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.


6 Responses to “Things are Bad”

  1. What an experience to come back to from holiday. Totally get the surreal attraction of watching the bloodletting…it’s like watching the actual pain flow away further and further away. Besides, in view of a threatened section…ankles are a safer bet, less visible. Unfortunately w/me, my history of cutting didn’t have as much forethought. My forearms evidence the multiple times I sliced and diced ever so neatly in parallel and perpendicular lines. Try explaining that away mid-summer in t-shirts.

    I hope this fucking asshole will be at the ass end of your fury should he attempt anything untoward. Face it, it’s his fucking fault your socks may not be all that comfy right now. When you see him again, if it must come to pass, think of the bloodflow and imagine how nice it would look draining from the shit’s nose instead. I’ve always regretted it when I’ve resorted to violence; however, the end result of opting to do nothing (always the safer bet, truly) just pisses me more off in the end. It’s like you can’t win for losing. Besides, while I hate to admit it being the ever so butch dyke that I am, when I do wimp out and say nothing, the inner anger only rises to result in eventual self harm in some way, shape and form.

    Should be interesting to see how this unfolds…

    • Thanks Alix. Rationally, I know it’s more the dickhead’s fault and not mine, but I am raging with myself for even chatting to him in the first place. I like your suggestion of imagining the blood is his. I’ll give that a try when I see him next – I say ‘when’ as, whilst obviously I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to never be able to go to the places that I know he frequents – so I’ll have to try and stand up to him somehow, I suppose.

      Re: anger, I think it can be healthy to express it – unfortunately, with BPD or bipolar, it never seems to develop in that healthy way. I try to get angry when I’m in session with C, as it’s a ‘safe’ place to do it. I fantasise about screaming and ranting at him with impunity. But I’ve never done it and don’t know if I ever will – for some reason I detest the idea of him seeing me like that. But you’re right; suppressing it leads, oftentimes, to it being taken out on oneself.

      Oh and I get the arm cutting too. I have scars too, though with a bit of clever talking I can bullshit people that the cat attacked me (!). More recently I’ve self-harmed almost entirely on my abdomen, as no matter what Im wearing, this will always be covered up.

      Anyway, thanks for your comments – as I said on Twitter, I appreciate your forthrightness 🙂

      Take care x

  2. I am so sorry to find out that you have a stalker, I hope that fucker gets out off your life forever! But, I am also sorry that you attempted suicide (just the why I did – but I cut my wrists and the scars are visible to everybody, but none has asked what happened to me – thankfully).

    I wish you all the best and in no way I recommend you to go to a mental institution (no matter how good they sound), it’s horrible!

  3. Repeat after me: IT”S NOT MY FAULT THAT SHITFACE IS A STALKER!!! Say it as many times as it takes for it to sink in. Think of it as a rape, which it kind of is if you think about it. Do you deserve to be raped? Of course not!

    Suggestion: Scare the shit out of shiface. Carefully rehearse what you’re going to say to him. Consider introducing him to (invisible) Tom. Note: Maybe Tom can help you. While you’re at it, invent 2 (invisible) pets to introduce him to- a pit bull and a doberman. Use your imagination to let ‘er rip. Have (invisible) Tom ask shitface to drive him and the dogs to the vet. Oh yeah! Here’s one I’ve used before. Tell him you’re flattered that the sex change fooled him, but explain that the surgeries aren’t yet complete, and get his phone number so you can call him when it’s finished.

    Last but not least, work with a therapist on why you refuse to cut yourself any slack. You’re beating yourself up for something that isn’t your fault. But I’m not a shrink.

    • Thank you 🙂 I love the idea of introducing Tom and his pitbull to the twat.

      I alluded to this situation very briefly with C yesterday but with everything else that went on I didn’t get the chance to explain all. I’ll try next week.

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