

but i was always told that pursuing english was wasting my talents. i was always told that as someone whose life would be open to so many other opportunities, i should instead embrace a degree in veterinary science or medicine or allied health. in fact, apart from wanting to escape and cut off ties to past traumas, the biggest reason i chose to move to sydney and chose the university of new south wales in particular was because they had one of the only undergraduate medicine programs in australia.

in 2017, my first year at uni, i shattered those shitty expectations that i had always felt i must follow. i declined my offer for medicine. i changed my degree from advanced science with honours, to advanced science and arts, and finally to science and arts, with honours in english lit. choosing to write a thesis on poetry was probably the first decision i made purely for myself. my favourite lecturer agreed to be my supervisor, and i’ve slowly begun exploring current literature to see what direction my own thesis might take.

i got an editor gig. an organisation i used to write for called the ENID network was passed on to a new group of editors, myself included. it’s a student-run feminist website focusing on intersectional issues facing young women in the current political climate and their representation in pop-culture.

i continue to write for them, here’s my favourite article, and i am incredibly grateful to have the freedom to write and write and write. i recently redesigned our website and upgraded our public server to one with a private name – our very own name! enidnetwork.org! i’ll keep you all updated as to when it launches.

it feels good to finally devote a decent amount of time to my true passions. it feels good to write about something that isn’t how shitty everything is, even though everything continues to be shitty fyi… if i can’t self-validate, i won’t get any validation at all.


love, your languorously latent literary,

rosie bee


ps you can find me on instagram! rosiebee.poetry

like a fool

she thought things were going okay.


i had a good week last week. and i don’t use the word good lightly. normally i say ‘okay’ or ‘alright’ because i’m always afraid that if i describe a week as good and actually think things might be getting better (as if) i will somehow sabotage things and crash. harder. and lo and behold, after a good week i had a really fucking bad one, and it’s only thursday.

here’s what happened:

  • i found out my service dog application has been passed to the next stage and that they are able to train a dog to my specific needs, which for me was to reduce socially unacceptable stims which generally piss people off (read: knocking, clicking, impulsive laughter followed by self-shushing, shaking my head to shake away thoughts, tapping… you get the idea. not super socially acceptable) and to recognise distress and panic attacks
  • i was able to see two of my friends, G and D for coffee
  • i spent another day with G, and we went to the park and there were so many dogs which made me really happy – dogs!
  • i started dexies (an adhd med. depending on where you are in the world this could be called aderall or ritalin or dexamphetamine) which have made my head a bit quieter. as a scientist (lol), i had to make sure it wasn’t a placebo effect and followed up my hypothesis by skipping the dose for a few days… in which my head got loud again and all the urges piled on top of me and i wanted to fucking die. seems like proof enough to me.

and here’s all the bad shit that happened:

  • i found out the service dog organisation i applied to is not a charity and it costs a ridiculous amount of money to have one trained to my specific needs
  • self harmed on campus. this is a big deal, since i used to sh exclusively at home. it’s part of the ritual, i suppose. but realising i can’t cope with anything anymore i’ve started carrying blades in my backpack
  • overslept too many times which disrupted my time which made me anxious which made me urgey which made me cut
  • my dr is disappointed in me. i am even more anaemic than usual, and my sodium is getting dangerously low. she’s threatening to admit me – FUCK that! and my doctor is great, and always finds time to see me, so i don’t like to disappoint her
  • after a really bad day, which included a fight with my mum about money and tattoos and generally how shit of a daughter i am, i forced myself to stick to my schedule and go to work. i tutored twins for two hours in english which made me feel a little better until i walked home and realised the ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS I HAD JUST EARNED somehow DISAPPEARED FROM MY FUCKING POCKET. so that was the cherry on top for a really shitty, shitty day.

so that’s me. glad to have a good vent.


peace out,

rosie bogs, lover of dogs.

starting stimulants!

here’s how i learned i had add (that’s adhd, but without the hyperactive part)

CLUE NUMBER ONE

like most university students, i tried stimulants. not to get high, but because i had already received an extension on a final exam and had been struggling with my mental health so badly that i was constantly dissociating while trying to study. i took vyvanse aka long acting dexamphetamine but unlike most university students i did not get high.

not only that, but i felt like i could think. i felt calm.

