Admission

My assessment with the eating disorder clinic took place yesterday. On Monday I was both surprised to have made it to the previously unreachable date, and filled with fear and anxiety. My distress levels reached so high that I slept for only two hours that night, two hours filled with nightmares and terrifying delusions. My meeting with the consultant is mostly gone from my memory, but I felt, and still feel, that I failed to express myself accurately. I had to fight to get each word out, and the voices in my head were buzzing so loudly, forming those words into comprehensive sentences was all but impossible. At one point I was so lost for words I was one more silence filled second from channeling Princess Leia

Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope

Nevertheless it was decided I did indeed need admission to hospital for my depression and I was told I would be contacted once a bed became available. Victory! That's what you're all probably thinking. Finally I would be getting the help I needed and had waited so long for. Surely a sense of relief and even happiness filled me as I left the appointment. Step forward Ms.Borderline Personality Disorder. Happiness is not an emotion I feel at present, or indeed for some time now. So no, I did not feel happy. This is not unusual given the aforementioned depression. Probably more confusing for you, is that what actually filled me was anger and hate, with some more fear thrown in for good measure.

Who or what was this hate directed at? Why all of you, of course. It burned under my skin for hours, roared in my head ceaselessly, until I could do no more than hide myself away in bed and try and wait for the waves of emotion to calm. I hate you, all of you, because you helped me to get to that assessment, thereby helped me get approved for admission to hospital and, here we come to the crux of the matter, helped me to stay alive. Every part of me raged against the idea that admission might mean a continued existence. We want out, we are tired, we have suffered enough. Yes, millions have suffered far worse than me, are suffering at this very moment. But we have had enough of our pain. We do not want to try anymore, how dare you all be so selfish, and cruel, to make me feel this anguish for one more day. I can stand outside of myself and see the basic wrongness of these feelings but that doesn't make them any less true for me. I suppose it is the nature of my personality disorder to want to fight against help, because it doesn't want to get better. Its goal has always been that final, blissful quiet. To embrace the dying of the light, not rage against it and fight on. I'm not sure if someone who has never wanted to die can understand such thoughts, but they are what they are.

Today the hate is gone, but the fear remains as strong as ever. Fear of the unknown, fear of finally facing the full force of the feelings I have to hold back everyday, fear at the hard work that lies ahead. A fighter would probably take that fear, and use it, spit in its eye and forge ahead. There is no fight in me today, so I hide away in my fortress and move through the day like a shadow, here but not present. Certainly not 'living in the moment'. Tut, tut, my DBT instructors would be most displeased; I am failing Mindfulness 101.

Now all that is left to do it play the waiting game, again. I suppose those who care for me will be hoping one becomes available quickly, so that I can be somewhere safe and they can worry just a little less. There is no hope in me, just the same question repeating over and over - 'Is there any point to this?'.

Only time will tell.