That's all I can predict right now, one day out from now. Tomorrow I'll still be alive. But I don't know about any other day.
I'm going to spend the rest of my life waiting for an ax to fall. I have lost my friends and I'm starting to become numb to that fact. I don't know if I care anymore what they think of me. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it's a sign of hope, but at the very least it's a sign that my brain can't take it anymore.
I'm so tired from walking the tight rope of perfection. I'm going to fall again. Guaranteed. I teeter on it every few days and see the ground below. My life flashes before my eyes every time. And somehow I regain my footing and keep walking. But one day I'm just going to go down.
I don't want anyone to blame my therapist. He's a good guy. He actually does care for real. It's not his fault that he was trained in a pro-life culture. That is all of academia. You have to have that opinion to be able to even BE a therapist. He voluntarily works with highly suicidal clients and laments that social worker programs don't teach how to handle those cases just to avoid scaring students. He has told me this. I know he really cares about me and has bent over backwards to try to help me. I know my passing will devastate him. He has even said before that if he ever lost a client, he'd be afraid he couldn't be a therapist anymore. This kills me inside to think that I could do that to him because people need him. There are a lot of suicidal clients out there that need help and might actually get better. If you're reading this, if you somehow figured out that this is my account, please keep being a therapist. Just because I'm gone doesn't mean you failed.
It means I failed. No one can control what anyone else does. it is what you taught me for dealing with my anxiety. The unknowns and the things outside our control, even what other people do with their bodies, are an inevitable part of life.
Life is short. Life is really really short for some of us. Depression is a terminal disease for some of us. Maybe hanging out on here kept me in a suicidal mindset, but I think more accurately that my suicidal mindset drove me here, because SS is the only place you can go where people will listen, validate, and accept you. They don't call the cops because they know the cops don't help. They don't call mental health because they know the suicide help doesn't really help. MHPs just route you around and around to people who tell you to tell someone else. We get it because we've lived it.
Abuse changes you. It changes the physical structure of your brain forever. For me, choosing to live would be choosing to live impaired. I've had too many events that my body considers traumatic. Many people will never believe I have PTSD because my trauma doesn't fit the usual descriptions. It doesn't sound "bad enough to count." But, if I have all the symptoms of PTSD, we need to call it what it is. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...
I've spent my life on the outside looking in. My instincts lead me in the wrong direction. I have never been free to let my guard down and relax. People tell me all the time to do that, but when I do, they hate how I act. So, I have stopped listening to that advice. To their dismay, of course. They think I am stubborn. But I know how unlikable my real self is. I have to keep the armor up. I have to stay inside my shell. Relaxing leads to punishment every single time. And after a while, holding the disguise on and keeping it together, staying on the tight rope, will become too much weight to carry. And that's my day.
I don't know when it is yet. I thought it was going to be yesterday. It was a beautiful last day. I called one of my ex friends just to see how he was doing. He paid me some kind lip service and thanked me for checking on him and got off the phone as fast as he could. I sat outside and we built a fire. The colors were really bright, almost unnaturally bright. It was perfect weather. I finished the fence on my garden and played with my cat. I played the song What's Up by the Four Non Blondes on the piano and remembered high school. I looked through a photo album of the most traumatic time of my life, amazed that I was able to put a scrapbook together to represent it in the nicest possible light for the benefit of my mother. So she could feel like I was happy and safe when I was actually living in hell. I realized that everything about my life has been about trying to pretend that all my failures and trauma and shortcomings weren't really there, and that I was actually a super amazing person. I'm not. I'm mediocre and I tried really hard. But I never made it to the inner circle...even of other outcasts, for that matter.
Here's what you can put on my tombstone.
I'm going to spend the rest of my life waiting for an ax to fall. I have lost my friends and I'm starting to become numb to that fact. I don't know if I care anymore what they think of me. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe it's a sign of hope, but at the very least it's a sign that my brain can't take it anymore.
I'm so tired from walking the tight rope of perfection. I'm going to fall again. Guaranteed. I teeter on it every few days and see the ground below. My life flashes before my eyes every time. And somehow I regain my footing and keep walking. But one day I'm just going to go down.
I don't want anyone to blame my therapist. He's a good guy. He actually does care for real. It's not his fault that he was trained in a pro-life culture. That is all of academia. You have to have that opinion to be able to even BE a therapist. He voluntarily works with highly suicidal clients and laments that social worker programs don't teach how to handle those cases just to avoid scaring students. He has told me this. I know he really cares about me and has bent over backwards to try to help me. I know my passing will devastate him. He has even said before that if he ever lost a client, he'd be afraid he couldn't be a therapist anymore. This kills me inside to think that I could do that to him because people need him. There are a lot of suicidal clients out there that need help and might actually get better. If you're reading this, if you somehow figured out that this is my account, please keep being a therapist. Just because I'm gone doesn't mean you failed.
It means I failed. No one can control what anyone else does. it is what you taught me for dealing with my anxiety. The unknowns and the things outside our control, even what other people do with their bodies, are an inevitable part of life.
Life is short. Life is really really short for some of us. Depression is a terminal disease for some of us. Maybe hanging out on here kept me in a suicidal mindset, but I think more accurately that my suicidal mindset drove me here, because SS is the only place you can go where people will listen, validate, and accept you. They don't call the cops because they know the cops don't help. They don't call mental health because they know the suicide help doesn't really help. MHPs just route you around and around to people who tell you to tell someone else. We get it because we've lived it.
Abuse changes you. It changes the physical structure of your brain forever. For me, choosing to live would be choosing to live impaired. I've had too many events that my body considers traumatic. Many people will never believe I have PTSD because my trauma doesn't fit the usual descriptions. It doesn't sound "bad enough to count." But, if I have all the symptoms of PTSD, we need to call it what it is. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...
I've spent my life on the outside looking in. My instincts lead me in the wrong direction. I have never been free to let my guard down and relax. People tell me all the time to do that, but when I do, they hate how I act. So, I have stopped listening to that advice. To their dismay, of course. They think I am stubborn. But I know how unlikable my real self is. I have to keep the armor up. I have to stay inside my shell. Relaxing leads to punishment every single time. And after a while, holding the disguise on and keeping it together, staying on the tight rope, will become too much weight to carry. And that's my day.
I don't know when it is yet. I thought it was going to be yesterday. It was a beautiful last day. I called one of my ex friends just to see how he was doing. He paid me some kind lip service and thanked me for checking on him and got off the phone as fast as he could. I sat outside and we built a fire. The colors were really bright, almost unnaturally bright. It was perfect weather. I finished the fence on my garden and played with my cat. I played the song What's Up by the Four Non Blondes on the piano and remembered high school. I looked through a photo album of the most traumatic time of my life, amazed that I was able to put a scrapbook together to represent it in the nicest possible light for the benefit of my mother. So she could feel like I was happy and safe when I was actually living in hell. I realized that everything about my life has been about trying to pretend that all my failures and trauma and shortcomings weren't really there, and that I was actually a super amazing person. I'm not. I'm mediocre and I tried really hard. But I never made it to the inner circle...even of other outcasts, for that matter.
Here's what you can put on my tombstone.
"She was the dumb kid of smart kids, the ugliest attractive girl, the fattest skinny person, the hardest working lazy ass, the highest achieving loser. She earned a B+ in life. For some people maybe that's enough. But she never stopped believing that it could have been so much more.
Here lies Rebel Sue. She died of hope."
Here lies Rebel Sue. She died of hope."
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