The Night I Tried to Kill Myself

I don’t quite know how to put this experience into words. I haven’t written for some time again, due to feelings of inadequacy, depression, and general brain fog. I can’t seem to form coherent sentences as quickly as I used to, nor can I focus for long periods of time on something that I have a deep love for.

Thursday, 10.25.18 I remember walking into the outpatient center I attend for a therapy session. I remember the feelings of utter hopelessness attending with me, like a sack lunch I was carrying to school. I had made the decision to give up. I was tired of fighting, I was tired of trying to fight, and I was tired of the only option being fighting. I was tired of fighting myself, I was tired of, for the millionth time in my mental health career, coming off of medication, and I was tired of hearing I needed medication to thrive.

I was taking 10 milligrams of Abilify and 10 milligrams of Trintellix and I couldn’t find the energy to finish homework, or get out of bed, and I didn’t have the luxury of feeling any emotion at all: happiness, sadness, inquisitiveness, passion–nothing. And so I did what I always do: stopped the medication.

This usually happens without consequence. For the most part, I’ll stop cold turkey after a couple of months, struggle through a few physical withdrawal symptoms, and get on with my lifestyle. The last time I stopped these two meds, I regained my energy quickly, breezed through four classes, and managed happiness until the opinions of those I care about convinced me to try the medication again.

So I tried again, For maybe two and a half weeks. Then I stopped. I stopped and I noticed my energy did not come back. My mood was stable until it wasn’t. It plummeted. I focused a lot on what was wrong with me, the disappointment of my relationship ending (yes, I’m still stuck on that), and the worries of the future regarding my education, where I’m going to live after December, and the simple fact that I struggle taking care of myself. Those are the surface issues. There are deeper issues I don’t think I’m in touch with yet.

I’ve struggled with depression since I was ten years old. A low mood was nothing new to me, in fact I welcomed it because the darkness was comforting. It was an old friend, a sinister reminder that life is suffering and suffering reminds us that we’re alive. I was thankful for this friend to return because on the medication I didn’t feel alive.

I started planning fun things to do to keep me from falling further: A concert, an overnight trip to San Francisco, Halloween plans and costumes. I got excited: the week of the 21st would be marvelous.

But I started separating from myself.  I don’t remember when, and I don’t remember how, but part of me blacked out. I know I was around and talking to people because I went to work, had laughs, made plans. I don’t remember much of it, but I know I was there.

By Thursday, the 25th, I was moving slowly, not comprehending where I was, no hope or vision for the future, and I’d even lost interest in Halloween, my favorite holiday. I confessed to the therapist that I didn’t have energy to care much about my life, nor could I answer her questions. I didn’t tell her I’d made a plan to (somehow) kill myself after Halloween. It wasn’t fully developed yet, an undercooked chicken in the oven.

I don’t remember much about the session other than the ending: a mindful meditation seeking to locate my inner child. I remember a lot of pain resurfacing, so deep and profound I had never felt it before, and I snapped. I was gone. She asked me how I felt, and I told her dissociated, separated from myself. I remember that. She made me do some grounding activities to bring me back into my body. I don’t think they worked.
That night I went to a concert. It put me in a seemingly better mood.

Friday and Saturday I spent the days in San Francisco at the Academy of Sciences, Golden Gate Park, Six Flags, and around town. Saturday evening, on the drive back, a sinister part of me reminded me of my plan.

I’m not a stranger to hearing voices. I don’t hear them every day, and I haven’t had a bad episode in a while, not since my last hospitalization last year, but this time was different. This time I heard nothing external, and everything internal.

We all have an inner voice that reads to us, thinks for us, and we are in control of that voice, we dictate it. I’m dictating it now as I read back what I wrote, and as I write. But what I listened to that Saturday evening was not of my own doing. A different voice, a male voice, one inside of my head that I had no control of, which directly told me I needed to kill myself. He instructed me to open the door of the car and jump out in traffic–on the highway–and end it. He addressed me as “you” and I addressed me as “I”. That’s the only difference I can pinpoint right now. When I had a thought of my own, I said to myself “I need to calm down”. When I didn’t, he said “you need to do this. There’s no reason for you to live, you don’t deserve life.”

Was this a demonic entity interfering with my thoughts? I didn’t know. I sat paralyzed in the rental car my Ex drove, crying consistently for an hour and a half. The torment wouldn’t stop. “You don’t deserve to live. There’s nothing good about you. Jump out of the car. End it. When you get home, kill yourself. Hang yourself in the closet, no one will even find you.”

I had plans that evening with another friend, so I did not act on those commands. I did, however, drink quite a bit of whiskey and wander around the downtown city. When I got home, I drank more whiskey and fell asleep.

In the morning I awoke instantly crying. The day was Sunday, 10.28.18. I turned on Breaking Bad: I’ve never seen it before. I don’t remember much of the episodes because my head was so loud: “hang yourself in the closet. Take a knife, slit your wrists. You will never amount to anything. You don’t deserve to be on this earth, you don’t contribute to anything.” I joined in: “I can’t write anymore. I can’t enjoy things anymore. I don’t see this getting any better”.

It was 6pm that night when I finally stood up and searched my apartment for something, anything to hang myself with. I didn’t feel in control of my body, I was just going along with the motions.

“Fill up the tub, get in the water, slit your wrists.”

I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer and filled up the tub. I remember this part more clearly than other parts because my heart was beating out of my chest, my hands were clammy, and I couldn’t get a grip on myself, I felt like I was losing myself to someone else.

