I know the title sounds insanely obvious- doing this from beyond the grave would no doubt be problematic- but this week I didn't kill myself, nor try, when I really, really could have done. You've got to understand, I've not been alone since last year. I class as quite the danger to myself, so I live in a strange little bubble of soft corners and padded walls. I mean, not literally, but not far off- if I even want to use my tweezers (not really a tool I use as often as I should; my monobrow has its own psychiatrist), I have to be bloody assessed. I'm allowed out from hospital only a few times a week, and during those times I'm to be in eyesight of a member of staff, apart from on Sundays where my mum takes over the role of my escort. I've been home once in the last 8 months, and that was for a day and with a member of staff tagging along (it was dead bizarre, it really was) and I've only seen the centre of the city I'm hospitalised in, twice. Imagine being a criminal toddler, and that's kind of like my current situation.
So, the opportunity to do myself the kind of damage that I'd have once thought of as my duty, is not one that comes knocking often. Or ever, really. It popped along on Monday though, completely out of the blue; a member of staff left me alone in Asda- completely violating my Section papers, a legal document- whilst she looked for her lost phone. I ended up leaving after half an hour alone, in such a mess that I don't remember the walk back to my hospital, and couldn't talk for a good half hour after. A lot of people congratulated me on taking myself out of the situation where I could have accessed things I'm usually completely prohibited from, but to be honest it was only my anxiety that carried me out and back, rather than back into the shop. A nurse posed to me that maybe this shows there's a part of me that wants to be alive and safe, but I don't know; I'm too kind of emotional about the whole thing now, but a part of me hopes that it this is a sign that I'm recovering a sense of self-preservation. I really want to not want to kill myself, if that makes sense, and that's what mental health recovery means to me right now. I want desperately to want to live.
I've been struggling like billy-oh since, though. All I can do is berate myself for an opportunity lost and it makes me feel like even more of a failure than I already do. Really, I hope it's progress. My anxiety, if nothing else, is a part of me and it's a part that protected me. Of course, I could just be way over-thinking this. Either way, I'm alive and I suppose there are a damn sight more opportunities to be risen to alive, than dead.