Tag Archives: suicide

Existential Boredom

I’m not as intensely suicidal anymore, but I really just don’t see the point of being alive.

Since the election, I have nothing to do with my time.  Literally all I do is sit in bed all day and waste time on my computer.  There is no point to my existence.

Nothing holds my attention.  I try to knit, to watch Netflix, to read, to write.  Nothing interests me.  I force myself to do it, but that doesn’t work for very long, and there are so many hours to fill.

And I hurt.  I don’t know what it is with the roving joint pains–one joint will hurt badly for weeks or sometimes months, and then for no reason that pain will stop.  Soon it starts back up in a different joint.  Right now it’s my left wrist again.  I have a brace from when I sprained my wrist doing kung fu, and it helps some…but it makes it hard to type or knit.  And my belly hurts.  I think I might be heading into another UC flare, which is awesome, especially since I might have to come off the 6-MP soon.  I’ve spent the last two weeks telling myself it was just PMS-related mini-flare symptoms, but since my period hasn’t happened, I don’t think I can blame PMS.  Oh, and it’s IBD Awareness Week, so clearly my body has impeccable timing and a fucked-up sense of humor.

I barely have an appetite, either.  I mean, I get hungry, but I don’t eat for hours because I just don’t care enough to get food.  C made me a gluten-free vegan cheesecake a week ago.  Ordinarily I’d have eaten the whole thing in about two days (no judging), but I’ve still got some left over.  I’ve got a big container of Thanksgiving leftovers, too.  They’re good, but I haven’t touched them.  Oh, and there’s also lentil soup C made.  It’s not even that I’m too tired/weak to prepare anything–literally all I’d have to do was take them out of the refrigerator and microwave them.  But I just don’t care enough.

I’d fooled myself into thinking the weakness was getting at least a little better, but it turns out I only thought it was better because I didn’t do anything beyond sitting in bed and getting up to use the bathroom.  Yesterday I cleaned my microwave.  It took all of five minutes, and that’s a generous estimate.  But then I couldn’t stand up, collapsed on the kitchen floor, and had to crawl back to my bed.  How am I supposed to have ANY quality of life when I can’t even stand for five minutes?  I’m terrified that whatever’s going on is getting worse.  I still haven’t had any luck reaching my gastroenterologist for a referral to a neurologist.  I might ask C to see if my ex-nurse, S, can make some calls.  Often medical professionals get a much better response than patients–sad but true.

I’m just so tired of existing like this.  There’s no light.  I don’t feel an immediate need to kill myself, but I can’t just keep living like this, either.  I want to feel like there’s some meaning, but I can’t see anything in this fog.

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Holding Pattern

Things are marginally better, I think.

I actually had a nice Thanksgiving.  The outpatient program I used to be part of does a Thanksgiving thing every year, and I went to that with my landlady and her partner.  (My landlady works there.)  I almost didn’t go because I was afraid I’d start crying in the middle of it, but I went and didn’t cry.  Didn’t even want to.  Good food, and some of the leftovers are now in my fridge.  (Thank god, because my food stamps money is out, and the new money won’t come through until December 8.)

I’m looking forward to Christmas with my mom in Florida, so that’s useful.  She mentioned that my Christmas stocking that my grandmother knitted when I was born got lost when she moved, and she doesn’t have a stocking for herself or my stepfather either…so I’m knitting Christmas stockings.  She’s also having trouble finding most of her Christmas ornaments (may have also gotten lost in the move), so if I have time, I’m going to knit her some ornaments, too.  But she’s upset because a lot of the ornaments she’s missing are ones my sisters and I made as kids, and those can’t be replaced.

I’m still massively depressed.  I’m spending most of my time in bed, and a lot of it sleeping.  My sleep cycle is completely fucked up–I sleep for most of the day, get up between 4:00 and 8:00 PM, stay up until 2:00 or 3:00 AM, sleep some more, get up between noon and 3:00 PM…it’s screwed up.  I could probably get back into a semi-normal sleep pattern if I tried, especially if I used my light box, but honestly I just don’t care enough.  Every time I sleep, I have bad dreams and nightmares, but I don’t even really care.  I wake up in a tangle of sweaty sheets with my heart racing, but it’s still easier to be asleep than awake.

