That’s one of the most moving songs I’ve ever heard – Coldplay’s “Fix you”.
Because in the song, he loves someone and just wants to help them.
And that is what Alun, my Psych and my closest and dearest friends are trying to do with me, they all want to fix me.
I understand it because I would be the same if the roles were reversed. I would want to fix you, too.
But in the headspace I am in right now – nothing will ever get better again. I can’t be fixed. I feel as if I was an A4 peice of paper and life ripped me up into tiny peices and threw me into a heavy gust of wind. All my peices scattered – hundreds of little pieces of me all around and I’m supposed to put myself back together.
I’m supposed to do this over ONE weekend, am I?
I love my friend Marc and he encouraged me to ask for help. So I asked. It cost me dearly to admit I wasn’t “great”, but I reached out to my Psych “George” and he responded right away by text, and then rang in a panic when I told him I was suicidal.
I can’t pick up my peices, George. I will never get better again.
So my life right now is reduced to minute-by-minute survival.
Just get through the next 60 seconds, JD.
“Please sign in” I point to the reception book. I put my hand behind my back because it shakes as I hold it out.
“Have a seat for now, Tony will be out to see you soon”
40 more seconds, JD.
“Yes, the toilets are just up the hall and to your right”
20 more seconds.
“Oh sorry, yes – I’ll swipe you in”
I clench my hands into fists because I feel so scared of myself. Of what I want to do to myself.
Start the next 60 seconds.
Spend them in the blink of an eye, just trying to hold the tears in.
“Yes, I have your documents right here”
Smile and pass them to the staff member asking for them.
“Oh of course, I’ll get a glass of water for you now – won’t be a minute”
Answer the intercom “Catering? Sure – bring it on up”
Catering for 60 FREAKING GUESTS that NOONE told me about.
Skype message one of the girls “Your catering is here, girls – who is this for?”
“Sure, I’ll take it down to level 1 for you, Ash – won’t be long” and now it’s MY duty to get 3 trolley loads of food, drinks, plates, cups, napkins and tongs to a meeting where 60 pairs of eyes will judge me the second I open the meeting room door.
The whole time, I’m longing for a rest.
“Yes, I have your glasses here – someone handed them in yesterday”
“I’ll make you up a new pass – how annoying for you that your old one is bent and isn’t reading on the scanners”
At least the seconds are going by.
“More water for meeting room 7? Of course. I will bring it down now”
FFS. I’ve given you all 2 bottles each. What are you doing in that meeting room? Having a wet t-shirt competition?
Answer the phone while responding to emails, smiling at more staff as they pass by reception, cover the phone handle with one hand while mouthing “sure, no worries” to someone handing me their drycleaning.
The phrase “sleep when I’m dead” rings through my very bones.
Death is looking mighty appealing because guys, I’m knackered.
And the whole time, I’m breaking down. In between taking calls, signing in and directing guests, accepting packages from the postmen, directing electricians, plumbers, cleaners, staff, delivering post, re-stocking the kitchens with tea, coffee, sugar and paper towel…I’m exhausted.
There is a tiny “catering kitchen” right behind reception and I’ve been in there FOUR TIMES today to just lean over the sink and cry.
I am so tired my heart aches and my lungs burn.
And what hurts the MOST is that I’m supposed to be fixable.
Alun is taking me away this weekend – not far – to a fancy hotel in the city (My Psych’s suggestion) so that I can “rest”…because now they both know I’m suicidal (Oh Alun, I’m so sorry to put you through this) and they agreed that I need some time out.
Alun is so excited because he thinks a weekend away from the house chores will ENTIRELY FIX ME.
I just want to cry because he’s paid a lot of his hard-earned money for this ‘fix’ and it won’t do a thing.
I can’t be fixed.
You can give me $5 Million dollars RIGHT FUCKING NOW and it won’t make an ounce of difference to me.
To me, it’s just pretty bits of coloured paper.
I would stare at it as it floated away, note by note in the breeze…and I wouldn’t feel a thing.
It hurts to just breathe.
This is what life is like for me right now.
It hurts to just exist.
I’ve written a blog before about feeling like this called “Have you tried…?” and it’s about dear friends recommending things to me.
But I can’t even get out of bed most days.
So I can’t try exercising. Or yoga. Or pilates. “Going for a walk” does nothing for me because I’m scared to move, guys.
I feel like I’m drowning and I’m scared to move an inch.
I’m convinced this grief, this sadness – this CONSUMING DARKNESS is literally going to do just that – consume me.
I’m so overwhelmed, burnt out, knackered and SO FUCKING SCARED, LOST AND KNACKERED that I have to use ALL my strength, ALL my focus on just pressing the keys down on this keyboard. If I am asked to do something – ANYTHING – at work, all my attention shifts and I focus on just that task.
Move one foot.
Move the other.
Don’t forget to breathe.
Move one foot forward.
Now the other.
YOU ARE A PEICE OF SHIT.
Move one foot forward
Move the other.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE HERE.
Put your hand out. That’s it. Pull on the door.
Door is busted.
No no, it just says “push”.
You’re pulling on a push door, JD.
Why are you still doing it?
Push that door. Stop pulling on it ffs.
There you go.
YOU BIG SPAZ.
Now move your body through the door.
Smile, someone is coming.
Smile, JD…you’re making the wrong shapes with your stupid face.
“Yep, all good”
Move one foot.
Move the other.
Open the fridge door.
Smile again “Hiya Jasmine – oh you look lovely”
There you go, kiddo.
Take out the milk.
Top-up the frother on the coffee machine
“Yep, no worries – I’ll get right onto that” (mental note: submit a work order to fix the leaky tap in kitchen 3)
“More milk is coming” I assure staff in the kitchen “Just filling it up now”
That is my life right now.
A weekend away is NOT going to fix me.
I would honestly rather die.
Literally because it’s easier than living.
And it means the pain will stop.