Things are Bad
Things are, indeed, bad. I seem to have got myself a stalker. Did I write here that a few weeks ago whilst manic I went up to some bloke in the pub and started talking to him? Well, if I didn’t chronicle it, then there you go.
A was with me, and it was all totally innocent – the man in question is a grey-haired biker git, 20 years my senior. Not that age matters a fuck to me, but really – there was nothing sexual or romantic about this liaison in any way. He seemed fairly genuine too, and the three of us got on well, with shared interest in music and whatnot.
Unfortunately, I shortly realised my mistake and tried to get away; I’d nothing against having a pint with this man, but I didn’t want to spend all night with him. But it wasn’t that simple, and to my horror I found myself agreeing to exchange phone numbers with him.
He harassed me on and off a few times but whilst it was bothersome, as I despise the fucking phone, it was little more than a nuisance. However, just before we went on holiday, he rang me and was on the bloody phone for about an hour. Towards the end of the conversation, he made a number of sexual comments that I don’t want to even think about. I listened in horror, unable to hang up, though I eventually managed to ‘politely’ get away.
In consequence of this conversation, I have ignored the little contact he has recently directed at me. He seemed to have got the message.
So, A and I went to the local after dinner last night. We scouted it out for Blokey Bloke, and he wasn’t there, so we sat down and began to engage in conversation. After about 20 minutes, though, to my horror, I saw Fuckhead cross the path of my peripheral vision. I pretended not to notice him at first, but he’d clearly seen us and basically pushed me out of the way to sit down with us.
I wouldn’t say that A and I encouraged the conversation particularly, but what we didn’t do was tell the miserable son of a bitch to fuck the fuck off. No, we both chickened out. Pathetic, miserable wusses. Me especially, as it was my fucking irresponsibility that had got me into the damn mess in the first place.
We pretended that we had only intended to come in for one drink and promptly left, and went to the other pub in the vicinity. But by then I was so freaked out I kept seeing yer man. He was there, in the bar – yet he wasn’t. Then the bloody voice started wittering on. Then I really lost it and was crying and panicking and begging A to protect me from everything and my skull was splitting and frankly, had A been a psychiatrist I think I’d have been sent to the bin right then and there.
Perhaps needless to say, A took me home. I think I was able to feign having calmed down to some extent, but when he fell asleep I tried to sever the arteries in my ankles. I momentarily tried my wrists too, but decided against that as the blood would be much more visible to me, what with one’s hands being much closer to one’s eyes. I do like watching the blood from cutting, but I understand that severed wrists when done properly are actually pretty gruesome; you can see much more than just blood. So I abandoned that.
As you can see, this pathetic suicide attempt failed. The agony of trying to slit my ankles was indescribable, and the cuts that are there are little more superficial than any non-suicidal self-harm cuts.
I bandaged my feet and went to bed and did sleep briefly, but only for a couple of hours. I woke at maybe 2am and have essentially been awake since. The cat threw up on the landing and I used the bandages of my by-that-point dry wounds to clear up the vomit – how strange and surreal.
Today I can feel a migraine coming on, and I feel guilty about the cuts because I know it’s not fair to put A through this crap, and I’ve got to see the in-laws tonight (not that that’s a bad thing, however). I’m also aware that I can hardly ever go for a quiet drink again without whatshisface harassing me, as he frequents both our locals. I suck so utterly profoundly. How irresponsible and stupid! So, life could be better.
A wants me to tell VCB about last night but I think she needs to hear the redacted version. I really don’t think being binned would help my fragile mental health; psychiatric wards sound like places of great evil to me (group therapy? Fuck off. Other mentals wanting to talk to you? Fuck off. NHS neglect, food and general wastage? Fuck off). I am seeing VCB on Tuesday and am terrified, then on Thursday I’ve got to go to occupational shitting health. So another great week awaits.
Sorry for whinging.
This entry was posted on Saturday, 26 September, 2009 at 3:00 pm and is filed under Everyday Life, Moods, Triggers with tags anger, anxiety, bipolar 2, bipolar 2 disorder, bipolar disorder, bipolar II, bipolar II disorder, borderline personality disorder, bpd, clinical depression, cutting, delusions, depression, hallucinating, hallucinations, hypomania, insanity, insomnia, madness, major depressive disorder, mania, manic depression, mental health, mentalhealth, panic, panic attack, psychiatry, psychology, self harm, social anxiety, suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, suicide, suicide ideation. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.