I’m losing the plot, for five days I tried to get hold of my NHS appointed mental health worker and there was no one there, asking for help at the moment of bleakness isn’t something that I’m used to but for some reason after I cleaned the flat so people didn’t think I lived in a hovel and I finished tying the laces on my Adidas ready to leave the house for Battersea Bridge, I stopped, something stopped me and I rang crisis resolution.
I got no help.
All I have to do is make it till Monday, apparently you better not be mentally ill over the weekend because you’re going to be left hanging in the breeze.
Yesterday on the eve of the ride London I sold my bike stuff, honestly I can’t afford it anymore and I’m sick of trying to, my life is now reduced to these four walls, no friends, no family, no career; Nothing
It hurts, I’m crying, I’m bereft and I have new open wounds which will scar this body that I resent so much.
I envy people who seem to glide through life, I had that and now I don’t, I find myself stewing in my own resentment and I hate myself for it.
People say the abuser becomes the abused and Christ knows my father and his friends passed me around like a bottle of port. The target of my abuse in adult is myself, I abuse me because I can’t express the rage I carry to outsiders because its impossible for you to understand, or it may be because I still feel covered in the slime that’s left behind after you’ve been raped, the stink doesn’t wash off and I try to cut it out of me one slice of skin at a time.
A death of a thousand cuts each one representing the my inability to express myself to ease my psychological pain and perhaps repair the dents in my spirit that I’ve ignored for 40 years, I wish I could do it quickly, I wish I had the stones to push that knife through my soft skin just behind my ear and have it done with but I’m too chicken, but I’m also too confused to function in this society.
My brain damage has made my life impossible to manage