**TW: contains mild reference to self-harm. Please proceed only if you are comfortable with the subject matter.**
Today I feel low.
I saw my Therapist for the first time since my crisis at the weekend and we sat and pulled it apart, like we always do. Normally this makes me feel better. It helps me make sense of the things that I do and the ‘logic’ behind them. But today I had no reasonable explanation for doing what I did (other than Diazepam withdrawal, but I’m not sure I can blame this alone.), nor could I muster any remorse that might reassure her that I would be able to keep myself safe in the short-term. I had nothing to say on the matter, other than that I did not employ any measure on my Crisis Plan because I did not want to be stopped.
We also discussed the current atmosphere at home. To be fair, all things considered, I can’t say too much on that front. I had a bit of a characteristically frank conversation with my Sister yesterday. She shoved a few home truths down my throat. I don’t hold this against her; I admire her honesty. She needs me to realise how dire things are right now, despite the positive façade of OU study, art groups etc. She tried to convince me to see my GP before the end of the week, or to ask to see the Psychiatrist sooner. She begged me to admit that I am more ill than most people know. She cried for her missing Sister, the Louise she knows, the Louise who would be horrified at how her life has turned out, who used to like to travel, or spend days away, the Louise with the sarcastic, wry, sense of humour. I wanted to cry too, but I couldn’t summon the emotion from wherever it’s buried. If anyone knows where Louise is, let us know…please?