So I woke up this morning having had about five hours sleep, at about 8.30am, and I figured I may as well just try and get up and be a normal productive human. I should have been at work but my psychiatrist signed me off from work for two weeks, because I have been withdrawing from Effexor/venlafaxine, which any of you who have done will know is absolute hell, so in all honesty the last two weeks haven't been easy in any case.

So I pulled myself together and headed outside with Pokemon GO to hand - caught myself a few Pidgeys, went to the bank, came back home and cooked some breakfast. It was around then that I realised just how awful I was feeling. My psych prescribed me pregabalin to help with the venlafaxine withdrawal symptoms, so I took a few of those but it didn't help. I started to break down big time, suddenly convinced I was the worst person in the universe, that I was disgusting and I should just go and die.

I'm home alone for a week because the people I live with are on holiday, so I lost my shit big time, I was screeching like a banshee as I tore apart my room to find the razors my sane half had tried to hide from my mad destructive half. I found them and tore a few gashes into my arm, and even that didn't seem to help as much as usual.

So I called my mental health team and asked to speak to the duty worker, who was nice enough but just kept saying I need to start taking citalopram, which a) I can't because I've been taking 5-htp supplement to help with my withdrawals, and b) takes bloody forever to work anyway so frankly the advice was not helpful. Anyway the duty worker was a super nice guy and I told him I couldn't come over to pick up the citalopram script because I was losing my mind, so he brought it to my house and I cried and thanked him.

Then I was alone again.

The day passed in a series of convulsions - for a while I would be utterly consumed by the darkness inside of myself, howling and wailing up to the gods for any form of respite. Then respite would come, brief, perfect and I would attempt to savour it, only for the beast inside my stomach to rear its head again. I ordered too much pizza and ate it to try and quiet myself. I called a private therapist and arranged a free assessment session for next week because I was so desperate to find someone, anyone to talk to who might understand how much awful all-consuming pain I am in.

At around 5.30pm I got scared that I was genuinely suicidal - I sort of came to from a chance to find myself sitting with a claw hammer, tapping it gently, menacingly against the back of my hand. I called Papyrus which is a UK youth suicide prevention helpline, and they told me to call the crisis team, so at the crest of the wave of my impending crisis, I did.

"Hello?" said the voice on the line.

"Hello," I said. "The mental health team gave me this number and I am in desperate need of help so I thought I would call."

The lady sounded uninterested at best. She asked for my name, which I gave, and then told me that I was not referred to the crisis team, and if I wanted to be referred then my best bet was to go and present myself to A&amp;E in my current crisis so they would refer me. I asked her why on earth my mental health team would have given me the number if I wasn't referred to the team.

"I don't know," the woman said blithely, as though it didn't matter, as though it wasn't important, as though it wasn't a matter of life or death.

I cut myself again after that, writhing on the floor, gasping for air into my lungs only to expel it in the same heartbeat. I cut and I cut and again it didn't help. By this point I was really panicking about what I might do, gathering all sorts of old pills I could find in my drawers into a little crow's treasure nest in my bed - sertraline, citalopram, escitalopram, venlafaxine, ibuprofen, co-codamol, pregabalin, my 5-htp... I bunched them all up in a heap, all my leftover pills, and placed the claw hammer next to them.

Then I called Samaritans and spoke with an incredible man called Gary of all things, who offered me an incredible level of support which, after over an hour on the phone, seemed to somewhat quell the raging demon who had possessed my body unbidden this morning.

Now I lie in the sea of my own destruction - my arm torn to bits, my room tossed to bits in the frantic frenzy of razor-searching, leftover pizza from my binge, the hammer sitting randomly on my floor alongside a pack of cheap razors.

I am completely exhausted - my eyes are sore, my body is aching. But the main reason I posted this is because I feel like some of you will relate to the fact that I have spent the whole of today running around like my body was on emotional fire, when nothing happened.

Nothing. Happened.

The madness in my head, the BPD, created of its own volition the worst day of my life. And that is the thing that scares me most about this illness. If you got this far well done for reading! I just wanted to get this off my chest.