Bless you, incurable, believing that apple cider vinegar capsules will save you.

Caking your face in layers of Indian clay as if you can simply wipe the trauma that clogs your every pore away with a damp flannel. Dieting and teeth whitening

and acupuncture and tattoos won’t make the decades of sadness sit sweetly on you, or make your chronic psych ache fit you in a flattering way. Jogging will not magically undo the catalogue of child abuse (your heart can’t take another mile anyway, your walls are all decayed, and baby, everyone knows you can’t outrun your shame). Nature can no longer rescue you — your eyes automatically convert all the world’s colour to grey, so when you look around in search of the sublime, you imbibe every view confused. You tried to drown, thought you’d finally get some decent rest on the silty seabed, but the Atlantic laughed and breathed fresh life into you, made you float back to the surface, condemned witch with an embarrassing, unfulfilled death wish. You’ve tested every legal psychotropic

and even self-harming is boring to you now, it’s ineffective, you’ve done it to [almost] death — you’ve got no unmarked territory on your body left to gouge or pinch or burn or etch. You’ve hosted solo Pity Parties and attended group art classes, vomited up all the cake

you ate and ripped your collages to shreds. You’ve tried sobriety, volunteering, The 12 Steps and hours of Yoga With Adriene to no avail. Casual sex has left you just as empty and upset as the failed relationships you somehow kept with wonderful (incredibly patient) men.

CBT, DBT, MBT, IFS — no school of therapy can sustain you when you’re hanging by a fraying thread, when you intend to have been cremated before your next appointment. And how many times have you relied on minerals and crystals, fully believed in pieces of jewellery that were meant to guide you, help you, fix you? Rituals with onyx, garnet, quartz, opals didn’t work; birthstone, moonstone, bloodstone, no stone, you’ve begged the good energy in silver to bolster you, fixated on channelling sterling vibrations inward, invested in purportedly protectorate metals and been devastated when gorgeous natural gemstones did not suddenly vanquish your ugly, unnatural behaviours. Look at you, incredulous that counting to ten, deep breaths, hot baths and clean sheets on your bed have not made you any less depressed. Sigh. All this trying is very trying but you know what to do: Leave town! Start afresh! Then present the same bad traits that you so hate about yourself to your new mates, have another shocking breakdown and/or psychotic episode and half-convincingly recuperate, then resolve to change your name, delete your social media, dye your hair a hue that doesn’t suit you and disappear again, taking with you the same problems, the same issues, the same cute and stupid hope that there’s only a matter of time before you finally find The Miracle Cure that’ll rid you of your mental illnesses for good.