March Onwards

A scarred arm with two plasters on it, one normal shaped and one shaped like a heart

CN: This post refers in detail to suicidal ideation and planning, eating disorders (no numbers, detail about purging), self-harm, psychosis, anxiety and depression. In short, this is a tough one – please give it a miss if you need to 💖


I remember the past six months in fragments. An assortment of fragments, big and small, painful and beautiful, some much sharper than others.

The fragment in which we suddenly realised that I wasn’t safe, and started making plans and group chats to get me to somewhere I could be supervised. It was white-hot with guilt and grief and I couldn’t always block out the pain.

Several fragments of sobbing. Of clawing at my face. Of feeling, knowing that my veins ran with molasses-y evil, of being unable to escape the tangibility of it beneath my skin. Of dizzyingly overwhelming shopping trips. Of semi-coherent phone calls to my mother.

I remember a sliver of my mother helping. I hold onto slivers like these, or like of singing, of passing joints around a fire, of face masks and desserts. I hold onto them so tightly that some of them cut my palm.

The bigger fragments are often worse. In one, I went to the hospital, because I was going to kill myself if I didn’t. They wouldn’t let my girlfriend into the waiting room with me, and I had to walk an endless corridor to find it. There were sharps bins I could have stolen. There were cleaning chemicals on a trolley I could have drunk. I could have simply turned and run.

I forced myself through that corridor like I used to force myself through mealtimes. I remember the feeling of clenching my fists and chipping away at a goal I desperately wanted not to reach: one more mouthful. One more mouthful. One more footstep. One more.

I waited. Nobody came to help. I was there for twenty minutes, I’m told, and I know that I was at war with myself for every moment, punching and scratching and picking and crying and still all too aware that I could just run. I could just run.

They sent me down the hill to the psychiatric hospital. That one let my girlfriend wait with me. This is the smooth edge of the fragment, where we played Hangman and gossiped and loved each other for hours. 

Then they took me into a little room and told me they couldn’t help me.

Here is the sharp edge. I couldn’t hear anything after that. I asked for my girlfriend. She asked if there was anything they could do for me to make the past five hours worth the wait.

They could not.

I don’t remember leaving that room, but I remember leaving the building. I remember my vision fading at the edges, and all I could see was the brick wall up ahead. I recruited the wall in the fight against me, ramming my fists and forehead into it. I drew the attention of some nurses, who came out to check I was alright – but they couldn’t help me either.

Then there are the fragments in bathrooms. Running a razorblade across my cheek, but without enough courage to draw the evil out. Crying in front of a toilet, unable to cope with an ordinary stomach bug, my trousers on the floor beside me. Squishing myself in front of the mirror in quiet, poisonous horror. Stroking the back of my throat with my fingers and regurgitating McDonald’s. That last fragment should be put away safely, somewhere I can’t find it, because all I felt afterwards was a bliss that I still mourn.

Another trip to the hospital – this one fuzzier. My boyfriend at the time watching with wide, terrified eyes as I screamed down the phone to a crisis worker, trying to make her understand why I needed to die. The mounting, sickening dread in the taxi to the hospital. The glimmer of hope when they started to talk about an admission. Explaining my plan to find somewhere wooded and pretty, get very drunk and start slicing myself until I die and my body nourishes the ground. 

Being told, again, that they couldn’t help me.

The trick to living through that twice is lost to my foggy memory. I know we went home and I smoked a lot of weed. I know that I lived. I know that the people around me kept me safe both by loving me fiercely and by hiding all their medications, house keys and sharp objects.

I know that I kept trying to put one foot in front of the other. One more footstep. One more.

There are so many other fragments that I struggle to fit together in my mess of a mind. That one antipsychotic that made me lactate for two weeks. Completing and handing in some coursework, somehow. A lot of Animal Crossing. A lot of naps.

A lot of footsteps. One more footstep, and then another.

One more.

Where I’ve Been

A selfie of Morgan, resting xir face on xir hand and looking into the camera with a neutral, if exasperated, expression. Morgan is a white nonbinary person with a blueish fringe and multiple piercings, the uniform of mental illness

Content warning: This post alludes to the general misery of mental illness, as well as suicidal ideation and self-harm. Give it a miss if you need to – you matter more than my analytics! 


