Diary: March


I have decided to publish brief excerpts of the daily entries I wrote in my personal diary this year in order to share the reality of living with chronic mental illnesses.

Previously: January / February



Nervous for appt at [psychiatric unit] tomorrow. It’ll be the first/only contact I’ve had with any mental health worker since I was released from section at the end of Sept. Have to be very careful with what I do and don’t say – cannot reveal certain truths or I’ll end up in trouble but I need help and there needs to be a record of how sick I am – it’s so fucked up that I have to protect myself from the people whose job it is to help me – all they’ve ever done is put me in greater danger.

P.M: I read that suicides occur more in Spring than any other season which really surprised me. I assumed the opposite.



Appt with C and Dr K was utterly pointless – despite obviously being in desperate need of help, once again it amounted to the same conclusion as ever: “we don’t know what to do” “there’s nothing anybody can do” “sorry” – no help, no plan, no safety measures, no support, no change, no progress, no hope. Nothing anyone can do. Want so much to get better, do better, be better but how? On my own without psych help, of course, on my own with nothing but my torturer.



Sad but trying so hard not to be in front of D. Fibro playing up. Pain pain pain.



Everything is wrong, nothing is right, but I adore him – must do everything to keep him safe [from me].



Coronavirus is mad. Missing T so much. And the kids. And the version of myself I was supposed to be, the person I’ll never meet, the life I deserve to lead but never will. Alone or lonely? Both, I think.



Bad Dad dream.

I try harder than anyone I know. Exhausting. Futile. Stupid. In a lot of pain. Sick trying so hard all of the time constantly TRYING putting in such huge effort to stay alive — why?

The amount of effort it takes me to constantly TRY to be alive/human/not dead isn’t worth what I get out of being alive. The input is far greater than the output, the effort is not rewarded with a result reflective of the work put in. It makes absolutely no sense for me to fight so hard to be alive when being alive is just more pain. Why am I fighting so hard to have more pain? I don’t have to fight anymore, I don’t have to endure another hour of pain, I don’t have to fight but I do? Why? Utterly illogical. Makes no sense at all.



Horrible dream about Dad dying again – and we missed it. I caused a fatal helicopter crash and was visiting one of the survivors in another ward of the hospital when Dad died + mother casually informed us when we bumped into her in the corridor nearly 2 hours later. Dad died and in my dream I missed it and the guilt and sense of failure I felt on waking has stayed with me all day. But I didn’t miss it, I was entirely present, I was right there.



January was the most successful month of my writing career, and it was because I wasn’t drinking alcohol. But I was so, so, sad. Need to find the right balance – an impossible task for one who is, by their very chemistry, entirely unbalanced.



Coronavirus madness. Panic-buying. Mass hysteria. Empty shelves in supermarkets. Nonsensical stockpiling of toilet roll. The stupidity and selfishness of so many is impossible for me to comprehend let alone defend.

T in Australia, all good, but Vietnam plans may have to be cancelled re. Covid19



Mixed mood. Sad after reaching out to a few wordpress friends and having proper conversations with them – three wonderful women, all hurting, all in pain, and I can’t make it better for them. Wish I could protect them from badness. I need to keep everyone safe.

P.M: Dad would never survive Covid19. At least he’s safe now.



Australian F1 grand prix cancelled + Vietnam looking unlikely. Feel so deeply sad + gutted for T. He deserves to live a real life.

Coronavirus talk on Twitter is scary. 10 UK deaths now, over 1000 in Italy. Apocalyptic.



Worried about T – he has a high temperature. Feeling unwell myself.

Want to sleep for a month.

Tired, idiot, sad sad sad and no reprieve. I never get a day off.



Corona is crazy. Europe is now the eye of the storm. Boris doing fuck all, as per.

Isolation imminent, I think. The sooner the better.



Worried about T + the whole world.

Boris is an utter moron. No border checks/travel restrictions, still no countrywide lockdown, schools, colleges, shops, businesses still open. No fucking clue. “Wash your hands” is all we’ve been given, such groundbreaking advice.

I am so pleased that Dad never lived in a Trump-Boris world. Think he would’ve killed himself if he’d been alive to see these 2 in power.



Weird day. Had ECG done at hosp. Bloodwork from both hands, the Vampire was very rude and burst one of my veins. Hosp like a ghost town. Eerie.

Feel very weak/tired, sick, aches + pains + shattered brain + pain pain



ECG abnormal with short PR interval. Pulse 122 constant, apparently should be 60-80 at best. I wasn’t nervous or anxious or upset at all during the test – can’t imagine how high my pulse gets when I’m panicked or upset or excited or on gear. Fucking broken heart.

T has no choice but to return to the UK early. I devastated that his dreams have been stolen away from him. He will return to no home + no job. I don’t think he was certain, when he began his travels, that he’d ever return to the UK at all. He arrives Sunday. Praying for his safety.

Finding it hard to breathe – not in a panicky, anxious way, purely physically, my lungs are shot to shit.

Viewed flat in [x] – it was perfect, it has a bath AND a washing machine! All I ever wanted – all I physically need. Really hope I get to live there. Praying. Me and T need somewhere safe to live urgently – at least one of us must have an address and a set of keys. Thought I had more time while T was abroad but it needs to materialise right now.

