The Guilt of Contemplating Suicide

Oh Facebook…

Today I saw a picture posted by a guy I used to work with. It was a picture of a motorway bridge and a laminated note next to it saying:

Suicide doesn’t take the pain away.
It just passes it to someone else.

🙄 < my own eye roll was much larger than this.

I don’t know the origin of that photo, perhaps it was written by someone who was grieving the loss of a loved one to suicide. I also know the guy that re-posted it, and I’m sure he did it with good intentions. However, it’s a message which isn’t filled with compassion and support.

It’s a message loaded with guilt.

It says ‘I know you want to die, but if you do you’ll make someone else sad, so just keep going. Keep going with your pain, with your depression, with your memories and flashbacks of trauma. Keep living even though your own mind scares you and you don’t feel safe in your own body. Keep going even though you don’t know how you are going to feed yourself and your family. Keep going in your grief. Keep going with the pain that you feel cloaks every waking moment of your day, with the ruminating thoughts that don’t stop, with your diagnosis that you can’t get any tangible help for. Keep going with your guilt, and here is a little more to load on top of that. Keep suffering, but don’t make anyone else sad, ok?

Suicide isn’t a conscious choice. Suicide is an option that feels like the only remaining option when the pain of living becomes greater than the pain of dying.

People who contemplate suicide already feel like a burden. They know that people will be upset but their unwell mind will convince them that the sadness other people feel will be temporary and lesser than the upset, frustration and disappointment that they will endure should they continue to live their lives.

There is absolutely zero compassion within those words. There is no hope that in the future things might get better, there is no clue as to where to look for resources that might help. There is no inkling of the fact that if you are contemplating suicide you are very, very far from being alone.

There is just guilt. So, much, guilt.

People who feel like ending their lives and their suffering don’t need to be told things like this. They need to be reminded that the good days will one day come again. That there are people out there who will listen, and that the words that come out of their mouths don’t even have to make any sense. They need to be held – physically and emotionally. They need support, they need friends to sit with them in the silence when their mind is anything but. They need hand holds in the dark when it’s 4am and the tears won’t stop coming. They need governments that recognise how huge the scale of mental ill-health actually is and who are willing to put funding into supporting those who need it. They need financial support and they need appropriate treatment for their unique condition. They need to be reminded that none of this is their fault.

They need compassion, and understanding and for people to listen and begin to recognise just how complex and traumatic even the very thought of suicide is.

They don’t need guilt.


Where to find help – UK
Where to find help – Europe
Where to find help – USA
Where to find help – Canada
Where to find help – Australia

Photo by Steve Leadbeater on Unsplash

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World Mental Health Day

Last year, on World Mental Health Day, I was in the process of coming off of an anti-depressant that I had been on for eight years. I remember I woke up and scrolled through Facebook – the significance of the day dawning on me. The insightful and hopeful posts about talking, and sharing, and not giving in lighting up my screen. But I wasn’t a part of that, I didn’t have any hope or insight.

I posted something, a small paragraph about kindness and how it important it is – especially when it comes to giving it to ourselves and then I probably went back to sleep, or went and led in a hot bath, or cried… I don’t really remember.

This morning… I realised it was World Mental Health Day, again, as I was scrolling through Twitter in bed this morning. A lot has happened in the last year; I have had a course of Cognitive Analytical Therapy, I went back onto the medication I was trying to come off of, I’ve been able to put a name and a reason to some of my pain. I’ve stood up for myself, I quit a job that was making me miserable, I gained a new baby nephew, I lost my wonderful Great Aunt – and, I started this blog.

As a mental health blogger, there should be something insightful coming from my pages today, right? Yeah… probably. I thought about it all morning, I thought about it when I was exercising, when I was hanging the washing on the line. I thought about it whilst scrolling through Twitter and whilst in the shower. Nothing came to me, nothing but pressure.

But maybe that was because there are no beautiful and insightful words that will help when you are in the midst’s of depression, or feeling the effects of long-lasting and complex trauma. Maybe it’s because – like I found last year – if you are in that place, you can read them, but you can’t feel them.

When you are in that place, hope doesn’t apply because depression will snuff out any glimmer of hope before it can really shine. That’s what depression does. You begin to feel disconnected from it all, like you are not worthy of these words or this kindness, because that’s what depression does. You feel that you cannot go to any of those people who assure you that their door is open or they are willing to listen because you’d feel like a burden, or too sad, or guilty, or shameful… because that’s what depression does.

