I just deleted this post...I decided, that as indirect and undescriptive as it was about who I was talking about, and as careful as I was to make sure any identifying details got left out...
As it was, my friend might still take it as a breach of trust, and I should not have done it in the first place.
I will apologize to him and forward the original when he seems stable enough to handle the info.
I would never consciously hurt him, and now I'm worried that he WILL be hurt when I do tell him.
He...just told me something that made my heart break for him, and I vented here...and should not have. His business is not mine to discuss publicly.
I go by Hylierandom. This is a blog about my life. Which might actually be getting better. Some of the posts are going to be really sad and triggery though. Guaranteed to contain lots of brain flakes, which are really nutritious and will help you go to the toilet easily.
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suicide. Show all posts
Friday, May 6, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
To the non-depressives: suicidality for the n00b.
Okay. Since my depression's gotten to the point where I plunge into this level really fast, I thought I'd detail the scenery for those who haven't been. Think of this as a guided tour of the interior hell depressives' misfiring brains create inside.
Do fasten your safety belts, please, and remain seated throughout the tour.
Suicidality is definitely a negative altered state of consciousness. Your thoughts usually slow down, get very direct and simple. You can't think very well at all, in fact.
Some people have numbness. They just feel like a walking zombie. I usually have some of that, but I also have self-hatred and an emotional pain that's very intense.
The overwhelming feeling? Tiredness...so, so tired. The kind of tired that makes you want to sleep. Forever.
In terms of pain...if you've ever had someone close to you die? It has about the same quantitative level of emotional pain...but the feeling is different.
When someone dies there's a horrible wrenching feeling, but also...a profound gratefulness for having known them as well? There's incredible pain, but it's a clean pain, somehow?
Your heart just gushes open helplessly in agony, loss, and love.
Suicidality is different. It's as if a thousand daggers are turned against yourself. There's either a leaden deadness, or a loathing of oneself that passes all bounds. It hurts. It hurts.
The charge is often leveled "Suicide is selfish!" From the perspective of the suicidal person, not usually. They either feel like other people don't care about them, or that their suicide will be a good thing...the love of others around them...no longer seems real.
I used the analogy of a clear plastic hamster ball. It's as if I'm in a person-sized version of one, and everyone else is outside the hamster ball, having fun, loving and being loved. But I'm not able to participate, not able to penetrate the invisible, hard shell separating me from other people. I feel dreadfully lonely, but totally unable to do anything about that...as if there is something uniquely and horribly wrong with me.
I feel like a monstrosity.
My own wrinkle-but I think it's typical-is to despise myself and think I need to be killed for the good of everyone around me. But that may or may not hold true for all the suicidally depressed.
Other people have used the analogy that it's like having an anvil drop on your head. Metaphorically, yeah. Severe depression is...severely crippling. Thanks, Captain Obvious.
So I find it both soothing and frightening to think about ways to kill myself when in this state. Frightening, because, instinctively, I think most people fear death somewhat. Genetic programming. Soothing, because the pain you are in is not only all you can stand and more...it feels like it goes on forever.
I also self-injure. Some severely depressed people do that, without the intent of killing themselves. In my case, the pain actually makes me feel soothed...I've been doing it for so long it's literally directly comforting to engage in something other people would find inexplicable and revolting.
But when suicidal...you are paddling your douche canoe on a sea of suck that you can't see coming to an end.
In fact, researchers have studied severely depressed people and found out their time sense is off. When you're down, every minute drags by as if dragging steel chains...every....torturous...minute.
What I've learned is that for me...this passes...provided I keep doing things to shift it. I have to try and eat good food, get the correct amount of sleep, neither binge nor starve, work out, take my meds, try to be kind to my loathesome self.
If it doesn't pass I go to the doctor and get something done with my psych cocktail. Or go hop on the therapy-go-round. Or whatever.
The point is a mixture of tolerating the pain and doing something constructive about it has kept me alive...and on the majority of my days grateful to be so.
But if I were to compare this pain to a physical pain I'd have to say it hurts at about the level a fracture does.
So...if you've never been severely depressed...that's the tour.
I hope you've kept all limbs in the car, we do so hate when we have to sew fingers back on.
Do fasten your safety belts, please, and remain seated throughout the tour.
