This is my first post; a still photograph in the video of my life. Those words that sum up how I feel best include addiction, self loathing, anxiety, desperation, and depression.
Perhaps in the future I may write on a theme of hope. Hope is something we all have had in the past. For most of us, there is hope in the future. Like a faint distant star twinkling in the cosmos, it may be out of reach and of little comfort right now. I feel utterly devoid of it.
I was not yet 23 when I first used heroin. At first it was the ultimate painkiller; the best drug; the only thing I needed. It didn't last. I've been psychologically and physically dependent on opiates for years now. They don't work like they used to. They just stop me being sick.
The idea of jumping to my death has slowly become more of a comfort. When I think of killing myself, jumping is the only way I would do it, unless I had access to a gas bag or lethal injection.
I'm in a lot of debt. I neither like nor love myself. I am irritable, selfish, lazy. I flutter between actively wishing I was dead and thinking of death just as a pragmatic solution to my unfortunate state of mind.
For the last year I have spent over 80% of my waking hours on or in a bed. Sleep is my only reprieve and I use and abuse it as much as I can. Sleep is bittersweet, though, because when it's over I have to face life and my opiate dependence all over again.
The room I rent is in a terrible state. My stuff is strewn everywhere. I never clean or tidy because I have no motivation to do anything. Living in such a hole is part of what is destroying me, but I feel utterly powerless to even start sorting it out.
Killing myself would be the ultimate painkiller. I am talented; I can be thoughtful, kind and interesting. I think about how those I leave behind would feel if I killed myself. Mainly my mother. But relationships are reciprocal and I am not easy or pleasant to be around right now. She would be distraught, but I don't think anyone else would suffer much. So I ruminate on the sweet nothingness of just ending it all and stopping this personal hell. Maybe I would explain some of this in a note. Maybe I wouldn't even leave a note. Some people get all their affairs in order before they kill themselves. I wouldn't be one of those people; the very fact that I can't seem to get my affairs in order is what is making me think about dying.
My mother asks me if I'm alright but she doesn't know that when I answer "not really" I mean that I am using again, and thinking about killing myself.
I pick up and tell myself it is the last time, growing more full of self loathing and disgust. I try to medicate these feelings by smoking more gear but I just get more anxious because it doesn't make me feel much better and I am close to running out of it again. Smoking the gear is bringing on a nasty, loud chesty cough. I am probably not far away from COPD or something like that.
My diary entries show me that last time I stopped the H and went back to the methadone, my suicidal ideation, anxiety and depression largely went away within a day or so.
My Dad died recently. He struggled with mental health and so did his mother. I'm aware that I'm mentally ill; that my behaviours and outlook on life are not those of a well person. I'm aware that the solutions to my problems are clear - stop the drugs and sort out my routine and living space. I'm aware that it is easy to wallow in self pity. None of this makes it any easier.
Every interaction seems to remind me of my self created negativity. A part of me would find it a good thing if most of of the population, including or excluding me, died from coronavirus. I can't find a way out.
Perhaps in the future I may write on a theme of hope. Hope is something we all have had in the past. For most of us, there is hope in the future. Like a faint distant star twinkling in the cosmos, it may be out of reach and of little comfort right now. I feel utterly devoid of it.
I was not yet 23 when I first used heroin. At first it was the ultimate painkiller; the best drug; the only thing I needed. It didn't last. I've been psychologically and physically dependent on opiates for years now. They don't work like they used to. They just stop me being sick.
The idea of jumping to my death has slowly become more of a comfort. When I think of killing myself, jumping is the only way I would do it, unless I had access to a gas bag or lethal injection.
I'm in a lot of debt. I neither like nor love myself. I am irritable, selfish, lazy. I flutter between actively wishing I was dead and thinking of death just as a pragmatic solution to my unfortunate state of mind.
For the last year I have spent over 80% of my waking hours on or in a bed. Sleep is my only reprieve and I use and abuse it as much as I can. Sleep is bittersweet, though, because when it's over I have to face life and my opiate dependence all over again.
The room I rent is in a terrible state. My stuff is strewn everywhere. I never clean or tidy because I have no motivation to do anything. Living in such a hole is part of what is destroying me, but I feel utterly powerless to even start sorting it out.
Killing myself would be the ultimate painkiller. I am talented; I can be thoughtful, kind and interesting. I think about how those I leave behind would feel if I killed myself. Mainly my mother. But relationships are reciprocal and I am not easy or pleasant to be around right now. She would be distraught, but I don't think anyone else would suffer much. So I ruminate on the sweet nothingness of just ending it all and stopping this personal hell. Maybe I would explain some of this in a note. Maybe I wouldn't even leave a note. Some people get all their affairs in order before they kill themselves. I wouldn't be one of those people; the very fact that I can't seem to get my affairs in order is what is making me think about dying.
My mother asks me if I'm alright but she doesn't know that when I answer "not really" I mean that I am using again, and thinking about killing myself.
I pick up and tell myself it is the last time, growing more full of self loathing and disgust. I try to medicate these feelings by smoking more gear but I just get more anxious because it doesn't make me feel much better and I am close to running out of it again. Smoking the gear is bringing on a nasty, loud chesty cough. I am probably not far away from COPD or something like that.
My diary entries show me that last time I stopped the H and went back to the methadone, my suicidal ideation, anxiety and depression largely went away within a day or so.
My Dad died recently. He struggled with mental health and so did his mother. I'm aware that I'm mentally ill; that my behaviours and outlook on life are not those of a well person. I'm aware that the solutions to my problems are clear - stop the drugs and sort out my routine and living space. I'm aware that it is easy to wallow in self pity. None of this makes it any easier.
Every interaction seems to remind me of my self created negativity. A part of me would find it a good thing if most of of the population, including or excluding me, died from coronavirus. I can't find a way out.