Depression is ugly, and dark. Its corrosive, sticky and toxic. Its complex, its deep rooted, it latches onto other mental and physical illnesses and makes them 10x worse, and 100x harder to fight. But it is also familiar. It lives within us and so it is at times scarily, and comfortingly familiar. Its twisted, its conniving… its not something we can sit here and write pretty words and breezy platitudes about. It’s a killer.

It can kill anyone, it’s not fussy. On the lunchtime news today I watched Lorraine Denman, the mother of the Team GB snowboarder Ellie Soutter talk about her daughters suicide last year. Ellie was 18, she was beautiful, talented, had a loving family and an amazingly bright future ahead of her – she showed no signs of being depressed, she was out with friends the night before….

Ellie Soutter
Photo credit: https://twitter.com/TeamGB

Depression doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t care about hope, it doesn’t care about wealth, beauty, love or gender. It will latch on to anything remotely positive and twist it, swamp it with its darkness and its ugliness. It will take your words away, it will convince you that you are too much, too sad, too boring, too unworthy to get help or speak to those you love – and that love you – about what you are feeling. It will jumble your thoughts so that even if you could speak, you wouldn’t know how to make any of it make sense. It will make you so tired of fighting, so tired of having it within you that you will do anything to stop it.

But it doesn’t need to make sense. If you are able to talk to someone, it doesn’t need to come out in any order, it doesn’t have to come out well-described, or calmly, or like beautiful prose. It just needs to come out.

One thing that is important to remember, which I struggle to remember, is that when you do confide in someone – be it a friend, family member, spouse, boss, doctor… anyone – they are not in the same emotional space as you. They are not feeling what you are feeling. They may have their own mental health issues – but, if you are anything like me, it is always easier to hold someone else’s pain than it is your own. I have depression (amongst other things) but I would never want any of my friends to feel that they could not come to me, because I would much rather sit with them in their pain, than sit next to their hospital bed or their coffin.

So… this World Mental Health Day, lets still all vow to be there for each other, but lets also vow to stop treating Depression, PTSD, BPD, Anxiety, Addiction,Eating Disorders and the rest with platitudes. People don’t just suffer on one day, or one week, of the year. They aren’t just suffering when you see them ‘looking sad’, or when they are crying. People can be in emotional pain, even when they are smiling, even when they are holding down a job, or socialising, or recovering. They can still be suicidal when they are tipped to be an Olympic athlete with a bright future and the whole world ahead of them.

Let’s not forget that.

For Ellie x

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Common Myths About Mental Health

Image Credit: Paige Cody on Unsplash

I wrote this post a little while ago, and this morning I have shared it over on LinkedIn, because like my post yesterday it may be useful for employers to read if they are helping to support an employee with mental illness, or for anyone really to understand the complexities of dealing with mental ill health every day.

You can check it out here 🙂

Also, I don’t use LinkedIn all that much so I don’t have a lot of connections on there and especially not with fellow writers 😦 If you want to send a friend request then please feel free and if you feel like sharing my post then I am happy to share one in return on Twitter or via a re-blog ❤

How it Feels…

Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash

I have been a bit quiet and neglectful of both this blog and my social media presence of late. I have had ideas about what to write and I’m sure that those posts will make an appearance over the next few weeks, but this one is perhaps like a bit of a stopgap.

I have been quiet because I haven’t been very well. My depression and anxiety has been sneaking back in over the last couple of months – at first I thought it was a blip, but it lasted, and was getting worse…

Last year I decided to come off of my medication – with the help of my doctor. It was so that I could go onto a new medication that would treat both my depression and my fibromyalgia. Anyway, once I was off of the old one, I wanted to know what I was like without it – I had been taking this stuff for 8 years. For months, I was fine – all throughout winter, this was a success!! There were still hard days, but the nights were long, the mornings dark and here I was being able to cope, to work, to socialise, to combat my depressive thoughts with healthy behaviours…

Until I wasn’t any more.

It started off with a constant sense of being overwhelmed. Now, I don’t have children, I don’t have anyone depending on me apart from my dog (and my husband when he’s hungry), I work 23 hours a week, I have two days off a week completely to myself. I have a therapist to talk to, I have wonderful friends, a fantastic and very lovely husband… but everything, even the smallest of things, was beginning to feel like it was too much.