I’m not as intensely, imminently suicidal as I have been the last several weeks, but I still just don’t know how long I can keep going like this.  It’s no way to live.  I’ll do okay for food in December because my mother will pay for food for the two weeks I’m there, but I’ll come back to the same financial situation.  And the depression and anhedonia and utter purposelessness…that’ll all still be with me too.  I keep thinking I should ask my psychiatrist for antidepressants or some other drug something to make me okay, but then I remember there is no miracle drug.  I’ve already been on nearly every psych med in the book, and they don’t help.  But it feels like the only option available to me, since support and therapy are basically inaccessible to me.  There’s some part of me that still wants to believe that there’s some solution, even though I know there’s not.

I can keep going for a while, but a life like this is not sustainable.  No one was meant to live like this.

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I’m Still Here

For now, at least.  I’m just tired of talking.  It doesn’t seem to get me anywhere; it just leaves me feeling more alone and hopeless.

Everyone wants to tell me I should live, and honestly, I just can’t take hearing it anymore.  That probably makes me an asshole, but I guess that doesn’t really matter anymore.  Maybe you’re seeing who I really am now, when I can’t keep up appearances anymore.  Maybe you’ll hate me.  Maybe it’ll make you understand why I can’t live.

I’m tired of people trying to fix me and solve my problems.  I’m pretty damn smart, okay?  And I’m pretty damn resourceful.  If there were resources to be found, solutions to be invented, I would’ve figured them out already.  I’m tired of being polite when people suggest the same things over and over.  Yes, I’m on disability and food stamps and Medicare and Medicaid, I’ve applied for energy assistance, I’m on the waiting list for housing, I’ve been to the food banks, I’ve tried the buses, I can’t afford paratransit.  I’ve tried forums and self-help books and support groups and CBT and DBT and EMDR and psychoanalysis and ECT and the Department of Mental Health and Community-Based Flexible Support.  I’ve been to respite, the ER, more psych units than I can count, two trauma units.  I’ve gone to church and prayed and mediated and done yoga and changed my diet.  I’ve been on antidepressants, anxiolytics, mood stabilizers, stimulants, and anti-psychotics.  I’ve taken 5-ASA’s and steroids and chemo and immunosuppressants and biologics.  I’ve consulted psychiatrists and chiropractors and reiki masters and neurosurgeons and physical therapists and acupuncturists and gastroenterologists.

Nothing helps enough to make my life survivable.

You can’t fix me because I’m too many problems to solve.  It’s depression and complex PTSD and DID.  It’s ulcerative colitis and hearing loss and brain surgery and mobility impairment.  It’s disability and isolation and poverty.

And you can’t solve just one because they’re just a big knotted mess.  You can’t untangle one thread from another; they’re all felted together now, and there’s no extricating them.  And nobody can fix the whole big mess.  Not even me.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  I tried so hard for so long, and things just get worse.  Now, I just can’t try anymore.

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Surrealism and Detachment

I talk to my mother on the phone.

Even that’s surreal, after several years of no contact.  She’s changed.  All my life, she expected me and my sisters to meet all her emotional needs.  Now she’s married, and she has someone age-appropriate to meet her needs.  She’s not as crazy anymore, not in the harmful ways she used to be, and I can talk to her without getting sucked into the crazy demands.  I still don’t trust her.  I know she’ll never acknowledge the harm she did to me for most of my life, but I also like feeling like I finally have a mother.  She hasn’t said anything cruel or manipulative in the year or so since we started talking again.  But it’s like she’s both my mother and not my mother simultaneously, on a number of levels, and that’s surreal.

She tells me my uncle, her brother, just sold his computer security company to Raytheon for $420 million.  I literally had to write that down because my brain couldn’t translate how many zeroes that was.  I can’t relate to that amount on money.  Right now, I have $7 to last me the rest of the month.  I only bought four rolls of toilet paper because I couldn’t afford any more than that.  I don’t think I’ll have enough money to pay December’s rent, and my power and heat bills are overdue.

But my uncle just sold his company for $420 million.  That’s $420,000,000, in case any of you also can’t conceptualize that many zeroes without seeing it.

He worked hard, and I don’t begrudge him his success.  But certainly the law of diminishing returns kicks in at some point, right?  I can’t even comprehend what you would do with that much money.  To put it in perspective, that’s more than three times the annual budget for the National Endowment for the Arts.  It’s surreal.  I don’t even really know him anymore, but even if I did, I don’t think I could ask him for it.  But it’s bizarre, realizing that a man with whom I share 21.9% of my DNA (yes, that’s an exact and oddly specific figure) has $420,000,000 and I don’t know how I’m going to pay $400 in rent.  How can that even be real?