Suicidality is definitely a negative altered state of consciousness. Your thoughts usually slow down, get very direct and simple. You can't think very well at all, in fact.
Some people have numbness. They just feel like a walking zombie. I usually have some of that, but I also have self-hatred and an emotional pain that's very intense.
The overwhelming feeling? Tiredness...so, so tired. The kind of tired that makes you want to sleep. Forever.
In terms of pain...if you've ever had someone close to you die? It has about the same quantitative level of emotional pain...but the feeling is different.
When someone dies there's a horrible wrenching feeling, but also...a profound gratefulness for having known them as well? There's incredible pain, but it's a clean pain, somehow?
Your heart just gushes open helplessly in agony, loss, and love.
Suicidality is different. It's as if a thousand daggers are turned against yourself. There's either a leaden deadness, or a loathing of oneself that passes all bounds. It hurts. It hurts.
The charge is often leveled "Suicide is selfish!" From the perspective of the suicidal person, not usually. They either feel like other people don't care about them, or that their suicide will be a good thing...the love of others around them...no longer seems real.
I used the analogy of a clear plastic hamster ball. It's as if I'm in a person-sized version of one, and everyone else is outside the hamster ball, having fun, loving and being loved. But I'm not able to participate, not able to penetrate the invisible, hard shell separating me from other people. I feel dreadfully lonely, but totally unable to do anything about that...as if there is something uniquely and horribly wrong with me.
I feel like a monstrosity.
My own wrinkle-but I think it's typical-is to despise myself and think I need to be killed for the good of everyone around me. But that may or may not hold true for all the suicidally depressed.
Other people have used the analogy that it's like having an anvil drop on your head. Metaphorically, yeah. Severe depression is...severely crippling. Thanks, Captain Obvious.
So I find it both soothing and frightening to think about ways to kill myself when in this state. Frightening, because, instinctively, I think most people fear death somewhat. Genetic programming. Soothing, because the pain you are in is not only all you can stand and more...it feels like it goes on forever.
I also self-injure. Some severely depressed people do that, without the intent of killing themselves. In my case, the pain actually makes me feel soothed...I've been doing it for so long it's literally directly comforting to engage in something other people would find inexplicable and revolting.
But when suicidal...you are paddling your douche canoe on a sea of suck that you can't see coming to an end.
In fact, researchers have studied severely depressed people and found out their time sense is off. When you're down, every minute drags by as if dragging steel chains...every....torturous...minute.
What I've learned is that for me...this passes...provided I keep doing things to shift it. I have to try and eat good food, get the correct amount of sleep, neither binge nor starve, work out, take my meds, try to be kind to my loathesome self.
If it doesn't pass I go to the doctor and get something done with my psych cocktail. Or go hop on the therapy-go-round. Or whatever.
The point is a mixture of tolerating the pain and doing something constructive about it has kept me alive...and on the majority of my days grateful to be so.
But if I were to compare this pain to a physical pain I'd have to say it hurts at about the level a fracture does.
So...if you've never been severely depressed...that's the tour.
I hope you've kept all limbs in the car, we do so hate when we have to sew fingers back on.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Tiredness, the weightloss thing, and big triggery stuff @ the end.
One wonderful thing for you:
My Egyptian friend told me that his uncle in Cairo got a call from Tunisia yesterday.
The Tunisian congratulated my friend's uncle on Mubarak's departure.
My friend's uncle said something like, "Um, why, thank you, but I don't know you."
The Tunisian replied "Oh, no, I just wanted to congratulate an Egyptian, so I called a number randomly and got you."
(GO EGYPT! ) (RA! RA! RA! ;) )
------
The rest of the post isn't fun or funny-in fact it's a very solemn one...keep checking back for the more upbeat ones... I imagine they will come along presently.
This tiredness worries me...Does it mean the sinus infection's returning? or just the result of a typical sleep-deprived week?
I'm getting a bit more green stuff out. And saving it in a jar for the county ENT doctors who think I'm making shit up.
I find this ridiculous, demeaning, makes me feel less valuable as a human being and it screws with my sense of reality.
My palate is itching...but of course they won't believe me when I tell them that.
Since they have two hospitals, both with ENT departments, I'm going to call on Monday and see what I have to do to get into the other ENT department. Maybe the other ENT's will actually believe me when I report symptoms.
