So I'm still here then.....

I found that when I needed to stop drinking vodka, the only way I could do it was to have a bottle of vodka near me... that safety, the knowledge, that I didn't have to panic because there was no vodka, it was just that I was choosing not to drink it. When I have previously given up smoking, I have always done the same, always had a packet of tobacco and rolly papers to hand, just choosing not to smoke. In life it is the same, I choose currently to live it, but I have a box of pills which means that if I choose not to do so, then I can stop living quickly.

It is the safety of knowing that I can do this which means that I continue. I can weigh up how far I have come, how far I have to go, and make the choice, to stay and fight or to give up and leave.

When I was young, I was told by an important adult in my life that he was going to kill me, that no one would notice that I had gone, and no one would care... because I was such a bad person. He would hold me several inches from the floor, against the wall, by my neck... squeezing gently and whispering his hate for me. These aren't things a girl forgets, not even forty years on.  These are things that as every day goes by, I remember again, and again.

It is funny how the negative stuff stays with me, and defines me more than the good stuff. It doesn't matter how many times I am told I am loved... I know it can't be true...that if that person knew me better, they would know I am a bad person. Don't tell me I can write, because a defining person in my life has told me I can't. If you tell me I can write, I can only presume that you are not as good a judge of writing as him, and I know my writing is poor. I have been told so.

I ask MOMD to make me better, he squeezes me tight, tells me he can't make me better, but that he loves me.... I know he is right, I am not ill.... I am bad.

Can I challenge those deeply held beliefs that my life is valueless, that it will not be noticed if I am dead, that no one really cares about me, no one would miss me if I was gone?  These are defining beliefs about myself which have never been discussed.... can I challenge these beliefs if I see my life as disposable?

Therapy, therapy, therapy.... opening up those boxes of memories which I locked shut and sunk deep into the deep channels of my sea. Boxes, so old are rotting, the contents slowly polluting the ocean. Can any therapy truly work while that is swilling around in the dregs of my brain... 'it is understandable why you think that way', the therapist says... is it really?

I remember the Police women who looked after me when I had been assaulted earlier this year... 'do you think your behaviour is normal?' they said, no it's not f***in' normal, it's not normal to be assaulted... it's not normal to think that I deserve to be assaulted, because I am bad. 'We are concerned about the lacerations on your arms', umm... I made the 'lacerations' on my arms because I hate myself because I am bad. 'You need a psychological assessment, because we don't think you are normal', no, let me save you the time, I am completely normal... but I am bad.

It is exhausting to be me today, I haven't got anything to do, so think I will watch some rubbish television, crawl under my quilt and take a diazepam...yes, just one! It is difficult to have a busy brain, an enquiring mind and nothing to do with it.... oh apart from writing my blog... best be sedated and stop thinking.

Much love x