I got in the water with my clothes on and fought the noise in my head. I tried to give myself reasons to live–family, my cat, work–but it was always overpowered by that other voice. I spent a half an hour sawing at my wrists with a dull blade that could barely cut a tomato. I pressed as hard as I could and my skin barely broke. Eventually, I threw the knife. I remember a lot of crying and banging my head on the wall and hitting myself. The noise wouldn’t stop. I ripped out the string from my leggings I had on and wrapped it around my neck and pulled and pulled and pulled. Thinking back on it, I would probably pass out before I die, given my hands are the one pulling the strings, but in the moment I just needed to cause some sort of harm to myself. I kept trying the knife in between strangling myself and I sent one text message that I don’t remember.

It was a couple hours before I stopped. My neck was sore and I had stopped crying, but I wasn’t back in my body yet. The water was cold and I heard the front door open and footsteps running in.

We spent a couple hours talking, and I was gone completely. I don’t remember an ounce of the conversation. I remember seeing through my eyes my body stand up and go for the knife, go for the string, and my ex preventing me from doing so. I remember telling him I didn’t want to traumatize him.

There’s a block on my memory of the conversation, what I said, what he said. I remember being on the couch wrapped in blankets, soaking wet, distraught, eating pizza. I didn’t remember the last time I had food. It couldn’t have been too long. I took a Seroquel. I only had three or four left. It’s a shame I didn’t have a full bottle, or I would have just swallowed them all and called it a night.

The next day I didn’t awake until 1pm. I could barely move, my mind was paralyzingly loud, and I turned on more Breaking Bad. The urge to die was so strong. People took turns watching after me, texting me, calling me. I refused to let anyone call 911. The hospital is not a place to be when you’re in a crisis.

Today is Halloween. My head isn’t loud. I came back into my body and have trouble remembering what the depression felt like because I feel I wasn’t the one to feel it–this entity within me, whether it’s paranormal or just a fractured part of my self, is hell bent on destroying me.  I haven’t experienced a dissociative experience so destructive since high school.

Am I still depressed? I think. Mildly. Or it’s so severe that I’m incapable of comprehending the severity of it.

I didn’t learn to love life from this attempt. I didn’t learn to appreciate the little things or find new meaning or purpose. I still feel lost and confused. A hospital visit isn’t going to change that. What I did learn is that I’m more committed than ever to never taking psychiatric medication again in my life. After 7 years of being a guinea pig, I’m done.

My outpatient group counselor asked me why I despised medication so much. I told her it’s poison. She asked in what way. I told everyone in that room that long term treatment results in heart issues, liver issues, physical ailments that permanently scar your internal body and shorten your life span.

She said okay,  well, then would you rather kill yourself now and not have a life to live, or have some little problems a little later?

I said that was a dumb question, and that heart arrhythmia’s aren’t little problems. I said I’d rather kill myself than subject my body to synthetic chemicals.

And through this experience, if it’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the only two ways I will die is by my own hand or nature’s hand. I will not slowly die at the hands of greedy monsters making a profit off my death. If anyone is going to shorten my life span, it’s going to be me.

Should 911 have been called on me? Probably. I’m worried what I will do after Halloween–my original plan–and where my mindset will go. I’m worried I won’t be able to receive the support people are offering because I don’t know how. I’m convinced there is nothing left for me and that the only thing keeping me alive right now is fear of the unknown and a low threshold for pain. I’m worried this depression will slide past, unnoticed, and sky rocket into something more. I’m worried I’m not going to find a purpose again, that I’m not going to find a reason to live. I’m worried I’ll never feel passionate about anything again, or optimistic. I’m worried I’m shutting down, like the last stages of liver cancer. I’m worried I’ll pass as functional and be in misery for the rest of my life, however short or long that is. I’m worried someone will convince me to go back on medication. I’m worried that the only thought in my head right now is that I give up.

I’m worried that, recently, every time someone offers their help, my response now is “I don’t want it.”

How Do You Feel About Safety?

What’s your experience with this? With suicide hotlines, or being interviewed about it with a mental health professional?

Because I feel there’s a major flaw in this system, and I’ve thought about different ways it could be fixed, I’ve thought about ways it could be improved, internally and externally if that makes sense–everything is internal and external with me–, but what I’ve yet to do is ask others who have similar experiences to me how they feel about this.

The last time I used a suicide hotline or service thing, I don’t know what to call them, I was halfway going to do it. I pretty much led the entire county and hotline on a wild goose chase. I was teasing them about trying to find me before I die, while simultaneously trying to find a place to either jump off and break my neck or jump down far enough to die on impact. That’s hard to do when you’re avoiding overpopulated places like bridges. Maybe I picked a hard way to go for a reason. All I knew was 1) the trees weren’t talking to me anymore 2) I didn’t see any point in anything and 3) there were no more butterflies, and that’s a problem.

Eventually some county social worker and a sheriff got me. My boyfriend had got to me first, because I told him where I was. I’d told the hotline people where I was too, but in cryptic language and they must have decoded my message.

Anyway, my point is the whole reason I fucked with those hotline people, and pretty much myself, was because I hate, hate, hate when I get asked “can I help you get safe tonight?”

What the fuck does that mean. What does it mean? Can someone tell me? I don’t know what it means and I don’t know how to answer it. If I say I have a plan, they freak out. If I say I don’t have a plan, they say well, let’s keep you safe tonight and then suggest I listen to music or write.

