I’m ready to talk: Part 2.

It is quite strange separating this into parts, as if they’re chapters. That emotions, spiraling, can be structured into neat little sentences. I still don’t know if this is a useful part of recovery, a way to analyse and accept what’s happened and what’s still happening, or whether it’s a way to relive and cause more upset.

Say hi again, to the vague details of a really pretty messy breakdown (I say this like any breakdown is neat and clean).

Part 2.

Hunger, forgotten food. Time to die.

Mum had left and it was quiet.  I had woken up so so early on the Saturday Ben was moving out, and  crept by him. Got ready for work as he slept on the sofa.

I came home to the quietest emptiest flat. The most silent feeling I’ve ever known. I’ve never cried so much in my life. Like, collapsing on the floor
and laying there for a really,
really long time
crying.

Melodramatic-nobody-really-does-that-it-just-happens-in-movies-crying.

Sorry, neighbours.

I saw some weirdly placed artifacts, in weird places, of things that meant something to me in the relationship (but not to him, it seemed). Little quotes from crackers, a strange aftershave packet.

I had a bath and drank too much red wine, wrote a status on Facebook about how mad and upset I was, and God then it started. Such angry messages because he hadn’t left anything to upset me, demanding I remove my status, me not quite sure if I  believed him because it was all weirdly too coincidental, but having some doubt that maybe he was telling the truth but just not emotionally okay to accept his fury.

That dissolves. I’m too tired to fight and I’m too tired to talk and I’m too tired of everything. Too tired to even bleed properly. Work. Customer and staff drama; other stuff that probably happened but I really don’t remember a thing.

Now it’s a fog and I can’t quite remember what happened after that. I went to the shops to buy paracetamol but it was Mother’s Day so not today, I also bought loads of food out of habit. I went to work
and sat
and did paperwork alot,
sat at home
and stared into space,

Stopped caring about eating a long time ago. Food was boring.

I’m still vegan but I don’t really know why. I don’t really care about being vegan.

I fucking accidentally tell my GP everything, as I burst into tears because she asked me about the baby. Referred to mental health. Assessment. Questions. Diagnoses. Severe depression. Medication. Lies.(“nope I totally don’t think about seriously driving my car upside-down at 100 miles an hour”.)

They called later that night and asked if I’d disposed of my stockpile of paracetamol. “not yet”. She asked me to do it now whilst on the phone and

I panicked

I didn’t want to get rid of them, I couldn’t let them go. I’m really, really pretty horrible at letting things go. So I pulled out a jar of seeds from the cupboard and held a relatively normal conversation whilst rustling the packets and throwing seeds into the toilet. I’m so smart. So, so, so, so clever. I didn’t even put the seeds back into the cupboard I just leave them in the bathroom, at this point the flat is just covered in clothes where I’d just strip and leave them where I took them off. Scattered around. I would sometimes put Netflix on and eventually it would get to that screen of ‘continue watching’ and I wouldn’t even notice I’d just sit there anyway just unable to go to bed, just sitting in my duvet in the corner of the sofa. Homeland caught my attention once in a while. I didn’t really know what was happening but I know that I clung to Carrie’s desperation. Maybe a vicious pleasure in having a friend in madness.

Training in Bristol. Bristol. Of all places Bristol. The train passed Chippenham, of all places that random place I’d never heard of until I heard about Ben’s exciting new job. It’s okay. Management training. Development. Future. I spent the whole day enthusiastically talking about my hopes for career progression whilst thinking about being dead in a week’s time. I talked about my achievements and ambitions but I didn’t really feel like I was talking about me. I felt separate from it all.

Way home, torturing myself. My favourite hobby. Open Tinder, set ages 23-23, Male, 10 miles. Swiping and feeling sick seeing any random person’s name and that feeling please don’t be there please don’t be there please don’t be there please – fuck. Three miles away and there he is. Messaging a friend and joking about how fucked up I was feeling without them realising really how fucked up I was feeling, crying on a train and deciding tonight is as good a time as any. It’s the best time.

Sometimes all you need is an excuse to do something you wanted to do anyway. Something to blame. A reason to grasp onto because it can’t be just nothing.