----
Over the week I managed to snag four-count'em, four good pallets. Four pallets equals two planting beds. What I'm doing is cut a little bit out of the center of the pallets, then pick which one has the more busted up or rotted bottom, and remove those boards. After that, I nail them together at the top corners-it's a pretty straightforward procedure when you take the back off.. Then they get lined, first with cardboard, then with mulch. The cardboard will not only help retain moisture around the sides, I think...it's definitely going to kill the grass.
I'm too tired to do this today...I really am. Tonight's a down night also.
Oh...I should explain my wacky ways of eating, and how that came about:
You see, I am now weighing about 152-157 at 5'9".
About a year and a half ago I weighed 275.
Before that I'd eaten my way up to 320 in high school...managed to diet down to 270...got stuck there until I went "pretty-much" vegan, dropped to 190 mainly through exercise, but a little through diet, shacked up with the wife, let myself go, back to 220, then got sick and ballooned due to stress and repeat courses of prednisone.
When I hit 275, my allergist(then about as frustrated as I was at my case) asked if I would consider stomach stapling. Said it would dramatically improve my condition.
I want my life back. Badly. So began a year-and a half diet-a-thon.
Well...when I got to 220, I got stuck. I was eating 1200 calories a day, was ravenous, and stuck hard.
Enter the Johnson Up Day Down Day Diet.
I started doing it. Actually, being the perfectionist I am, I started doing an even tighter restriction than called for, but pretty much the Johnson diet.
The weight melted off me so fast that my coworkers expressed concern.
This was full of unfun...when I first started down days going up stairs made me dizzy. Working out made my heart pound.
Now I don't seem to really even get that hungry on down days.
BUT
I want to weigh 140.
Why?
155 is too close to 164-the threshold for me being overweight. Having yoyoed all over the place, my body can store it like nobody's business. 155 is close enough that one good case of the fuckits can propel me into the overweight range.
That's not cool. I want to be firmly of normal weight, because I want to guarantee I will never be obese again.
Half of the reason I wanted to kill myself in high school was my binge eating disorder...
---------
And that brings me to the last thing:
It occurred to me last night that the entirety of my adult life...I never anticipated happening. Which hasn't helped matters as far as doing things in a planned, coherent fashion.
(BTW...You want to click away now if you're easily upset or triggered...Don't blame me if you flip out, you've been warned.)
By ninth grade I hated myself for failure to kill myself. I didn't work in high school or take college prep classes-because I was just doing things to make the parents not yell at me and-or hit me until I worked up the nerve to kill myself. I self-denigrated every day in an active attempt to make myself do it, convince myself to slice my wrists open.
I so wanted to die that I regularly called myself a coward and beat myself up for failure to have the courage to wipe the stain that was me from the earth.
This was all before I decanted my sexual abuse memories. This is where the shame and the self-loathing came from...but I didn't know that then.
Some of the sexual abuse was forced on me-the oral rape at four by the neighbor and the vaginal rape by my uncle when I was six.
My Dad, though, I don't believe he had to force me, or keep doing so...because being alone with my nightmares-the terror-was worse than the physical pain of his adult penis in me combined with the comfort of being touched, of not being alone, abandoned.
And there was arousal as well. Not that I wanted that arousal, was ready for it, knew what it was.
I think I may have thought I was dying, because I always thought my father could kill me-that's what I thought when he hit me.
His physical abuse was never extreme-certainly never bad enough to leave a mark.
I'd categorize his physical abusiveness as usually mild occasionally escalating to moderate...but I was afraid he'd kill me nonetheless when he went off.
His verbal abusiveness actually probably did me as much damage-perfectionism is a 50-pound millstone around my neck, and it comes from both parents.
Anyway...
I needed something from him...well, he decided he needed something from me in return. So I paid that price at age six, seven and eight. The memories are still very blurry, but I think several times a week he chose to have sex with me. I remember waking up in my parents' bedroom and having no idea how I got in there the night before repeatedly, so I was dissociating a lot.
------
Nowadays, we've come to an understanding. He doesn't get around me, I don't try to kill him.
