I’m not sure I even want to keep fighting to survive anymore.

I mean, let’s face it.  Even if someone provided for all my physical needs, I still wouldn’t work right.  I’d still shit myself and shit the bed and shit blood.  I’d still not be able to stand or walk like most people.  I’d still be crazy.  I still wouldn’t be able to get or keep a normal job.  I still wouldn’t have friends or a support system.

So maybe I really would just be better off dead.

Maybe that’s just the hopelessness talking, though.  Maybe I’d be much more emotionally equipped to deal with my illness and disability if I weren’t constantly worried about how to meet my basic needs.

Then again, I guess it doesn’t really matter because no one is going to take care of my needs for me.  Nobody is going to save me, and I can’t save myself anymore.

I’m almost out of time.

How

I don’t know how I’m going to get through the night.  I want to, but.

I’ve been trying so hard to hold everything together and be okay because I really wanted to but I just can’t anymore.  I feel like it’s me against a world that thinks I’m worthless and useless and wants me dead.  I feel like my inability to handle normal life is the universe’s way of telling me that I was never supposed to survive to adulthood anyway.  And I know that stuff doesn’t make sense but.

I want to find how to survive but how do I even do that?  What is left that I haven’t tried?

If someone could just give me realistic hope that things could actually improve, then I think I could be okay.  And I don’t just mean, “Oh, things will get better, nothing is permanent.”  I mean like, “Here, this is how you can pay your rent and this is how you can pay for groceries and here is a way for you to get around to places and here is a decent therapist and here is a doctor who’s actually going to take your physical issues seriously and do hir very best to help.”  And like I can’t decide if I’m just asking for way way way more than I’m entitled to or if I really do deserve this stuff.  I mean, my instinct says it’s reasonable because I’d never tell another person that those were unreasonable needs but if they’re reasonable then why are all the people and agencies who say they’re helping refusing to give me any of it?  Maybe they’re right and I’m just a worthless drain on resources who should be dead because the world would be better off without one more useless bloodsucker.  But if that’s true, then how come if I told them I think I should be dead, how come they would insist on saving me but then refuse me any substantial help?  They’d just force all these things down my throat and call them Help but really you’re just force feeding me shit and making me sicker until I die.

I can’t make anything make sense in my head and I’m not at all sure I’m making any sense here.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry.

Please don’t anybody call the cops on me or anything.  I haven’t done anything to myself and I don’t have means or solid intent.  I mean I’m probably gonna drink the mini bottle of wine my sister gave me even though I don’t like wine and it could make me sick because of the UC but it’s not gonna kill me.  And maybe if I get sick and go to the ER someone will actually care about me.  Lol who r u kidding, they’re not gonna give a shit but keep dreaming I guess.

But I’m trying, I’m actually really trying but I can’t do this anymore not alone so what do I do when no one will help?

I can’t care anymore.

I give up.  I can’t care anymore about all the stuff that’s stressing me out.  I have nothing left.

cupofcare

If I keep searching through Craigslist ads and emailing people who never email me back, I will well and truly lose it.  So I’m done.  I have no fucking clue how I’m going to pay rent this month, but I’m done.  I mean, I’m literally shitting myself from stress.  I can’t do it anymore.

It’s this or kill myself so I guess this is better or something?

Feel like I just can’t do this anymore.  Life is too much.  I’m not cut out for it.  I was never meant to survive in the first place.  Even my own body keeps trying to kill me.

I fly home on Saturday.  All I can think is that then I’ll be able to kill myself, and I’ll finally have relief.

I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t even be saying any of this.  But if I don’t say anything, it’s even worse.  But when I do say this, I feel immensely guilty.  You’re worrying people.  You’re stressing them out.  You’re making their lives harder.  You need to just shut the fuck up.  Shut up shut up shut up.  You’re a monster.

I can’t survive this.  I want to.  There’s so much more I want out of life, so much more I want to do and give.  But what I’m doing now is not living.  You can hardly even call it surviving.  Constantly on the knife-edge, the cliff-edge of disaster.  Our minds are not meant to live with this constant stress.  We evolved to survive the brief stress of a predator attack, to escape and survive.  We are not meant to live with the constant threat of disaster

I want somebody to fix this.  I don’t want that much.  I don’t need luxury, just the basics of comfort.  A small apartment–I’ll live with roommates, that’s okay.  Enough food I can eat.  Good doctors.  A good therapist.  A few friends.  A sense of purpose.

So why do I feel like a monster who’s asking for so, so much more than she ever deserves?  Why do I think it’s better to be dead than to beg for help?

I think it’s mostly that it’s easier to be dead than to have to realize every day, over and over, that I don’t matter enough to the people who could help for them to actually help.

I just want to go home so I can die.  I’m sorry.

I don’t think I’m even making sense.  I’m sorry.

I have no mouth and I must scream

I want to scream HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME until someone does.

Part of me thinks no one will even hear me.

Part of me thinks that they’ll hear me, but they won’t care enough to do anything.

Part of me thinks they’ll just force me to accept more “help” that doesn’t help–hospitalize me, force me into a group home, crap like that.

Part of me thinks that even if I got all the best help, everything I think I need, it wouldn’t work.  I think I’m a black hole–I’ll swallow up everything I can reach, but I’m still empty.

