Category Archives: suicide

On being too much

After a rather lovely weekend on valium, Monday is finally here.

Monday – where all the consequences of all the stupid stuff I have done over the past couple of weeks are going to land, hard.

I am not sure if I have the wherewithal to deal with what is already here, let alone what is coming.

The last 2 days have been a haze of benzos with intermittent research of how better to access a fatal artery because, I have tried to hit one of these 4/5 times in my life and (obviously) failed miserably. I am tired of failing.

Things are too far gone with me to contemplate starting over yet again. Because I know that I will pull myself up and try to build something only for it to be shot down at the first attachment that comes along. I am allergic to attachment .. it’s an actual thing I think. If there were awards for how to consistently fuck up relationships I would be a cause celebre’ … because I don’t learn. I never, ever learn.

I managed to convince myself that it was of vital importance that the pup not think I had self-harmed, I especially didn’t want him to think that I had self-harmed due to him. And, truth is, I didn’t. It wasn’t about him specifically, it was about allowing somebody in only to find, yet again, that even though he/they claimed constantly and sincerely to be completely into me, to want and adore me, to feel that there was ‘something about me’ drawing them in … when push came to reciprocation, he/they did not have my back.

I am perhaps being unfair to them all. I am perhaps needing for him/them to be able to do something they are not capable of. I know that having BPD makes my emotions run on nuclear level much of the time but I usually manage to hide this and I don’t ever ask for very much, I am usually far too terrified of putting people off to ask for much at all.  I was happy for the pup (for example) to bounce in and out of my life and it didn’t bother me that much where he was when he wasn’t with me. But his love bombing began to affect me and I began to wonder if perhaps this very damaged boy was a short-term answer — although, to what I am not sure.

So, I sent him a text yesterday … I told him I missed him a little and hoped he was doing OK. I was trying to act like all was OK, that any self-harm was not an issue . I think I wanted the shame of it all to be washed away. He called but the phone only rang once and that was that. A couple of hours later he sent the text saying that he hoped I was doing alright. Ouch.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

I responded by making light of the ‘missing’ … he never responded to that.


I don’t even know what my feelings are in all of this. I don’t love him, I do know that. Perhaps he was just a small oasis in the loneliness of a new city and a life that isn’t worth much right now. But, I did need him to show me that he has or had my back when it counted.

He doesn’t.

It saddens me that this is the case, yet again. I am unused to struggling with the politics of this stuff as my previous relationships (well, most of them) didn’t have this back and forth, to and fro going on. I am used to meeting somebody, we click, we begin seeing each other and it explodes at some point. But the ex and now the pup have shown me that the ‘easy’ time of meeting/colliding and everybody being on the same page, at least in the beginning, are long gone. I don’t know if it is because I am older and less desirable or if things have just become more fucked up between men and women, or maybe I am just more fucked up.

I am also tired of well-meaning social workers, psychiatrists, psychologists, nurses etc telling me how special and wonderful I am … do they know how unconvincing and patronising it all sounds when coming from somebody who hasn’t a clue who you are?

I just know that I am not ‘wonderful’ enough to maintain someone’s interest enough for them to even care just a little bit about what happens to me … not once they are let in … I am unsure if that speaks volumes about me or about them but it’s volumey …


The Wild One

My last post was brief but indicated the way my weekend/week was headed: triggered to hell and a hospital visit.

There were a bunch of drugs, a shitload of alcohol, and visits back and forth from the pup. And by Sunday I was not in a good space, abandonment shit had kicked into overdrive and I ended up getting drunk and being in contact with my ex .. who suggested I go and see him to get some benzos to calm down with.

This was possibly one of the worst ideas I have followed through with in .. well .. ever, but I went took the pills, became even more fucked up and then walked out of the ex’s place pre-emptively.

The next day or so are a blur of more alcohol, some very shitty decisions and a binge on crystal meth .. it’s been years since I touched that stuff and now I remember why.

That was on Tuesday and I spent the day with the pup on and off, he was coming and going and  triggering the hell out of me in doing so. His final departure was when his (female) roomie called and he quite literally jumped out of bed and left me here. I finished off the bottle of bourbon we had bought and cut open my wrist … I was too out of it to get to a hospital or anything until Thursday and I spent the whole day/night there as I had severed a tendon that was too deep for local and had to go under a general for surgery. I had a few hours of psych evals and lied to assure them that it had not been a suicide attempt and that I am under the care of a private psychiatrist, she is just away right at this minute.