My mother keeps saying how much she’s looking forward to seeing me for Christmas.  I tell her I’m excited about the trip too, but I’m detached.  I really don’t believe I’m going to live that long.  Three weeks, but I don’t think I can make it.  I think I will probably kill myself when I can’t pay my rent.  But I tell her I’m looking forward to it because I can’t exactly tell my mother I’m probably going to be dead before then.

Everything feels surreal, and I feel like I have no attachment to anyone or anything, like a helium balloon floating away.

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I feel like the only way to make anyone in power notice how desperate I am and how much I need help is to die.

It won’t help me, of course; I’ll be dead.  But I keep thinking maybe it would be the tipping point so that The Powers That Be would have to notice what their lack of compassion and refusal to help is doing to poor people, disabled people, mentally ill people.  Maybe by dying, I’d finally make them notice and listen to me.  I obviously can’t accomplish anything while I’m alive, so maybe I can finally do something good by dying.  Maybe it’ll make someone listen.

But who am I kidding?  I’m not important enough for anyone in power to notice, let alone listen to.  When I die, I won’t even be a statistic.  I don’t even matter enough for that.

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On Anger and Helplessness

When I talk about my anger, I feel like people see me as someone who goes off on people, physically or verbally.  I don’t do that–mine is all directed internally.  I want to scream at people and pick fights, but I don’t.  It all just turns in on myself and makes me feel worthless and hopeless and suicidal.  If I had a foolproof way of ending it, I would.  But I don’t want to risk screwing it up and being “saved,” only to be abandoned again as soon as they decide I’m “okay.”

I don’t want to get rid of all the anger, either.  It’s the only thing that’s kept me alive this long–it’s a way of marking that a lot of terrible things happened to me, but the fact that they happened doesn’t mean they’re okay or I deserved it.  For a long, long time, I thought I never felt anger.  Nothing beyond mild frustration on occasion.  But I was slowly killing myself with my self-harm and eating disorder, and if that’s not the personification of rage turned inward, I don’t know what is.  I really believe that finally being able to get angry at the people and events that had driven me to believe I needed to annihilate myself was what saved me.  I could finally see that what they’d done to me wasn’t okay, and I could turn around and say, “No, it’s you I’m angry at, not myself.”  I could choose to stop destroying myself because I finally understood.

But now it’s different.  Now it’s not me destroying myself, and I can’t choose to change what’s happening to me.  The decisions and circumstances are, for the most part, out of my hands.  So I can recognize that it’s unfair and wrong, I can see that I don’t deserve to have my needs go unmet…but I can’t change it.  So all I’m left with is rage and the familiar desire to destroy myself.  Only this time I don’t want to do it piecemeal; I just want to get it over with and be done.  I just can’t live like this.  No one can really live like this.

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Angry All the Time

Lately, I’m noticing that I’m angry all the time.  I don’t like it.

I feel like I’m trapped in a life I don’t want and have little control over, no matter how hard I try.  I feel hopeless.  I feel abandoned because I’m not getting the kind of support I need.  I keep trying so hard to make my life work, but it feels like almost everything is beyond my control.

So I’m angry all the time.  I want to lash out at all the people who could be helping me but aren’t.  I want to make other people feel as hurt, powerless, and hopeless as I do.

I feel like a monster.

But the truth is I don’t really want to hurt people.  I want to be helped.  I want to connect.  But I don’t know how anymore because all my efforts have failed, so I end up angry and bitter, wanting to lash out and pick fights and hurt people.

I feel so stuck, and the world around me is just getting darker and darker.  Is there any help for me?

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Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

So apparently the roommate is also Facebook-stalking me.  I vented about the situation and made a snarky comment to the effect of, “If you hear a news story about someone in my town who murdered her roommate, that’ll be me.”  Roommate and I are NOT Facebook friends, but she texted me some bullshit about how that’s illegal and she was only talking about it because her mom thought the apartment was gross.

BITCH PLEASE.

I used to do legal research for a defense attorney, so do you really want to get in a law fight with me?  REALLY?  Please, do call the cops.  I’d LOVE to see them laugh their asses off at you.
10millionhearyourstupid
See, it’s not actually a crime unless I actually intended to murder you or I intended to intimidate you.