I think something that people who haven’t suffered with mental ill health struggle to realise, is that when the small things are hard – the sleeping, the eating, the getting up and showered and dressed – everything outside of that, seems insurmountable. These are things that other people take for granted – going to work, going into town on your own for an appointment, driving, getting public transport, planning things, deciding on things. And then, then something happens out of the blue, something past the everyday struggles, something past the tasks we have to do that feel insurmountable and leave us exhausted, these are things on their own level – a family member gets sick, your pet gets ill, work messes up your wages – and sometimes, all of these three examples happen within the same week.

I was feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep. My concentration was fading fast – I couldn’t even find relaxation in curling up with a book, I hated the thought that my depression was back and so, still, I tried to push onwards. In therapy we were talking about bullying and trauma, I was having intrusive thoughts, unwanted memories, feelings once again of not being good enough, not clever enough, thin enough, smart enough, adventurous enough, pretty enough, tough enough. I felt that I was letting everyone down; my guilt was increasing by the day. I’d go to bed at night and think of friends I had lost over the years, things I had said in arguments, and mistakes I had made – which were long forgiven, by everyone but me. Holding conversations was hard – trying to hear and focus over the voices in my head all talking over each other and so I became quieter.

And the tears… I was crying at anything, if someone asked me how I was, tears. If there was an advert with a doe-eyed animal on, tears. If my brother sent me a picture of my beautiful baby nephew, tears. If I just so much as thought of someone, in a situation where they were being taken advantage of, or deceived -this is a very strange kind of intrusive thought I have which proves quite hard to explain, but yes, tears nonetheless. My mother’s voice on the phone, tears. The smell of my dogs fur, tears. My beautiful friend April doing a tarot card reading for me, after two cards, tears…

And when I cry, my words dry up. So I couldn’t tell anyone any of the thoughts that were jumbled and overwhelming. They all felt ridiculous to me anyway -my depression was hissing at me to not be such a baby, to think of others that have it worse and realise how lucky I was.

I am meaner and harsher to myself than I would ever, ever be to anyone else.

But it was all too much, all of it. I have self-harmed before, over a long period of time, but I was even past the point of that. Suicidal thoughts were becoming more and more frequent – there was a massive, overriding part of me that knew this could get better and that knew I couldn’t do that to my husband, or my friends, or my parents and family. But the thoughts were still there, the need to just stop everything and drift away, was still there. I felt that eventually, they would be better off without me, but then I would remember small things – my husband’s laugh, or how he sings along to whatever music is playing when he’s doing the dishwasher. I would think of my friends – brave, inspiring and something I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have. I’d think of visiting my parents and my Dad giving me some whisky as we settle down to watch some TV, or my mum waking me up with a coffee in the morning. My nephew, how proud I was of my brother and his wife. How the wind feels on autumnal days, when that first bite of winters chill is in the air. I thought of the sunrises and sunsets I’ve seen, I’d remember how everything is cyclical, that pain and grief comes but it also goes and that’s when joy and gratitude come to take its place. These thoughts would keep me going until I slept, or until my husband came home from work. Just a few more thoughts, just wait it out a bit longer…

But it wasn’t sustainable; I was scared of my own mind and my own thoughts. This blip wasn’t going anywhere so I decided to go back to my doctor and immediately he put me back onto the anti-depressants that I had worked so hard to get off of 8 months previously, I was gutted.

There is no shame in taking medication and I know that if it was anyone else, I would comfort them with the things we hear all the time about taking medication for mental health issues; I’d tell them it was ok, that sometimes we just need that helping hand and that depression is a chemical imbalance and the medication helps to get things back on track, but I’m not so great at turning that kindness inwards. Eleven days later and I know that it was the right decision, aside from the initial side effects, my general mood has improved – the depression is still there, it just feels very numbed down. I am aware that I haven’t cried in eleven days, which having cried so much beforehand is a very strange sensation. I’ve been close, but it’s like the tears are just out of reach right now, even if at times they would be a relief.

So, why am I telling you all of this?

It’s not for sympathy – I know some really lovely people read my posts and I am very grateful for words of comfort ❤ However, it is more for awareness. For the people who don’t know what depression feels like; for employers, parents, friends, spouses, siblings, work colleagues…

When someone has depression it can be very hard to know what they are going through because it can be very hard for them to try and explain it. For example, the word ‘suicide’ makes people panic, but just because we have those thoughts, doesn’t mean we have any plans or even a real desire to carry it out. However, the thoughts and idealisation are a symptom of being depressed and they can be unwanted and distressing. People with depression can very often feel overwhelmed by the smallest of things and they may suffer with disassociation – which, I’m sure is the minds way of trying to protect itself, but again it can be very unnerving and distressing.

