Showers, Soap, and Suicide

Most people who suffer from suicidal depression will tell you that thoughts of suicide will pop into their head at any moment. The thoughts aren’t triggered by anything in particular – usually, they’re a whisper in the back of my mind. Today, however, as I was attending to my morning ablutions, a series of thoughts popped into my head, loud and clear. Very calmly, my mind decided that it would be a good time to think about the logistics of my possessions and my estate, should I cease to be. My sodding brain decided to make a list:

  • Have a clear out and declutter – not fair for my family to have to deal with all the shite I’ve collected over the years.
  • Package up certain belongings for certain members of the family.
  • Write a will, ensuring money from the sale of the house is split – some for my sister to go in trust for when she finishes uni, some for my folks, etc, and a Roxie fund so I can ensure she was properly looked after should any medical emergencies happen.
  • Mow the lawn.
  • Leave instructions for selling the house.

and on, and on, and on, whilst I carry on washing my hair and soaping my armpits.

Thoughts of Roxie lead me down a whole new tangent. Would she be better off without me? At my mums, she’ll have company all day – something I beat myself up over constantly is the fact that I’m out at work all day, and I’m not with her. Even though she’s getting on a bit now and sleeps most of the day, I still beat myself up. I beat myself up over everything. Mistakes I made 20 years ago. Things I did that were cringeworthy, that no one but me can remember. I beat myself up for never being good enough. For not finishing the drawing I have on the board at the moment. For feeling like I’ve not achieved anything. For not washing my car. For not emptying the dishwasher. For not washing my hair for a week. For crushing a snail underfoot whilst walking Roxie in the morning. For being so stuck in my own head that I’m not there for others in the way I should be. There’s literally nothing I can’t beat myself up over.

I feel a sense of injustice to all of this. Because there’s a massive malignant evil prick shuffling around out there, who takes great pleasure in damaging people, gleefully pushing them to the brink of suicide and madness, all the while playing the victim himself. He doesn’t think twice about the pain he inflicts on others. Never does he beat himself up over things he’s done. There’s injustice in the way that the system has failed in this situation and in the situations he inflicted on others before me. The police. The local Women’s Aid, who initially welcomed him with open arms, and even worked with him for a while (but no longer, they eventually saw through him – notice he hasn’t been dirging on about the fact that he’s working with them anymore – that discard happened at about the same time that his interview with the BBC was dumped).

I know it seems like I’m rambling, but there is a point to this. The point being that the effects of emotional and mental abuse are hugely misunderstood and under diagnosed, and they stay with you for a long, long time, causing you to battle yourself daily for your own sanity – and it’s a battle that I feel that I am currently losing. The lack of support for this is astounding – I’m currently on a waiting list for counselling that I must fund myself, because the NHS said that they couldn’t help me – in the meantime, cockfeatures is throwing his Munchausens around to ensure a constant supply of both attention and tramadol, so he can post pictures of himself laying on hospital beds then be provided with the means to sink himself into frequent opiate hazes.

(Side note – annoying how I didn’t realise at the time that his insomnia, incessant sweating, low energy, muscle aches and pains, yawning, runny nose, abdominal cramping and constant diarrhoea were down to his opiate consumption. He always said he didn’t take many, but he seemed to get through packs of Tramadol pretty quickly and ended up resorting to buying from the black market to ensure supply).

Why the fuck do I feel like I’m the one with the pointless existence??!



Author: Tracy

Streaky bacon for the soul. Comforting, sometimes salty. Arty. Obtuse. Taker of photographs. Contradictory.

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