I have different reasons for suicidality. Sometimes I’m just overwhelmed and can’t handle my emotions because I don’t know how to do that efficiently, so I say I’m going to kill myself. Sometimes I half-mean it, like when I sent them on a wild goose chase, and when I really mean it I tell no one, I just try. TRY. Because I’m shit at killing myself too. People say that’s a good thing, and being in my right mind right now I say it’s a good thing too. The creepy thing is I got the same treatment in the hospital, I got the same run around.

I also got a lecture. Remember? Remember that LCSW I posted about? My God, 45 minutes of fucking her repeating what depression is and ignoring the fact that I’d said several times I didn’t feel depressed, just overwhelmed, e.t.c and then at the end of it all, after I stopped talking for thirty minutes, she got concerned and said “I hope some of this resonated with you”.

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Who knows, it could have been more than 45 fucking minutes, THERE’S NO CLOCKS, HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW.

Whatever. The point is, nothing got resolved because everyone just wanted me safe and I didn’t know what that meant, and they seemed to feel that means leaving me alone for two days and I don’t know if that’s what keeps me safe or not, I don’t know. Because when they asked me in front of the entire room if I still wanted to kill myself, I lied very angrily, pretty much through clenched teeth, “no.”

So is the goal to just stop people from killing themselves, or to actually resolve the feelings of wanting to die? I didn’t want to say yes and get my rights taken away. I saw it coming from a mile away, I didn’t trust them an ounce. I don’t trust anyone. I was pretty much convinced the two women who were talking to me actually wanted me to kill myself, legitimately, like they were working together, which is partly why I didn’t sleep on top of the last week and a half of me not sleeping, and why I refused the “sleeping medication” they wanted to give me. Sleeping medication my ass. Fucking cyanide. And I wouldn’t have dared to mention that or anything about the trees, magic, or voices.

So my question is, since different people have different experiences, what do think about your “safety”?

Does helping you stay safe do anything for you?

Do you find yourself giving answers as empty as their questions?

*Some food for thought. Or thoughts for food.*

 

Snitches Everywhere

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I have been absent.

I feel as if I said that last time. Did I? I can’t remember anything.

These past few days have been trying. They’ve been tough and I’ve been struggling, and the more I reach out for help it seems the more people recoil. I enjoy their enthusiasm and their hope for me, I’m sure I absolutely deserve it. I mean, I’m never anyone’s shoulder to cry on or anyone’s personal confidant, ever.

If you couldn’t tell, that’s sarcasm.

With work picking up, it becomes apparent how important this position is to the people I work with and how important perfectionism is to this department. You can’t afford to make a mistake when you and your partner are stomping your away across the street with twenty thousand dollars between the two of you.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have picked a department that plays off of one my greatest weakness that also happens to be one of my greatest strengths. I’ve hated my perfectionism and my sensitivity to criticism ever since I realized the toll it takes on your mental health. Having to be right all the time is a lot of pressure on yourself. A pressure you create that you ultimately find yourself blaming others for. How covertly conceited.

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At any rate, the friend I got hired made a mistake and pulled an extra hundred from one of the machines my department manages. They had to do a lot of editing and balancing to get everything back to normal. I was the last new employee not to make a mistake yet.

I didn’t hold onto that title for too long. 

The first night I was on my own without a trainer over my shoulder, I took every precaution. I read my notes as I processed bills and coin and paper work. If I was 99.99999 percent sure of something, I didn’t take a chance and asked one of the leads/managers to help me. As much as that takes a toll on my social anxiety disorder, the thought of making a major mistake and the toll that would have on 1) my self esteem and 2) my perfectonistic self-loathing scared me much worse.

At the end of the night I left feeling generally pleased with myself. One goal I had for myself in getting this job was developing a sense of independence and demolishing my dependent nature and after that night, it seemed as if things were going just the way I planned.

Honestly, I should have just stepped in front of a car at that thought. Does anything ever go as anyone plans? Thinking that way is just a recipe for disaster, let’s be honest here people. The moment you blurt words like that to the universe is the moment Murphy’s law is stapled to your back.

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I already haven’t been feeling my greatest. My depression is settling in the more dissatisfied I am with school  and the direction my life is heading. So when I heard I made a major mistake that one night, the only night I felt decent about myself, I fell into a pit. And I’ve been here for a few days now.

The mistake? A computer error. I processed ONE DIME, TEN CENTS, and the fucking computer I was using printed it on three other receipts, receipts that I didn’t process any coin on at all, and my dumbass check marked the ten cents as if it were 0.00.

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You’re supposed to see 0.00 when you don’t process coin. Somehow 0.10 got past my vision. It backed up morning shift three hours. They need to have everything balanced by 7 a.m (an hour after they clock in) and my mistake cost them a lot of hours and caused a lot of headaches. My director was not pleased and so far two of the morning shift people will not speak to me or even look at me.

For the remainder of my first day back after my mistake, the director also avoided eye contact with me. I thought it all a little childish. He speaks with me now but my trainer warned me the more mistakes I make, the more he dislikes you.

Well for fucks sake, excuse my fucking humanity. 

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As I said, my depression was already creeping up on me and it hit me hard after I realized I was suddenly the most hated new employee of the cash room. For a computer error.

I had no problem admitting that I should have caught the mistake. But my trainer stuck up for me: she never told them I was cleared to process things on my own, someone should have been watching me. And it wasn’t technically my fault; I expected to see 0.00 so that was what I saw, even when the numbers read 0.10. I understand I should have caught it. But their computer system shouldn’t be that shitty.

