So I survived my birthday, even though I didn’t really want to. And most of the time I perk up after my birthday, well not this year. I’m no more happier to be alive today than I was yesterday or November 9th. I don’t have any faith that things will get better. And I no longer really give a damn whether or not my death occurs on my birthday or some other random day. I wish there was something someone could say to me to make me snap out of whatever is bothering me. I just haven’t found it yet. I sit here alone and think would someone really care whether or not I make it to tomorrow? Why is suicide so bad? I mean it is my life right? I know what I do effects others, but who said I wanted to be brought in to this world anyway? I look at all those who are happy to be here and wonder why I’m not. What is it that they understand that I don’t? I just don’t get why everyone is so happy to be alive. What’s so great about this? About not wanting to wake up every morning? What’s so great? Is it great that I feel like shit everyday? I just don’t know anymore. I have too much on my mind between the house, and my sister, and now my mom. I feel overwhelmed. If I killed myself than no one would have to worry about me anymore, not like they were worrying before, but you get the picture. Life would go on without me, much as it did when I was here. And I would be at peace. So why is this such a bad thing? Why is finally putting the pain behind me a bad thing for me to want? I know people will say I don’t have to die to have the pain go away, but seriously I’ve tried it all before. I’ve tried putting the past behind me. I’ve tried the medicines. I’ve tried getting better. For some reason, I’m just stupid at that. And so, I go on, wishing, hoping, begging to die. But continuing on.
I’m scared. I sit here and wonder what the point is in living. Sometimes I think my whole purpose of being alive on Earth is just to be watched being tortured by some horrible person in charge of the whole world. No one cares if I live or die. No one cares if I show up to work tomorrow or hell if I wake up alive tomorrow. I want everything to stop so bad. I want life to stop.
I’m tired of being told things will get better – because they won’t. Things will keep on just like they are. Forever. Or at least until I give up. Giving up would be nice. Pain stops. Life stops. But what happens if that isn’t what happens? What happens if things get worse. I keep telling myself the intensity of the feelings will lessen but they haven’t. Everything is so intense and I can’t comprehend them being worse. I can’t keep this up. I can’t deal with the feelings. I can’t deal with life anymore. I have to trust that death will stop everything.
I know I’m a no good wimp, but I can’t do this anymore. The only purpose I seem to serve is being yelled at. I can screw up enough to get yelled at quite well. But when it comes down to it no one seems to really care whether or not I’m around. I matter to no one. No matter how much I try my presence matters none.
My birthday is coming up soon. I really don’t want to live through it. I don’t want to wake up alive on the next day. I want to die that day, preferably not by my own hands. It’s one of the few things I’ve asked God that’s for me. So far I’m still here. I’m still suffering. I’ve given up on wondering when/if life will get better. Now I just want to know when life will end.
I want to cut again. It’s the closest thing to being able to die. The pain from the knife numbs me. It gives me something else to focus on. It punishes me for being so stupid as to not be able to beat the feelings myself. It gives me yet another thing to be yelled at for.
I’m scared and alone and want everything to end.
I’m exhausted. That’s an understatement. I get through the day, just barely. I wonder if the next day will be any easier to get through than the day I’m going through now. I know it won’t be. But I make it through anyways. It’s hard to concentrate. Hard to not cry. Hard to live.
My birthday is coming up soon. I will be 31. What do I have to show for my life? Not much. Right now I’m trying to rebuild my house that got flooded. No kids. No accomplishments. No nothing. I still am deeply depressed. I don’t know how – or better yet – why I go on to the next day. It’s a scary feeling wondering if the next day I will be alive for. But at the same rate, it is a peaceful feeling. I am at peace with dying. I know that might not make sense to some people; or downright scare them, but it is a peaceful feeling knowing that if things got so bad that I didn’t feel like I could make it through the day, that I have a way out.
The stress is starting to get to me. I have to be strong though. You know, I’m me, and “me” is supposed to be strong. No matter what I go through, I have to be very strong. I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want someone to be there for me. I want someone to hold me when I cry and not judge. Maybe that is too hard of a request. I don’t want them to tell me everything is going to be ok, because, well, it’s not. Maybe that is too pessimistic of a viewpoint, but why should I be optimistic? What “proof” do I have that life will get better. Yeah, we will recover from this; the house will be done, everything paid off. But how do I know something worse isn’t going to come along?
All I want to do anymore is cry. Life is stressful. And hard. People tell me that God won’t give me more than I can handle. That’s hogwash. I can’t handle this. The flood. The feelings. The wanting to die. I can’t do it anymore. I wonder what God does to failures like me.