I know that when I’m depressed, I’m very quiet – but this does not mean my mind is. My thoughts are going too fast, getting too jumbled, being too loud, contradicting themselves. With all of that going on inside my head it becomes very hard to determine what one thing is wrong – what do I   tell you, when even to me it makes no sense? When I have the logical answer but the illogical thoughts are so loud that they drown it out?

Seeking help – even when we know it’s the right thing, can be incredibly hard for a number of reasons. It can be hard on the very basic level of getting a doctor’s appointment, but it can also be hard because we know that once we are in the consulting room, we need to talk and that can sometimes be a challenge in itself. We have to face up to what is happening, and this may mean going onto medication or taking time off of work which may impact on finances and career aspirations. Guilt is also a massive factor when it comes to depression; I have always pushed on because I don’t want to let anyone down, whilst neglecting my needs in the process. If you are an employer and a member of staff has called in sick with depression – please, acknowledge that this was probably incredibly hard for them to do.

There is a lot we don’t say, a lot you don’t see because we feel that keeping it hidden will save others the discomfort – but depression isn’t just a case of feeling sad. It is a whole myriad of emotions, of symptoms and of discomfort. Its complex, and its different for everyone – we rarely understand it ourselves and yet people so often want answers from us.

But this is also how depression works – it isolates us, it whispers in our ear that no-one really cares, that others have it worse, that if we tell people the truth we will push them away. Depression lies – but it’s very convincing.

So, if you know someone who is depressed, in the words of Stephen Fry – ‘please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather. Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through.’ – Because we don’t want you to fix us, scold us, push us or protect us from ourselves, we just want you to be there, and accept us.

Because knowing that you are there, without judgement, is perhaps the most helpful thing of all.

Useful Links

Zero Suicide Alliance – A free online course which takes all of about 20 minutes which offers some useful knowledge that will help if you think someone is suicidal or if someone confides in you that they are having suicidal thoughts.

Mind & Blurt – Two really great mental health charities offering great advice and support – for those suffering from depression and also for those who help support us ❤

Thank you for reading If you have enjoyed this writing, please feel free to come and join me on my following social network pages to see my new posts and daily musings:

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The Safety Trap

Image by: Max Nguyen on Unsplash

TW: Disordered eating, body image

I have read a lot of other people’s blog posts today, I have scrolled through Twitter, I have done some other work… and, I have procrastinated.

I have procrastinated because I know I have been putting this blog post off for a long, long time. But I know it is forming a sort of ‘block’ within my mind and therefore within my writing. It’s a subject that has been a bit of an issue for me as long as I can remember, but one that I have never fully grasped – I still don’t know if I am any closer to grasping it now, but I will try and explain it as best I can.

I do feel that with the theme of this year’s Mental Health Awareness Week being ‘Body Image’, it is a good time to broach the subject; I also had a chat with my therapist yesterday about how I could be suffering from Body Dysmorphic Disorder, or BDD. So… the timing certainly feels right to broach this subject.

And the subject is…. *drumroll* Smallness.

More specifically, smallness and safety.

Growing up, I was a skinny kid. I don’t think I ever reached much above 7 stone until my mid to late teens. Think gangly legs and arms, long dark hair, big eyes, freckles. I never even really thought that much about my body – it was just there. Even throughout secondary school, throughout all of the bullying, my body didn’t really come into it. I never felt super confident, but I just didn’t give it that much thought. My weight increased slightly when I left school, but when I met my (now) husband, aged 19, he would later go on to comment that he sometimes thought he would break me I was so slim.

Fast forward a couple of years, I had moved down to Somerset. I was still slim, but I had this little belly… I used to do ab crunches, sit ups, things like that to try and get rid of it. I wasn’t large by any means, but I knew it was there. I worked full time in a care home though – my job was active, my mealtimes a little out of kilter with the ‘norm’. I could skip meals and be so busy that I wouldn’t even notice…

And then I went onto the pill injection, Depo Provera, injected into my bottom every three months.

And wow, my body changed. I wasn’t eating any more than normal, or being less active than normal but my hormones were all over the place and the weight crept on. With the weight, came the boobs. I went from being a 34C to a 36DD – the difference in my appearance was startling.

And I hated the boobs.