Clearly I didn’t actually intend to murder you.  I mean, please, go through my Facebook and count up all the other people I’ve said I wanted to kill.  It ranges from members of Congress to my immediate family to people who walk on my side of the sidewalk.  All those people are still alive.  See, for it to be a crime, there has to be both mens rea (“the thought of the thing;” basically, intent to commit a crime) and actus reus (“the act of the thing,” or an actual criminal act).  I definitely didn’t have actus reus, and I could probably argue successfully that I didn’t even have mens rea, since I never actually intended to hurt you or anyone else.  I could also name off the top of my head at least a dozen people who’d testify to the fact that I’ve said in person that I wanted to/was going to kill them but who didn’t feel threatened.  Obviously they’re all still alive too.
nothowitworks

As for intimidation, you’d have a hell of a time proving that one in court, too.  My Facebook post was public, yes, but since we’re not Facebook friends and you’ve never mentioned your Facebook usage to me, I had no reason to believe that you’d see it.  See, I don’t feel the need to check up on what people I’m not Facebook friends with me are saying about me.  That’s normal.  Facebook-stalking your roommate isn’t.

I vented on Facebook specifically because I didn’t think you’d see it.  Unlike you, I have some basic consideration of other people’s feelings, even when they aren’t people I actually like.  If I’m not going to talk to them directly about what they’re doing that’s bothering me, I don’t pull passive-aggressive bullshit and scream about it where they can obviously hear it.  I deal with my frustrations in venues where I can reasonably assume that they won’t hear so as not to hurt their feelings while I deal with mine.  If you go searching for it, then that’s your fault.  It’s not my responsibility to protect you from unpleasant things you might discover while stalking someone.
fuckinnope
finger

I’m just so fucking far past done with this bullshit.  It takes a lot to get me really angry, but once I’m there…well, it’s not pretty.  I would never physically hurt anyone, but I can be pretty mean verbally.  It’s not a part of myself I like most of the time, but it is useful at times.  And once I’ve been pushed far enough that I no longer give a single fuck, which is where I am now…well, if she wants to start a fight, I’m goddamn well gonna finish it.

lastfuckigive
soilooklikeicare

I have so many other appropriate gifs.  Maybe I’ll do a whole recap of this post using only West Wing gifs because that demonstrates exactly how many shits I give about this.

Actually, I’m bouncing back and forth between “LOL this is is so ridiculous it’s funny” and “It’s not safe and I have nowhere to go that is safe, so I have to kill myself right now.”  It’s lots of fun, lemme tell ya.

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Can’t Take It Anymore

I’m in a serious crisis.  My roommate is in the kitchen screaming about me to her mother, and it’s taking EVERYTHING that I’ve got in me not to just kill myself right now.  I need to pee, but I can’t even come out of my bedroom.  I’m afraid to be in my own house.  It’s so bad that the only way out I can see is to kill myself.  I know I’m not rational right now, and I’m really trying to stay in control, but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to.

I’ve called and emailed C and asked her to get in touch with me as soon as humanly possible, but I don’t know if she’s even working today since it’s a holiday.  She doesn’t have a cell phone, and she doesn’t have internet at home–so if she’s not at work today, then she won’t get my messages until tomorrow.  I don’t think I can make it that long.  Even if she does call me, I can’t say very much because Roommate might overhear.

I also texted the landlady and told her I need to talk about the roommate situation ASAP, but I haven’t heard back from her yet either.  She’s probably working too.

I even left a message for my case manager, but she only works Wednesday through Sunday.  Besides, her answer is just going to be to hospitalize me, which won’t help.  I mean, it gets you away from the immediate situation, but then you get out and you’re right back in the same situation.

I don’t know what to do.  I’m seriously falling apart, and I don’t have anywhere else to turn.  Even if I thought a suicide hotline would answer, I’d be afraid to call because Roommate could hear me.

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existential exhaustion

Last night, I dreamed that I was at work on Election Day, and my bosses kept giving me more and more stuff to do, and I just couldn’t keep up with all of it.  A lot of it was stuff I’d never done and didn’t know how to do, and no one would teach me how or help me at all.  Then we lost the election, and they were all angry at me and said it was all my fault.  Then I had to walk home.  It was cold, and I kept falling down because my legs wouldn’t work.  I had to crawl part of the way.  When I finally got home, the power was out, and somebody from the power company was yelling at me for being useless and not paying my bills.

I mean, I also dreamed that I signed Mary Poppins up for a canvass shift, so clearly my brain is kind of nuts.

But the first dream…it’s pretty clear what that’s about.  No need for interpretation there.  It’s how I feel about myself: I’m a failure at everything, my life is falling apart, everybody either already hates me or is going to hate me when they find out what a fuck-up I am, and even my body won’t do what I need it to.  I’m going to be left alone in the dark and the cold because I’m an unlovable failure.

I’m just so tired of fighting so hard and never getting anywhere.  I’m just so tired of everything.  I don’t want to do it anymore.

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