CLUE NUMBER TWO

generally, i’m not into any sort of street drug. i don’t even smoke weed regularly. but, i am also believe in trying everything once. so i did speed (aka ecstasy aka molly aka mdma) in a club and …

… had a nap. legit. i left the club after it kicked in because i wasn’t feeling it and then fell asleep on the train home.

if you weren’t already aware – only people without adhd can get high from stimulants, whether that’s ritalin / adderall or a street drug like mdma.

sub clue: mdma is an amphetamine, which is the same basic molecule for adhd meds.

CLUE NUMBER THREE

some symptomatic things. i have no memory. i put it down to dissociating, until i realised i was dissociating less and my memory got worse (conundrum). it feels like i have sirens in my head. my thoughts are constantly bouncing off each other. i am generally very frazzled.

sub clue: adhd does not present the same way in males and females, just as autism presents differently in males and females. so sure, i wasn’t the typical naughty kid at school and i had top grades, but even at my lowest i have maintained good marks at uni. what i was guilty of was constantly interrupting people, saying inappropriate things impulsively and feeling constantly on edge which causes me to stim wildly.

note: people do not like it when you knock against a table very fast to calm down

TL;DR

i started stimulants and can actually fucking think for the first time in a long time


on another note, ana is loving that we are starting a medication which suppresses appetite, since we are so so close to reaching our gw. i’m at what i think is my set weight now but i am determined to push my body and lose these last _ kilos.


love,

your blogger-in-chief who no longer feels foggy all the fucking time,

rosie bogs

this is where i’m at tonight

i sat in the shower crying, eating cold pizza, hating myself with every bite since it seems like all i did today was eat and when i try to count cals all i want to do is die because i broke so many fucking rules and i wish i just fucking wish i could throw up. what kind of shitty bulimic am i? a fake one. the kind of bulimic who purges by exercising.

it’s not fucking good enough.

a friend told me recently that the lack of a gag reflex is entirely wasted on a lesbian.

well fuck her. because i would give anything to be able to get rid of this binge. instead i just keep eating and eating and gaining and gaining. i had reached my goal weight a month or so ago and it felt amazing and then in one shitty week i ruined all that progress. stupid fat bitch. next time i feel like binging i’m going to cut instead. punish myself in advance. with every bite i’ll go a little bit deeper. until i hit the fat of my thighs or forearms and can slice it out from beneath my skin. because that’s the only way i will ever be thin – if i slice the fat out myself.

tonight i am nursing a bottle of vodka. you know you’re an alcoholic when you can have about 6 standard drinks (australian) without even feeling tipsy. i almost had beer for breakfast but i love my job at the pharmacy, and can’t bear to lose the only thing that gives my life any fucking meaning.

so i’m nursing my vodka, proper vodka this time, 37% alcohol, and proper nursing, since i carried it back from the shops clutched tightly to my chest, mostly because my latest set of stitches are MAD infected and really fucking hurt, but the pus hasn’t reached the surface so there’s nothing i can do about it. maybe if i get sepsis i will finally fucking die.


should i write more drunk posts? they’d probably be pretty fucking funny, hey.

byee

rosie bee

themis: a scale, a sword, a blindfold and a lion

i have always been fascinated by greek mythology. i would say greek and roman except we all know that the romans just copied all the greek gods and goddesses after overpowering the greek empire. anyway, i’ve always found greek mythology a really beautiful polytheistic conception of the world. (rick riordan’s percy jackson series anyone?)

themis is the goddess of law with the power of divination – she was an oracle, i guess. in her depictions, she is represented alongside four objects: a scale, a sword, a blindfold and a lion.

i don’t know where this popped into my head from, but maybe themis has something to say about where i am currently at. lately i’ve been trying to come to this blog with more stream-of-consciousness in-the-moment writing stuffs, so if it’s rambling all over the place know that my thoughts are probably in a far worse state. cool, back to themis.

the scales: not only a symbol of justice, of the balance of good and evil, but also a physical measure of an object’s weight. an object like, say, a certain bulimic individual who is quickly spiralling toward a relapse into her old anorexic ways. my scales were lying so i had to buy new scales, a better set, an electronic set but then i didn’t have any batteries and had a panic attack for the next two days until i went to the shops again since i had already ditched the shitty old set by this time

the sword: well, this should be obvious. i have a love-hate relationship with myself, my body, my scars and self harm.