The last few days I’ve been drifting into blissful suicidal fantasies. I’m not someone who is hell bent on having a good job or any of that. I enjoy thinking and being by myself and I hate being pressured into positions I’m not comfortable with, into drama, into all that petty bullshit they should have left behind in elementary school. I miss the days I could write for hours or take my camera for a walk. Now I don’t have the energy for any of it.

I’m just not happy.

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I struggle with finding happiness ever, really. I am positive, I always try to direct myself in that direction for other people’s sake, not mine. It never helps me. But it seems to help others to see someone stronger and more positive than they are. I envy them greatly.

Even if I sat in a customized studio fit to write for days on end, I wouldn’t find happiness. It’s unattainable for me. The only time I feel an ounce of happiness is when I’m with my boyfriend. But even then there are times the dullness creeps in and I find myself fighting hard to not ruin his day.

But inside I’m dull, blank, empty.

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And as a seasoned self-harmer, that usually means it’s time to burn something or cut something. I don’t do it often anymore, but when I do the marks are rather large and severe and I cover them with sleeves or pants or shirts or whatever.

Today, while putting on a backpack to get ready to take some cash to the upper levels, my sleeve got hoisted up by a backpack sleeve (despite my careful efforts to never let any outsiders find out the truth about me) and one of the shift leads saw. I know he saw because I spun around, absolutely mortified, and found him staring directly at me. I gave him the look I rarely give people: tell someone and I fucking murder you.

He looked down instantly. I took my belongings and left as swiftly as possible. I’ve never been caught in such a way. In fact, I started panicking. I blanked out for a few minutes and the only thing I remember is sitting back in the cash office whispering to myself. That’s when happens when I get frustrated: thoughts flood my brain and the only way I feel I can stop them is by telling myself to shut the fuck up out loud. It has to be out loud. Obviously that’s not acceptable in a work environment, so I whisper it or breathe in loud or clench my teeth and twitch my head to the right and roll my eyes.

Don’t ask how, but it all helps.

This particular lead shift is a snitch. My trainer says so. Anything you say he passes on to the director, so you’ve always got to be careful around him. Whether or not he told the other shift leads and director, I don’t know yet. But I’m sure he will. What will happen then? Stigma, stigma, and more stigma. 

I’m intelligent. I learn quickly. But I’ve never been happy or satisfied and if I am, it’s artificial, short lived, and abrupt. Then it’s gone and I’m left to this black abyss.

 

Life Goals

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We all have our signs.

We all know when we’re slipping a little bit into that dark hole, whether it be a slight change in mood or sparks of panic at the slightest noise or a whisper in our head and there or something scurry int he corner of our eyes. Although we can’t predict the intensity, we can sense the way it falls into a predator stance, stealth it’s way through the overgrowth of weeds, and keeps its eye on our fragile frame drinking innocently at the water hole.

Sometimes it feels like we’re at the mercy of fate. 

Speaking from personal experience, and now that I think about it, my depression has never been much of a touch and go kind of thing. Some people have periods where they go through year long depressive episodes and then come out of it and live their life for a while before it hits them again.

I’ve noticed I’m either horribly depressed and on the verge of suicide, or mildly depressed–not enough to fully impair my functioning but enough to make functioning difficult, enough to make me aware of it, enough to where if some trigger came pouncing along I’d fall helpless back into the pit.

Come to me

I often say positive things. It’s how I keep myself out of that hole and even though it’s something I have to work on everyday, it keeps me in school (barely) and it keeps me alive. But being positive all the time is creepy. It’s fucking weird. You know those people who walk around with The Joker smiles on their face and laugh at every joke you tell and always dress nice and drive nice cars or ride nice bikes and wear nice shoes and always know the latest style Kim K rocked . . . or, most recently, her nude line she seems to be rockin’.

Those people scare me. What are they hiding from? I’d rather be sobbing in the corner fighting against the beast in my head than acting like he isn’t there.

Everyone is tormented by something. Perhaps not to the same extent, but something is always going to go wrong. If they didn’t, we wouldn’t realize when things are going right.

quote-you-may-proclaim-good-sirs-your-fine-philosophy-but-till-you-feed-us-right-and-wrong-can-wait-bertolt-brecht-213084Then, you know, there’s the whole philosophical argument asking what right and wrong even mean, but we won’t go there. And whatever you do, please do not comment below that right and wrong are entirely subjective and only an individual can decide what is right and wrong for them. Because then you make it alright for someone who thinks it’s right to torture babies to torture babies and I don’t think you want that guilt on your shoulders.

We all have out way of handling things too. Some people read, some people exercise, some people do homework (which I should have done), and some people immerse themselves in things that usually make them happy but really only lift their mood for a brief period. I have a tendency to do that. So today, since my morning class was cancelled, I spent a totally of eleven hours on the computer dicking around on the internet. As you can see, it’s eleven hours and counting.

Because that’s my new drug.

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I remember one Heroin addict explaining that all the problems that were the cause of his issues never went away when he used, they were still in the back of his head, he just didn’t care. It was easier to ignore them, easier to not give two shits that his life was falling apart. I use the internet to the same extent: everything that I should be doing is in the back of my head but I just can’t bring myself to tackle them. So instead I watch countless hours of comedy videos hoping the laughter will stimulate a natural dose of dopamine.

Sometimes I have the arrogance level of an early Kanye West. Sometimes that’s what keeps me afloat: the more I act like I’m the shit, the less likely I am to call myself a piece of shit. I try not to let that arrogance influence how I speak to people but I’m pretty sure it has before.