Because if I see him, a cloud of red, red rage just descends over my eyes. I cannot see straight. I cannot think straight. All I see is someone who took advantage of my desperation, who was entrusted with my care, and who damaged me for life because he felt like it.
There is no one else in this world I can say I truly hate with the profound depth that I hate this man who is half my genetic makeup.
Yes, he was raped as a child. I don't care. He's still responsible for his actions.
Yet at the same time part of me wishes...that he'd try to make amends for what he did. There's a part of me that aches for a real father.
But he's not a real father, he's a 60-something adolescent who can't apologize for the damage he's done to everyone in his life-and I think I'm the prizewinner of that contest.
I couldn't have a decent relationship with him even if I could get past my own fury.
I don't know how I'm going to feel when he dies. Probably both sad and relieved.
My Egyptian friend told me that his uncle in Cairo got a call from Tunisia yesterday.
The Tunisian congratulated my friend's uncle on Mubarak's departure.
My friend's uncle said something like, "Um, why, thank you, but I don't know you."
The Tunisian replied "Oh, no, I just wanted to congratulate an Egyptian, so I called a number randomly and got you."
(GO EGYPT! ) (RA! RA! RA! ;) )
------
The rest of the post isn't fun or funny-in fact it's a very solemn one...keep checking back for the more upbeat ones... I imagine they will come along presently.
This tiredness worries me...Does it mean the sinus infection's returning? or just the result of a typical sleep-deprived week?
I'm getting a bit more green stuff out. And saving it in a jar for the county ENT doctors who think I'm making shit up.
I find this ridiculous, demeaning, makes me feel less valuable as a human being and it screws with my sense of reality.
My palate is itching...but of course they won't believe me when I tell them that.
Since they have two hospitals, both with ENT departments, I'm going to call on Monday and see what I have to do to get into the other ENT department. Maybe the other ENT's will actually believe me when I report symptoms.
----
Over the week I managed to snag four-count'em, four good pallets. Four pallets equals two planting beds. What I'm doing is cut a little bit out of the center of the pallets, then pick which one has the more busted up or rotted bottom, and remove those boards. After that, I nail them together at the top corners-it's a pretty straightforward procedure when you take the back off.. Then they get lined, first with cardboard, then with mulch. The cardboard will not only help retain moisture around the sides, I think...it's definitely going to kill the grass.
I'm too tired to do this today...I really am. Tonight's a down night also.
Oh...I should explain my wacky ways of eating, and how that came about:
You see, I am now weighing about 152-157 at 5'9".
About a year and a half ago I weighed 275.
Before that I'd eaten my way up to 320 in high school...managed to diet down to 270...got stuck there until I went "pretty-much" vegan, dropped to 190 mainly through exercise, but a little through diet, shacked up with the wife, let myself go, back to 220, then got sick and ballooned due to stress and repeat courses of prednisone.
When I hit 275, my allergist(then about as frustrated as I was at my case) asked if I would consider stomach stapling. Said it would dramatically improve my condition.
I want my life back. Badly. So began a year-and a half diet-a-thon.
Well...when I got to 220, I got stuck. I was eating 1200 calories a day, was ravenous, and stuck hard.
Enter the Johnson Up Day Down Day Diet.
I started doing it. Actually, being the perfectionist I am, I started doing an even tighter restriction than called for, but pretty much the Johnson diet.
The weight melted off me so fast that my coworkers expressed concern.
This was full of unfun...when I first started down days going up stairs made me dizzy. Working out made my heart pound.
Now I don't seem to really even get that hungry on down days.
BUT
I want to weigh 140.
Why?
155 is too close to 164-the threshold for me being overweight. Having yoyoed all over the place, my body can store it like nobody's business. 155 is close enough that one good case of the fuckits can propel me into the overweight range.
That's not cool. I want to be firmly of normal weight, because I want to guarantee I will never be obese again.
Half of the reason I wanted to kill myself in high school was my binge eating disorder...
---------
And that brings me to the last thing:
It occurred to me last night that the entirety of my adult life...I never anticipated happening. Which hasn't helped matters as far as doing things in a planned, coherent fashion.
(BTW...You want to click away now if you're easily upset or triggered...Don't blame me if you flip out, you've been warned.)