the blindfold: themis wore a blindfold to judge things as they were, not how they appeared. but i think i am blinded by things as they appear. i am blinded by the sight of my body, which seems disproportionate and disgusting; i am blinded by the sight of food, which i will refuse to touch for days at a time or else gorge on until i purge or cut or drink or wake up in hospital with no memory of what landed me there; i am blinded to my own needs by the needs of others; and i am probably blinded by all the things my sick self says are good for me, that my sick self says keep me safe. here’s an example: i’m drinking as i write this. i was sober for such a long time and then in the past couple of weeks i’ve taken refuge again in the dull, fuzzy sensation that alcohol provides.

the lion: i want to say that i am brave, and courageous, but maybe the lion isn’t a symbol of my own spirit inasmuch as it is a symbol of all the shit barrelling towards me that threatens to hurt me, or else all the dangerous ways i self-destruct.

this was going to be a post simply about the whole scale/weight/fat-ass scenario and my current relapse (am i allowed to call it a relapse when i’m the one in the midst of it? is relapse a diagnostic word or a symptomatic one?) but then i thought of themis, and i realised i had an opportunity to go full nerd.

in other news,

the new rick and morty episode was pretty great (s4 e8).

in other other news,

my doctor threatened me with a schedule and a police search if i didn’t take myself to hospital after showing up at her practice needing sutures. so i took myself up to emergency, talked to the mh team, and was discharged 2 hours later. i don’t know whether to laugh or cry because the situation seems ludicrous, hilarious and also just really fucking sad.

every time i look at my thighs i cry.

i was trying to total the number of stitches i have had in my head, but i lost count, which is probably the worst number there is – infinite. i had 37 across two thigh cuts kinda recently, there are 10 in my arm as i write, and there were 6 last week. if i keep counting, i think there would have been about 30 on my thighs, and fuck knows how many on my arms. at least 40, maybe even 50? nobody will ever love me, not with this frankenstein flesh.

love, your very sad melodramatic bogs,

rosie.

on the count of six(teen) – a poem

remember that one time when i wrote about my sixteenth suicide attempt?

i’m still not coping with it very well, so i wrote a poem about it. it was a pretty serious attempt, landing me in icu after all. and i’m trying so fucking hard to fight against my head but sometimes it just gets so loud and the thoughts will only stop once i act on them.

pretty heavy trigger warning on this one guys. i would say ‘enjoy’ but it’s probably not the kind of poem you would enjoy. i hope it helps you heal as writing it helped me heal


with a backing track

of panic attacks,

the most pitiful playlist,

i swallow supposed death,

washed back with a bottle of vodka.

i fall asleep to serenading

waves on the beach;

dying feels like going home.

strangely, beneath the stars

i feel less alone

even though they represent

only myths, i suppose.

then waking in intensive care

waking into horror

writhing in restraints

while watched by two cops

ready with their handcuffs

ready for when i run

with my rights stripped away.

every time i wake i see her face.

i wish i were a shooting star not

starfished at the ankles and wrists

spread apart to remind me of

the men who spread my legs

then left me with the mess.

soon startled into being

at the hiss of velcro loosening

i throw my fist toward my face

before my veins are flooded

with syringed sleep

with a shot of compliance.

the next time i wake

there are three cops

no, four

watching closely on the tips

of their regulation boots,

on the edge of their seats.

it will take five sets of hands

to hold me down this time.

they say i am hurting them

but surely i am hurting more

since i keep finding myself waking

into the same

fucking nightmare.

sisters – a poem

me and my sister never really got along. but we were civil enough until something happened that just fucked with my head a little too much. she didn’t ask me to be a bridesmaid at her wedding. and i was just really fucking hoping that she would use it as an opportunity to repair our relationship, because i had been working on myself a lot, and i had tried to be a better sister, but no. i can’t forgive her. since then, we basically haven’t spoken at all. it was really getting to me last night, and i cut a bit, but i also wrote a really angry poem about it. i don’t really know what to call it yet. some mix-up of the typical sayings about sisters. like instead of “sisters are flowers from the same garden” maybe like “two weeds from different plots” or something, i dunno. anyway, yay, a poem. i also intend to perform this one so if i can figure out how to upload a recording you might actually get to hear me read my poetry… but only if you don’t judge my bogan west aussie accent.


it was supposed to be the done thing

the sisterly thing

the siblings walking side by side sort of thing

the playing princesses in old bridesmaid’s dresses

acting like we actually got along sort of thing.

i had already picked a perfect gown

the burnt orange one

the one the colour of rust spots

or our collection of stolen ochre rocks.