I’m a work in progress.

anchorman-ron-burgundySometimes you need that faux confidence to take you where you need to be. Kanye West is as famous as he is today because of it. You can be the judge of whether that’s good or bad, but the point is he made it because he refused not to make it. And whether or not he actually believed in himself as much as he made it seem like he did is up for questioning. When Dave Chappelle first met him in the studio of The Chappelle Show and Kanye received a phone call, Chappelle recalls him saying something along the lines of “No, I can’t go, I’m at the Chappelle show watching clips no one has seen before.” There was a pause and Kanye said blatantly “cause my life is dope and I do dope shit”. And then hung up.

It’s one thing to let that mindset carry you to “success”, it’s another to let it go unmanageable to the point where you start tweeting things like “Ima fix wolves”.

Or

“You build up one school in Africa and think you fixin’ the country; if you’re going to help anyone . . . help me . . . “

Or

“Mark Zuckerberg, invest in Kanye West Ideas”. 

tumblr_n0y460ugyg1rwcfrqo3_500First, what the fuck is wrong with wolves? Are they broken? How does he intend to fix them? Do they want to be fixed? What kind of dope is Kanye on these days?

I used to envy his ego because it pulled him to the top so quickly. I’m not looking to be a power-hungry, attention-whore superstar, I just want to be successful at I want to do with my life and I can see there are several ways to go about this. I also see that I think more than I do and I believe this contributes a lot to my depression.

But if I didn’t have as much anxiety as I do, I’d be doing a lot more than I’d be thinking.

There’s got to be some way to balance this all out. I have my eyes set on my goals and while Kanye is busy fixing all the broken wolves of the world, I’m going to build up a true confidence and a healthy level of arrogance (I believe there is such a thing). I know I’m determined to share my story with the world and create a legacy for myself that, if I’m lucky, can influence at least one person on this earth.

If I could stop one person from pulling the trigger or help one person reestablish the life they want, than I’ll have done my job.

If you were a close friend of mine, you would know one of my most infamous come-backs to people who get taken back by the words I say is “I wasn’t put on this earth to be nice”.

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Sometimes they misconstrue the meaning of that. I certainly wasn’t put on this earth to be nice, I believe that whole-heartedly. Because being a “yes man”, being someone who just says “well that’s how it is I guess” isn’t my personality. It’s part of my anxiety, but never my personality.

To me being supportive to someone isn’t being nice, it’s being humane. It’s being normal, if I were ever to define normal.

I’d much rather be the reason they say “I love life” than be stuck asking myself “what if” as I watch them get lowered into the ground.

Because it’s never really been done for me, I want to do it for others. That’s my reward for having made it through as much as I have. 

A Little Reminder

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When I get tired in class, there are two things I do.

  1. Burrow my head in my sweater or jacket and nod off.
  2. Start cussing like a sailor in my notes.

For example, this morning in math I was not excited to spend three hours talking about shit I’ve already done before. As you probably already know, I’m in Calculus. So I’m not a genius here; still stuck in the lower mathematics and honestly, with all the other types of classes I have to take, I’m okay with that.

In my defense, my social anxiety has kept me back from a lot of things and one of those things has been excelling in math. But we won’t talk about why. We’ll, instead, give an excerpt from my notes from this morning:

“For fuck sake, I’m tired! 

Ex:/ Find the fucking surface area generated when this bullshit: x=1 + 2y^2, limits from 1-2, is fucking flipped around like a ballerina on crack about the x-axis. Fuck me. Shit. 

General fucking formula: 2piydS

Fucking Arc shit: sqrt 1+[F'(x)]^2 dx, sqrt 1+[F'(x)]^2 dy” 

Don’t believe that’s what I write? Well, here you go:

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That’s what happens when you work all weekend, get four hours of sleep, and don’t feel like dealing with this shit.

If I had never seen calc 2 in my life before like some of the students in my class who often walk out of the class with this expression:

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than I probably would have taken much more serious notes. But let’s be honest here folks, this shit isn’t rocket science. If you get the theory of it, if you understand the steps, if you can picture graphs in your head, if you can see past the non-existent existence of infinity, and you can plug into the formulas with a little creativity, than you should be good.

I still remember the second week of class when we started tackling real integration, not the pussy shit they cover in first semester calculus. The faces of the newer students, the arrogance they had coming into the class, the whole “I’m smarter than my friends” attitude, washed down the drain real quick. As soon as you shove integration by parts and partial fractions in their face, they all crumble. They should have read ahead in the book like I had before I took my first calc 2 class.

I would have been finished with the calc series by now, and at least onto . . . whatever the hell comes next. But I kept having to drop the classes. The first time I took calc 1, I missed too many classes (family issues, depression, anxiety e.t.c). The second time I passed. The first time I took calc 2 I had to drop because of family issues, depression, anxiety, e.t.c. See a pattern yet? So here I am, taking this bullshit for the second time again.

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If only my mental health affected me at home, in the closed doors and shut windows of my room. If only they didn’t interfere with my physics classes, with my math classes, with what professors I take and which ones I avoid, with who I talk to and who I don’t, with how to get a reference letters, with my job, with communication in general.

If only I could control which symptoms shown themselves when. Oh how sweet life would be.

But I’m thankful for many things.

I’m thankful I have the opportunity to go to school at all, whether it be university or junior.

I’m thankful I’m physically pretty healthy, healthy enough to push my way through my mental blocks and try to live my life as well as possible.