By ninth grade I hated myself for failure to kill myself. I didn't work in high school or take college prep classes-because I was just doing things to make the parents not yell at me and-or hit me until I worked up the nerve to kill myself. I self-denigrated every day in an active attempt to make myself do it, convince myself to slice my wrists open.
I so wanted to die that I regularly called myself a coward and beat myself up for failure to have the courage to wipe the stain that was me from the earth.
This was all before I decanted my sexual abuse memories. This is where the shame and the self-loathing came from...but I didn't know that then.
Some of the sexual abuse was forced on me-the oral rape at four by the neighbor and the vaginal rape by my uncle when I was six.
My Dad, though, I don't believe he had to force me, or keep doing so...because being alone with my nightmares-the terror-was worse than the physical pain of his adult penis in me combined with the comfort of being touched, of not being alone, abandoned.
And there was arousal as well. Not that I wanted that arousal, was ready for it, knew what it was.
I think I may have thought I was dying, because I always thought my father could kill me-that's what I thought when he hit me.
His physical abuse was never extreme-certainly never bad enough to leave a mark.
I'd categorize his physical abusiveness as usually mild occasionally escalating to moderate...but I was afraid he'd kill me nonetheless when he went off.
His verbal abusiveness actually probably did me as much damage-perfectionism is a 50-pound millstone around my neck, and it comes from both parents.
Anyway...
I needed something from him...well, he decided he needed something from me in return. So I paid that price at age six, seven and eight. The memories are still very blurry, but I think several times a week he chose to have sex with me. I remember waking up in my parents' bedroom and having no idea how I got in there the night before repeatedly, so I was dissociating a lot.
------
Nowadays, we've come to an understanding. He doesn't get around me, I don't try to kill him.
Because if I see him, a cloud of red, red rage just descends over my eyes. I cannot see straight. I cannot think straight. All I see is someone who took advantage of my desperation, who was entrusted with my care, and who damaged me for life because he felt like it.
There is no one else in this world I can say I truly hate with the profound depth that I hate this man who is half my genetic makeup.
Yes, he was raped as a child. I don't care. He's still responsible for his actions.
Yet at the same time part of me wishes...that he'd try to make amends for what he did. There's a part of me that aches for a real father.
But he's not a real father, he's a 60-something adolescent who can't apologize for the damage he's done to everyone in his life-and I think I'm the prizewinner of that contest.
I couldn't have a decent relationship with him even if I could get past my own fury.
I don't know how I'm going to feel when he dies. Probably both sad and relieved.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
repost :mood
I...realized a lot of my depression was because I felt very betrayed by the way my wife doesn't necessarily put a priority on keeping a job. She quit because she was sick of the job. It was a job worthy of being sick of, and I think her moving on was a good thing...but she just walked off and quit after one really rotten night. No other job lined up, not even two weeks' notice, just "I quit tonight."
I felt like she'd just pushed me over a cliff, because it then meant I had to pay all our bills for however long her unemployment lasted.
And she's blown off multiple jobs in various ways. It freaks me out harder each time.
So last night I talked to her about it and said she needs to do better about trying hard to stay continuously employed because it just ups the terror I feel about everything and function by repressing. That I was likely going to ask her to move out if she blew off another job, and that if it was her choice to save up and leave now,
And she said she was thinking about divorce too, because of the temper issues...I get really screamy, as I said-not verbally abusive, but shouty...and I don't know how to stop myself.
And this one incident where she felt really threatened by what I did-and I didn't mean it to be threatening, but I wasn't thinking clearly...and she had every right to be scared as heck.
She just moved a bunch of stuff around, that was all. But this was after I said, "Please only move a few things..."I kept telling her that I get really confused and upset when things get moved, and that you have to do it a little at a time or I get overwhelmed...She didn't hear what I was trying to communicate. I kept repeating,"Do it slowly, a little at a time, don't move too much at once..."
We have some major communication issues and are going to do couples' counseling ASAP.
When someone moves major things in my immediate environment it's like they rearrange the inside of my brain, and she didn't understand that's what I was saying to her. I was already severely depressed, under an enormous amount of stress.
SO... I got up to find the house turned upside down, EVERYTHING MOVED. I was trying to get ready for work. I went nuts.