I would complain to my husband that they were too big, that I just wanted to make them smaller. I came off of the pill after a couple of years (I was also sliding into depression – but at the time, I just thought my hormones were out of whack) and although some of the weight came off, the boobs stayed. I would (much to my husband’s eye-rolls) wear minimiser bras, looser tops, clothes that were cut in such a way that my boobs weren’t really apparent…

And then, over the next few years, the depression crept in.

When it was finally diagnosed, I hadn’t been eating properly for months. My anxiety stole my appetite and my adrenaline was constantly working – so whatever I did manage to eat just got burnt up pretty quickly.  I wasn’t intentionally not eating, but even now if I am super stressed, I just cannot stomach food.

My weight plummeted, not to drastic levels, but within six months I probably lost a couple of stone. I dropped 3 dress sizes, I look back at pictures of that time now and I am all big eyes and tiny frame.

The boobs and the tummy though, they are still there.

My boobs never went. When I went and had my wedding dress fitted in 2017, I had been working out pretty consistently for over a year – the woman in the shop commented that I had an enviable figure, petite but with great boobs. I look back on some of our wedding pictures and I think my boobs look grotesque, I have picked some of those pictures apart so much that looking back through my wedding pictures is no longer an enjoyable experience for me. I have three or four that I am comfortable with, that’s it.

The majority of bras that I wear are ones designed to minimise, but I have no idea if or even really how they work. I wear a lot of scarves; I just hate any attention being drawn to that general area. Even typing this now though, I feel wrong somehow. I am a woman, I should relish my curves, I should be thankful that nature (and synthetic hormones) gave me boobs that some women dream about and pay thousands upon thousands on surgery to obtain. The thought that gets me the most though… is the guilt. I have healthy breasts, what on earth do I have to complain about?

It’s not just those though…

It’s my stomach, my nose, my hips and my teeth. It’s that my forehead is too big, my hair (dependent on length) is too long or too short, it’s too dark, or not dark enough. My eyes have too many wrinkles around them, I’m too tall (I’m 5’5”)…. There is not one single thing that I can look at and go, yeah, I really like that feature.

For years I thought I was being vain, I told myself off, told myself to stop being so ridiculous. But then my jeans would feel a little tighter, someone would take a picture from an unflattering angle, or a small comment would be made and my entire world would feel like it was crashing down around me. I knew, I know, that our bodies are just our shells – what we look like in the grand scheme of things really does not matter and we all are our own worst critics. But over the years I tried everything to make myself smaller; from exercising for hours on end every day, to diet and protein shakes, to various pills, teas and herbal remedies that promised to shift the pounds. I have beaten myself up for second portions and tried to bargain with myself that I will exercise it off in the morning. I have cried over my body and felt such disgust and shame that I wish I could just slice parts of it off. I have developed a phobia regarding eating in front of people I don’t know and I have got to the point where I cannot bear even the noise of my husband (or anyone) eating anything, not just the ‘crunch’ noise, but all of it.

I love food, but it has become such a source of anxiety for me that it terrifies me.

And I know that the anxiety comes from one simple fact – food will make me bigger if I don’t keep a tight control over it, and the last thing I want to be is that most feared of all things… big.

My logical brain knows that there is nothing at all wrong with being big, and I think that this is where my confusion over the whole subject comes from. I will talk about body positivity and how amazing the human body is until I’m blue in the face, I know how we need to fuel our bodies, I have studied nutrition, I find other women’s bodies beautiful – but I cannot apply any of that back to myself.

But I don’t think that this is a weight thing, or an image thing.

I think it’s a small thing.

A friend said to me yesterday, after therapy ‘ I wonder if you still have that image in your mind of you as a 14 year old girl’ and my response was ‘No, but I want the figure of that 14 year old girl’

I don’t want the boobs and the hips and the squishy bits – because people notice them. Men, notice them. I work on a reception desk and there are men that come in and I watch their eyes drop from my face to my chest as they talk to me. I have had men flirt with me because of (I’m pretty certain) my figure. All of this *motions wildly around my body* makes me noticeable. Even walking across town to my therapist’s office, I walk along some pretty busy roads and I hate it, it’s that feeling of being exposed and people in traffic jams or passenger in cars and lorries looking at me, judging me…

And I know, my logical brain once again knows, that they aren’t. I don’t sit as a passenger in a car and gawp at whoever I see walking down the road and even if I did notice them, I’m not going to judge them harshly in any way.