I’m thankful for my boyfriend. He can put up with all my issues and non-verbalness and that he’s been able to become more understanding as time as passed; we’ll hit our two year anniversary this July. I consider myself pretty lucky to have someone like him, he’s a rarity these days.

We tried making gelatin soda the other night, while baking a cake. The cake came out good. The gelatin soda . . .

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This Isn’t Ours. We Couldn’t Hope For Anything Even Close To This

I was almost on the floor rolling in laughter. We followed a video off of YouTube but there was a disconnect in the video between what you’re supposed to do with the gelatin and how it should react. We ended up with stank ass non-flavored gelatin melted hard onto the microwave plate, on the counter top, in the sink, and clumped on our hands. Be wary of YouTube instructional videos, you guys, seriously. 

I’m thankful for my brain, as “crazy” as that sounds. I don’t know what I’d do without it. It torments me and cradles me and entertains me and if I was anyone other than who I am I’d probably be disgusted with myself.

I’m thankful for a lot of things, in fact. I complain a lot and sometimes I get knocked down but I’ve never once laid on the floor and accepted my fate. I’ve learned not to fight my depression when it overtakes me, I’ve learned to work with it and around it and if that means taking a few steps backwards than by all means I go with the flow.

acceptanceI’ve learned not to completely hate my anxiety, I’ve learned there are advantages and I accept them and when they give me trouble and I beat myself up over it, I go through the motions so I can look back on it and analyze it and tell myself: wow, there, there, and there you were exaggerating, do you see that?

When I struggle with jealousy over watching non-mentally-conflicted people get on with their lives and be happy and maybe stressed out occasionally I remind myself that me and that person are not the same people. I remind myself that I can be just as successful as them as long as I’m happy with who I am and what I’m doing. I remind myself there’s no point in focusing on someone else’s life. It’s their life. How do their successes and failures concern me?

As much as physicists and biologists would like it to be true, it is not true that we’ll ever learn everything there is to learn about life and our existence. For that reason, I’d say don’t take anything for granted, not even your worst moments. Because once it’s over, you don’t know what’s next. Maybe nothing.

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Think about how weird it would be to never see the clouds or feel the sun or hear the birds chirp? What about seeing the face of your significant other or hearing your child’s laughter? How weird would it be to never wake up again? Don’t think about how it would feel to not have any problems, think about how weird it would feel to not have anything at all. 

Those of us who have tendency towards suicidal thoughts . . . we often get lost in them. And it can be hard to remember the little things. The things that don’t necessarily bring us out of our depression or bring us unlimited happiness, but the little things that make up daily life, the things we don’t always pay so much attention to.

Sometimes they’re worth more than anything. 

What does this have to do with math? Absolutely nothing.

 

In All Seriousness, Let’s Be Serious

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We’re going to be serious for a moment.

Well not too serious, ya’ll should know me by now.

But the topic is pretty serious. That being said, I want to warn anyone this post contains thoughts about suicide so please read at your own risk, particularly if those thoughts are active in you. I have a few lists of resources you can contact if you’re struggling here at the bottom of the page. One is international, one is the regular national hotline in the U.S, and the other is geared specifically towards those who either have trouble speaking on the phone or just prefer to seek help in other ways.

I’d advise you to give it a peek–especially if you have social anxiety with depression and find yourself in ridiculous holes and need someone to talk to about it without having to have an actual voice-to-voice or face-to-face conversation.

If you’re anything like me, even talking on the phone is insufferable.

But this post isn’t going to complain about how horrible my life is. Because in reality, I don’t live that horrible of a life. Sure, I grew up with a violent drug addict/alcoholic, a very passive, quiet mother, and no friends or family or sense of culture. I’ve been homeless and suffered through suicidal ideation since I was eleven years old. But I’m alive, bitch.

xwithdrawal-symptoms-pagespeed-ic-umnsff0vnlI remember when we lived in a room of a house next to Burger King. If you’ve read my other posts, you would know this house as the one with the woman who downed a million fucking Vicodin or Xanax or some shit then a bottle of jack and wandered around the house looking for knives to kill herself or a wall to bang her head against. If you haven’t read that post, well . . . now you know.

As an eleven year old I didn’t really understand why anyone would self-destruct. I understood she was tormented–after all, I did live with my father–but it was hard to conceive of why that torment hurt her so much. I had no feelings towards her. I didn’t want to find a dead woman on the floor of the kitchen but when she went into those states and we had to call the police I was pretty indifferent to it. It happened every other weekend.

Anyway, I remember the first day I thought of killing myself. I stepped outside of the house because shit man, it gets annoying in there with six dogs running around and three women and their friends all partying. So when they got a cat I found my best friend. I can’t remember her name, but I used to sit out in the bench in the backyard and write songs and the kitten would curl up next to me and keep me company. She’d let me pet her and love her and talk to her and I like to think she helped me write my songs.

Yes, I was a song writer–an avid one. I played piano and guitar and bass and I was bent on singing in a band. I idolized people like this:

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Anyone Know Them? I Sure The Fuck Don’t

One day I sat and I stared across the street. One man sat out every afternoon on the curb in front of his Half-way House with his cigarette in his mouth and disdain across his brow and his guitar across his lap and his mini amp by his thigh, and he’d play a symphony on his strings. The man was a musical genius. So I listened to him and I pet the cat. And I stared at all the papers of songs I wrote and I thought about the last year and a half and I thought about how horrible school was, how I could never seem to make friends or relate to people or participate in class or act “normal”, how horrible home was–if I could call it that–and I didn’t really understand any of it. I think that’s what scared me the most; I didn’t understand why any of it was happening to me.

