life

30 Things To Do Instead Of Dying

Unorthodox coping strategies, distraction techniques and self-harm prevention methods that I have utilised when I’ve wanted to end my life but decided to stay alive:

1. Instead of punching somebody, scrub the shit out of your oven

2. Sign every petition on change.org

3. Give yourself a tattoo

4. Grab a cactus with all your might. Spend the following hour(s) tweezing the spikes out of your hand: it’s less of a pain, more of a major irritation. You will not be able to think about anything else, trust me

5. Reminisce on celebrity interactions, like when you touched George R. R. Martin’s beard in the lift, or when Tyra Banks approached you on a street in Barcelona and said, like Regina George, “You’re really pretty,” and you turned bright red and ran away, or the other night with that SAS guy off the telly with the laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, and wonder why these humans are rich and you are poor

6. Meditate by a motorway

7. Edit the Bible. Modernise it. Swap the names of the gospels, add topical references, update the 10 commandments. “Thou shalt not manspread on the Tube,” “Thou shalt get that bread,” “Thou shalt not be attracted to Ted Bundy,” etc.

8. Steal your neighbour’s cat: would kidnapping a cat be called catnapping? take a catnap. take some catnip. whatever, just… cat

9. Go to Poundland, pick up any random item, ask a member of staff how much it costs, be surprised when they tell you it’s a quid, repeat, repeat, repeat, until you are asked to leave

10. Tell young homeless girls that you were them once, that it doesn’t have to be forever, that it can get better

11. Go to a graveyard. Challenge yourself to find the oldest birth date and the oldest death date, and marvel at the curious causes of death that were engraved on Victorian headstones

12. Flirt with an old man, make his day

13. Get on a bus at the start of its route and stay on it until the end

14. Organise your carrier bag collection into 5p, 10p, 20p and £1 bags

15. Fall asleep in the bath: wake up choking on cold soapy water: your body won’t let you die right now so don’t even bother trying

16. TTT: tramadol, tequila and tomato soup

17. Dislocate your fingers

18. Throw your phone into the Thames. Throw your whole handbag into the Thames. Fuck it, throw your clothes and shoes into the Thames, JUST NOT YOURSELF

19. Start a fire

20. Find someone equally helpless and drag them to the nearest pub

21. Go to an AA meeting: shit coffee, free biscuits, great stories

22. Cut your hair (a bit of it, most of it, all of it, just chop chop chop (your hair instead of your arms))

23. Bet on a horse. You have to stay alive to see what happens, to see if you win. When the horse loses or dies, you’ll have a new thing to be angry or sad about

24. Pop your finger bones back into place (so satisfying)

25. Write a list naming everything and everyone you are afraid of, then eat it

26. Indulge in primal scream therapy on Hampstead Heath

27. Plant mysterious and/or sinister notes in library books

28. Revel in the fact that you are not a psychopath (yay you!)

29. Bake a cake

30. Eat it too


This post is in aid of Mental Health Awareness Week (UK)

I DO NOT recommend acting on the advice above (apart from perhaps baking and eating cake): the above points are just some things that I’ve done during severe mental health crises instead of self-harming or attempting suicide.

This is post was inspired by the coping strategies that the NHS recommend to me when I’m in crisis, techniques that (while they do help lots of people and thank god for that) unfortunately do not work for me. If one more health professional teaches me “how to count to 10” or tells me to “hold an ice cube” or “scream into a pillow” or “go for a run” or “do yoga” or “snap an elastic band on your wrist” I will snap. So this post is a response to the (ineffective and patronising) advice that mentally stable people give to unstable people when all they can feel is rage and sadness and hopelessness, and all they can think about is destroying themselves. Because sometimes breathing exercises just ain’t gonna cut it.

If you are struggling with your mental health or have any thoughts about ending your life, please seek help: from a doctor, health professional, family member, colleague, teacher, friend or even a stranger. If in crisis, call the emergency number.

Do not feel afraid or ashamed to ask for help. You are worth helping and you are worthy of life. If you know somebody who is battling mental health issues, reach out to them. Lending a sympathetic ear, giving somebody a hug or sending a simple text message could save someone’s life.

Let’s all be kinder to one another. Let’s be honest, patient, supportive. Let’s be good, good people, good human beings.

Mental illness costs lives. Kindness costs nothing. ♥

Click here for a list of International Suicide Hotlines.

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poetry

Sandwiches

No, ​I don’t mind making the sandwiches

for our piss-up picnic in the park:

it’s strangely satisfying to slice

the cheddar for your Ploughman’s

using the same knife I hack

away at my wrists with, the one I keep

hidden up my sleeve on days when I’m

not safe in my own skin, the one I sleep

with on nights when you’re away and I don’t

trust my own heartbeat, the one I reach

for when I need clarity to shine through the insanity,

with its unfailing black handle and mirrored serrated blade.

Honestly, I don’t mind making the sandwiches

at all, babe.

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prosetry

w/r/i/s/t/s

He grabs my tiny wrists and I wince.

His eyes are still blue and I am reminded of the intimidating blue flame of the blowtorch he’d use to light my cigarettes, a last resort when I’d run out of matches. That blue flame was bewitching, almost translucent like imperfect ice, making you want to touch it, to dance your fingers through it to see if it burns you even though you know that it will.

I hear the coquettish shriek I’d make as he brought the flame close to my face. I was always scared he’d accidentally set my hair on fire. Now, as he brings the twin flames of his blowtorch eyes close to my face, I want to scream. I am scared that he’ll accidentally set my world on fire, the world I’d painstakingly built for myself in his absence, my brave new world, a world without him in it.

He slowly peels his fingers from my tissue paper skin and holds my forearms in his palms, turning them over, inspecting them. My hands are trembling but he doesn’t need to mention this because he knows me.

The welts are raised and range from the faintest candyfloss pink to an aggressive merlot colour.

They are all of equal width but the lines fly at odd angles from the base of my palm up towards my elbow.

Clusters of purple dots stain my skin like dappled sunlight, and the bones of my wrists are green and grey.

I knew it,” he says, and abruptly drops my arms.

I drag my sleeves down over my knuckles. I stare down at the ugly carpet. I don’t say anything.

I don’t want to speak to him about why I still hurt myself and why I’m still sad and why I can’t cope. I don’t want him to be worried about me. I don’t want him to remember that I am a mess.

And I don’t want to hear his misplaced optimism, “Well, snapping an elastic band is better than slashing with a razor blade,” and “At least rubber bands won’t leave a scar…” and I don’t want his pity or his fucking sympathy. I want his attention but not like this.

I can’t even look at him. I don’t want him to think that I’m not okay without him.

Fuck.

My pain is none of his business anymore. Even if he’s the sole cause of it.

A smile shatters his face and he reaches for his beer.

I knew it. I knew you’d let other guys tie you up.

“Sorry, what?”

Your wrists. Rope burns. You naughty girl.

I say nothing. He drains his dregs and jumps off the bar stool.

Right, I’m offski. See you later.

He winks at me and disappears.

“Prick,” I mutter under my breath, and leave through the emergency exit.

Offski. I always hated that.

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