Dear Diary,
It's been a good, long, proper while since I last felt so ready to die. I was stable for the past several months, thanks in no small part to █. But now that she's gone, and with a separation that was less than ideal I suspect for the both of us, I have been very. fucking. miserable the past two weeks or so. I think I screamed pretty much every day at small annoyances. I flew into a blind rage zone once or twice. I wanted to cry so many times. I never wanted to wake up. I never wanted to do anything. I was tired all the time. I felt like I was never going to seek help again, and in turn, that I was never going to get any better. Pretty classic depression symptoms. Oh, and have I also mentioned? I stopped taking my meds without consulting my doctor because I don't want to go back to IMH again, because it reminds me so much of █, and I honestly feel like the trip to and from IMH and the 30 minute wait after my appointment is scheduled to start is worth the 10 minutes I'll spend talking to the doctor, only to say, "take these same meds more and tell me how you feel 4 months from now", just isn't worth it.
In my small window of stability, I did catch myself wondering, "What exactly was so different?", "How would I explain this to my past self, that wished with every fibre of his body except for his balls that he could die?" The reason I never wrote about it any sooner was because I never felt like I had a good answer to that. I think I had enough encouragement, progress, and support to make my every day suck less, so I wouldn't be preoccupied with debilitating misery all the time. Suicide has been the most difficult thing I have wanted to do my entire life, by leaps and bounds. I can never bring myself to do it, because my life isn't all hopeless misery. I still have things I live for. I'm a big fucking pussy who's afraid of a little pain too, whose primal instincts prevent him from taking that leap or swallowing those pills. And so if I have any alternative to suicide to ease my pain; any at all, it would almost certainly be the easier way out than suicide for me personally. Paying a heavily subsidised fee to talk to a highly attractive, listening, understanding, supportive woman for an hour a month? I could do that in my fucking sleep.
I flip flop weirdly between two polar opposites of what is arguably the same coin when it comes to thoughts of suicide: when I'm miserable, I think I'm the only sane person alive, and suicide is the very logical, calculated move; and that everyone else who isn't wanting to kill themselves are the ones that are sick, not me. Yet, when I'm stable, I think the opposite: that you really did have to be sick to want to kill yourself, even if I couldn't make sense of that line of thinking. It would be akin to asking why you don't cough when you aren't sick. It's... just the way things naturally are. It's just the way things naturally are for a healthy person to not even think about suicide, let alone consider it seriously and fantasise about it. Does it make sense? Not really. Then again, life never did make much sense did it?
I think the immense pain I feel forces me to a logical corner in my head, wherein I am forced to think of solutions to make the pain go away. But the thing is, not every problem has a (practical) solution. Life isn't perfect and we all know that. Hence why it still surprises me that people are still surprised when they meet someone suicidal. That, in my head, is akin to someone being so shocked to learn that someone else has caught the flu. It's really fun to juxtapose their shock and horror with someone coming down with a cold. I just happen to have had that cold for half my life now. And it's a cold that medication alone doesn't make go away. And I think, being forced into the corner of corners, my brain overloads. The immense pressure from several different problems from different aspects of life, each requiring very different solutions, makes me jam. And if you can't fight, you flight. And therein comes suicide.
I feel like I'm a good for nothing that can never hope to get any better. I can't deal with being "just" a client anymore. I can't deal with being abandoned anymore. And therefore, I can't deal with therapy anymore. And yet, medication feels to me like only 5% of the fight. I know what I need but I don't know how I'm supposed to get what I need. I find grave faults with things I really used to enjoy, like Pokémon and Gran Turismo, and swore off them till they show they can improve. I don't even know how much of it is my "depression voice" talking and how much of it is legitimate complaints. I have no joy left in my life anymore. If I wake up only to scream at those that love me the most, I don't deserve to be conscious. I do not deserve to be a financial and emotional burden to my family any longer, especially if I can't even promise, or hope, to get better. I know suicide is generally accepted to be a very selfish and cheap thing by politically correct mass media, but somehow, this just... feels right. This just feels responsible, somehow. That I end this mess I created. That I, who has nothing to contribute to this world, exit ASAP. You wouldn't keep an incapable employee in your company, who keeps drawing pay, would you? I feel the same with life as a whole.
I just wish I had the fucking balls to take responsibility for the fucking failure that I am.
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