How is it possible to feel so gut-wrenchingly awful inside, and yet function like a normal human being? I didn’t think I was going to make it through this working day – I kept trying to figure out how to say to my (oblivious) boss that I need to get the **** out of here. In the end it was a lack of alternatives that stopped me; I knew I’d end up at home, in bed, under the duvet, in much greater proximity to the tools with which I could hurt myself. And less witnesses.
That was the other thing about today – destructive urge after destructive urge. I have marker pen lines on my arm where I’ve had to DO SOMETHING, either draw a line, or do worse. Goodness knows what my colleagues make of it if they noticed. They don’t know I have mental health issues, and it has to stay that way, so opening up to someone just isn’t an option. It’s me myself and I, rattling around in my hellhole of a brain.
And the worst thing is I don’t even know why I feel so bad, so it’s not like I can say with any confidence that I’ll feel better tomorrow, or the next day.