Around the time I was diagnosed as having borderline personality disorder, I was having thoughts that did not feel like mine, that in the moment I found funny and euphoric, which told me to
1. Slit my throat.
2. 2. Set myself on fire
3. Set my house on fire, lock myself in the bathroom, then set myself on fire.
One trigger in particular, was opening my post.
I would sit there sometimes for hours staring at my post trying to fight these thoughts, that wordlessly, told me, I did not have to open my post, as I could open my throat instead.
When I came out of these episodes, I was understandably frightened and distressed by them.
On the morning of the day I was last sectioned, I put the post that had just arrived on the pile of unopened post that lived on my coffed table. It was a mess of a pile, completely disorganised and scattered, with other items unintentionally mixed into it. As I placed the new letters on top, the pile shifted, and as the letters began to fall, a knife slid out.
Horrified, because I knew, I had sat there prepared, or preparing, to end my life instead of opening my post, but having no memory of that event, I decided I needed to go to psychiatrist crisis team right then.
The psychotic girls guide to surviving the human apocalypse 