3 a.m: bad thoughts want to cut my head off and throw it away the urge to die is so strong it’s all I can see



So good to speak to F. He is currently the best version of himself that I’ve known. So proud of him getting clean. Top boy.

Feel v. unwell. Hope it’s fibro or psychosomatic or a hangover, not covid. But if I die of covid it would be a tragic shame, it would be sad not selfish. Hmmm.

P.M: I don’t want to live in this world. It is a bad world.



UK in major (self-made) crisis. Pubs bars gyms restaurants cinemas etc all closing tonight for the foreseeable. Should’ve shut a month ago. Too little, too late, I fear.

I don’t feel any worse mentally because of covid. The way that humanity feels now (scared, anxious, worried, paranoid, uncertain, doomed, in the dark) is how I feel every day and have felt every day for so many years. The general population are, sadly, getting to experience a slice of my everyday life. It’s horrible, isn’t it? Told you.


Flat looking promising. Sent over paperwork, awaiting landlord’s decision. Praying praying praying. I deserve to have somewhere safe to live.

3 week lockdown announced – too little, too late. I locked myself down over a month ago because I care about everybody but myself. Why/how can people not automatically care about humans being okay? It doesn’t make sense to me.



Day 1 of London Lockdown – pub garden weather outside. Everyone is livid and/or worried. I am the same as ever: tired broken pain waste of space fighting to suffer another day



A tweet of mine went viral. It was not a pleasant feeling. Very distracting/silly/ridiculous and pointless in the grand scheme of things even though it became the focus of my day. I have no idea how so many people can live with thousands of notifications every hour. It’s a silly way to spend one’s finite time, living off likes, scrolling your soul away for nothing.

D still working in people’s homes despite lockdown, despite my protestations, despite a pandemic, despite common sense, despite every thing.



I GOT THE FLAT!! Getting the keys on 1st. Relief. Gratitude. Finally, somewhere safe to live, where I can cook and have my belongings, and lock and unlock a door and live behind it quietly, and have my security promised for 12 whole months.

I work so fucking hard for no real reward. Feeling undervalued, ignored, unloved, unsupported. Exhausted. What is the point of any of this trying, fighting, working, exerting, hurting, suffering? It’s absurd to think that I am anything at all, that any of this means anything, that anything is actually important. Silly girl, carrying on like this. Silly.

P.M: I will be in my own space very soon and it will be a new start, a chance to exist differently, a place to create and sleep and breathe. Me and T will have security for 12 months, guaranteed an address for a year. What a relief. And I can get Bonnie and have her with me and meet new people and go to new places and get a new GP and a new mental health team and hold onto a renewed hope of me finally getting the help I have needed for so long. It is astounding that I still hope to be helped by someone one day, that I still have faith in being saved, that I haven’t given up on everyone that has failed me. I don’t know where I sourced this audacity, the fucking nerve of believing that I can be helped, when I only have evidence to the contrary. Stupid girl. Stupid brain. Stupid faith in humanity.



The flat has a wardrobe so I can hang my clothes up. I haven’t had a wardrobe since uni halls in 2014. I will be able to have my clothes in a designated space, neat and visible, instead of piled and creased in ripped bin bags. I can’t believe I will have a washing machine. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it until I get the keys and open the door.

You don’t love me the way that I need you to.

I have become so incredibly ugly. It’s quite shocking. I want to wipe the freckles off my face. I want to have a face that isn’t so irreparably damaged, so flawed. I want my old face. No beauty remains.



Self harm last night – left arm cut.

I don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to/expect to be listened to by someone who says that they love me. I feel like I’m nagging him constantly about a totally ridiculous demand. But I know it’s not ridiculous or unreasonable or difficult – I am begging for the bare minimum. I must not deserve the bare minimum. But I must deserve all this hurt because otherwise it wouldn’t be happening to me.



I am so so so sick of repeating myself.

Self harm again.




Shattered. Destroyed and too fucked up to attempt to mend myself. So sick of being sick. Brain fog and anxious about new flat and getting Bonnie. What if she doesn’t remember me? What if she hates me? What if I am a terrible cat mother? What if she’s unhappy with me? What if she wishes she was never reunited with me? What if I make her sad? I love her so much. I’m just frightened that I’ll make her unhappy.



Bought a duvet and pillow for my bed at the new flat. I hope I can sleep there okay, I hope I am able to go to sleep without noise and fear. I am anxious but that’s okay. Collect the keys tomorrow at midday. Praying that this isn’t a big trick.

Feel very weak, fibro killing me, all of my muscles are pulled, my bones are crunching uncomfortably and my skin aches.

My heart is working too hard. C A L M  D O W N. Just stop it. Stop. Shhhh.


      1. No, the pingback didn’t work, but I’ve just been to read.
        I’m always been drawn to your site, and it’s not the darkness that draws me,🤔
        I’ll leave you a comment on the Feb post

  1. I am so, so sad to read this but also proud of you for publishing it. It SHOULD be published, like properly. What you write, HOW you write is raw and real and it’s a true representation of how so many people must feel.
    Btw. Freckles are beautiful. You are too xx

Tell me what you think!

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s