I want to scream.
Scream, and scream, and scream. I want to scream about how desperate I am to get things right, and how upset I am that I am failing. I want to scream that I am sorry for the way I am handling even the most minor of problems, and for the miserable mess I have made of my career over the past twelve months. How sorry I am that, no matter how hard I try, I can do no more. I want to scream, and scream, and scream about how rubbish I am. How I feel I should die because I am so hopelessly rubbish.
And, after that, I want you to hear me. I want you to tell me that it will be OK, that this feeling of wanting to cry out in despair, the thoughts of wanting to die, won’t assault me forever. I want to feel held by someone stronger than me; someone who can look after me. My favourite redux thus far is of Psalm 91. Because it is about being sheltered and held, and soothed. It is calming.
I saw the psychiatrist last week. I see her once every six months. And she summized that, in spite of all the objectively tricky things that are happening on multiple fronts, I am coping. The OED says that to cope is to deal effectively with something difficult. Maybe it looks like I am coping, from the outside. The self-harm is superficial. I get out of bed, and into work. I get work done. I do not act on the thoughts. I know they are intrusive thoughts. I have insight.
But not on the inside. On the inside, everything is black. I’ve made a total, pathetic mess out of everything I’ve been given. I can’t name one thing that I have not mucked up. Inside, I am crying. I am crying and I want to be held. I want things to be alright. But I can’t trust anymore, that they will be, and I do not feel I am coping. There are no tears, but I am crying in despair. I want to scream. Please hear me.