July 30th 4am ish

I really can't handle nights. Or days. I can't handle much at all. Whether I never get out of bed or I manage to function slightly by eating and getting up for a couple of hours, or I have an appt and I'm up most of the day, the darkness descends eventually, and not just literally. Such dark thoughts, horrid, horrific. I try to keep them to a minimum by taking sleeping tablets and diazepam but it doesn't always work. Or at least not as quickly as I need it to. I've woken crying a few times lately. I have nightmares. I have dreams of my mum and dad. Of Malcolm. Dreams where life is perfect then I wake and I'm crying because it was just a dream and my life feels like a nightmare. After Malcolm died I used to say "I'd like to wake up now" a lot. 

I've started to think that a lot. I want to wake up please. 

I wonder if I actually died all those years ago and this is purgatory. Punishment for taking my life. It feels like it. 

Most mornings I wake and along with my usual tablets I just take more sleeping tablets and stay in bed because everything is too hard. I know I'm feeling emotions I've never dealt with before because I've blocked them out or antidepressants have numbed me but the way I'm feeling now? 

Brutal. 

I'm not right. I can't stand the pain. It's too much. 

I feel like screaming and kicking and punching, ripping my hair out, clawing at myself, wanting to put myself in danger so someone else can hurt me so I can hurt them right back. Physically. 

I've been cutting. For a while I've been cross-cutting and seem to take photos. I'm not sure why the photos. The blood gives a satisfaction. Calms me. The photos, maybe the same. I put bloody handprints on paper with "loser" written on and put them on wall. When I told Frances she asked me to take them down. I did, but it's lying on the basket in the hall and one's in my diary. I didn't admit to writing it on the mirror in the bathroom till last week. She persuaded me to clean it off. I also told her I've been thinking of cutting my face. That's not a good sign is it? I mean, I'm ugly enough. The closest I get to normal is going to costa and reading. It keeps me safe, it's familiar and the staff are getting to know me, or at least what I drink.  Somehow I can act normal even if I don't feel right. I know no-one's looking so if I'm silently freaking out who knows? Only me. 

I can put the even more normal chatty persona on for Wendy, Shona, Lynne or Gill and the folks of twitter but it's exhausting. I was on twitter a lot today and I was having an ok time chatting, Neil Gaiman even responded, reading articles posted through links etc then bam, it just hit, the downer. I came to bed, read for a while which seemed to help but two hours ago I took sleeping tablet and a diazepam and still awake. 

My mind churns as does my stomach. People keep telling me to fight but what for? What do I have? Life I guess. However it may be.