I literally started screaming in frustration crying, howling, bobbing and jerking my head while my impulse was to get this thing and that thing I needed for work only to realize after taking half a step that she had moved EVERYTHING. It felt like I had been hit by a strong electric shock or a blow to the head.
I snapped. I wrote a psycho-looking note asking her why in god's name she did that to me, then stabbed it to my desk with knives and left them like that. Y'know, because it's not okay to tear up her stuff. And I self-injured also.
:(
(I know I went way, way over the line that night, and I can't allow myself to do that again, but after I did what I did in reaction...it immediately became about what I did...but thinking back about how horrible that night was for me, I once again feel that sense of someone horribly betraying my trust on a whim. It felt like she'd done it deliberately to make me that miserable. I was upset enough to start pseudohallucinating.)
So, she's been thinking about divorce, yeah. Even saving money for a lawyer, and I told her I wouldn't try to hold her back, she wouldn't have to pay an attorney, I don't think, I'd do my best to be helpful, co-operative and fair if she wants to go. We spent inheritance money of hers on sinusitis surgery for me in Mexico-which made us broke. I wish I wasn't such a loser-because I ought to be able to pay her back for it, but I'm so poor it would take years.
A lot of this is poverty-if I wasn't so close to the bone-if I made a real living wage instead of a wage that allows me to just make it to another day...well, I wouldn't be so freaked out.
Another way I fail both myself, her, even my Mom.
My wife looked at my blog too, and now she's forbidden me to buy 55 gallon metal drums. Drat. She already locked my pistol up, darn her.
So that's why I'm depressed, I guess...my marriage may be in its' dying days. Couples' therapy only has about a 50% success rate. I'm not inclined to optimism. I...know whatever happens, I don't ever want to hurt again like it's going to hurt if this ends. Which means never letting someone be this close to me again, never caring this much again.
I need to get another appointment, probably with a different county psychiatrist...the one I saw was the department head and was too busy managing the department to take the time to let me explain "horrible". I told her I was doing "horrible" when she asked.
I meant "Severely depressed, irritable, self injuring about once weekly on average, suicidal enough to make plans, feeling hopeless as well as a sort of distant terror, tired yet having trouble sleeping eight hours, despising myself, feeling very incompetent, getting intrusive thoughts of past things I feel guilt over, poor memory and concentration, feeling disconnected to anyone who cares about me, crying every night."
I felt like she'd just pushed me over a cliff, because it then meant I had to pay all our bills for however long her unemployment lasted.
And she's blown off multiple jobs in various ways. It freaks me out harder each time.
So last night I talked to her about it and said she needs to do better about trying hard to stay continuously employed because it just ups the terror I feel about everything and function by repressing. That I was likely going to ask her to move out if she blew off another job, and that if it was her choice to save up and leave now,
And she said she was thinking about divorce too, because of the temper issues...I get really screamy, as I said-not verbally abusive, but shouty...and I don't know how to stop myself.
And this one incident where she felt really threatened by what I did-and I didn't mean it to be threatening, but I wasn't thinking clearly...and she had every right to be scared as heck.
She just moved a bunch of stuff around, that was all. But this was after I said, "Please only move a few things..."I kept telling her that I get really confused and upset when things get moved, and that you have to do it a little at a time or I get overwhelmed...She didn't hear what I was trying to communicate. I kept repeating,"Do it slowly, a little at a time, don't move too much at once..."
We have some major communication issues and are going to do couples' counseling ASAP.
When someone moves major things in my immediate environment it's like they rearrange the inside of my brain, and she didn't understand that's what I was saying to her. I was already severely depressed, under an enormous amount of stress.
SO... I got up to find the house turned upside down, EVERYTHING MOVED. I was trying to get ready for work. I went nuts.
I literally started screaming in frustration crying, howling, bobbing and jerking my head while my impulse was to get this thing and that thing I needed for work only to realize after taking half a step that she had moved EVERYTHING. It felt like I had been hit by a strong electric shock or a blow to the head.
I snapped. I wrote a psycho-looking note asking her why in god's name she did that to me, then stabbed it to my desk with knives and left them like that. Y'know, because it's not okay to tear up her stuff. And I self-injured also.
