Fucking things up since 1981.

The crawling brain thing is back. Brain submerged in lemonade. Thoughts bashing together and not making much sense. Can’t sit still but can’t stay still. I hope this is not going back down again. Again. A gain.

Clearer, clearer, things are becoming clearer. The fluoxetine appears to have kicked in a little, the counsellor is helping me practically manage my academic workload, I’ve got some quetiapine to help me sleep. Things are calmer and clearer. I am still sad and a bit shakey and kinda stunned by the past month. I’ve decided to stop being so stubborn about seeking help when I need it. I cannot go through this again.

There was a tiny glow of hope. Just a flicker. That things might be ok.

My thoughts fall out of my cupped hands. I have holes in my hands. I have holes in my heart where the blackness got in.

All over the shop. Pieces of me and my head, all over the place. Scattered. I am in all things. I am all things. I am pictures and words and dancing and screaming and laughing and crying. I am all things.

Incessant. I cannot think about anything else, and because I cannot think about anything else, I cannot do anything else and I cannot see any way of making this better. Its like this crazy fever.

Terrified the rope will snap. Terrified I won’t find the right sort of tree. Terrified I won’t have the guts to do it. Terrified I will.

I don’t know how to turn around.

Where has the past month gone? Its like waking up with the worst hangover ever. But it’s not really, because I ‘woke up’ yesterday and the day before and the day before that, each time bewildered and scared about what the fuck has happened to my life. Dreams within dreams. Is this a memory, a dream, a nightmare, a film? Why can’t I just claw back some of these mistakes before they solidify into decisions? But I can’t. I can’t trust people to be telling me the truth about this, you cannot compare laziness and unsociability to a broken leg. I’ve spent 5 years healing my sprains and fractures, why should this leg be any different?

And yet it refuses to fuse.

There is a horror in realising you very nearly offed yourself, but get it into focus again and examine the reasons and it really doesn’t seem so stupid. Perhaps not so urgent, but probable, yes, justified, yes. That unrelenting blizzard of nothing but red and black and burning alive, at least it was something. This place is nothing. There is nothing here but the sound of things breaking.

I am not here, I am not there, I am lost in the third place.