I question those that say they would care about whether or not they would care if I died. I see no good that I bring to the world. I’m tired of pretending that my presence matters to people. I’m tired of listening to people telling me a lie about it. If I died, it wouldn’t really matter to anyone.
My mom came home the other day, well actually a couple of days now, saying that she had a girl threaten to kill herself or someone slit their wrist and that they were plain crazy. I wonder if she would think the same thing if she knew that was how I feel. Would her daughter be crazy too? I remember when I was younger how much pain I suffered in silence. I remember when she told me it was a miracle I had been through so much as a child and still was sane. I have never told her about the feelings, how much I struggle just to make it through the day alive. What do I have to gain from that anymore? I doubt whether or not she would care. Or maybe she would. Her little girl is crazy.
I think everyone thinks I’m crazy. I remember grad school how close I was to killing myself then. I remember the struggle, the constant struggle of trying to figure out if life was going to get better. The constant disappointment of finding out things weren’t going to change. I can’t keep doing that. I can’t keep wondering if tomorrow is going to get better. I can’t keep doing this.
These feelings used to scare the shit out of me. The fact that they don’t so much anymore scares me at times; at others the feelings are peaceful. Just the possibility that the feelings will stop, no matter what the price, is comforting. Maybe not to anyone else, but to me it is.
At what point can I give up? How much do I have to hurt before I can just call it all quits? It’s a question I often ask myself. I know people must think I’m selfish and whiney. Others must think I’m absolutely crazy and need to be committed. Maybe so. But that doesn’t take away the pain I am in. It doesn’t solve all the feelings I have to endure. It doesn’t give me solutions. No one has been able to help me out at all. I wonder if anyone ever will. I’ve pretty much given up on getting better. I cope through the days knowing that today is the same as tomorrow is the same as yesterday. One step at a time means for a very long hellish walk. A walk I have to do mostly on my own. I have a few people I can “talk” to; but I feel bad for leaning on them. I know the support I need would require more support than most people are capable of giving. I get that. But where does that leave me? Alone. Scared. And not wanting to go on. I close my eyes and can see me pulling the trigger or slitting my wrist. Isn’t that horrible, fucked up? I don’t care anymore. I’m past the point of help. I pray to God that I will get cancer. That I will have six months to live. That I will die alone in a car wreck. That I will die of a sudden heart attack. If I dropped off the face of the Earth no one would care. And quite frankly that’s ok with me. It means decisions are easier, no one will be hurt by my selfishness. And the world will continue to go on without me.
I just looked on my insurance card and the primary care physician I requested isn’t there. However, interestingly enough, they gave me this guy that is trained in both psychiatry and general practice. Even the nurse practitioner has experience in both. It is supposed to be a more holistic approach to everything. But they aren’t open on the weekends, or late in the afternoon. I need refill on a prescription coming up soon, so will probably just go in for that, and see what happens.
Someone asked me at work again today if everything is ok. I don’t want to lie, but really just don’t want to talk about things. And I don’t want to be mean, but I don’t want my business spread all around work. It seems like the folks here, as soon as they hear something rumor-worthy, everyone knows. I don’t want my boss knowing that dying sounds better than going to work. I’m sure I’d get weird looks for that. But it’s true.
I’ve thought about going to a priest to talk about this. But what good would that do? Sort of like what good would going back to counseling do? Everything that could be said to me has already been said, and I still chose the path that I am on. There isn’t much more that anyone can do for me. There’s no point in me wasting their time and my time chasing after a dream that I know won’t come true.
I have so much more that I want to say, but am afraid, even here.
I seem to have writer’s block. I don’t see how talking (or writing) about what’s going on will help. It hasn’t helped in the past, and I have little hope that it will help now. Besides everything that I have that I need to say, I’ve already said, and I’m sure people are tired of reading the same thing over and over again. I’ll try for today, but I’m not promising how much I will write in the future.
So another depressing day at work. Another day I wonder why I live. I keep thinking that there must be a medicine out there somewhere that will help me, something that will give me some relief. But, then I remember that looking for something that works and helps is worse than the actual depression itself. Even if the medicine doesn’t have any side effects, just knowing another medicine has been marked off the list makes me more depressed. It’s one more thing that won’t be able to help me. Knowing that the list of things that would help has gotten one less shorter makes it harder to cope with this. Doesn’t that sound messed up?
I bought life insurance yesterday. It’s not supposed to start until June I think. And then once it starts, it will take two years of paying in to it before it covers suicide. So I just have to endure for two more years, right? Well two years and a couple of months.
