I've grown into a weird comfort level with being on edge. Before I get too in depth, the current plan is to start some form of medication for my depression, it just depends first on meeting with the right people and appointments and what not. There is no current timeframe.
Regressing, I'm being slowly trained on how to dance on knife edge. People ask how I'm doing, and I write out long truths about how I debate what songs to ruin for people by requesting them at my memorial, before erasing it and saying "not so great".
It isn't, that this is an idea I actively court, it's more like a stalker that never leaves my window, and more and more seems like the only viable option I have left. I have, nothing else really in my life. There, is no real light there. The plan is just to suffer through it until I see a psychiatrist, sooner rather than later.
I write, and try to form some sort of narrative, as that is kind of the only thing keeping me alive at this point. I find it incredibly hard to get out of bed, to stop crying, or to write here. Writing here forces me to face the realities of my situation, and that is incredibly painful to relive.
I know there are other options if I begin to lose control. The question though, is can I opt into those in that brief span where I lose control but don't do succumb to my temptations towards violence.
I feel like I've lost the last three months of my life to this. So much time just wasted, lost to this vacuum. As it goes on, I'm starting to feel like I won't be able to climb back out again this time. How many times can I tell people that I want to die before they just stop asking all together.
10.27.2015
10.07.2015
Still ticking
Oh. Hi. Given all that has transpired, it seems odd that I haven't written. The last two weeks of September were, interesting.
I'd been dealing with some bad depression, and instead of turning to my normal vice of cutting for relief, I tried to smoke. Now, Marijuana has a psychosis effect than can trigger within depressive people, and people with psychotic tendencies. I had the unfortunate luck to trigger one.
What happened, in my bad trip, was that all of my internal monologue of suicide, depression, worthless and hopelessness, became voiced from a third party. I then became the victim of my own emotional abuse, and spiraled out of control. I ended up calling on some friends for help. In the meantime, cutting to pull myself into a state of lucidity, where I could communicate well enough to let people know I needed help. I ended up with ninety plus cuts down my leg. I don't remember doing them all.
I relayed this to my therapist, and she gave me the option of staying with friends, or going to the hospital, since at this point I was still under some heavy duress. I went to stay with some friends. It's been easier there, than staying at home. Having people to watch over me has been nice.
A few days later, I ran into another heavy depressive episode. fits of crying and hopelessness returned, and the suicidal ideation returned. I watched myself get up, walk to my bag, fetch my razors in secret, and walk to the bathroom. I wasn't alone. But I'd not told anyone what I brought. I sat in the bathroom, playing with the container of my razors, slipping one out, and being unable to put it back in. I began to cut lines down my wrist. Lightly at first, and then harder as I got used it. I drew blood. The cuts weren't serious enough, so I dug harder at where I could find veins with the edge. These were deeper, and got more blood flowing.
At this point, I'd been in the restroom for maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer, I lost track of time between fits of crying and depression. I was, lost. I felt hopeless, in my life, in my situation. The endorphines from the cutting had elevated my mood to the point where I wasn't depressed enough to finish the job, and the sadness had turned to anger. Incredible anger. Eventually I cleaned up all the blood, and my arm, and returned outside.
I wasn't left alone for long after that. I was told I'd have to give up my razors (reasonable), and that if it got any worse I'd have to go to the hospital (also reasonable).
I spent another few days at my friends place before returning home for another therapy session. I spend a few days at home, that felt okay, until they didn't. I woke up late, again, and felt my depression suck the life, and will, out of me. I didn't want to wake up, I didn't want to get up, and face another day of meaningless nothing. I spent the entire day distracting myself, and making arrangements to spend more time away from home.
Which, brings you up to speed.
The last few days have been okay, and, feel like I can swim again. But, it's, not self sustained. I'm leaning on people to support me, and I fear that being alone is a recipe for my depression to start draining my life away.
When things are okay, I feel fine, I feel, not great, but I recognize myself.
When the lows come, I ..can't function. I lose the ability to see any reason to continue existing, and I question my sanity, I question if I'm losing my mind, if my normal rational mind is somehow losing its battle to keep my emotions in check, or perhaps I'm just developing into schizophrenia. It feels like someone opens up a drain beneath me and all the heat, and passion and love and will just slowly seeps out of my pores.
