I’m at the end of another busy week. Or at the beginning of another one, if you prefer to see things that way. Somehow, I have survived. I’ll say survived rather than lived, because working from moment-to-moment, task-to-task, bus-to-bus, in fear, almost relentlessly anxious, amidst intense suicide ideation is not living. I am clinging on by my fingernails.
The psychiatrist’s report comes through. It is followed swiftly, but not contingently, by a letter from the therapy team.
Come on March 7th. There is a space in group therapy.
Objectively, this is good news. Three more weeks, and I would have been waiting two years for this place. It is on a Monday by default, which is the day that I am currently off-timetable. Objectively, I should be pleased.
Subjectively, I am petrified. Frozen in space, I want to run from that appointment as far as I can. The promise of therapy had become too abstract to be real. An excuse not to go through the upheaval of moving house, finding new friends. To think that I might actually have to face the past, head-on. I can’t.
I do not want to give up my career, six months hence, or to stop working. I’d rather be working, working, working, exhausted. Work is more important than health. And I’m managing. I have learnt to hate myself. I am comfortable with that. With being full of despair. I don’t deserve better. I am bad. I can trust to nothing else but hate. I can’t, I can’t.
I can’t do this. I either have to survive day-to-day, minute-to-minute, exhausted and anxious and suicidal. Or, I have to face the past, and the horrid person I am and work hard in a different way. I have to learn to look after myself. I can’t, I can’t.
Dear God, I can’t.