I am and always will be a chronic over-sharer and I think it’s ugly

I think, because I grew up in therapy I have become so accustomed to just baring all to strangers. My most personal issues and problems have never been secrets like they are for most people. When I was younger I didn’t have enough context to understand myself, I felt shameful for being different but I also didn’t think about ‘it all’ that much. I was happy. I had a fantasy land of play and naivety to protect me.

And then it’s like, puberty hits and hormones give you a new found taste of reality. The technicolour glasses come off and you’re left realising the world is actually a pretty grim place. And things really hurt now. Things that didn’t have an edge before now cut you deep. And you start cutting yourself to consolidate with this. You start abusing prescription medication and then very soon ‘real’ drugs. And you realise that reality is fragmented and we can dance between worlds, experiences, emotions - all with the help of a drug.

And for a split second there you feel in control, like hey, I think I’ve got this under control. It’s amazing how much of an adult I felt when I was 17. I was so knowing and felt so wise. And I kinda miss her unreasonable amounts of confidence, defiance and the overarching belief that everything would be okay.

I always held out hope for adulthood. It sounds silly in hindsight, but the ‘children’s and adolescents’ health services gave me this false impression that once I turned 18, I’d leave the services and be fine. Doctors always reminded me that once I turned 18 I’d stop ‘receiving’ their help and somehow I interpreted that as I’d stop ‘needing’ their help.

When my time under children’s and adolescents healthcare came close to an end I almost felt as though I was graduating and leaving, like you would school. I’d attended hospital appointments more consistently than I’d attended school the past decade and I was such an obedient hospital-goer. Always showing up to my various appointments with the willingness to spill my guts.

So now that I’m 23 and things aren’t in fact better - they seem to be getting worse - I’m pretty fucking exhausted.

To explain the intricacies of my mental state is enough to induce madness. The anxiety, paranoia, depression and extreme sense of failure I feel is so overwhelming I don’t know who I am underneath it at all. I like surrounding myself with whimsical things because they take me to a time where I didn’t have all these problems. When I was just a little sick girl with the hope to get better and take back her life. There was time then.

It feels like I’ve ran out of time and it’s crazy because I’ve never been more suicidal in my life than I am now. Except back when I was a teenager; the tiniest notion of suicidal ideation and I’d take a handful of pills and wash them down with coke (cocaine), or acid, or ketamine or any of the weird combos a&e saw me in for. And I enjoyed dancing on that line and the flirtatious relationship I had with dying and all of the grand attention I’d get from my family. Where as now I’d hate to do that. I’d hate the fuss. I’d be scared: what if it doesn’t work and I have to be even more of a failure.

If you know me personally and you read these please don’t reach out to me re: this emotional outpouring. I don’t want that. I’m frankly embarrassed. I just wanted somewhere to turn and write all these feelings out. And oversharing has always been my go to therapy.

I’ll be okay, I always am. I’m plotting things. I have plans. I have grand plans to either conquer these terrible feelings or die trying, and then at least I wouldn’t be so much of a failure either way.

I take great comfort in reading the memoirs of (now famous) women who struggled with mental health, addiction, abuse etc etc. And the more I read, the more I feel connected to something bigger than myself and it gives me motivation and strength. It’s us against the world and dead or alive I’ll have done something meaningful. That’s my baseless belief.

Oh and today I accidentally sent a brand new script refill of benzos through my washing machine and they somehow survived. I like their resilience :-)