C the synesthete had always said

my voice was rust coloured

so for once the inside of my head

would pair well with how i acted instead.

everything i know i learned from books

but books could never teach me

how to be a good sister,

they taught me only stigma.

they taught me to be ashamed of myself

so when you repeated the words

on that glossy white cover

the dangerous strokes of scarlet

warning of the lies

that would soon smother

my story into a smaller size

when you told me that it sounded just like me

and then i fucking evaporated

you never could quite connect the dots.

you never could quite remember things

the way that i could, the way that you should.

well K, i have a long fucking memory

and here are some of the things i remember.

after i got that detention

you mocked me for my bravery

without daring to ask

why i had needed saving

after you saw my scars

you stopped speaking to me

as if my shameful past

stopped our future trajectory

after buying a house in which

to start your family

you neglected to tell me

probably because you thought

i would be a shitty aunty.

well here’s the final touch

the cherry on top

that will seal away our sisterhood:

i will never remember your wedding.

and that’s probably because

i won’t

fucking

be there.

“you’re too unstable”

someone in my professional supports finally had the balls to say what i’ve been waiting to hear: you are too unstable to be treated in the community. you need to be in hospital.

lol, okay.

but this is what i wanted right? this is what i’ve been waiting for someone, anyone to recognise. it’s taken sixteen suicide attempts for someone to finally fucking saying it.

“if you’ve spent 5 out of 7 days of the week in hospital – you shouldn’t be leaving the hospital”

and i don’t know how i feel about that. i’ve been saying for a long time that i’m sick of the constant emergency-discharge-emergency-overnightadmission-discharge-emergency cycle.

but

i still

don’t know

how i feel

about finally hearing what i’ve wanted to hear. it’s weird.


in my last post i said i was going to wait a little bit before bringing before the blogosphere the trials and tribulations of my latest crisis. it’s not very pretty. trigger warning. like, seriously, stop reading here if you find explicit mentions of self harm, suicide, hospital or police triggering.

so i can’t remember much of what happened. i mean, i can’t remember much most days anyway, which my psychiatrist thinks will improve when i start stimulants, since i show other signs of adhd and the one time i did try stimulants (as every uni student does), i couldn’t understand how other people were getting high. i had never felt more normal in my life. so yeah, i can’t remember much. it’s all snippets, chip chop all over the shop. chunks show up here and there. in between i know that things happened but i don’t know what. i don’t know if i blacked out or if i was asleep or if i was dissociating or if i just cut it from my mind. it could be any of those options.

i took a second insane overdose of a medication i will not name here. it didn’t land me in icu this time (because i didn’t tell them i took anything at the time whoops), but it did land me in restraints, again. so yeah, i had four (five? six?) police officers holding me down, one on each limb and one over my face cupping my neck because i bang my head when i’m distressed and they really don’t like when i do that it turns out. my friend C (she’s a legend. she agreed to be my emergency contact since i have such a weird and gross relationship with my parents) read to the bible from me as i tried to calm down and it really worked. god is good. but i still got sedated, cause i dunno, they know i have a history of running and shit? i wasn’t even trying to leave. like yeah, i was hurting myself, but i wasn’t not cooperating. whatever. it seems to be the new normal now. attempt suicide / self harm, police are called, police schedule me, police restrain and/or handcuff me, ambos arrive, ambos restrain and/or sedate me, ambos take me to hospital, hospital takes care of any physical damage and/or restrains and/or sedates me, i chat very briefly to someone about the mental damage, schedule is lifted, i am discharged from hospital.

repeat.

this was the first time i properly slit my wrists with the intention of killing myself – i have never self harmed and wanted to die before, because i study anatomy (ironic hey) and i know how deep you have to go to hit something important. but this time, for the second time, i did hit something important. and this time, for the first time, it was on purpose.

wow. i do not recommend. i mean, wow. there was a literal spray of blood.

so. much. fucking. blood.

you know when you have a leak in a hose? a small leak, the size of a pin, but the hose is under such high pressure that heaps of water comes bursting out? it was like that.

and fucking hell, can i not wait to it again.


rosie bogs loves her blog

peace out

she’s still alive, let’s take five

if you saw my last post, you will know i attempted, for the sixteenth time, to take my own life. which is pretty fucked. i don’t want to put myself through it again, but you know how it is – i’m a borderline bitch *shrugs*

i do feel a need to vent about it, and i will, and this is my space for that sort of emotional vomit. for now though i need to let myself relax, apply for extensions for my two final essays of the semester, and focus on staying safe.

i’ll be back soon blogger buddies


primary herder of cats,

rosie bogs

x