this started as a blog post and then went downhill from there

Lili 4:36 AM No comments
FRIDAY

Henni adressed this once (probably more often but i just remember that one time) where she talked about how she feels like she gets bad at taking care of herself.

I never understood this when I was younger, like, why wouldn’t you feed yourself and drink and shower and go outside, those are the basic things, why would you force yourself not to do them?
The thing is, taking care of yourself means so much more. It means accepting yourself, telling yourself, that your feelings and moods are valid and that you are worth eating and taking up space. That crawling under your bed and starving yourself won’t help you with anything. Punishing yourself or just letting those basic needs slip away and ignoring your empty stomach shouldn’t be okay.

Right now I’m in one of those phases were I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to be here, dressing myself seems like too much effort, I’m not important or worthy enough to make myself leave the bed and cook something for me.

Something my therapist told me, as I called her up a few hours ago - crying in the middle of the street, because I couldn’t make myself move anymore -  was, that i never learned how to take care of myself.
Not in a i-cant-cook-or-live-on-my-own-kinda-way, but in terms of emotional care.
I never learned to hug myself, talk to myself nicely; I adopted a way of speaking to myself, that wasn’t healthy for me, because that’s how people spoke to me and my therapist assured me that that’s not the way you speak to a scared child.
I developed a lot of bad habits throughout the years because of how I thought I needed to treat myself, I got into abusive relationships, ate nothing or too much, forced myself to do certain stuff or to not do things I wanted to do and harmed myself in other ways.

I’m not able to calm myself down or treat myself the way I should, I’m too afraid to be depressed and actually too exhausted to panic, but still on edge for hours now.


SATURDAY

Nobody is able to give a fuck
Every time I get bad again, I drift away and leave everyone behind.
I’m alone when I feel lonely and that is a bad combination.

I’ll manage it somehow, my therapist will call almost every day to make sure that I’m still alive and breathing and I’ll get over it and on with that thing I call my life.

It’s actually not that bad. No one notices how much or how less I eat, or when, no one is disappointed, when I’m in my PJs for a week straight or when I take 3 naps a day.
No one gives me a bad look, when I sit in the bathroom at 2 am and crying and no one will be angry, when I do the same at 8 o’ clock in the morning on the kitchen floor.
I can be as destructive and self-harming as I like, no one’s there to stop me or to tell me that I should get my shit together.

It’s kind auf nice to be able just to let it out, whenever it needs to get out.
But at the same time no one’s there to try to calm me down, when I wake up in the middle of the night,  screaming and scared to death, no one will look after me, when I sit next to toilette, sweaty and feeling sick, about to faint.

Then everybody will get back and start judging:
being mad at me for not living my life to my full potential, for spending my days in my bed and shouting at me, when I’m crying and shaking, because they can’t see it.

I dragged myself outside, with this last piece of hope and went to the supermarket to pick up frozen pizza or bread or something for my upset stomach and I cried all the way back to the house, because it was so exhausting and too much to handle and I had 3 panic attacks in the store with every one watching me like I lost my fucking mind and had to leave and break down on the sidewalk hyperventilating, wander lost around the streets, maybe twice, just to gather enough strength to make it to the cashier.

They will look at me while I’m down, almost dying and tell me, sometimes  louder than necessary that they didn’t do anything wrong. That they were the perfect parents/boyfriend/friend and that it’s not there fault.

Just like I would stand beside a burning house, hearing the family inside scream and screaming back: I’m sorry, I can’t help, it’s not my fault, I didn’t set the fire!

My parents are in denial for years now and I don’t think anything will ever get through to them. It doesn't matter if I’ve been in 2 different clinics in the past 3 years, had multiple therapists and it doesn'T matter whether i took prescriptive meds for and against basically everything or nothing at all - they look at me in this certain way, like I’m a stranger, expecting me to snap out of it any second.
They don’t even bother to cover up the fact that they are so annoyed of me being me, so tired of everything being so hard to handle.

It’s just so nerve-wrecking, being not able to exist in your own body, nevermind in your own head and then watching the people around you, who you should be able to trust and feel save with, treating you like you are a burden, emphasizing your own self-image in the worst way possible.

When I force myself out of bed in the late afternoon, to make myself eggs on toast and to keep myself a little longer alive, people will comment on my eating behavior, tell me I’m feeling like shit because I eat the wrong stuff or too much or not enough, try to blame food for the chemicals in my brain,like I did all those years ago.

But that’s not it.


SUNDAY

I had four panic attacks last evening/night and I was so utterly terrified that I thought the world would just cave in and bury my alive.

Nothing happened. Not even my room moved the slightest and I feel so dumb for being so scared and paranoid and at the same time I still feel this way so it’s again like betraying myself, not accepting those bad thoughts and instead treating myself like a nutcase.
Maybe I actually am losing my mind.

I don’t remember what the whole point of this is, what I wanted to tell the world, what I want my friends to think of me, this should have been a blog post about self-care and getting better, but i don't feel like lying today. 

Instead it's about how I’m thinking about quitting uni (again), about how I stopped seeing my therapist and stopped taking my meds (again), about how I might need to go into hospital (again), maybe this night because I’m unable to function in any way, about how scared I am of losing myself (again), about how i can't remember how it felt before and i'm terrified of never being able to feel right again, about how everything turned into one big nightmare and I can't wake up.

I don’t know what I want to say with this. I could write it in a diary and in my mother tongue, but it seems to me that I need this language to establish a border between myself and what happens in my life.
Nobody knows what’s really going on in my life, I normally don’t talk about it or at least try not to spent too much time in the role of the poor little (big) girl that feels so sorry for herself, that wants attention and everyone to love her, I try to keep it bottled up, but the one’s of you, that actually met me once or twice or even almost every day for 8 years in a row, see through my internet personality, see the person behind peetapun and actually saw me sitting one the sidewalk not being able to breathe or watched me crying in public toilets. I know it’s never fun and games with me, I know I cancel more dates then I ever show up to, I arrive too late and leave too early, I’m not a good talker, a bad listener and just in general  not a likeable person.

Maybe I just wanted to make sure that everyone knows, that I’m still suffering, more than ever, because all I seem to do is tweet not really funny and insinuating stuff or write a blog post convincing myself how deep and thoughtful and clever I am, creating this image of myself how i want humanity to adore me, when all I actually do is trying not to be me.


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