I just sort of rolled with the punches without knowing I was rolling with the punches.

Kind of like tumbling down a hill and you get so dizzy during the fall you don’t realize you’ve been spinning until you hit the bottom.

Living was such a chore.

So I wondered, “well, what if I stop living?”

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I wasn’t shocked about the thought nor disturbed. I wasn’t sad, although I think I was crying. I just remember a wave of relief coursing through my veins at the thought of never ever having to see that house again, never ever listening to that bitch all night, never ever dealing with anything ever. And it’s true: the future is blocked in those moments. Everything that could be or should be is hidden, and all you experience is your warped perception of what is. 

But the relief–that’s what I got addicted to. I thought about suicide more and more often and it was like I’d just stuck a needle in my arm and shot up the good stuff.

I’d always been the “weird” kid: having conversations with objects who I gave personalities and daydreaming at least 12 hours out of the day, you know, shit like that. But that’s also when I started toying more with the idea of fiction and suddenly in my head were these characters, ones I developed, ones that weren’t just fictional but a part of me, and they experienced things similar to me. They had their own lives, but we’d talk about the similarities and we’d talk about how good suicide would feel, and we wondered what was on the other side.

Why am I thinking of all this? Because tonight I went out and I had a good time. And whenever I have a good time like that, I get suicidal.

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Sounds contradictory? It very well should.

It’s not that I feel I didn’t “deserve” to have a good time or whatever, nothing obviously depressive like that. But you see, some people have their family and that’s 97% of their social life. Some people have their large groups of friends and that’s 97% of their family. Some people are like me and have neither–and like I said, I’m not complaining. I don’t need a bunch of friends or a bunch of family, it’s not my cup of tea.

However, there are a few people in this world who I instantly connected with, people who became my friends without effort, people who talked to me, who I felt didn’t judge my odd behavior or sense of humor or weird thoughts, they just let me talk and they’d ask me questions and they’d actually be interested in the weird shit I said.

That’s what makes them different, I realized tonight. They don’t judge me on any level. I’ve never feel like they would talk behind my back, I’m never wondering about it, I never feel embarrassed about what I say around them. These are people I’ve known for 7+ years. And tonight with my boyfriend, I went out with the two of them.

Four in a group is like . . .

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. . . to me.

But there wasn’t a moment of anxiety between me and any of them. I suffered some sensory overload in the arcade but that I can always handle.

Out of twenty years of life, I’ve only connected with three people like that. In other words, I’ve only ever made three real friends by myself. One of them drifted away in middle school and we don’t talk anymore. But she was the first person I ever spoke to in school and that was in first grade at the beginning of the class. We were inseparable by break time. Even the teachers were amazed, since, you know, they all thought I was mentally challenged. And now that I think about it, it amazes me how at seven years old I could sniff these people out like dirty laundry.

So whenever we split up, I get incredibly lonely, an inconsolable kind of lonely. It doesn’t make me want friends, but it makes me realize how special those few are to me. They are rare.

It makes me realize there’s a possibility that I may never find those kinds of connections again. Or at least, not for many years.

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I’m not terribly disappointed. I’m not looking for a bunch of connections. It’s just hard to think about sometimes.

In case your wondering, I wasn’t instantly connected with my boyfriend when I first met him. He didn’t know it, but I had a hard ass time talking. It’s a good thing he’s hella good at it.

It’s funny; he’s shorter than I am by a couple inches or something and when we first met I swear to God he was shorter than he is now. I used to swear in junior high and high school I’d never date someone shorter than me–why???? Media???? Stereotypes???? I have no clue!?!?!?–and yet here I am, dating someone shorter than me.

He seems a lot taller now which is weird because we were both adults when we met each other.

At least he was. I was 17.

Or 18?

I don’t know. I think 18.

Then he was 19.

I don’t know.

The fucking point is I feel like we’re the same height. It took a reflection in a window to remind me that we weren’t.

Anyway, I put him through a lot of shit because of my anxiety of people and commitment and closeness and it’s been way over a year since that time and I still feel horrible for it. I always try to make up for it but I don’t think there’s a way I can. I don’t even want to talk about it.

exhaustedOkay, the REAL point is, I’m still struggle to be more open. It’s hard to talk about how I really feel. He can handle my weirdness, which is pertinent, very, very pertinent, but when it comes to feelings I don’t know how to explain them verbally. And if I try it through text message I get offended if he falls asleep or doesn’t answer or something, as if it’s his job to stay awake and listen to my fucking rambles.

It’s not.

I try to be “normal” for him, but I don’t think I’m doing it right. 

I don’t talk about my feelings to the other two, but I have before and it was much easier.

None of this means I don’t love my boyfriend, I love him very much. It’s just hard for me to speak up with people I didn’t instantly connect with from the start.

And that’s why when I was driving home tonight after dropping everyone off I was gripped by that loneliness again, that type of loneliness that reminds you how different you are from so many people, that type of loneliness that isn’t really a result of depression but that could push me into a depression.

So I thought about killing myself. I think about it often, but it’s usually a minor thought.

But tonight was the type of night that could roll into weeks and drive me to a heap on the floor. I thought about driving off the bridge or slamming my car into the other one or stabbing myself and that relief washed over me like a damn good orgasm and that’s what powered me home.

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Sounds sick and twisted.

But the thought of leaving and never having to deal with my differences and disconnects with people again contain more contentment than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I don’t need people. I don’t want friends. But the feeling of connection is so foreign to me and so rare that when I experience it, I don’t want it to leave.