But mostly the problem is that I can’t scream.  I never could.  I used to try, when I was little and my father was abusing me.  He held my head under the bathwater until I passed out.  He held pillows over my face until I thought I would die.  I stopped trying to scream, and then I stopped even knowing how.

There are a lot of posts going around lately about how to help/not help someone who is depressed or suicidal.  Some of them are good, and some of them make me wonder what the writer was smoking.  Anyway, this isn’t one of those posts.

This one is about me.  Maybe it’ll resonate with other people, and if so, cool.  If not, whatever.  It’s only meant to be about my situation and my experience.  It might piss you off, but I’m not in a place right now where I can care about other people’s feelings.  I’m an asshole, I know.  I should probably apologize but I’m fucking sick of apologizing for having feelings.

I get suicidal fairly frequently, although much less frequently and much less seriously than in the past.  I have major depression secondary to complex PTSD and dissociative identity disorder (DID).  Basically, some shitty people did a lot of shitty things to me for a lot of years, which will mess anybody up.  But the trauma and the depression aren’t the primary causes of my suicidality these days, at least not directly.

The primary cause of my suicidality these days is that I’m trying to survive an impossible situation with no hope of getting out of it.  Hell, at this point there’s not really any hope that it will improve.

Because of the side effects of shitty people doing shitty things to me, I’m on disability.  Basically, I have zero ability to cope with stress.  When I get stressed, I dissociate, or I cut, or I starve myself, or I binge and purge.  Basically, I can’t function because I’m too busy being crazy and destroying myself.  So I get SSI and SSDI.  That’s designed to keep poor and disabled people out of poverty, but it doesn’t actually work that well for a lot of us disabled folks.  See, I’m supposed to live on $700 a month.

To put that in context, rent for a one-bedroom apartment in my state averages $925; average rent in my town is $820.  That doesn’t include utilities.  In the summer, electric is around $50 a month, and internet is $100.  When you add heating in the winter, it’s much more expensive because we have oil heat and a pellet stove.  Then there’s food costs, transportation costs, medical costs.  You can do the math: there just isn’t enough money.  It’s not like I’m spending money on outlandish things; I’m talking about basic necessities here.  There is no money.

I’ve done everything there is to do.  I’ve applied for subsidized housing in my town and several of the surrounding towns, but there are long wait lists.  I get food stamps, but it doesn’t cover enough because my illness requires an expensive diet; there are no special provisions for that.  I eat one meal a day, usually.  I get Medicare and Medicaid, but sometimes I still can’t afford to fill my prescriptions.  I get fuel assistance, but when I have to fill the oil tank, that’s a lump sum of around $600.  Buying pellets for the pellet stove is a similar lump expense.

I get every form of assistance offered to poor people, but it’s still not enough.  I still can’t survive.  I still can’t afford an apartment on my own, and I can’t find another roommate.  I still can’t reach public transit since they cut the stop near me and I’m too disabled to walk to the next stop.  I still can’t afford enough food to eat a healthy diet on a regular basis.  I still can’t afford to pay most of my bills every month.  No amount of budgeting is going to solve this, and although I shit a lot of stuff, money isn’t one of those things.

It’s enough, I think, to make almost anyone suicidal.  You do the best you can, but it’s not enough to survive.  You’re too sick, too disabled, too poor.  And the people in power, the people who could make it better, they don’t care.  They don’t even know you exist because they’ve made you invisible.

And yes, I’m getting mental health “services” too, but they’re laughably inadequate.  I have no therapist.  I have a psychiatrist, but I haven’t seen him in at least four months because I can’t get to his office.  I’m not even really sure I have a case manager anymore, since mine left and no one’s bothered to tell me who my new one is.  I’m pretty much on my own because my old case manager decided I was fine.  Yes, clearly I’m doing fucking great.

I don’t have friends or family I can borrow money from.  I can’t get a loan.  I can’t get a job.  Believe me, if there were an obvious solution, I would’ve found it by now.  No solutions exist, so fucking stop telling me what to do.  I’m not stupid.

And stop guilt-tripping me for being suicidal.  I think this situation would drive almost anyone to suicidality.  For me, it’s even harder because it triggers emotional flashbacks to all the times no one took care of me when I was a kid.  It feels like no one gives a shit whether I survive.  And no, I don’t need a lecture on how that’s not true, either.  I know people care, but honestly, that doesn’t do me a hell of a lot of good when the people who care can’t do anything to make my situation survivable.  I know that makes me an asshole, but there it is.

Don’t lecture me about how it will affect my friends and family if I kill myself.  For fuck’s sake, do you think I don’t know that already?  I’ve lost friends to suicide.  It hurts, but honestly, it hurts less than it did when I lost a friend in a car accident.  He didn’t want to die.  He liked being alive, and there was a lot more he wanted to do.  My friends who killed themselves were miserable, and they didn’t want to keep on living.  Now they don’t have to suffer anymore.  It’s a relief to know that they’re dead and not having to hurt anymore just to avoid hurting other people.

Again, to be clear, I’m not about to off myself right now, so don’t anybody freak out and call the cops on me.  But don’t fucking tell me to swear I won’t do it, either.  I won’t make that promise.  If I hit a point where I truly can’t survive, I’m not fucking going to force myself to live through hell just to keep other people from being uncomfortable.  And honestly, I’m not sorry for that.