Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘desperation


Posted on: January 27, 2010

Things are heading downhill pretty fast, and getting faster. Everything falls apart at once.

I’ve dropped the fucking ball again. I’ve made everything rubbish. If only I was a better person. I make it difficult for myself.

It’s too late now, but I think I’m going to do something tomorrow. Call someone. Make an appointment or ask for help or something.

Find a way to cope now, think about other things when they happen.

Fucking hell. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe this is the best things are ever going to be, and anything I do to try to change it will just make things worse.

But maybe that’s academic. Maybe, when things are this bad…maybe I’m going to kill myself anyway. So maybe it’s worth risking it getting worse, because if it does then the result won’t be any different to if I do nothing.

Maybe, if there’s even the tiniest chance that asking for help will lessen this pressure, then I should ask. Just to see.

Fuck, I’m acting like I didn’t try before. I’m acting like I don’t know that asking for help just means more problems.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know if I am brave enough to admit that I can’t cope. I don’t know if I can get the words out, I don’t know if I can tell the truth.

Maybe it’s too late anyway, maybe nothing can be salvaged.

I should try, shouldn’t I?

But what if it’s too little, too late?

I’m so fucking scared.

I don’t want this to be me.

And what’s the point, anyway? What will change, really? If I go to the doctor, they’ll probably refer me to the CMHT, which took fucking months last time. If I go to the counselling service, all that’ll happen is I will completely fail to actually say anything, and they won’t even act as evidence that there’s anything wrong until I’ve been to three appointments (which is of course understandable, but ultimately too long to actually be any use). I could speak to the mental health advisor, but probably what they will say is that they can’t help because there’s no fucking proof.

So I could call everyone who could possibly help and the chances are that nothing will change. It’s not like I’m looking for some sort of miracle solution, but it’s a bit disheartening.

And I should, but I can’t, but I can’t live like this anyway. All I really have to lose is my privacy, and I feel like I can’t live without it, but I’ve felt like that about lots of things and they’ve all been destroyed, and here I am still.

I don’t fucking know.

Maybe only dying will stop it. Maybe that’s the only real option.

I’m scared.

Maybe if there was anything really wrong with me, then I wouldn’t have survived this long. Maybe every day I go without asking for help is just more proof that I don’t need it. Maybe they will laugh at me.

Maybe I’ll get kicked out of uni. Everyone will be disappointed. Everyone will want to know why. I can’t face explaining.

Here, I think, is the crux of the matter: In my (admittedly limited) experience, getting help does not work. It’s only really the bracketed part of that sentence that’s keeping me alive. It’s…hope. It’s the thought that, one day, I will get help again, and it will make things better, and my life will be okay again. But if I do get help, and again, it doesn’t work, then what’s left?

That’s a really stupid way of thinking, isn’t it?

I don’t know what to do. Everything is shit.

Maybe I will ask somebody for help. Maybe I will kill myself. It’s got to be one or the other, eventually.



My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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