It's March

Just a heads up, lovelies, this post  is pretty bleak. It may be triggering, and it may be disconcerting, but I promise you all that I have more than one safety plan in place in the case that I should need it. And I have people who will force me to be safe when I'm refusing as hard as I can. So please, please don't worry that any of this will likely come to fruition.

It's March 1 and after a couple weeks of starting to feel (just the smallest bit) better, I can feel myself spiraling again.
I'm (more) suicidal. I don't even want to bother with trying to numb the feeling with drugs, or booze, or cutting, or anything self destructive. I just want this to be over. I feel like I'm done.
My birthday is on the fourteenth, and for some reason, that's making me feel worse. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because, when I was fifteen I swore to my closest friends that I wouldn't make it past, or even to, nineteen. I feel like now, now I'm formulating a new plan. A death plan B. I keep entertaining the idea of killing myself on my twenty-seventh birthday. Five years. I can use those five years to write - to get serious and actually write something worthy of publication. That's really the only 'goal' I have in life. To be a published poet. Sure, I want to see the world, and I want to own a horse, but when I think about successfully attempting, those things don't matter. Writing does, to some extent - I have attempted multiple times, with every intention of being successful. I hadn't written anything of consequence then.
I'm crying every day, more than once a day. It's really hard, because for the past couple weeks I've been trying to hold myself together just enough so as to not add any more stress to my boyfriend. (Who is normally fully able and willing to deal with me and help me, but he's having problems in work, with his car, with the people who run our apartment building - and I feel that I'm enough of a burden on him on a good day, so.. I've been trying to at least appear less badly than I am.) But with the advent of the month and the looming birthday, plus this is still in my 'bad' part of the year - usually November to April, maximum - I just can't contain myself anymore.
I don't feel hunger. It doesn't register in my brain until I force myself to eat something that my body was hungry. I'm in a constant state of dizziness, shakes, headaches, stomach distress. My body is reacting to my mental state.
I wish that I could be writing a post about how I'm doing better, how treatment is working wonders, how I'm starting to have the ability to feel positive moods, but I can't. This is where I'm at. Everything feels completely transitory and therefore pointless. Yeah, I'm getting mid-90s in class. Yeah, my family and friends are being incredibly supportive. Yeah, I'm getting back into a hobby I've always loved. Yeah, I'm actually making new friends and trying to socialize. None of that matters. It's not enough.
I wake up every morning and go through the motions all day. It's the same structure every day. The same patterns at the same times and the same constant state of mind.
I'm trying. I'm trying harder than I want to, than I believe is worth it. I do things to try to make myself feel less terrible, even for a short period of time. I've been trying to do as much self-care as possible. All of this therapy, friends, family, boyfriend, trying to write, making myself pretty and playing video games and watching happy animated kids' movies to try to decrease the severity of my mood - it's not working.
I keep telling myself that I have things to look forward to. My first appointment with my new therapist the day before my birthday. Going to see Andrew Jackson Jihad ten days after my birthday with one of my best friends. Getting birthday money and presents, and being able to buy myself nice things online, or get another tattoo. Finally starting the DBT program I've been waiting to get into since December of 2013. Summer break, when I'm out of school and my boyfriend isn't teaching, and we can go to the beach, or the zoo, or just go on 2AM drives to drink Tim Hortons tea and talk for hours under the stars. Those things help, temporarily. They remind me that I do care about some things, that some things are exciting enough to make me consider sticking around. That's the positive. I try so hard to focus on those little things. I have so many people rooting for me, but I feel completely alone. Because no one can make my head stop. No one can silence the voices or stop the memories or convince me with certainty that everything really is okay.
But I'm here. I'm trying to stay. I want to want to. For my boyfriend, the one person I'm not afraid to commit to, the first person I've had a healthy romantic relationship with, my rock, my gentle giant, my almost everything. For the poems I haven't written, that haven't been published yet. When it comes down to it, those are my only reasons - but honestly, it's an improvement. Not even six months ago, my boyfriend was my only reason, and the foundation for him being that only reason wasn't as great as it is today.
I suppose a message I can take away from this... public musing... is that... things.. can take what feels like a very long time to get minutely better.. but those tiny additions are important. I wouldn't have realised that writing is one of my reasons to live if I weren't alive. I wouldn't have realised how much I love my boyfriend, how much I want with him, how much a heart can mend and grow, if I weren't alive.
So maybe that's all I've got. I can accept the truly abhorrent nature of my mind at present as the beast that it is. I can try to do that, and try to, every hour, convince myself to make it through to the next hour.