That, isn't the bad part. It's bad, but ..it's not the scary part at least.
What, worries me, is that years ago, even when I was suicidal, I couldn't bring myself to cut my wrists. I'm getting practiced at it now. Each time it gets this bad, my fear gets slightly less, my anger at failing grows, my fear and willingness to fight decreases, and more and more it just seems like the only real solution. It's not, sad, it's not bad, it just is, and that realization becomes very peaceful.
That peace, is truely, fucking, terrifying.
At times, it feels very much like I'm being kidnapped, taken over by some monstrosity, that forces my hand, and kills me. I can ward it off, and keep it at bay, but it's always just sitting behind my shoulder, just out of eyesight. Waiting, just...waiting for me to slip up.
I'd been dealing with some bad depression, and instead of turning to my normal vice of cutting for relief, I tried to smoke. Now, Marijuana has a psychosis effect than can trigger within depressive people, and people with psychotic tendencies. I had the unfortunate luck to trigger one.
What happened, in my bad trip, was that all of my internal monologue of suicide, depression, worthless and hopelessness, became voiced from a third party. I then became the victim of my own emotional abuse, and spiraled out of control. I ended up calling on some friends for help. In the meantime, cutting to pull myself into a state of lucidity, where I could communicate well enough to let people know I needed help. I ended up with ninety plus cuts down my leg. I don't remember doing them all.
I relayed this to my therapist, and she gave me the option of staying with friends, or going to the hospital, since at this point I was still under some heavy duress. I went to stay with some friends. It's been easier there, than staying at home. Having people to watch over me has been nice.
A few days later, I ran into another heavy depressive episode. fits of crying and hopelessness returned, and the suicidal ideation returned. I watched myself get up, walk to my bag, fetch my razors in secret, and walk to the bathroom. I wasn't alone. But I'd not told anyone what I brought. I sat in the bathroom, playing with the container of my razors, slipping one out, and being unable to put it back in. I began to cut lines down my wrist. Lightly at first, and then harder as I got used it. I drew blood. The cuts weren't serious enough, so I dug harder at where I could find veins with the edge. These were deeper, and got more blood flowing.
At this point, I'd been in the restroom for maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer, I lost track of time between fits of crying and depression. I was, lost. I felt hopeless, in my life, in my situation. The endorphines from the cutting had elevated my mood to the point where I wasn't depressed enough to finish the job, and the sadness had turned to anger. Incredible anger. Eventually I cleaned up all the blood, and my arm, and returned outside.
I wasn't left alone for long after that. I was told I'd have to give up my razors (reasonable), and that if it got any worse I'd have to go to the hospital (also reasonable).
I spent another few days at my friends place before returning home for another therapy session. I spend a few days at home, that felt okay, until they didn't. I woke up late, again, and felt my depression suck the life, and will, out of me. I didn't want to wake up, I didn't want to get up, and face another day of meaningless nothing. I spent the entire day distracting myself, and making arrangements to spend more time away from home.
Which, brings you up to speed.
The last few days have been okay, and, feel like I can swim again. But, it's, not self sustained. I'm leaning on people to support me, and I fear that being alone is a recipe for my depression to start draining my life away.
When things are okay, I feel fine, I feel, not great, but I recognize myself.
When the lows come, I ..can't function. I lose the ability to see any reason to continue existing, and I question my sanity, I question if I'm losing my mind, if my normal rational mind is somehow losing its battle to keep my emotions in check, or perhaps I'm just developing into schizophrenia. It feels like someone opens up a drain beneath me and all the heat, and passion and love and will just slowly seeps out of my pores.
That, isn't the bad part. It's bad, but ..it's not the scary part at least.
What, worries me, is that years ago, even when I was suicidal, I couldn't bring myself to cut my wrists. I'm getting practiced at it now. Each time it gets this bad, my fear gets slightly less, my anger at failing grows, my fear and willingness to fight decreases, and more and more it just seems like the only real solution. It's not, sad, it's not bad, it just is, and that realization becomes very peaceful.
That peace, is truely, fucking, terrifying.
At times, it feels very much like I'm being kidnapped, taken over by some monstrosity, that forces my hand, and kills me. I can ward it off, and keep it at bay, but it's always just sitting behind my shoulder, just out of eyesight. Waiting, just...waiting for me to slip up.
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