Happy New Year....?

I have never understood the big deal with new year... It's just the calendar changing, like it does every month. The only difference now is that we write 2013 instead of 2012. But somehow this fact means that the vast majority of the global population makes a huuuuuuuuge deal about this and sets what must be millions upon millions of pounds/dollars/whatever alight in elaborate firework displays and the rest of us just gets spectacularly drunk and regret it all in the morning/afternoon. All because the calendar changed. 

Fantastic. 

Why not use that money to help out charities that keep people going during this season of bullshit? Yes, there won't be any pretty fireworks but maybe, just maybe, there won't be so many people in hospital from suicide attempts or being pulled out of rivers after jumping to their deaths. 

How many of us actually think about the flip-side of all this excitement we see on TV or in city centres? How many people are there, desperate to be a part of the event or just have some human interaction are just watching the countdown on TV alone with only a bottle and some dark and scary thoughts for company?

The countdown comes and goes. It's January 1st, 2013. Everywhere you look people are singing, their arms joined together, smiling and happy, watching the fireworks. Full of hope.

If you're like me, you weren't doing this. The prospect of facing another 365 days fills you with fear. The demon isn't done with you yet. Nausea takes over.... "Please, no more...." you scream in your head, or maybe even aloud. This is the tipping point. It is at this moment when lives are most at risk, if they've managed to get this far. If I was on my own, I am almost certain I would have a) been drinking my emergency supply and b) ended up either found in my flat dead or in HDU after swallowing my entire medicine drawer and some bastard finding me.

I did have plans for the day, following the same tactic as Christmas, as a method of distraction and exhaustion. My boyfriend and I were going to go and see The Hobbit after a lunch date. This didn't happen. He caught a nasty virus and I ended up rushing to Brighton with a pharmacy in my bag to look after him. He was in no fit state to drive - and I don't have a license - so his mum made the trip and drove us back to my flat where we could be together/I could keep an eye on him.

We watched Jools on BBC2. Midnight came. We couldn't kiss. I just cried on his shoulder as quietly as I could. I was happy to be with my boyfriend and Lily. I love him more than anything and his fever had pretty much gone thanks to stuffing him full of paracetamol! 

I couldn't help but reflect on 2012. I moved house in late January; I almost died a few weeks later; I ended up in the local psych ward; I did A LOT of terrible things that I will probably never forgive myself for; I got sober; I got accepted to university; I survived. 

...... and for what? I don't feel any different. I am not functioning. I am still in constant pain and exhausted from doing the most simple tasks. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't think about how much I want this all to end, and desperately wish it had. It's apparent now that this is as 'good' as it's going to get. 

Every person has their limit.

I'll keep playing the tomorrow game. The last thing I want is for my boyfriend to know how dark a place my mind has once again become. There are 'plans' for me to move to Brighton in May/June and for us to live together. I'm meant to start university in September. How the hell that's actually going to work I don't know... My GP is supposed to be taking one final shot at referring me to the M.E. service this month. It feels like a no-win situation there but I still want to know why my brain is failing me in other ways besides the psychiatric issues. 

I'm so tired. 
Too tired to engage in therapy. 
Too broke for a therapist.

The way things are right now.... I won't be inflicting my existence on people for much longer. 25 years is long enough, especially when about 20 of those years have been spent enduring some sort of abuse or living with the aftermath.

If I was lucky enough to have the treatment that some people I know have had, then I might have more hope or faith or something. But I don't. I've got this far purely on my own. Self-help books only go so far. 

Happy New Year? Ha. Welcome to the reality of mental illness when the NHS has failed you.

Samantha Nicholls. Powered by Blogger.

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