I’m not going to kill myself. But I am going to think about it. And I’m going to listen to the depressing songs and probably cry or something, I don’t know. I’ll be with the characters in my head. And I’m going to like it because it’s a relief to be back in the arms of my oldest, dearest friend.

Anxiety is also my oldest friend but that motherfucker is always tweaked out.

Depression is genuine and calm, however dark or disturbed. Happiness is way too unstable.

It’s a lot of work to stay alive when you’re struggling with yourself. Sometimes thinking about ending that struggle is a logical way of sorting through the chaos of your mind.

I’m not scared of my suicidal thoughts.

They’ve been my friends since I first connected with them. I didn’t even have to try hard to get them to like me.

Rock Bottom

I didn’t go to class this morning.

I have another class in an hour and a half and I don’t think I’ll be making it to that one either.

Last night I felt pretty wired. I couldn’t focus, my thoughts scurried from one thing to another. I didn’t sleep until one thirty and woke up at four am to find my mother standing in the middle of my room wondering whether or not she should wake me up. My father had to go to the hospital after experiencing another suspected TIA (Transient Ischemic Attack; a mini stroke.) He’s had several of these in the past because of his high blood pressure and drinking. Although the TIA subsided by the time the ambulance arrived (as opposed to him trying to open the front door thinking it was the bathroom and then crawling around in circles on the floor) but they took him because I’m sure his blood pressure was in the 200’s, yet another common occurrence. He doesn’t take his medication regularly when he gets into drinking again, that’s one of the main issues.

Anyway, that’s a monthly occurrence in this house hold, I’m just glad I didn’t have to deal with it this time. Usually I’m the one nursing him back after a seizure or calling the ambulance while keeping him from running out into the streets during a TIA or confusion from high blood pressure.

For any addicts out there, he is a prime example of what your body will be like when you’re 56. He’s skinny as hell, rarely eats, has lost the majority of his teeth, has had multiple seizures, enough to destroy his attention span, his mood regulation system, and his short term memory. If you’re having a conversation with him, he’ll forget it’s purpose in thirty seconds. He has high blood pressure, kidney failure, and congestive heart failure. He had a small heart attack about nine years ago, at 47. His eyes are yellow. At one point he was on 13 different medications and fainting every other day. Sometimes he can function, other times he sleeps for days on end. And if a friend offers him a drink (it’s the only way he can get alcohol now) he’ll still take it.

He’s done other drugs in his past, which contributes obviously.

At any rate, my mother left at 4:30 am to go to the hospital. I watched some YouTube videos before I decided I should probably try and get some sleep. So I turned over, faced the wall, and shut my eyes.

I have sleep issues. Not because I wasn’t tired (which is an issue in itself) but because I’ll get stuck in sleep limbo, seeing things that aren’t there, hearing things that aren’t there, and then eventually having some weird ass dream you could probably spend hours interpreting. While I was watching YouTube I kept hearing whispers, incomprehensible ones, of which I am used to and simply brushed off. But when I turned on my side and was balancing between falling asleep and still being awake, I saw these weird flat bugs, like a termite but ten times larger, and some other ants squeezing themselves through the walls in the corner across from my face. They were literally seeping through the wall. I freaked out, turned on my other side, and started watching YouTube again. Then I got paranoid thinking someone was hiding in my closet, a shadow, a demon or some shit (dude I don’t know, my brain is weird) and I freaked out a little more before finally falling asleep.

I had a dream about spiders and ants seeping through all the walls.

I awoke an hour later, pissed off at the world, not tired, and not ready to get back the F I probably got on my Calc test. Okay it was probably a C, maybe a B, but those are both F’s to me.

I wanted to punch the walls and kick down the doors and break the windows and scream and let whatever monster loves to claw so mercilessly at my skull take charge.

Instead, I tried getting ready, I really did. I was telling myself “it’s just class, you can make it through like you always do”.

But I’ve lost a lot of motivation these last two semesters. I’ve considered dropping out. At least until I get myself together. I can’t focus, I can’t guarantee that I can finish any of my work, and I can’t predict my moods. Class is an added stressor I’m not sure my body can take anymore.

I’m sick of faking that I’m alright. That thought kept circulating through my head this morning and I fell into another depression. I still took a shower, I still got myself ready, but I was sitting in my car until 9:18 and my class started at 9:30. It takes at least a half an hour to get to my campus. I just wanted to drive my car off a cliff or speed into another passing car. So I didn’t put the keys in the ignition.

I also couldn’t think straight. My thoughts were all over the place, self-destructive, and uncontrollable. So instead I sat in the car and contacted lifeline.

My boyfriend and my mother found me as a crying mess in my car and my mother asked me if I was okay. I finally, for the first time in my life, told her no.

I hate making people worry about me. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. But I can’t keep this bottled up any longer. I didn’t tell her how suicidal I was, nor did I tell my boyfriend, because I feel like that would scare them more than it scares me. I want them to know that I’m not okay, but I don’t want them to know why.

That’s fucking stupid. Even reading it over, it sounds like a straight up dumbass wrote it.

So I just cried and sat in my car. Went to Rite-Aid with my boyfriend. Chatted with Lifeline. Came home. Laid on my bed for the next four hours and now I’m here, writing about how fucked up I am.

I know I blog about suicide awareness. I talk all these positive things because I don’t want people to experience what I do. I’d rather them get the help, they’re worth it. I’m not and I know that. I’d rather save 100 lives than my own.

That being said, I hope whoever reads this has a wonderful day. You deserve it.