:(
(I know I went way, way over the line that night, and I can't allow myself to do that again, but after I did what I did in reaction...it immediately became about what I did...but thinking back about how horrible that night was for me, I once again feel that sense of someone horribly betraying my trust on a whim. It felt like she'd done it deliberately to make me that miserable. I was upset enough to start pseudohallucinating.)
So, she's been thinking about divorce, yeah. Even saving money for a lawyer, and I told her I wouldn't try to hold her back, she wouldn't have to pay an attorney, I don't think, I'd do my best to be helpful, co-operative and fair if she wants to go. We spent inheritance money of hers on sinusitis surgery for me in Mexico-which made us broke. I wish I wasn't such a loser-because I ought to be able to pay her back for it, but I'm so poor it would take years.
A lot of this is poverty-if I wasn't so close to the bone-if I made a real living wage instead of a wage that allows me to just make it to another day...well, I wouldn't be so freaked out.
Another way I fail both myself, her, even my Mom.
My wife looked at my blog too, and now she's forbidden me to buy 55 gallon metal drums. Drat. She already locked my pistol up, darn her.
So that's why I'm depressed, I guess...my marriage may be in its' dying days. Couples' therapy only has about a 50% success rate. I'm not inclined to optimism. I...know whatever happens, I don't ever want to hurt again like it's going to hurt if this ends. Which means never letting someone be this close to me again, never caring this much again.
I need to get another appointment, probably with a different county psychiatrist...the one I saw was the department head and was too busy managing the department to take the time to let me explain "horrible". I told her I was doing "horrible" when she asked.
I meant "Severely depressed, irritable, self injuring about once weekly on average, suicidal enough to make plans, feeling hopeless as well as a sort of distant terror, tired yet having trouble sleeping eight hours, despising myself, feeling very incompetent, getting intrusive thoughts of past things I feel guilt over, poor memory and concentration, feeling disconnected to anyone who cares about me, crying every night."
Sunday, October 24, 2010
A reminisce:repost, sort of...and despair
The topic of suicidality came up on another site I go to. There was an article linked about it.
Well, ever since I got chronic sinusitis in '02, my quality of life has gone all to hell.
I need more money, but am far too sick to go get it. I can't afford to live without mom's help, I can't save money, I have to live out here in the country, where the loneliness eats away at me.
My life has become this very painful and sharp-edged thing. Sometimes there's moments of soaring happiness, but my overwhelming feelings are of frustration, fear, loneliness(soul-eating loneliness!), sorrow, anger, disappointment, and resignation. And tiredness, very often tiredness...unless I take caffeine pills, in which case it's replaced by a jangly nervous energy that isn't pleasant, but is better than the bone-deep tiredness and sorrow. I may be hooked on caffeine pills and sudafed, at least a little.
My life hurts. A lot. Some days more than others.
I can barely remember the time I tried to blow my brains out a few years ago.
I ripped open the padlocked plastic box the pistol was in...only to find that my wife had put the trigger-lock on, without telling me, and that I didn't have the key, because she took that too.
I took a razor and cut "people suck" into the top of the box...probably cut myself up too, because I do that, it makes me feel better to cut myself up, and went to sleep.
A year or two later I couldn't remember having done all this until my wife reminded me that I had been the one to do it-for a while I thought she had cut the "people suck" into the top of the box, and I couldn't remember how the plastic hasp had come to be ripped apart, thought maybe I had trash-picked the box like that....then the incident came back to me, although in an oddly dim and blurry fashion.
So...
And it was impulsive, yes, didn't write a note, didn't have everything organized, was just going to get in the bathtub so the mess could be cleaned up in an easier fashion, stick the barrel of my gun in my mouth, and pull the trigger. (Gotta aim for the brainstem, use hollowpoints.)
Was just feeling totally defeated and furious with myself for screwing something or another up yet again, or maybe just failing to do any better.
Had I chosen to go to college instead of spending a decade being depressed, then bohemian, I would even now be making okay money, not wearing trash-picked clothes and repairing my own car.
Poverty does not allow for mistakes, you see, and I made a big one: I failed to go to college early and hard. I should have done whatever it took.
(Learn your lesson, kids, or you too will spend nights ass over teakettle in dumpsters picking the rich folk's leavings.)
When I was on Effexor this spring I was starting to try to make plans and get my affairs in order...get things set up so my wife could get the car no problem...but I was too mentally disordered to do much of anything beyond go to work and school.
