Sunday night late. In order to make myself feel somewhat normal I’ve decided to write. I’ve been wanting to write since last night but couldn’t bring myself to. I have a slight urge and desire to cut myself. Maybe because I talked about it over dinner last night. Maybe it’s because I know we have new sharp knives in our home which I haven’t used on myself yet. Maybe because I know that after my therapist and I create our new safety contract on Tuesday I will be morally obligated by an official promise and document to no longer harm myself, and to take action by calling someone before I do anything to harm myself.
I had a very active Friday night and all of Saturday helping a friend move from one house to another, and as such, I spent all day in bed today. It was agonizing because I wanted to get up but just couldn’t bring myself to. By 10 AM I dreamed of making myself an espresso with my moka. At noon I checked the time again to discover that my afternoon study partner had canceled our date due to feeling ill. So I stayed in bed. I woke up at 4:30 in the afternoon to eat two large bowls of cereal, which was the equivalent of my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My roommate was listening to worship music and because I didn’t want to have to tolerate it, and also because I didn’t know what else to do with myself (I could have been doing laundry… no thanks!) I went back to bed. Now it’s almost midnight and I had been struggling for the last three hours to get the motivation to have a shower since the last time I washed my hair was Thursday night. Can’t go to work with greasy hair, though I’ve done it before.
I was brimming with stories to tell last night of my dinner out but as I discovered on my day of suicidality, I cannot write about it right away when I’m still so charged with emotion. I have to let the stories simmer for a while before delving into them.
My hair is wet and I’ve made it through another weekend. This weekend I did accomplish a lot, despite my full day of hibernation. I was up and out when I was needed, and the moment I wasn’t needed I discarded myself to depression. Tuesday I see my therapist and I’m so glad we already have the appointment scheduled. I feel unstable and edgy when we don’t schedule ahead of time.
My story that I’m going to tell, about my Italian friend, starts back when I was 19 years old. There’s tragedy and heartbreak and years of not being in contact due to my controlling ex-husband. And there’s memory loss of recent years due to the ECTs. But all of that I won’t go into right now. I’ll just try to make it through another day.