I did a stupid thing

Saturday night, I overdosed.  And here it is Tuesday morning, and I’m still barely able to function.  I can’t spell basic words without a lot of thought, and I nearly pass out when I get up to go to the bathroom.

I’m not sure if I wanted to kill myself or not.  I was at least half-dissociated, so I don’t even know how many pills I took.  (Or, for that matter, which one[s] of us took them.)

I think I wanted either to die or to make someone notice that something is very very wrong.  But I ended up not accomplishing either of those things.  So I feel like a failure in every possible way.

I feel like I NEED someone to take care of me.  To hug me and tell me it’s all going to be okay, to listen when I’m freaking out, to take care of all the everyday things like bills and food that overwhelm me.  I want to go back to a residential program like Sheppard Pratt, but I can’t afford it.  I have maybe three weeks left of my lifetime inpatient days still left.  I can’t use those up now–what if I need them more later?  Besides, Sheppard Pratt always has a waiting list, and I need help now.

Everything about real life is just too overwhelming.  Most of it, at this point, comes down to money, and I feel greedy for saying that.  Money can’t buy happiness, but the lack of it sure can fuck you up.  If I had a car, my life would be so much easier.  I could get to appointments, to the grocery store.  Hell, I might even be able to have a little bit of a social life.  But even if someone gave me a car for free, I wouldn’t be able to pay for insurance, gas, maintenance.

And if I had more money, I could get more psychological support.  I wouldn’t be stuck with these useless people from DMH.  I would even be able to travel if I found one who’s good but not on public transit lines.

And I just wouldn’t have to worry all the time about everything.  Right now, all it would take for my whole life to blow up in my face is for one little thing to go wrong.  Just one thing, and I’ll be sleeping under a bridge in winter.  One little thing, and I won’t be able to pay for the meds that keep me alive.  This is the reality of my life.  More money wouldn’t cure the underlying emotional injuries, but it would make them a hell of a lot easier to deal with.

But that money, that help, that support–none of it is going to come.  How do I keep dealing with the utter hopelessness of that?  My compulsion is to berate myself, to tell myself, “You don’t need any of that.  You’re just a pathetic attention-whore who wants everybody to pay attention to her all the time.  You don’t deserve to have needs.”  And with that comes the impulse to starve myself again.  It would be so much easier, and it dulls all the feelings.  And it seems easier than staring at the black hole in the center of myself and knowing that no one will fill it.  I mean, when my own government tells me I don’t deserve enough money to be able to meet my basic needs, who am I to argue?

And on top of the money issues, there’s the chronic illness.  It’s never going to get better.  It will continue to control my life for as long as I’m alive.  I’ll have to keep taking toxic medications that make me almost as sick as the UC does, albeit in different ways.  I’ll always be in pain.  I’ll always be so weak I have to use a cane to walk and still can hardly manage even with it.  I’ll always have to control my diet so strictly I’ve given up on eating out.  I’ll never not be sick.  In fact, I’ll probably just get sicker.  There is no relief, no remission.

And this is where I’m stuck, all day, every day.  I’ve done all the things they’ve told me will make me better, and none of it is working anymore.  So I have to choose between living like this for another 60 years or killing myself.  I want to feel like there’s some reason to live, but right now the pain is so bad nothing matters except how to make it stop.