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.

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.

“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

number 16

i survived suicide attempt 16 a few days ago. it was an almost lethal one apparently.

i was in icu for about 48 hours. had a seizure or two. was restrained multiple times – by the police, in handcuffs, in the ambulance, by six doctors and nurses, in a four point fabric one at my wrists and ankles to the side of the bed. honestly, i would rather be restrained than get sedated. droperidol is a fucking nightmare. it knocks me out for a while and hangs around in the system for a day or so too.

i still have some drugs left. not much. but some. i checked against the lethal blood concentration (like, the mg/L dose) and if i calculated it correctly this will be 300x as much. still not convinced i did calculate it correctly cause that seems like a massive difference.

but that’s good.

i need to go.

so tonight i am trying again. using a combination of a few things + alcohol (gotta get that central nervous system depression) and i will probably self harm for good measure. i hit a superficial artery by accident once so i know where to aim. i can see the wonky scar because it was a tricky place to suture. a few parallel cuts along that and i should be fine. i hope no one finds me. i have no commitments until monday when i am meant to see my doctor and then wednesday when i am supposed to see my psychiatrist. i have no work commitments until next weekend because for some reason, despite all the covid stuff and schools closed, nobody wants tutoring right now, which makes me feel pretty useless. so my next shift at the pharmacy (lol, i find it super ironic i work at a pharmacy actually) isn’t until next weekend, which is plenty of time, if for some reason this attempt is unsuccessful AGAIN and i get the mandatory 3 day invol stay.

they didn’t admit me to psych this time which was kinda weird, considering how lethal everybody was telling me the overdose was.

lol.

okay, bye.

for real this time.

if for some reason i survive tonight, i’ll try and update as soon as i can. some of you guys have been awesome supports for me. thanks for everything.

Cuffed, battered, and bruised.

As with the other times I have been forcibly restrained, being handcuffed and held down by four (five? six?) police officers against my will was not a pleasant experience.

My hair is (still) full of leaves. My mind is full of trauma. Not only is my body a patchwork of pink and silver scars, but now purple and green and brown patches mar its surface too. There are rings on my wrists from fighting against handcuffs, before they were replaced with softer restraints in the ambulance. My eye is black from punching myself repeatedly in the face before the police held my arms by my sides. My elbows, sides and thighs all ache from attempts to wriggle free. My throat is hoarse from screaming at them to stop, to let go, to just let me die.

They didn’t let up, not until I was “more compliant” after being sedated.

On a somewhat lighter note, the police thought I was very strong, which apparently I was supposed to take as a compliment even while their palms pushed at my body and hands held down my head. I could hear them joking about it. It didn’t feel good to be laughed at, laughed about, while my rights were violated at the same time.

The next thing I remember is waking up on Monday morning, hungover, and drowsy from the remnants of sedative coursing through my circulation. I remember ambulance officers, but I don’t remember getting in the ambulance. I remember being restrained, but I don’t remember those restraints being taken off. I remember talking to the mental health team, but not what I said.

What I do remember, very clearly, is the anguish of being restrained once again.

Just another traumatic chapter added to my life story.

High Lethality

I think I was a cat in a past life. As of Monday, I survived my eighth suicide attempt. I only have one life left then, I suppose.

One of my obsessive anxious behaviours is that I cannot stand people knowing things about me that I don’t know myself, so I always, always, read my discharge summaries, referrals, notes… you get the idea. Which is how I found out that my liver is on the verge of death, after taking a high lethality overdose.

Still wasn’t lethal though, was it?

Still useless at killing myself, aren’t I?

Still worthless, failing at even the simplest tasks – like killing myself.

Things aren’t even bad right now. Mood is okay. Life is stable. Uni is great.

Thoughts are loud.

I’ve been working a lot on my poetry lately, and my book, so I haven’t really been writing much here. I’m still chugging along, desperately clinging to the bits of life I actually enjoy and self-destructively destroying everything else that doesn’t serve me well.

That’s the best I can do right now.

an update + a song for steff

a few of the regular readers of my blog (you know who you are, though I’m going to call you out anyway – much love to you S, A and Caity May) wanted me to check back in here.

last week, i survived my fifth suicide attempt.

i also survived my 72 hour hold in an unfamiliar hospital in the middle of fucking nowhere, because there were no beds available at the hospital that is actually in my health district. somehow, i also survived the ANGER that kept trying to trap me. the spite that was driving me to self harm. the hatred that was driving my sarcasm and lashing out at people who didn’t deserve it.

i also wrote a song while i was in hospital – my first song!

i can’t really sing, but I’ll post the lyrics here… the beat is super weird by the way, so maybe just read it like a poem with an overarching chorus?

i was high when i wrote this (another first, maybe needing another post – turns out smuggling in contraband to a mental health unit is pretty easy, according to the person i got high with). don’t worry; i edited it while i was sober.

this song is for steff, who doesn’t read this blog, and will probably never have these words sung to her. but, just as poetry is cathartic, it was a big relief to finally say what i wanted to say… unlike her, i guess… you’ll see.


I miss stroking your shaven head.

And tattoos that distract in bed.

Perfume that smells like loving me

But eyes that say we’ll never be.

Your sm-ile said you wanted to be here

But beneath that grin I sensed your fear.

I just don’t know how I’m s’posed to feel,

while my thoughts are with you still.

I’m des-pe-rate darl to hold you once more,

But flirting with you only makes me a whore.

Cause you / have / a girlfriend.

Yeah you / have / commitments.

I see you in all the windows,

While I’m tryna let go.

Whatever you feed, that shit grows

So tell me, hun, what will you sow?

Why don’t we talk this friendship through?

Maybe over a beer or two

As I slowly learn to stop loving you.

I just don’t know what I’m s’posed to do,

now I don’t spend time with you.

I’m des-per-ate darl to hold you once more,

But flirting with you only makes me a whore.

Cause you / have / a girlfriend.

Yeah, you / have / commitments.

Why’d you mess with my head to waste some time?

Instead of growing yourself a fucking spine.

To say all those things you were wanting to say.

I guess it shouldn’t matter anyway.

I don’t even know who I’m s’posed to be,

Now you’re parting ways with me.

I’m so damn desp ’rate to love you some more,

I’ve stopped caring if that makes me a whore.

But what / of / your girlfriend.

And all / those / commitments.

Well good thing I’m persistent.

STILL not sick enough

been in and out of hospital more in the past month than i have in the rest of my life. my doctor and psych decided together that an extended admission was inappropriate for me at this time. when will it be appropriate? when i’m dead? the borderline rage is building and its going to bubble over soon and then i will start hurting myself out of spite to make them see, to force them to see, that i am not okay.

my anatomy exam is tomorrow. i care about that, so i’m going to sit that, and then i’m going to kms.

i have 24 hours to come up with a plan. but it has to be something that will work. stab stab stab, fall fall fall? but i can’t do it at home, because then my housemate will find me. so back to the beach? i dont know. i dont know what to do anymore.

i hate being alive. i hate existing in this space. i take up so much space, too much space.

i can’t do this anymore.