Just another Sunday

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.


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