If I look over my diary from this time, it isn’t pretty. I started a private diary on my computer because I was being followed in the cyber world. I was being stalked by none other that my dad. I had no space again. I couldn’t breathe again. I became scared again. Walking around my local area became a game of who’s following me? Can I lose their track? Shit. He’s got people on the ground everywhere. Is he sitting outside my house waiting?
Life became scary. I couldn’t trust anyone. My CMHT were in on it. My care coordinator had been making a plot to destroy all my hopes at recovery to make me kill myself. The government wanted me dead to ease my contribution to the deficit and my costs on the national budget. They wanted people like me dead. I discharged myself from the CMHT. I needed to get away from them because they were dangerous. I needed to be alone and trust no-one. I needed to rely on no one.
I became very depressed. This led to more suicide attempts, and crisis’. The police and A&E became a common occurrence in my life, and my depression just. Would. Not. Lift.
Doctors were telling me it was my personality, I just needed to “get on with it” and I “just needed to get out of bed in the morning”. I needed to “stop being so selfish” and I “needed to start giving back to my partner”. Each time, these messages made me worse. I was trying. I was really trying my damned fucking hardest and they were kicking me down for not managing. I wasn’t depressed they said.
“Did I cry?” The relevance of this question I’ll never know. “Did I not want to be well. Did that thought scare me?”, “what did I gain from being sick?” I’ll tell you what I gained from being sick.
Terror. I gained a terror of being around people. A total loss of will to stay alive for the purpose of ‘that’s what people do, they stay alive for as long as possible’ – and I didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to be alive in this world? I gained a seeping paranoia that infracted every aspect of my life. People were trying to kill me. How should that be fair? If I’m going to die. It’s going to be my choice and on my terms. Why should I stay alive to be murdered by my CMHT and the government.
Then I went to my GP. I had been in A&E the night before, and had fallen on my face running away from the police. He spotted not only the massive graze on my face, but that something wasn’t right with how I was. He chose to go against the grain. He didn’t believe that I wasn’t depressed and he prescribed me anti-depressants: what I’d been asking my team for for years to only be declined each time.
Until that point though, whilst my depression engulfed my every breath I listened to the remix of summertime sadness by Lara del Ray. It was about suicide, and in my mind, I was going to die from a completed suicide at some point. It was fitting and it was perfect.