Two weeks on.

I've lost count of how many times I've wanted to die in the last fortnight. Half the time I didn't actually want to kill myself, I just wanted to die. Whether it was to curl up and pass away or be hit by a bus or something, anything, as long as it ended my life. My self-preservation instinct is gone. I don't care about anything. I'm either numb, depressed or so filled with rage it's terrifying.

Sometimes I'm fine though, like now. Six hours ago I was a shaking sobbing wreck. I barely had the strength to grip a pen and I just wanted to die. I'd been feeling violent towards myself all day but by 8pm I just wanted to drop dead. Violently, peacefully, whatever as long as it involved me not living. 

Then everyone came home. That helped me through it and hearing about the misfortune of a friend of ours tapped my maternal side which pulled me round as I went to cheer him up a bit - utilising Lush bath bombs, Savannah Dry Cider and fancy teas from Whittard of Chelsea.

The only reason I haven't self-harmed again is because I've managed to guilt myself out of it each time since I promised I'd stop hurting myself. I have, on occasion taken more than the recommended dose of my tablets but not so many as to overdose. Just enough to take the edge of more than usual. Singularly, none of my tablets are normally fatal in overdoses but together I'm not so sure. I'm careful. And I only do it when I really need to - when I feel as though I'd do something worse to myself otherwise. 

Tomorrow I'm going to ask if there's anything they can do to dull the whole rage side-effect thing and if they can up my Mirtazapine dose. I'm not sure what my psychologist appointment is going to involve so I'll write about that tomorrow. I'm a little nervous about it but hopefully it'll help me out in the long run.