But my logical brain gets shouted down by all of the other voices so often that it’s shrunk.

Just like I want to do, all. the. time.

Last week I managed to fit two puzzle pieces together, after a long, long time of feeling confusion and guilt over all of this. I have always been noticed in a critical way; growing up we lived in a church building in a rough area of town – we were different and therefore we were noticed. If we went into our garden, kids would shout over the fences, when were back inside bricks would come through the windows and I would lie awake at night worrying that the next thing that came through the window or the letterbox would be on fire. Also, everyone at school knew where I lived so once again, I was noticed, and bullied.

It became much, much safer to hide.

So being small = being safe.

And my mind has run with that, it has embedded that into its very nature. I don’t want to be big size wise, I also don’t want to be loud, or too confident or have too much to say – because those things do not keep me small and therefore do not keep me safe. If I have talked passionately about something, if I have talked in front of more than a handful of people, if I have done something great and been celebrated for it – I am not safe because I have become bigger. I have taken up space, both literally and metaphorically and then the doubts not so much as creep in, but burst in. The negative self-talk gets louder, I replay conversations in my mind and of course I instinctively know what that person really meant when they said such and such, and that little sigh obviously indicated that they were bored and I talked too much about myself or I didn’t give the right response… and its horrible. Its really, really horrible…

Starting this blog for me was huge, because this is my voice. These are my thoughts, I am putting myself out there and when you put yourself out there… you get noticed. This goes against everything that I have concluded in my addled brain as being ‘safe’. It’s like I have this really strong desire for safety and hiding away – but I also have this exhibitionist streak running through me that almost wants to be noticed!  I don’t understand it, and I cannot pretend that I do – but there is a part of me that takes being noticed and almost likes it, twists it into something good. I hate that men sometimes flirt, but at least they have noticed me. I post a writing on my blog and feel really positive about it, or an IGTV video of a Facebook or Twitter status… but as soon as it’s out there I instantly want to delete it because people are noticing it, but I have chosen to put it out there in the first place.

I am constantly in turmoil with all of this…

It runs through my mind, it hides in the dark recesses; it toys with my emotions and my relationships. I put myself in situations where other people can make decisions for me because there are times when I don’t trust myself to make them myself – this can be as big as deciding when to start a family, or as small as what to choose for dinner. I let myself sometimes be unheard because I feel that what I had to say wasn’t all that important anyway. I finally, let go of a toxic friendship at the start of this year, but even that was one built upon dominance and gas lighting. However, the real battleground, is my body.

Because I do not have the figure I want. I am not as small petite as I would like (and let’s be honest, if I was 34 with a 14 year olds body then things would not be right, at all) I know that I am not big but the image I have of myself is so vastly different to the image I see of myself in photographs that I literally cannot bear it. My husband took a photograph of me the other day – we were out for a walk in the woods and as soon as I saw it, the panic set in – and it was panic. It wasn’t a ‘oh, I’ve perhaps put a couple of lb’s on’ it was a ‘I have to be smaller than this, I look like a whale, I feel  grotesque and like I have lost control and I need to be smaller now, right now, not after a couple of weeks or months watching of what I eat and exercising  regularly – but right. now.’

A few moments later, I took a selfie and I looked at my face and it looked so slim I saw a glimpse of that very poorly woman from 9 years ago looking back out at me. I do not know which picture to believe, but I am convinced that it is the first one. I have no idea what my body looks like – there are times when I obsessively try and find out a celebrities size and measurements so that I can ‘compare’. I don’t trust what I see in the mirror anymore, or when someone tells me I look nice, or what a photograph depicts. None of it feels either real, or true…

The woodland photograph incident was two days ago. I’m still feeling like that now – yesterday was an awful mental health day and today I have had to put my brave pants on and get myself to work, but those voices are still there. My body is aching because I worked out this morning when I was already exhausted, I have eaten because I know I need to, nuts and a cuppa soup and herbal tea. It’s not enough and I have a headache but I’m worrying about what we have planned for supper regardless…

I cannot carry on like this. But I don’t know how to change the way that my mind has developed in order to keep me safe. I cannot look at that picture from Tuesday and see someone who is kind, empathic, creative and worthy of love and affection. I look at that picture and I just feel panic, because that is not the image I have of me, in my mind.

And that doesn’t feel safe.

But then… not a lot does.

Thank you for reading 🙂 If you have enjoyed this writing, please feel free to come and join me on my following social network pages to see my new posts and daily musings:

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