It’s been a tough few weeks. It’s been a very tough few weeks. The suicidal thoughts have returned, just as strong as before. I hate this. It’s something I repeat to the friends I reach out to, over and over and over: I hate this.
I hate not knowing myself, I hate that I can’t seem to control my mood on any given day. Will I be depressed, numb, anxious, lonely, distressed, suicidal, manic – or normal for fucks sake. I’ve kinda forgotten how normal moods work if I’m being totally honest. It’s been a long time. I see glimpses, little fleeting surprises where a moment completely captures my attention and drags me out of the depths of my thoughts, igniting a smile, or maybe I burst out laughing at work from something that popped into my head, that only I can see and understand. Awesome, now they really think I’m crazy.
I do really, completely, hate it.
Most of all, I hate myself.
I hate not fighting back against the bitch that shattered me in high school, the fists she threw, the kicks she landed. I hate the moment that I retaliated, and was punished by the school for physically hurting another student. She was never punished, not even once I revealed the full extent of what she did to me. I hate that I lost my childhood to anorexia, and my adolescence to bulimia, and my adulthood to a fog of suicidality and attempts at medication and hospitalisation and isolation. I hate that I feel like I’ve only ever made wrong decisions, but I know if I hadn’t moved to Sydney, and had stayed where I was, things would probably not have been all that different. In fact, if I hadn’t moved to Sydney, I’d probably be dead already. I hate that I can’t articulate to my therapist the stream of self-deprecation in my head, but I’m perfectly capable of sharing my deepest, darkest, innermost thoughts to strangers on the online international blogging forum. I hate that there’s something inherently wrong with me, that my mental illness(es) are chronic, that I might not ever be fully recovered from years and years of eating disorders. I hate that even though I know how bad certain behaviours are for me, and the damage they cause to myself and everyone who knows me, I continue to engage with them anyway. I hate the scars. The ambivalence. The trial and error. The money I spend on therapy that doesn’t seem to achieve anything.
I hate myself, for everything I’ve done and didn’t do. I hate myself for recovering from anorexia. I hate myself for wishing I hadn’t recovered. I hate myself for developing bulimia in its place. I hate myself for being chronically depressed. I hate the lure of the knife, the prescriptions, the busy road and waves that call to me from afar.
I hate the progress I’ve made, and the distance I have left to cover.
I hate this. I hate feeling this way. I hate it’s unfamiliarity. Mostly though, I guess I just hate myself.