I write because I cannot say the words

Hi. I don't expect this to be read... and part of me would rather I don't let this see the light of day, but it's the middle of the night, so maybe that part of my brain won't notice. I write down how I feel far better than I can say it. Talking makes me scared, anxious... I know people are judging me. This way, I'm not really talking to anyone, but am still laying it out there.

I don't know how long I have felt like this... it's been building for a while, but I can cope. I could cope. The battles in my brain were behind the scenes, rarely coming to the surface where I would consciously deal with them. You see, there is a part of my brain that keeps fighting back. But it's getting tired, and weaker, and smaller. I wear a mask, all the time. It's so exhausting. But I cannot let the cracks show. I have to show this unbroken me... to show the ugliness beneath means losing everyone. To show them is to drive them away, give them something to talk about... then I am no longer me. I am this shadow... it will be all they see. I need them to not know so I can have a part of my life where I am at least able to pretend I am me. Not the darkness underneath.

But this is getting harder. There are times when the mask slips... when I lose that grip I cling to. It's like holding onto an aeroplane as it starts to take off. There is nothing to grip... and so I fall. For months, at least, I have noticed my hold slipping, my will failing. My research is almost at a standstill as I cannot get to uni on consecutive days to continue an experiment. I had to speak to my supervisor... he's pretty understanding, but I feel like he's getting fed up, that he wishes I wasn't his student. I have to remind myself that this isn't really me thinking... It's some form of anxiety I haven't put my finger on yet.

My family know nothing. My mum, dad, sister... they wouldn't understand. I used to cut when I was younger... I was forced into counselling then. It worked! Thank goodness it worked. It gave me tools to stop myself from self-harming. A way to fight back. But my parents never understood. It was a phase. I was seeking attention. I had nothing to be sad about. I wasn't sad, though... they didn't get that. I doubt they will now. It's not so easy to just say 'Hey... this makes me sad so I'll ignore it.' There is no trigger... there is just no point.

My husband knows... talking to him was the hardest. I felt like I was failing him, disappointing him. I don't want him to blame himself... it's on me. I love him. He makes me happy. This doesn't mean I don't ever feel happy. I do. Those moments when he plays with me and jokes around, he brings out a real smile. Being with him, I can feel warmth, happiness. It cuts through the black hole I'm in, gives me strength. But it doesn't pull me out... I've fallen too far. I'm failing him.

I don't self-harm. At least, I don't see it as self-harming... not really. When I get really anxious, I pull at the skin on my hands... hand might go a little red, but there is no damage. A bit of feeling, no harm. It's like a nervous tic. My big issue is food. Now, I know I need to lose weight, but that's not an issue for me. I don't feel a need to make myself thin or anything like that. If I lose weight, great. If not, oh well. Who cares? But I don't see the point in eating, or drinking. I forget to have fluids and am often dehydrated. I forget to eat or don't care enough to... Why sustain a pointless life? I don't want to die... I just don't see the point either way. I have to force myself to seek out food... for my husband. I don't do it for me... it scares me that I only do it for him.

When I want to hurt, which I do... often, the fighting part of my brain comes in. Lately, I've had the conversation with myself more and more. I won't do it. I want to. I cannot describe the compulsion. But two things stop me. Why should I reward myself? I don't deserve it. And I can't do it... for him. For his sake. I don't know which is stronger right now, but pain would be a relief I do not deserve. Funny how my brain insists I suffer on... I don't get it.

Every little thing is a battle. Getting up. Showering. Get dressed. Go to uni. Research. Read papers. Eat. Drink. Go to bed... All of it. My PhD is suffering right now. Luckily, I'm just finishing my first year. There is still time. Hubby has to make sure the animals are fed and watered because I forget. I can't even write at the moment. Writing is a release. I write fantasy novels, and it makes me feel good to unearth the next part of some epic story. Sometimes I win these battles... often, I lose.

Today... or yesterday now, I did good. I went to my GP. I told him I needed help... I cried. I was shaking with fear. I have failed... that's what I was saying. My entire toolkit is failing me. I was coping. I managed... I don't know how much longer that will last. He listened. He asked the obligatory questions... how easy it would be to lie, but I didn't. I was honest, though didn't say everything I intended to... the words just got lost. Not like when I write. I came away with a prescription for an antidepressant, and a referral form for steps2change. I just need to send the form off... I filled it in. I might get some counselling then. I have to revisit my GP in 4 weeks... I mustn't forget.

Part of me feels like I've given up and surrendered... Another part knows that I've stated my claim on my own body. I'm going to fight this war. I may not have dragons, or swords or magic, like in my books, but I have an iron will. I may not win every battle... I may be broken and defeated. But I will... I will win this war.