So, I accidentally became a company director.

When I say this, people ask, “How do you accidentally become a company director?” Their confusion is understandable, but honestly, I’ve been in a haze of mental illness for such a long time that most of what I do feels accidental. Like, oh, look at that, I wrote a press release. Oops, I tripped and fell and submitted a PhD funding application. Oh, fuck, it looks like I’ve submitted coursework for my MA. 

But also: oh, fuck, I accidentally didn’t speak to my girlfriend for literal weeks. Oh, look at that, I forgot to eat today. Oops, I don’t have enough of my meds to get me through the weekend. And, of course, ah, shit, I forgot to be a sex blogger for a month or two. 

This post is two things. It’s an explanation as to why I’ve been away from my blog for a hot minute, and a celebration of all the insane things I’ve been up to during said hot minute.

We’ll start with the company director thing. My mum is my co-director, and initially, I was sort of a placeholder company director, a name to write on the paperwork until we got someone else on board. But, you know, it’s a community interest company, and it’s one I believe in very strongly. So, slowly and accidentally, I’ve started actually doing things as a company director. I made us Ko-Fi and Patreon pages. I put together the Facebook fundraiser for this weekend, when my mum will be shaving her head. I wrote a press release and contacted local news outlets to ask where I should send it. You know, real casual-like. 

Christmas makes my brain very weird, so I didn’t celebrate it. I hung wallpaper instead, mostly on my own. My mum acted as a second pair of hands on occasion, but I get weird when I’m doing DIY, so upon my request she mostly entertained the dog and stayed well out of my way. This was also the case when I replaced the toilet seat after losing my battle with the original broken one. And when I unblocked the outdoor drain. And when I rearranged the furniture.

I realised halfway through this whole process that I was using it as self-harm, what with my dodgy joints and all, but at that point it felt too late to stop. I carried on twisting my hips, pulling my ribs out and climbing ladders in my flip-flops, and only noticed bruises and scrapes hours or days after they’d occurred. The haze of mental illness hung heavy around me, so my memories of that whole process are blurred.

I did all of this stuff with deadlines looming in the distance. Four deadlines, to be precise, which required me to write a cumulative total of 11,000 words. The problem was, it was enough of a challenge to be in my mum’s house, where a lot of my trauma happened, without hurting myself any more than I already was. And my focus can never stay on anything at my mum’s house, because I’m waiting for the next Traumatic Thing to happen. So I didn’t touch my coursework.

And then I did, all at once. On Sunday/Monday, I stayed up for 37 hours (with a 90 minute nap in the middle) to write the 8,000-odd words I still had left to write. I had an energy drink at 11pm. I had a shower at 5am. I picked at the recent self-harm wounds on my arms and I cried about statistics. But I submitted the bastards, all four of them, and we’ll see soon enough whether they were actually coherent enough for me to secure a pass. 

I still went to my Monday afternoon seminar, too. I could have skived, what with the exhaustion and the mental illness and it being the first week of term and all, but it was the module I’m the most excited about, taught by an academic I really want to impress. So I turned up, and I babbled near-incomprehensibly about gender and bees, and then I stumbled back to my Daddy’s house. And I accidentally reminded myself why I liked to pull all-nighters all the time in high school: because exhaustion numbs everything, like a nip of booze does, and makes the world easier to cope with, and because I got so much done overnight. I would like to forget this information again, because I used to spend a lot of my time drunk on exhaustion, and I’m sure it wasn’t good for me. 

All of this is to say that I’ve been in a blurry, often-dark place lately. I have had moments of frantically Googling “how to drown yourself”, and moments of dizzying triumph and relief. I can barely recall any of it. I feel like it goes without saying that I haven’t been in a sex-blogging mindset very much as of late, because I’ve been alternating between being busy and foggy and in crisis. 

However! I have had some sex-related triumphs, among all the grown-up uni- and business- and wallpaper-related triumphs. This weekend, I’ll hopefully be posting about my slowly-improving relationship with masturbation, and how that fits in with my sex-related intention-setting for 2020. I’m only a month late, and honestly, with how chaotic things have been, that feels like a triumph in its own right.

Thank you all for your patience with me while I’ve been Going Through It™. I hope that the content I put out in 2020 makes that patience worth it.