I have mentioned in passing before a friend of mine who is ill at the moment and under section. I haven’t been that well this week so have been keeping myself to myself. I find out yesterday that on Tuesday she managed to escape over the fence and throw herself under a car, escaping with only bruises. Then, on Wednesday she cut her leg, she said trying to get at her femoral artery. The text was chilling, she said she now knew where it was and would get it next time.
I asked her for a picture of the cut. Part of me, I guess, wants to see it to make sure how bad it is, to make sure she is safe. The other part, the BPD part, I’m not really sure I understand. Maybe I want to compare her cuts to mine? Maybe I want to make sure they aren’t worse than mine? I don’t know I just know I wanted to see.
Either way, it was a big mistake. It was the worst thing I have ever seen, far worse than anything I have ever done, a gaping hole in her leg, perhaps an inch and a half deep and two inches round. It triggered me.
Additional to that, I had some bad news from the vet about my dog who has been lame, which led me to feel very upset (at least I had a real reason this time!) and my parents went out for the evening, leaving me home alone.
I knew that I needed to have stitches, and nothing else would be good enough. I put the dogs away, got everything ready and got the razor out. But, something was different this time. I couldn’t do it. I was weak, and spineless. Yes, I cut, but not deep enough to need stitching. I tried re-cutting the cuts to make them deeper but couldn’t face the pain. Yes, that’s right, the pain was real. Has something happened to me? Do I have a new self protection mechanism in place? Have I healed myself in some way without realising it?
Either way, my lack of ability to cut deep enough for stitches made me hate myself even more, but still, I could not do it. I wrapped my hand in a towel (I had cut and it was bleeding everywhere despite not being bad) and drove to the hospital, which the intention of making more deeper cuts whilst in the car park.
And so, for the second time in a week I found myself sitting in the car park of a&e; to-ing and fro-ing as to whether to make the cut. Except, when it came down to it, I couldn’t face the pain. I should be over the moon. It means I won’t ever do it again. So why am I not? Why do I feel useless, weak and spineless?
I sat there for about an hour before admitting defeat. So here I am, the morning after the night before, feeling like an idiot allowing one picture to trigger me like that and not realising what was happening at the time (perhaps I wanted to have a cut like the one I saw in the picture?) when normally I think of myself as fairly insightful of my condition.
And now I have to suffer, the cuts on my hand are horribly sore, but worse, horribly obvious. There is no way I am going to be able to hide them, but I can’t face people finding out about this.
In other news, I received a letter yesterday from the mental health services informing me that an appointment that was booked for July with the psychiatrist had been moved to June. I had completely forgotten about that appointment, in fact, I had assumed it had been cancelled since they discharged me from the mental health services. Perhaps they only discharged me from the services of the CPN rather than the whole thing; so now I’m a little confused, but also happy, as I will get a chance to hopefully review my meds. I think it may be a good idea for me to go back I to something for a little while.
Take care. X