Have you ever laid flat against the ground and feel as if gravity was holding you down? Sometimes I forget how much I distract myself from myself. Just a few moments alone with my thoughts is enough to send warm tears down the sides of my head. I feel somber. My mind is so very clear, but the tears don’t stop.
I recently had to visit a new psychiatrist. My old one had moved away leaving me to deal with a new one. Sitting in a chair answering questions that I had long forgotten the answer too. I can’t remember old doctors names or the years when I started a certain medicine. Suddenly being asked the days date, and counting backward from 100 by 7 was embarrassing. It seemed my last doctor added agoraphobia to my chart without telling me. The lack of control over the situation made me feel so small.
What hurt more than any of my anxiety, however, was my father. Before I left for the appointment I happened to talk to him and told him where I was going. His response was surprising that I still seek help for my mental Illness. I have been seeing a psychologist almost longer in my life then I have not. Nearly more than half my life. How could he possibly not know? The nights I spent crying myself to sleep, the times I hurt myself, the very close fact that I was going to kill myself. How blind has he been to the pain in my life? When I was young I suffered alone. As I grow up I decided never again, for my sake I would be open and honest about it. It hurts to know that someone close did not hear me.
I have questioned life and death more than someone my age should. Struggling with thoughts of suicide for a long time. I was scared to die but wanted it. I can recall a moment of complete despair. A moment that in my heart that I know I was going to die. I remember the very feeling in my chest as I lay in bed. The sorrow I felt knowing my life would end soon. I don’t know why that moment clicked while I thought of death so many other times. I was not crying because I wanted to die, but because I know I was going to die. That I may not kill myself then, but my life would not last much longer. I mourned my own death as if it was a forgone conclusion.
Years have passed, many I thought would be the last year of my life. Am older now than I ever thought I would be. In many ways, I still mourn the life I killed as well as the life I wasted mourning it. Still, another year ticks by. That has to count for something.
Yesterday I dumped my medicine into my hands. Pills in hand I studied there weight. I did not feel depressed, thoughts of suicide did not cross my mind. I just wanted to know what they felt like. It was such a surreal urge I can’t forget it. I then looked online for the overdose information on each pill. Two out of the three pills would cause vomiting and a deep sleep, likely followed by death. I looked at this information without emotion. I simply don’t know what possessed me to do so.
I should know the weight of my medicine already because there was a time I felt them before. Years ago, I was young and hopeless. I saw no way out, and the pain overwhelmed me. I wasn’t as open with my depression as I am now, so I can’t help but wonder if the people who loved me know how far I had fallen. I took a small handful of my pills, added some Tylenol for good measure and washed them down with water. I tried to go to sleep but panic set in. I ran to my bathroom and forced myself to throw up.
It all seems so silly now. There was a good chance I did not take a lethal dose of anything. It was like I was just playing at the idea of suicide. We all hold our own lives in our hands. A life is heavy, I have no other way of saying so. Perhaps from time to time we just need to feel how heavy.
I am incapable of loving myself. I have no respect for my own life, or my own body. I used to spill my own blood without regard for myself. I allow my body to be burned, hurt, and insides rot. I have very little that am prideful for. My self esteem is something I let be dragged on the ground. If I can’t love myself, can I truly love anyone else? I had a rather silly dream. A gunman was threatening others and with no care to my own life I stood up to him proving he was incapable of shooting anyone. I was praised as brave, but such praise only hurt me. The truth was I stood up to the gunman because I simply wanted him to kill me.
The other day I had a dream that’s been weighing on my mind. I’ve almost been too ashamed to share it but I don’t think it will go away till I written it down. I dreamed that I was at my family’s small little lake house. My Mom, Dad, Brother, and sister where there. My nostalgia was over run by depression. A deep inexpiable depression that I could not explain to anyone around me. A ran away and hid myself in a small room to hide my shame. It was then that hand belonging to no one handed me a noose.
I awoke, but the dream still stays vivid in my mind. Haunting me a little. I can only think that hand was the worst parts of mind. Telling me to give up. The voice that I keep fighting everyday.
After some bloodwork I have found my triglycerides are high. It’s hardly that much of a surprise but does put me at rick for heart disease. I need to take care of myself but it’s hard to find the motivation when I can barely find the motivation to stay alive at times. My mental health has been on rocky roads for the past month. Death and suicide have passed my mind more then I would like. Perhaps am simply killing myself the long way round.
How do you tell someone that after years of therapy and medication that you still sometimes think about suicide. That sometimes I fall down and it hurts to get back up. That I feel like Sisyphus endlessly pushing a bolder up a hill only to see it fall back down. I suppose that’s what hurts more, not that i was thinking about suicide, such thoughts pass, but that my progress falls backwards.
Such bad days are rare, but they hurt like hell. They are a harsh reminder of who I am, and what may never really leave me. A low burning fire exists in my soul and days like this throw fresh fuel onto the flame. Just to remind me that am slowly burning alive. I suppose we all have that fire burning inside us, it’s just so very painful to look at.