I was probably going to jump off one of two bridges. Either would have sufficed, although the one had a larger breakdown lane to pull off in, and was taller by at least 100 feet, so I probably would have used that one.
( It's also a prettier bridge. If I do kill myself in the future, I will jump off the nicer bridge...better view on the way down.)
I also thought about taking a bunch of sleeping pills and swimming out to sea-hoping my carcass wouldn't turn up.
Right now, my meds are working...and I feel like living. Right now. That tends to be pretty tenuous, though.
And I know nobody else reads this damned thing.
Even if they did, I'd say it: there is a high probability I will look back on my life at the end, wherever that may be, and I will think "All that suffering...and it was such a mediocre, boring little life. No great thing was accomplished, no great purpose served by all that agony, the agony just was, pointless, like a blind, screaming, idiot lunatic ramming their head into a concrete wall over and over."
That, oddly enough, is the saddest part of it. There is no point to it at all.
Well, ever since I got chronic sinusitis in '02, my quality of life has gone all to hell.
I need more money, but am far too sick to go get it. I can't afford to live without mom's help, I can't save money, I have to live out here in the country, where the loneliness eats away at me.
My life has become this very painful and sharp-edged thing. Sometimes there's moments of soaring happiness, but my overwhelming feelings are of frustration, fear, loneliness(soul-eating loneliness!), sorrow, anger, disappointment, and resignation. And tiredness, very often tiredness...unless I take caffeine pills, in which case it's replaced by a jangly nervous energy that isn't pleasant, but is better than the bone-deep tiredness and sorrow. I may be hooked on caffeine pills and sudafed, at least a little.
My life hurts. A lot. Some days more than others.
I can barely remember the time I tried to blow my brains out a few years ago.
I ripped open the padlocked plastic box the pistol was in...only to find that my wife had put the trigger-lock on, without telling me, and that I didn't have the key, because she took that too.
I took a razor and cut "people suck" into the top of the box...probably cut myself up too, because I do that, it makes me feel better to cut myself up, and went to sleep.
A year or two later I couldn't remember having done all this until my wife reminded me that I had been the one to do it-for a while I thought she had cut the "people suck" into the top of the box, and I couldn't remember how the plastic hasp had come to be ripped apart, thought maybe I had trash-picked the box like that....then the incident came back to me, although in an oddly dim and blurry fashion.
So...
And it was impulsive, yes, didn't write a note, didn't have everything organized, was just going to get in the bathtub so the mess could be cleaned up in an easier fashion, stick the barrel of my gun in my mouth, and pull the trigger. (Gotta aim for the brainstem, use hollowpoints.)
Was just feeling totally defeated and furious with myself for screwing something or another up yet again, or maybe just failing to do any better.
Had I chosen to go to college instead of spending a decade being depressed, then bohemian, I would even now be making okay money, not wearing trash-picked clothes and repairing my own car.
Poverty does not allow for mistakes, you see, and I made a big one: I failed to go to college early and hard. I should have done whatever it took.
(Learn your lesson, kids, or you too will spend nights ass over teakettle in dumpsters picking the rich folk's leavings.)
When I was on Effexor this spring I was starting to try to make plans and get my affairs in order...get things set up so my wife could get the car no problem...but I was too mentally disordered to do much of anything beyond go to work and school.
I was probably going to jump off one of two bridges. Either would have sufficed, although the one had a larger breakdown lane to pull off in, and was taller by at least 100 feet, so I probably would have used that one.
( It's also a prettier bridge. If I do kill myself in the future, I will jump off the nicer bridge...better view on the way down.)
I also thought about taking a bunch of sleeping pills and swimming out to sea-hoping my carcass wouldn't turn up.
Right now, my meds are working...and I feel like living. Right now. That tends to be pretty tenuous, though.
And I know nobody else reads this damned thing.
Even if they did, I'd say it: there is a high probability I will look back on my life at the end, wherever that may be, and I will think "All that suffering...and it was such a mediocre, boring little life. No great thing was accomplished, no great purpose served by all that agony, the agony just was, pointless, like a blind, screaming, idiot lunatic ramming their head into a concrete wall over and over."
That, oddly enough, is the saddest part of it. There is no point to it at all.
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