The pup called while I was waiting for theatre, but didn’t seem too concerned that I was and he was completely out of it — he turned up yesterday for a few minutes and proceeded to fill me in on the previous 2 days since I had seen him: he has not slept in 3 days, he had managed to piss off yet another person who drew a knife at some point (!!) and he was wired and out of control. I loaded him up with some Valium I had managed to get from a GP before I hit the hospital (no chance of getting them there without admittance) .. in fact, I am pretty sure that was the only reason he came over.

He asked me about my arm (nicely stitched and bandaged by that time) and then when I began to make excuses, he said something along the lines of it being my business …

It couldn’t be clearer that he just cannot take on board anything that is not directly feeding his completely out of control addictions. He is fired from jobs every week but is lucky enough to find work as his industry is in high demand .. he starts a new job, gets fired again, usually for either turning up drunk or drinking on the job.

On Tuesday, we sat for a few hours and had a really good talk about life and what he hopes to do and this is a person who has been so incredibly loving and sweet for all of this time .. until he pulls back and just .. isn’t anymore.

On Tuesday, I asked him to stay. I didn’t beg or plead or make a scene, I just needed him to stay. And fact is, he couldn’t even give me that. His path is even more self-destructive than mine and all I can do is stand aside and let him live it. I have seen and been involved with some very self-destructive men in my time but this boy is above and beyond anything I have experienced because it is every single day, non-stop. I don’t really understand how he isn’t dead or in hospital to be honest, he pisses people off wherever he goes and he fills his body with whatever is handy all day every day.

When he was going yesterday, he was talking about self-harm and said that he didn’t get it. Then he said he hurt other people rather than himself although, he ‘cuts himself on the inside every single day’.

I wonder where the boy who wanted to lie for hours and tell me how much he liked me has gone .. I wonder why even though this ‘thing’ of ours is more-than doomed, it feels like the end of the world that he doesn’t love me. Most of all, I wonder what it is about me that excites men in the short-term but doesn’t last … the very second i start to feel attached, even though they have usually dragged me to that point, they pull away.

Like my ex, the pup isn’t capable of loving anything but his own preoccupations, I just wish that I could take that on board and that it wasn’t so important to me.

I have a brand new scar now, my second for the year. I don’t know how many stitches and it doesn’t matter other than when the bandage comes off and everyone will see, will be able to count the exact amount of just deep my attachment tendencies are killing me.

What I learned from RW’s suicide

When somebody famous commits suicide, a gazillion articles quickly flood the popular mediasphere. It may be morbid of me but I am finding it both interesting and comforting to read details about how he successfully (not the best word given the topic but .. I am sure y’all get my drift) managed to actually do it because it’s not that easy to actually kill yourself, take it from me.

The other aspect in the media coverage I am a bit fascinated with comes from the mental health professionals who are weighing in on the need for open and useful dialogue about suicide.


Raise your hand if you have ever tried to discuss suicide in any way with any medical professional ever and ever had any response other than them immediately directing the conversation to demanding that you reassure them that you, in fact, are definitely not suicidal and are definitely not going to try to hurt yourself and that you feel ‘safe’ (whatever-the-fuck that means) — anybody? … anybody out there with their hand up?

My favourite part is when they make it crystal clear that failure to give them reassurances that you are not suicidal will result in them commiting you to a mental health facility, like, immediately, as in — you don’t even get to go home and feed the dog. This crazy logic deems that suicidal people cannot be trusted not to kill themselves, but they can be trusted to tell the truth about not having designs on killing themselves — or something like that.

Fact is, there are no spaces for discussions about suicide that help the suicidal. Speaking for myself, I would like to be able to talk through my thoughts, feelings and options in a rational manner but as long as medical professionals threaten to lock up anybody who tries to bring up the subject then suicidal people will remain silent.

So, what have we learned from RW’s suicide?

Nothing of course. How arrogant of us to think we would.



Rivers are red …

It has been about 8 months since my ex decided he didn’t want me.

It has been about 6 months since I last saw him.

It has been about 0,4 seconds since the thought of this utterly destroyed me.

I have never suffered from suicidal ideation; I either did or I didn’t feel suicidal, I am unused to struggling with it on a daily or weekly basis.

It’s hard to write about because it feel like crying wolf. I have read repeated posts in forums that claim it is emotional manipulation and that is the very last thing I want to do … but I am really struggling to find a way through today. I haven’t just lost my love, I have lost everything, my books, my clothes, my pictures of my children, my past .. all gone. I have nothing. And I am not growing and learning from this, I am stuck and grasping/gasping. I have lost everything and it is all my own fault. How does one reconcile that? Truth is, one doesn’t.

I have only tried to kill myself 3 or 4 times in the past, and each of those times had an inevitability that I am unconvinced is here today — perhaps that says something — perhaps I am only at the wishing stage and won’t move past it?

