Interim Therapy

I have a headache and behind my eyes I can feel my depression building. It tends to come in a physical form, pressure in the eyes mostly. 2nd session with cbt therapist on Thursday, more tears. I have reading and homework to complete, goals to set.
I want to write and I can't. All I can do is sit here.
I realise this is writing. Only it isn't because it's just the voice in my head stamping it out on the page. Proper writing eludes me.
The week before, she asked me what I did when the feelings became overwhelming and the bad thoughts started to sneak in. I told her that I didn't really, just sort of rode it out until it faded. Or until I tired myself out and could sleep. I always forget to say it makes me want to punch myself in the face; break my nose or my arm or snap something. Suffocate myself.
I'd do it, only explaining it to the paramedics puts me off.
"Who did this?"
"I did."
"Why?"
"Attention seeking?"
Yep, pretty much. I'd only hit myself in the face to make it look like there was something seriously wrong with me. There isn't.
It does sort of seem to be dissipating now. My face is still sore, but the ache in my throat and the tears are going away.
See? It didn't last long.

Better late than never

It's been a year. I apologise, would say life got in the way, but it didn't really. I just didn't think anyone would be remotely interested, so I avoided it. Besides which, when I was writing, I was immersing myself in fiction instead, far less confrontational.
And having a shit time at work.
I've left now.
I quit my job.
Its true what they say, it is liberating, freeing. I left with a massive grin on my face; it took ages to dissipate. I was happy. Less so as of this morning; the not getting interviews is starting to smart a little. I'm worrying. And trying not to spend money in case something dreadful happens.
Worrying is the thing I do best. Compartmentalised worrying. Big things, little things, in boxes in my brain. It's maths. Worry about seven little things instead of one big one. Worry about not turning the oven off even though you have done. Don't read things properly, fear the worst and when the almost-worst happens, collapse in a heap and say the sky is falling.
That is me.
When I was at my lowest, I contemplated suicide, rationalised it in my head. It made sense, it was logical and that's what scared me. I never would - many and varied reasons. But the voices there, spilling the home truths and making me sound so minus in terms of worth that it made my head hurt. Who are you supposed to talk to in these situations? My mother - whom I love so dearly - wouldn't understand. I've alluded to it and she believes I'd never think something so stupid, she thinks far more of me than she ought.
Tried reaching out to friends and they had their own problems and I was quite far down the list of priorities.
In the end, I told she-who-is-not-a-shrink-but-whose-title-escapes-me, and she gave me a list of numbers and addresses, told me a&e have dedicated psych advisors to stop these things. Reminded me there are people to talk to.
I'm not going to kill myself.
I wouldn't talk to those people, anyway. It would be a waste of nhs resources. Help someone better than me.
I think myself out of it, eventually. Headaches for two days. Back to the low hum of discomfort, accepting you're useless, then thinking you're not so bad. Up. Down. Up. Down. Disjointed and repetitive.
Not unlike this.