I have enough coverage that by that time, my husband will be able to pay off most of the house along with my funeral. Not all of the house, but most of it. It seems that my life will be worth more by dying in two years. He’ll be able to find someone else to be with. He’s a great guy; he deserves someone better than me.
I start a new antidepressant on Sunday. I’m going to give this six weeks to work, if it doesn’t, then I’m not going back to the psychiatrist. This will be my 14th try at an antidepressant. I’m still trying to figure out if I should go back to my counselor. Honestly, nothing works anymore. And I’m tired of trying to find something that will. I don’t know what else to do, who else to turn to. I have no friends, no one outside of my internet world. And I’m starting to get to the point I just want to block those people out too. I guess I’m alone because I want to be alone. Because I can’t handle people anymore. Tears run so freely, and my thoughts are all jumbled. I’m scared but in a way I’m at peace. Trying to convey these feelings to someone else is really hard. Trying to deal with pain I can’t describe or justify is hard.
My next question is who do I write good bye to when I don’t think anyone will care about my death? Just the thought that no one would care is depressing. I don’t know why the thought is so depressing to me. I’ve lived this way for so much of my life. I’m used to not being cared about, but yet the thought is still hard to deal with.
I’m tired of crying. Tired of wondering when life is going to get better. Just tired of everything, of everybody, and yes, of living.
Last night I had a counseling appointment. What could very well be my last one. Ever.
I was already going to take a month or so break, just to settle in to my new job, my new routine. But I had every intention of actually setting up another appointment. I didn’t. The counselor told me he’d keep my spot open for me, but I’m tempted to email him and tell him not to bother.
I had written him a letter last time telling him how much I was hurting. His comment was that my writing is very consistent. (so, I’m consistently hurting, yes?) He wondered why I’ve been on so many SSRI’s with no luck. Or hell any kind of antidepressant or mood stabilizer. Even better, why I’ve been on so many with no side effects of any kind. Apparently quitting Effexor at 300 mg with no side effects is unheard of. "What happens if you’re happy and don’t even know it"
So me, reading between the lines… "I think you’re faking this" No he didn’t say it, but that’s where the conversation seemed to go. That’s what I got out of the hour there. I don’t think it dawned on me until the drive home, but that’s definitely where I think he was going.
The last time I saw the psychiatrist she spent less than five minutes with me. It helped me none. So I’m not going back there either.
I feel like a sham. Like no matter what, no one is going to believe me about how much I’m hurting. But that’s okay, because since my feelings aren’t real, the next time I feel like killing myself or cutting, I don’t have to fight those feelings either, right?
I remember asking my counselor if she would hold me. “Touching is a touchy subject in counseling” … pun intended.
No one really held me when I cried when I was younger. In fact, I wasn’t supposed to cry when I was younger. That was a weakness. If I cried, well then I would be yelled at or beat. I preferred the beating. I usually got yelled at. The beating was physical, there were tangible proof, there were bruises. But the yelling, that only left the emotional scars, scars I couldn’t see, that I couldn’t wrap my hands around. Being able to see the proof of the pain is easier to cope with than having to deal with both physical AND emotional abuse.
I couldn’t cry at school. I had to be strong there too. Since my mom was connected at the school, I had no teachers I could confide in. I had no friends I could trust with not only what was going on at home, but the deep depression I was dealing with. I mean what did I expect someone to do if I wanted to kill myself? I would expect them to get me help. Help I didn’t want, but help I desperately needed.
I remember having a particularly hard counseling session one day. I couldn’t even talk. All I could do was hold the pillow the counselor had gotten me. As stupid as it was, holding that pillow protected me. “Would you like me to hold you” … I don’t remember much about the sessions anymore, but I’m not sure I will ever forget that. I answered no, at that point in time I couldn’t handle someone offering support. It’s still hard.
I’m not used to someone offering support. I’m not used to the concept of someone actually caring. I know it sounds crazy, but it actually hurts to accept help. It’s not an arrogance thing. Or maybe it is. Maybe I think myself so perfect that I shouldn’t need help. Maybe I’m afraid of someone seeing me for who I really am.
As soon as I said no, I regretted it. I wanted her to hold me so badly. But I knew that would result in my crying. I never cried in a session. I still don’t. Crying for me is a very private thing. I don’t even let my husband see me crying. I go in the bathroom and lock the door. Or I cry in the car. Or in my office at work when people are gone. Maybe I’m afraid of being yelled at. Or like above, maybe I’m just afraid of someone realizing how horribly weak I am.
I really need someone to hold me now. Now that I’m ready for someone to hold me, no one’s around.