But I feel like I am drowning right now and I am unsure how to stem the tide — something has to give, and all I have to offer is me.



After I wrote the last post, a feeling of calm has come over me. Usually, when I get suicidal, the calm can only be found once I have actually let some blood or a night has passed, whichever comes first.

But here I sit. Calm, relaxed, and while not happy, I am OK.

Maybe all of this stress and anxiety around therapy/DBT is not worth the feelings of self-loathing it brings .. or maybe I have finally hit my rock bottom. I’m not sure and I don’t really care one way or the other right at this moment – I made it through the day and I don’t currently hate me.




I had an appointment with the psychiatrist today.


I was hoping we could have some sort of discussion about meds – even antidepressants. I am barely functioning out there in the real world, yesterday I had to leave work early (after arriving late) … I am a ticking bomb waiting to go off and I was scared yesterday.

I have met with this psych a couple of times before and I had a good vibe from him. He did my initial pre-diagnosis and was supportive during that time.

So, I went to the appointment with some enthusiasm and hope that he might offer some words of wisdom regarding my DBT debacle and that meds could be discussed.

What a silly, silly girl I am.

Firstly, here in NSW, there is a protocol for having your case worker sit in on any psychiatric sessions. I have seen 3 shrinks over 5-6 sessions and every time my case worker has been there nodding away and taking notes. It’s intrusive and demeaning not to be considered worthy of the privacy offered regular people.


Secondly … all the psych really wanted to do was to insist that DBT was going to be my cure-all irrespective of how I felt about or why I felt that way.

I have been upfront and honest about my alcohol consumption from the get-go and this morning it became incredibly obvious, yet again, that honesty is not the best policy where mental health is concerned. The whole session was about him lecturing me on drinking and telling me that if I didn’t do DBT, then really, there was nothing else t/he/y could do for me.

They both sat across from me in silence for much of the session and I felt judged. I felt worthless, I felt stupid and childish. I tried to explain that I am drinking because I am not able to deal with my emotions and he kept responding that drinking was going to become a very serious problem very soon and that DBT would ‘teach’ me to deal with the emotions. Although, he admitted that DBT takes time, a lot of time – and when I ask what I am meant to do in the meantime to be able to function/get to work … he looked at me like I was a petulant child. I could feel his distaste and impatience … I spent the whole session crying and feeling like I had been ambushed …

I walked out of there more triggered than I have been in months. Basically, he offered no medication, not even SSRI’s and he even mis-heard me when I used the word ‘intentions’ and thought I said ‘medications’ and jumped all over me.

I have never once asked for or discussed medication since I started going there in January and today was no exception. And yet, I was made to feel awful.

He had become yet another man looking at me with distaste, contempt, indifference … and so, I sat there, quietly pretending to listen to the ‘advice’ being shoved down my throat given and I completely split my psychiatrist. He stopped being a warm, friendly man (I can’t believe I ever fell for it) and became a self-involved, judgemental person who has no interest in my well-being at all.

Coming home is a bit fuzzy .. I remember crying the whole way on the train and I remember that creeping sense of inevitability that I was going to come home and try, for the 5th time, to finish this.


I climbed into bed and slept .. and drank and slept.

Now I am writing and drinking … writing and drinking … during my planning stage today, I yet again came up against the question of what to do with my darling dog. If I am not here to look after her .. what becomes of her? She is the only anchor I have and today it felt like a chain around my neck.

I am ashamed to admit it but I thought about killing her first so she wouldn’t be left at the mercy of strangers … but there is no way I could do that, not ever but death has become mixed up with release in my head.

It’s not Friday anymore … the day has become sentient; a dragon, and it hates me.



When I first encountered the criteria for BPD, I assured myself that I dd not suffer from/exhibit signs of emotional dysregulation – it was one of a few criteria that I was adamant I did not feel/display.

And yet … I (predictably according to the literature), use smoking, addiction, food and self-harm to regulate and soothe my emotions (well, I try to). In fact, I use them all, I am using them right now. It’s acutely shameful to come to understand that you fit within a pattern of behaviours.

The cycle of self-abuse is so enmeshed within my coping mechanisms that I have never considered it as reactive or behavioural; it’s always been instinctual.

I smoke, medicate, eat and self-harm on a scale – depending upon the circumstances. Some of these things I do all the time, others reflect the intensity of emotion I am feeling at the time and occur less often – like self-harm (I hate that phrase, it does injustice to the act itself and reduced it to a lowest common denominator – the outcome – without considering the intent or the need).

It’s kinda sad to realise that I am indeed a product of a disorder. That I am not unique, special or even particularly interesting … but simply walking, taling evidence of the validity of DSM criteria.

How utterly prosaic.