No, I don’t want to kill myself. Enough with this politically correct questioning about whether I want to kill myself. I wouldn’t be here writing this. I wouldn’t be texting my GP if I wanted to kill myself, nor would I be calling 999 or 111. It’s ridiculous. I wish they’d helped me more three months ago, instead of asking me now if I feel in danger or if I have an urgent need. Help people when they ask for help, take them seriously, and have them consult a specialist: this is how you prevent suicides, preventing someone from ending up in the same state I’m in.
Many people (far too many) know my situation, but they don’t seem to understand it, asking if “I had a good weekend” and “what plans I have for the week.” Others ask me how I’m doing and tell me about their flu, that they’re tired of going to work, all things I find ridiculous and problems I wish I had. A friend asks me if I want her to come pick me up or if we can go for a walk. They don’t understand that it’s all too much.
I’d like someone to cook me dinner, wash my clothes, and gently tell me it’s okay, that they won’t spread anything.
“Drink more water.” I can’t drink more water because it means more trips to the bathroom and more trips to get water, both of which are tiring because I have to wash my hands, disinfect everything I touch, etc. I’m tired. If I can make it.
If I survive all this, I’ll be very proud of myself, it will mean I’m fucking strong.
OCD waves 